Andrew and Mack held their swords firmly.
Between them, Enri pulled back the string of his shortbow, a replacement for his crossbow, firing whenever he found an opening.
When an enemy approached unexpectedly or when he spotted a fallen enemy soldier, he switched to his hand axe, driving it down onto their heads.
Thwack!
Though he couldn’t split skulls cleanly in one blow like Rem, the result wasn’t far off. Heads cracked halfway, blood oozing through helmet gaps, and eyes filled with resentment or despair.
It all looked too much like the death throes of hunted beasts.
Enri turned his gaze away, unsettled by his own thoughts.
Such reflections were a luxury in the midst of battle.
Still, that was all Enri contributed.
Andrew and Mack did everything else.
Though not on par with the Mad Platoon, these two were far from ordinary soldiers.
“You bastards think the Grey Dogs are a joke?”
One of the enemy soldiers shouted. He had already taken down several of their allies, his spear dripping with blood, his eyes fierce.
Andrew stepped forward to face him.
Five exchanges were all it took. Two blocks, two slashes, and a swift thrust.
That thrust—it oddly resembled Enkrid’s technique, or so it seemed to Enri.
Mack skillfully cut down enemies, ensuring Andrew didn’t push too far forward.
“That’s far enough,” Mack said.
Hearing his words, Andrew stopped abruptly.
Then he began pounding his chest with both fists.
“Uwoooar!”
What the hell? Why was he suddenly yelling?
It seemed he’d picked up something odd from Rem.
“Come at me, you half-grown wimps!”
A clumsy taunt, and what was with the chest-thumping?
Regardless, Andrew fought fiercely, driven by his excitement.
From behind, Enri watched them, as well as the others.
Blood specks dotted their helmets.
“Waaaaah!”
A chorus of cheers.
“Kill them! Kill them all!”
Cries of murderous intent.
“Please, spare me...”
Desperate pleas for life.
Amid the chaos of the battlefield, Enri had a realization.
“This is it.”
While some cheered for the Mad Platoon in admiration...
And others watched them in awe...
Enri saw his own limits. He understood that this was as far as he could go.
“Uwoooar!”
Andrew’s roar echoed as his sword sliced through the space between an enemy’s collarbone and neck.
Squelch.
The blade lodged halfway before Andrew yanked it free.
“Aaaaagh!”
The soldier’s scream followed the movement of the blade.
Having faced his limits, Enri longed to return to being a plains hunter.
But the plains he once roamed were now a battlefield.
Perhaps moving to the city, becoming the husband of a widowed florist, wouldn’t be so bad.
That widow, who had lost her husband to war and raised her child alone with quiet strength.
Enri missed her terribly. He wanted to abandon the battlefield and return to her immediately.
Ending his life as a hunter, as a soldier, felt like the right thing to do.
“I’m getting sentimental,” Enri muttered to himself as he surveyed the battlefield’s final moments.
The enemy commander had made a swift retreat. His judgment had been sharp, his legs even quicker.
At some point, the commander’s banner and his guards had vanished.
The remaining forces mostly surrendered.
Only a few continued to resist.
The battle, the war, was coming to an end.
Amidst it all:
“Long live the madmen!”
A triumphant cheer tore through the air.
It was a victory cry.
A victory they had earned.
***
The commander of Azpen’s army was fleeing with all his might.
“Damn bastards.”
As a capable leader, he understood the state of the battle all too well.
Who had turned the tide of the battlefield?
Where had the winds of change first blown?
The ones wielding axes and a few others.
He needed intelligence. He had to alert his superiors about the dangerous figures among the enemy ranks.
Though he had already sent out carrier pigeons, as a commander who had experienced the battlefield firsthand, he bore a final responsibility.
Suddenly, a deafening shout tore through the air.
“I thought the night would never end, you bastards!”
The commander’s heart sank.
The sudden outburst came from a unit blocking their retreat, armed with various weapons. It was clearly an independent force.
They were not allies—of that, he was certain.
On their right shoulders gleamed the eagle insignia.
“And we still lost, even without these guys?”
The commander muttered bitterly as his guard surrounded him in a tight formation.
But it wasn’t enough.
“The Butchers of the Borderlands.”
The enemy was none other than Naurillia’s pride, a feared combat unit known as the Butchers of the Borderlands.
These soldiers had circled around and lain in wait to ambush this precise moment—targeting the rear of the Azpen forces to demoralize them, cut their numbers, and break their will.
The Butchers had originally planned to harass the enemy’s rear lines discreetly, striking supply routes and escaping before reinforcements arrived.
But what they encountered wasn’t a composed enemy but rather a retreating horde, reduced to a pack of frightened stray dogs.
