Chapter 383 - By Driving Them Back with Intimidation

Encrid did not know it, but the Scarlet Cloak Knight Order's engraved emblems differed by rank. A knight bore the same emblem as the royal house: three crossed swords and the Sun Beast, a mythical divine beast with a round head and a flaming mane. A proto knight's emblem had one fewer sword. Squires bore only a single sword, with variations in the design according to the tests and missions they had completed. The man thrusting at him bore an emblem of one sword and the Sun Beast. It marked a squire whose skill had been acknowledged—someone with only a few tests left before becoming a proto knight. His sword was swift and straight, like an eagle snatching its prey. Encrid extended his own blade to meet it without considering the man's specialties or habits. Instead, he twisted his sword the instant their blades touched. CLINK-CLINK-CLINK. The thrusting squire's expression changed abruptly. The strength he felt through the other blade seemed like a Giant's. Naturally so: Encrid had swung with the Heart of the Superhuman active. CLANG! As their blades slid against each other, the squire's sword flew upward, while Encrid's followed precisely the path he intended. Straight forward. At its end lay the armor covering the squire's chest. THUD, RIP, THUNK. The three sounds blended into one. The sword point pierced the armor and stabbed the heart beneath. Encrid pulled his blade free faster than he had thrust it in and retreated exactly one step. Even as blood welled from his chest, the squire slashed horizontally.

WHOOSH.

His sword swept through the space Encrid had occupied a moment before. Encrid could see his bloodshot eyes. "Pblurgh."

Still gripping his sword, the squire spewed blood and crumpled sideways. His eyes blinked a few times. Death was coming. 'Why am I...?'

To the falling squire, everything seemed to move slowly. His thoughts were accelerating in the moments before death. He refused to accept reality. Why had he lost? Who was this man? He had crossed swords with quite capable proto knights. How could he possibly fall like this? They had exchanged only a single blow. Then a different regret surfaced.

'Was this the wrong side?'

He regretted it. He should never have gotten involved. But would anything change if he did nothing? He had been promised an additional sword on his emblem once this was over. Regardless of his skill, he was to be elevated to proto knight. He had thought the water jug was already tipped. Wasn't it only natural to side with those likely to win? 'It wasn't.'

With death came regret, and understanding.

'I was wrong.' Had he been like this when he first dreamed of becoming a knight, when his talent was recognized and he began to advance? Had he taken up a sword to join the winning side and reap the rewards? No. ["I want to uphold chivalry."]

His old teacher, his seniors, his comrades answered those youthful words.

["A romantic fellow, aren't you?"]

["You know, when you become a knight... let's call you the Knight of Romance."]

["What's that supposed to mean? That's not even funny."]

["Pfft, hahaha. Just keep at it, is what we're saying."] The squire, too, had dreamed of the chivalry he learned from poems and songs. Somewhere along the way, he had merely forgotten that dream and begun pursuing other things. Power, money, honor. He had begun to stray when he decided honor came from the admiring eyes of others. Dreaming of a different emblem. Hoping to have another sword engraved upon it. What had he hoped to become through that? Like a flower wilting, like a sword breaking, a squire lay upon the ground. Before him stood a man who was not even out of breath, looking ahead with his sword hanging at his side. A drop of blood fell from its blade. The corridor floor was already a wreck: broken furniture, fragments of a half-split door, bloodstains, corpses, broken blades. The man stood among them. Black hair, blue eyes. He had been making the rounds as a guard at parties lately. Some of those present knew who he was.

"They said he was Border Guard's half-wit."

One of them muttered it, then sucked in a breath and clamped his mouth shut. Encrid had turned his eyes toward him. Had he heard? Surely he couldn't have heard such a quiet mutter. Encrid cared nothing for the man's thoughts or what he had said. "Who's inside?"

It was an ordinary question, but the survivors heard it differently. He had just killed a squire with a single stroke. His presence flowed naturally outward, becoming pressure. It was not intimidation, but it was scarcely different. If those on the receiving end felt it that way, what difference was there? Eight men held their ground before the door. Their commander swallowed. Could they manage if all eight attacked at once?

