"They're spouting bullshit."
The man, infamous for proving that skill and decency don’t always align, twisted his lips into a sneer. What was his name again?
"Want me to rip you a new one, Enki?" he taunted as he took a step forward.
Enkrid decided he'd humor him with words just once—before killing him.
"What was your name again?"
The man froze mid-step, his right foot extended, before narrowing his eyes.
"...Seriously, you bastard, your tongue is as sharp as ever," he muttered, refusing to give his name.
Fine, Enkrid thought. It wasn’t essential to know.
"Kill him," the unnamed bastard commanded, and the nine surrounding him sprang into action.
It felt almost like watching deserters from the border guard—men clutching their weapons with bloodlust in their eyes. Each seemed skilled enough, though their weapons reeked of death and rot.
Twang!
One of them, armed with a slingshot, loosed a shot with swift, practiced efficiency. The projectile whizzed through the air, aimed squarely for Ragna's eye.
Ragna tilted his head slightly, dodging it with ease. "A slingshot," he murmured, his voice calm but brimming with a rare intensity.
Enkrid noticed the gleam in Ragna’s eyes and felt reassured. No reason to worry, then.
"You’re alone?" came a voice from behind Enkrid. He turned to see Vengeance limping toward him. His gaze briefly flicked to Vengeance's injured thigh.
Before he could ask, a soldier spoke up from behind Vengeance. "He saved me from that filthy bastard," the soldier explained, his eyes a mix of concern and hatred.
Enkrid didn’t need further details to piece it together. The same old tricks, no doubt—harassing a soldier to provoke Vengeance, exploiting the opening to wound him. Typical of that scum.
And yet, Vengeance had clearly risked his life to protect his comrade. If Enkrid hadn’t arrived, it was obvious how things would’ve ended. Vengeance would have died, accepting his fate for the sake of his men.
Enkrid couldn’t help but think, Maybe someone like Vengeance is worth calling a friend.
But not that other bastard. Never.
"That thing’s sharp," Vengeance muttered, breaking Enkrid's train of thought.
And then it hit him. Enkrid smacked his right fist into his left palm with an exaggerated gesture. "I remember your name now."
The bastard grinned. "Like hell you'd forget me, you little shit. Always with the provocations."
With a metallic ting, the man drew his weapon—a flexible, curving blade designed to bend and twist under pressure. The glinting, oscillating blade danced as it reflected the faint light.
Enkrid squinted at the weapon and, deadpan, said, "Oh right—your name’s 'Asshole,' isn’t it?"
The bastard's grin faltered, replaced by a furious snarl. "You’re going to beg me to kill you, you son of a bitch."
Was he angry? That wasn’t Enkrid’s intention at all. He shrugged nonchalantly, his expression as calm as ever.
Their petty verbal sparring had apparently riled the bastard enough. One of the lackeys, the slingshot wielder, fired again.
Ting, whirr, clink!
This time, Ragna intervened, drawing his sword and deflecting the projectile mid-air with a single precise movement. The metallic pellet spun upward before disappearing into the mist.
"Damn, your hands are quick. Bet it’d be fun to poke holes in them," the slingshot wielder jeered. Beside him, another man armed with dual axes smirked.
"Think you can take us all on by yourself?" he sneered, glaring at Ragna.
This wasn’t good, Enkrid realized. Sure enough, Ragna’s response was immediate.
"A poor man’s barbarian knockoff," Ragna said coldly.
"...What?" The axe wielder, with his golden hair and crimson eyes, stared in confusion. Ragna's crimson gaze radiated unmistakable disdain.
Dual axes? A poor choice for someone with such obvious inferiority, Enkrid thought.
Three others, each wielding oddly-shaped swords with notches and grooves, stepped forward. Their faces were eerily similar—triplets, no doubt.
"This battle will secure us a place with Azpen’s forces. Maybe even a title of nobility if we’re lucky," Asshole boasted. It was so typical of him—seeking validation through condescension, wearing the same smug expression as always.
