Chapter 278 - Starting with Jaxon

'Cowardly bastard. Filthy bastard. A curse on you, you son of a bitch!'

The Black Blade officer cursed Marcus, coughing up blood. There was, of course, a slight misunderstanding. Sinar had started this, and Encrid had joined her and made short work of it. Yet the more the officer investigated, the more he heard only that Border Guard's standing army was involved. Then who had ordered it? Who was behind this? One name kept cropping up to vex him.

Marcus.

A noble with connections at the royal palace, a bastard widely rumored to covet the position of Grand Duke of the North. "I'll chew that bastard to death!"

Whether he seethed inwardly or shouted aloud, his anger would not subside. The injustice and bitterness were driving him mad. He wanted to throw himself on the floor, screaming and flailing. That was how furious he was. Only after he had barely, just barely, calmed himself a little did the officer grind his teeth. He could hardly go and kill Marcus this instant. Whatever was wrong with Border Guard, every assassin he sent there vanished without a word. Had a single attempt to kill that Encrid fellow succeeded? Had they even left a scratch? He had sent men armed with poison. Why had every last one of them fallen? Because the enemy was too skilled? Black Blade had considered that possibility. So had the officer: Encrid was at least on the level of a proto knight. Some of Encrid's exploits had been exaggerated, others underestimated. Yet none of them readily believed that he truly had reached a proto knight's level. The idea that a man could swing a sword with no foundation and one day grasp and wield 'Will' was unbelievable. A genius like that did emerge occasionally, but if he had such talent, why was it only coming to light now? Perhaps if he had been living in hiding somewhere, but that was not the case. He had left traces everywhere. He had been a mercenary who paid Krona to lousy instructors to learn swordsmanship. A fellow who hunted and did odd jobs for a few copper coins. When there was no work for his sword, he sometimes helped repair castle walls. How were they supposed to believe a man like that had become a proto knight? Black Blade was being rational. They could hardly think otherwise. Above all, Count Molsen had tampered with some of the information behind the scenes. That prevented them from accurately gauging Encrid's abilities. Not that they dismissed him. Clearly, something had changed in this late bloomer. They simply did not believe he had truly become anything on the level of a proto knight. He must have someone helping him. And who was the most important of those helpers?

Marcus. It had to be that scheming son of a bitch. "Now it's war!"

The officer shouted alone in his empty study. Naturally, he was not alone in that sentiment. His superior, the leader of the Black Blade Bandits, had issued similar instructions.

Gather their forces.

Seek the evil cult's help as well.

Burn Border Guard. Neither a lord nor a holder of territory, this abnormal bandit organization nevertheless possessed both military might and political power. It decided to bring that strength to bear. They spent their hoard of dirty gold and called upon their connections. Those who had been operating as members of the bandit gang assembled. Numerous mercenaries joined them, men who would stab even their own parents to death for Krona. Thus, something resembling an army gathered on a small rise west of Border Guard. They numbered over five hundred. Could that force breach Border Guard's walls? It would not be easy, but Black Blade specialized not in war, but in intrigue.

And that was how they proceeded. The bandits' uprising—outwardly, a territorial war sparked by Marcus encroaching on and seizing neighboring lands—had far-reaching repercussions. It marked the beginning of a civil war and gave a great many people a pretext to act. Marcus, inside Border Guard, had not expected any of this. Just before the territorial war erupted, he had said,

"How many villages are there? Send troops to every one and take them. From now on, we're no longer Border Guard's standing army. We're the territory of Border Guard." "Who will be its lord?"

"Its first lord? Me."

At the Company Commander's question, Marcus proudly pointed a thumb at himself. Immediately afterward, Viscount Tarnin the Pig, the ruler of the neighboring territory and the villages' original owner, declared a territorial war. "What is the meaning of this, without the royal family's permission? You are all greed and no shame! Marcus, beg forgiveness at once! If you do not repent, I shall cut off your head and offer it to the gods!"

The speech he gave after gathering his troops was quite a spectacle. Since he made no effort to conceal it, word soon reached Marcus. "Looks like that fucking pig's been taking the wrong drugs too."

Marcus accepted the challenge. He merely muttered it with his chin propped on his hand at his office desk, but his meaning was clear. It was the beginning of a civil war. That did not, of course, mean they started fighting immediately. As in most territorial wars, Viscount Tarnin first sent a messenger. Such wars usually began with an exchange of words before the parties reluctantly came to blows. "But what the hell is this bastard playing at?"

This time, however, things were a little different. Tarnin had assembled mercenaries and assorted fighters of some renown before picking a fight and issuing his provocations. In other words, he had acted as though he meant to attack at once. Yet instead of attacking, he simply dug in and held his position. Why? Who benefited from his holding out? Who lost? Marcus was no fool. Letting Tarnin and his backers waste resources would be more advantageous than attacking now. He racked his brains, probing and picking apart the enemy's intentions. Tarnin the Pig's specialty? - Eating.

Tarnin the Imbecile's strength? - Skin so thick a blade would have trouble getting through.

The might of Viscount Tarnin's territory? - Not worth a damn.

So what was that bastard counting on? - The Black Blade Bandits. Marcus worked through the sequence of events and assessed the situation. So why was Tarnin acting like this? Gathering troops naturally cost gold. They had to be fed and housed. There were mercenaries, too, who needed to be paid. If Tarnin refused them their silver on the grounds that they were not fighting, some would cheerfully turn around and carve a star-shaped hole in his belly.