'I don't think we'd stand a chance.' As the tangle of thoughts drained the color from his face and the sweat he had worked up breaking down the door turned cold, Encrid stepped forward. His foot came down on a fragment of a half-broken wooden shield. He pushed it aside as he walked, and one of the soldiers blocking him stepped out of his way. Some gritted their teeth and tried to hold their ground before the door. Encrid approached them, raising his sword. Stand in his way, and he would cut them down. As that determination arose, Will followed of its own accord. This was true intimidation. One of the soldiers blocking him broke into a cold sweat, then scrambled aside as though fleeing. That settled it. No one stood in his path. "Are you staying because you want to fight?" Encrid asked.

"No," the commander answered.

Then what are you doing here? Encrid asked with his eyes. "We... are withdrawing."

The commander ground the words out. Staying meant a pointless death. They were lucky he had not set upon them to cut them all down. Everyone followed without a word. Among them were both mercenaries and soldiers in Viscount Mernes's service. They knew perfectly well they were not supposed to leave. They might be held responsible and executed. Mernes was strict about rewards and punishments, and especially unforgiving of mistakes. Even so, they withdrew in silence. His presence alone was on another level. Attack, and they would die. That was certain. His authority was different. Fear surged from deep within them. They couldn't find a scrap of courage. Their determination broke. And so they could not stop him. And so they could not stand their ground. Without looking back, Encrid peered through the barricaded doorway.

"Who's in there?"

He tapped the half-broken door with his sword point as he asked. Something cracked sharply against the floor inside. "You?"

The voice from within was familiar. The whip-bearing guard.

'What was his name again?'

His memory was hazy. It was a side effect of repeating countless todays. However good his memory, there was no helping it. "Rat?" Encrid asked.

"... Who's that?"

He thought it had been something like that.

"Melon?"

"... Are you doing that on purpose?" Why trust a man who acted this way even in a crisis? Matthew wondered. He truly could not understand why his lord believed in someone like this. "It's Matthew."

"Oh, right. Matthew."

"What about the men out front?"

"They left."

"... Where?"

"Wherever they had to go, I suppose." Encrid had no duty to protect the other nobles, or anyone else. Nor did he feel inclined to. He saw no need to kill those men. Marcus had asked for help, and Encrid understood his request to protect Krang. So that was all he was doing. "He's inside, right?"

"Come in."

Only then did the chest of drawers blocking the door scrape aside. Inside was a shambles too. There were seven corpses alone. Matthew had bandages covering half his face, and beside him stood another warrior, a woman. She held a long trident and eyed him warily. Her chain mail covered only her upper body, and it was torn and broken at the left shoulder. She looked as though she had survived considerable danger. Moving that shoulder seemed to cause her discomfort. "Where?"

"Here."

Encrid turned to one side and saw Krang's head poking out of a hole, though he couldn't make out how the thing was constructed. "Didn't I tell you to go, even if we died?"

Matthew, the whip-bearing guard, sounded angry. He clearly meant it.

"Where would I go, leaving you behind? If this is where I end, I'll have to accept it." Krang was unruffled. Even at a time like this, his exceptional mettle showed. Seeing Encrid, he waved.

"You're late."

"Tripped over a stone on the way," Encrid answered with a shrug. He left out that the stone was orange-haired, female, and a member of the Scarlet Cloak Knight Order. Krang pulled his hand out of the hole and began climbing out. It looked like some sort of escape passage, but Encrid wondered why it was a hole rather than a staircase. There must have been a ladder inside; he could hear Krang climbing its rungs. The passage seemed to run at a slant. "You mustn't," Matthew protested.

Just because Encrid had cleared the doorway did not make this place safe. Krang ignored him and climbed out anyway. The woman with the trident was watching outside. Encrid briefly wondered who she was. Well, Matthew could hardly have been his only guard. 'He's not one to take things lying down.'