I see, Enkrid thought. No more words needed.
Clang!
Enkrid advanced, swinging his sword with a straightforward strike. Asshole sneered and parried, his flexible blade bending to deflect the blow.
Tiriring!
The peculiar sword curved upward, aiming for Enkrid’s wrist. The tip of the blade danced dangerously close.
This chapter is updat𝙚d by freeweɓnovel.cøm.
It was a skillful move. Asshole had claimed to have learned this swordsmanship in the East, and it showed.
But Enkrid was unbothered. He had already mastered the counter to such techniques.
Start with an unwavering strike, he recalled Ragna teaching him.
Whip!
The air seemed to slow as Enkrid focused, pouring his strength into a clean, precise diagonal slash. The bastard hurriedly stepped back, raising his blade to block.
Ting, rip!
The flexible sword bent upward, aiming again for Enkrid’s throat—too late.
Enkrid's strike connected first.
Crunch.
A satisfying resistance reverberated through his sword. The bastard’s armor, ribs, and even his weapon-wielding wrist were severed cleanly.
The curved blade fell to the ground with a dull clink.
Enkrid stood motionless, sword still in his finishing stance, before flicking it to the side.
Drip. Drip.
Blood spattered onto the ground.
The lifeless body of the man who once haunted Enkrid’s past stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief.
Revenge accomplished, Enkrid thought silently, offering an unspoken farewell to his fallen comrades.
But the dead never respond.
Neither did Asshole, whose life had ended in a single, decisive strike. No scream, no final words—just silence.
It was a fitting end. The bastard had been skilled, but compared to Prok or Mitch Hurrier?
Pathetic.
Even comparing him to Enkrid’s own subordinates felt laughable. Still, had Enkrid not been here, this flank would’ve collapsed just as badly as the one with the giant.
"...What the hell?" one of the triplets muttered, breaking the silence.
"What do you think?" Ragna replied, striding toward the slingshot wielder.
His steps were mesmerizing—so swift and precise that he closed the distance in mere moments, catching the man off guard.
"Tch!"
The man twisted his body to the side, but that was his final move. A shocked expression froze on his face as his head flew into the air, leaving behind the faint utterance of "Tch."
When? How? When had the sword even been drawn? And when had it swung?
It was terrifyingly fast, unnervingly clean.
Even to Enkrid’s eyes, the flashing arc of the blade was barely more than an afterimage.
“Ragna,” Enkrid murmured, watching his companion move toward the fallen foe with predatory calm.
“Three swords,” Ragna said as he turned toward the triplets. The three brothers had already drawn their weapons, making it clear they wouldn’t go down easily.
Ragna noticed the glint of murderous intent in their eyes, the kind that belonged to killers who had honed their skills on weaker prey.
They were swordsmen of blood, killers who had chosen murder as their path to mastery. These types were not uncommon—men who learned to wield their blades by slaughtering the helpless.
It was pathetic, Ragna thought. A crude, misguided attempt at power.
But Ragna was in a rare mood. How often did he feel so alive, so filled with purpose? Three times? Five, at most? Probably not even five.
His irritation, built up over countless battles and frustrations, had transformed into something else after his duel with Enkrid—a spark that had become a flame.
His crimson eyes gleamed, a light spilling from within them. It was as though the fire burning in his soul had reached his gaze.
Without hesitation, Ragna moved.
Slash, stab, slice.
It was over in moments. The three brothers fell one after the other, their necks pierced, severed, or their skulls cleaved from chin to crown.
Nothing could stop Ragna's blade—not swords, not armor, not flesh or bone.
It was awe-inspiring.
“Ragna,” Enkrid muttered as he watched.
Ragna, scanning for his next opponent, locked eyes on the man with the pitchfork. A weapon designed to prolong suffering—it fit the cowardly aura of its wielder.