'Then why?' He had gathered an army, yet showed no intention of attacking. All he offered was some bullshit about training. For now, Marcus waited. There was nothing he could do immediately. He had indeed encroached on another lord's territory. He had intended to quietly gloss over that, swallow a few villages, establish something resembling a territory, then obtain the royal palace's approval.

'Someone seems to be behind Tarnin the Pig.'

The question was who. The hidden schemer's next move hit hard. Hard enough to catch Marcus squarely in the back of the head.

"... Hah." [As the territorial war has compounded the turmoil in the North, we command Marcus of House Centerpole, the Thumb Pillar, faithful friend of the royal palace.]

That was how the letter began. Marcus was a gambler. He knew how to seize the decisive moment. But the contents of this letter bound him hand and foot before the contest even began. It was a plot to prevent him from so much as taking part at the crucial moment, and he could see no way around it. "Hah."

All he could do was laugh in disbelief. He had been utterly outmaneuvered.

* * *

"Had yourself a grand old time without me, did you? Huh?"

Rem greeted him the instant he returned. Encrid thought that this bastard never changed. "I was on a mission."

"Oh, but you had fun, didn't you? While I was stuck here, huh? Teaching some Beastman someone dumped on me, huh?"

That was a very long way of saying he wanted to spar right now. Encrid could see Dunbachel standing off to one side with both eyes swollen black and blue. Rem seemed to have tormented her mercilessly. He could not help feeling sorry for her. If he let this pass, wouldn't Rem gleefully beat her up again today? Besides, Encrid was only a little tired, with no injuries. "Come on, then, you all-talk barbarian."

At Encrid's teasing words, Rem grinned.

"Time to settle a grudge!"

With that bullshit, the spar began. "Nothing's changed!"

Rem swung his axes in crossing arcs as he spoke, then abruptly unleashed intimidation. He said he had learned it by watching the rapier swordsman, which was absurd to hear. Was that something you could copy just by watching? Of course, his method of producing it was entirely different, though Encrid had no way of knowing that. He rejected the intimidation, then let his sword do the talking. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!

Steel met steel between them, scattering golden sparks. Teresa sat with her legs together, uncharacteristically docile as she waited her turn.

In short, life was back to normal. Teresa would spar next. She had painstakingly devised several techniques and polished them while training with Audin. She wanted to know whether they would work on Encrid. Her heart pounded. While he had been away, somehow nothing had been fun. However much she honed her skills and strengthened her body, emptiness crept in. She felt like a landowner with nothing but empty granaries. ["Why are you so listless?"]

Audin had asked when he noticed her lackluster manner. Teresa had examined her heart for a moment before asking,

["Teresa the Wanderer speaks. What happens if the Captain never returns?"] Audin had laughed heartily.

["He will return."]

He always spoke of everything in the name of his god, offering deep reflection rather than certainty. Yet when it came to Encrid, he was strangely unequivocal. He had no doubts. And the moment she saw Encrid return, Teresa's heart had raced faster than ever. Her face had flushed too. How could it not?

'My techniques.' Here was someone she could test them against. Someone who would meet her fighting spirit. The man who had made her leave the evil cult. The only one who could truly engage her sword and shield. The others were perfectly capable of sparring with her, but this was different. Something about Encrid was different. Teresa did not bother trying to understand what it was. What mattered was fighting him. Sparring with him. Being the one who raised her sword and shield before him. For that, she could set her very life aflame and burn it away. Ablaze, she would cut down and kill the enemies barring his path. She would not leave enemies before him and let him look only ahead as he walked on. She would make him turn and face her. With that unexpected realization, Teresa sank to one knee and prayed. She steeled her determination and etched it into herself. It followed no Cultist rite and invoked no god's name, but it was unmistakably a prayer. "Asleep? Aren't you up next?"

The Captain had lost to Rem, but quickly sprang back to his feet to speak. Teresa rose from her kneeling position. She smiled behind her raised shield.

"Here comes Teresa the Wanderer." Could one call it enjoyable sparring? Encrid certainly thought so. Rem had been fun, and so was Teresa's attack. Dunbachel, challenging him with two swords in hand, made for quite an entertaining opponent too. "Still clumsy."

"I know!"

Dunbachel knew, yet insisted she would wield two blades. As Encrid watched, wondering why she was so set on it, Rem spoke. "She's crazy. A crazy bitch. If you run into a high priest on your travels, kidnap them or something. Everyone here needs treatment."

Apparently, she had been so impressed watching Rem that she had taken up two weapons. Encrid left it alone. He was hardly in a position to criticize. And so Encrid returned to the main army. "But why haven't you improved while you were gone?"

Rem's question carried a hint of dissatisfaction. Had his skills stayed the same? Perhaps they had. Did that mean nothing had changed?

No. Encrid had had plenty of time to think during those two months on the road. Climbing cliffs, riding horses, walking, running, entering villages. The battles were short, the marches long. Along the way, Sinar had made Fairy-style jokes, Pin had chattered about inconsequential things, and Jaxon had occasionally said something strange.

["Whatever it is you want, do it. Holding it in will make you sick."] 'I've never held anything in.'

Encrid sincerely believed that. But others might not see it that way. For someone of his abilities, he cared little for worldly rewards. What, then, did he want? That was what Jaxon's question was getting at. Encrid knew exactly what he wanted, and he was following the signposts down the right path. And during all that walking this time, how should he put it? His mind had been working exceptionally well. He had reviewed his training methods. What he possessed, what he needed to develop, what he could gain through honing his skills. Before, he had been too busy absorbing and digesting everything around him. Not anymore. Over those two months of walking, Encrid had established a training regimen. It was time to put it into practice.

"I'll need your help."

He would start with Jaxon the alley cat.