Krang would have prepared some means of dealing with a situation like this. That was why Encrid had never once thought he might be dead. Still, the request for help told him the danger was considerable. It meant Krang needed him. "I didn't think you'd ask me for help."

"I told you we were friends. Let's say I owe you one."

Krang said it as he finally climbed all the way out. Krang did, in fact, have measures prepared. He was simply running out of time, and everything was on the verge of going awry. Had Encrid not come, he had been prepared to die holding out here. So even now, having nearly died, he smiled. Not a finger trembled. "You wanted to become the king of a nation. Why would you...?"

Matthew spoke with something like anguish. From his perspective, it must have been maddening. That was the kind of relationship they had. Krang listened to what he had to say. That was the sort of lord he was. "Because I wanted to be king."

The weight of Krang's words changed again. Heavier than before. All the surrounding noise seemed to vanish. The atmosphere shifted, and he spoke. "What could I ever become if I aspired to be king, yet did nothing but run to save my own skin? What could I accomplish on a throne if I couldn't protect a single person I cared about? Sit there stuffing my face with grapes a maid peels for me? Shut up, Matthew. If I die here, then this is as far as my luck goes. I've done my best. I've prepared a great deal. And here I am. I won't leave at the cost of losing more." Encrid felt gooseflesh rise. Mere words. How did mere words come to hold power? By not ending with words. Krang had shown it through action. It was only right that he stake his own life. "I must do this to keep my promise to the Queen, too."

Krang smiled at Matthew.

"So stop nagging me."

Those last words were light, as though tossed to a friend. Only then did Encrid understand exactly why Krang had called for him. Because he was in danger? In a crisis? No.

'So he wouldn't have to run.' It was a desperate struggle not to turn his back on his dream. Strangely, Encrid saw himself in that. He knew the comparison was ill-fitting, that their situations were far removed. Yet he saw himself, trapped in today, struggling desperately. Fighting to take even one step forward. That was how Krang was living. A feeling stirred within Encrid. He wanted to help. This, surely, was Krang's talent. "Someone's coming."

The female guard with the trident spoke and reached to bring the furniture back before the door.

"How many?" Matthew asked.

"One."

Encrid heard Matthew grind his teeth. "This was the worst case, wasn't it?"

Krang asked from behind them, his tone still light and cheerful. Matthew had told him earlier: they could fend off a mass of attackers, but might not be able to stop an enemy who came alone. "Time to test my luck, then."

As Krang continued, Encrid spoke from the heart.

"Then I'll be your luck." Krang turned toward him. Rather than wait for an answer, Encrid spoke to the man ahead.

"Don't block it, Matthew."

Matthew had been about to barricade the entrance with furniture. Holding out inside might have worked against a large number of soldiers, but it meant nothing against a small force of elites. Anyone with even Encrid's level of strength would not be hindered by such makeshift obstacles. He pushed the door aside and stepped out to find a man. A familiar face to Encrid, though to the other man this was their first meeting. The rhythm-breaking proto knight he had encountered in a past today. The man's left eyebrow twitched upward at the sight of him.

"Did you kill Aesia?" he asked.

"Put her to sleep."

Encrid had used his fists and feet for a lullaby. The man looked as though he was about to say more, then abruptly lunged, drawing and swinging his sword.

SHING!

No sooner had the sound of the draw reached Encrid than a streak of light fell toward his head. The timing broke his rhythm from the outset. Having seen this opponent once before, Encrid was able to react. He drew his gladius with his right hand and tried to catch the incoming blade on its flat and deflect it. CRASH! His attempt failed. The deafening impact nearly broke his right wrist. From the timing to the sword swing itself, it was one deception after another. The question, the step forward, the feints woven into it, the sword stroke—everything was geared toward breaking his rhythm. And the moment Encrid endured and blocked it all, he felt it.

'Above Aesia.'

On Rem's level, perhaps. It happened in an instant. In the sliver between openings, his opponent drew another sword and thrust. Just then, a whip braided from demonic beast hide snapped between them. Matthew's handiwork.