The pitchfork-wielder swallowed hard, realizing too late the mistake he had made.
“Attack all at once!” the man shouted, his voice trembling. The others obeyed instantly, charging forward as he turned and fled.
Enkrid’s eyes widened in surprise. Normally, Ragna wouldn’t even spare a glance at a fleeing foe.
But this was not the usual Ragna.
Boom.
In a blur of motion, Ragna dashed forward, his speed so great that his movements were barely visible. His twin blades cut through the air with such ferocity that they seemed to form wings, their arcs trailing like feathers of light.
Those wings weren’t from his back but his hands, the afterimages of his blades.
One man’s skull split open, a woman’s arms were severed, and her dagger was shattered in half mid-swing.
It was an overwhelming display of skill and power.
Screech!
The woman’s scream tore through the air as her severed limbs hit the ground.
Ragna didn’t stop. His focus was on the fleeing pitchfork-wielder. As the man twisted his body and raised his weapon in a desperate attempt to defend himself, Ragna struck again.
The first blow nearly cleaved the pitchfork in half. The second, a reverse swing, sliced clean through the man’s neck.
Slice.
It was effortless. Had Ragna applied just a fraction more force, the pitchfork would have been entirely destroyed.
The battle left only one opponent standing.
“Shit,” muttered the dual-axe fighter, gripping his weapons tightly.
“You’re the main dish,” Ragna said with a grin that was far from his usual stoic demeanor. There was something unsettlingly different about him today—something wild.
He approached the axe-wielder with slow, deliberate steps, his blade ready. The fighter bore no resemblance to Rem in appearance, but for Ragna, that was irrelevant.
“Start with the legs,” he murmured, his voice calm.
And then he moved.
The axe-wielder screamed, swinging his weapons in a desperate frenzy. But it wasn’t enough.
Ragna’s blade severed the man’s thigh, bringing him to his knees. In quick succession, Ragna sliced through the tendons in both arms, forcing him to drop his axes.
With his enemy helpless, Ragna placed the edge of his blade against the man’s skull.
It was then that Ragna noticed something unusual: his own excitement.
Was this something to be thrilled about? He wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t unpleasant.
“Please, if you spare me, I’ll—"
Crack.
Before the man could finish, Ragna split his head open with a clean vertical cut.
The last of the mercenaries had fallen.
Ragna inspected his sword, noting the chipped edge and loose hilt. Sighing, he discarded it.
He gathered the weapons of the triplets, strapping two blades to his hips and slinging the third over his back.
“You’re going for a three-sword style now?” Enkrid asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” Ragna replied, shaking his head. “I’ll use them one at a time.”
He adjusted the blades with practiced ease before turning to Enkrid.
“Do you know what that technique I used earlier was called?” he asked, speaking faster than usual—a rare display of excitement.
Enkrid shook his head.
Ragna answered his own question.
“I call it Severance.”
The name was plain, but the technique’s power was undeniable. Severance was a skill that Ragna had refined into a deadly art—a method to slice through anything.
“I’ll teach it to you,” he declared, leaving no room for argument.
Enkrid nodded, his curiosity piqued.
From the sidelines, Vengeance watched the scene unfold, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Monsters. Both of them,” he muttered under his breath. What else could he say?
Enkrid bent down to collect two axes from the fallen enemies. Rem would likely need them after breaking his previous weapons against the giant.
The rest of the loot was sparse—just a few throwing knives from the dagger-wielding woman. It was a shame he’d run out of his Whistle Daggers. Replacing them would be difficult.
Something to handle later, he thought.
Their skirmish concluded, they began to regroup and resupply when a roar erupted from the front lines.
“Audin! Audin!”
The soldiers’ cheers echoed across the battlefield.
Enkrid’s gaze shifted toward the commotion.
The mist was lifting as dawn broke, revealing the scene ahead.
There, at the center of the enemy’s formation, stood Audin—alone and resolute.