The situation had changed, and there was no time to think.
The Butcher commander adjusted his strategy after spotting the exposed rear of the Azpen forces. Instead of directly attacking the rear line, they opted for an ambush.
If the enemy never came, they would have returned to the main army. But since they did...
“Wipe them out.”
The commander of the Borderland Butchers gave the order, his voice sealing the enemy's fate.
The Azpen commander and his guards resisted, but the outcome was inevitable.
“Retreat! Retreat!”
The commander shouted as he personally charged into the fray. It was a striking scene—calling for retreat while fighting instead of fleeing himself. He was clearly trying to save as many of his men as possible.
Such bravery deserved respect.
The Butcher commander took it upon himself to face him.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
In his hand was a flail, its spiked ball swinging on a chain, howling through the air.
“I’ll send you off with honor.”
And he did.
The fight was brief. One side had become a commander through sheer force, while the other specialized in strategic cunning.
Whoosh.
The flail's spiked ball followed an unpredictable trajectory before crashing down.
Thwack!
The Azpen commander’s skull shattered, spraying blood and brain matter.
It was over.
“Aaaaah!”
The rest of the fleeing soldiers were dealt with swiftly.
Crunch!
The final enemy fell, an axe buried in his skull, marking the end of the battle.
It was a scene befitting the title of Butchers of the Borderlands.
Leaving behind the massacre, the Butcher commander spoke:
“Regroup.”
The Borderland Butchers swiftly returned to the main army.
They had planned only to harass the retreating forces or disrupt supply lines, not to crush the enemy commander’s head.
How had the battle unfolded this way?
Curiosity, excitement, and a sense of expectation quickened his steps.
When he arrived, he was met with a victorious army.
The signs of a decisive, overwhelming victory were evident across the battlefield.
At its center, the cause of it all was clear without needing to ask.
The individuals who had shattered the enemy’s carefully prepared strategies.
And the man who led them.
The unit under his command.
Among the cheers, the name of that unit erupted again and again.
“The Mad Platooooon!”
“Mad! Mаn! Madmаn!”
“Crazy bastards!”
Battalion Commander Marcus made no effort to stifle the cheers.
In fact, he went out of his way to highlight who the true heroes of this battle were, ordering messengers to shout the Mad Platoon’s name.
Amid the roaring applause and cheers, the Mad Platoon stood at the center.
Enkrid was there with his platoon, surrounded by a circle of allies.
Even Torres spotted them and glanced at Enkrid’s face, a thought forming in his mind.
“It’s definitely a gathering of lunatics.”
There wasn’t a single person in that group who seemed remotely normal.
Though no one would admit it openly, Torres had experienced it firsthand.
Enkrid, too, was one of the madmen.
For many reasons, but if one had to choose the most convincing:
“The fact that he can live among those lunatics...”
Wasn’t that proof enough of his insanity?
What’s more, he fit in perfectly.
***
The fairy company commander watched the cheers and shifting momentum of the battlefield, murmuring to herself:
"Spring carries magic within it."
Spring—the season of gentle winds had returned.
The battle, which had begun at dawn, concluded by early afternoon. As the sun passed overhead, a warm breeze blew through the field.
Spring.
Like a flower born in winter, only to bloom in spring.
The cold winds of winter passed, replaced by the warm breeze of spring, always imbued with a certain magic.
Standing tall amidst the cheers, a man wrapped in that very magic commanded everyone's attention.
The fairy commander’s gaze followed that man, enveloped in the magic of spring.
Enkrid.
The leader of the Mad Platoon. His face came into her view.
***
Enkrid stood amidst the battlefield, basking in the cheers.
"Not bad at all," he thought.
Hearing people chant his name.
Hearing the Mad Platoon being celebrated.
He knew well who had turned the tide of the battlefield.
It was the work of his platoon.
Rem had slain the Giant.
Audin had shattered the enemy’s formation.
Jaxon must have done something too, though Enkrid hadn’t yet asked. He was certain of it.
And then there was himself and Ragna, cutting down the mercenaries wielding the Slasher’s Blades who had appeared on the right flank of the battlefield.
Ten elite mercenaries who, had they been left unchecked, would have carved through allied ranks with ease.
"We did well."
Not bad at all. So why not enjoy the cheers for once?
"Good, right?"
Rem grinned beside him.
"Yeah," Enkrid replied honestly, as always.
"You’re such a simple guy," Rem muttered, his attempt at teasing falling flat.
Others began returning to their positions.
"Andrew’s unit has returned."
No matter how often Rem beat him or how Audin gently threatened him, Andrew proudly proclaimed himself the sub-leader of the Mad Platoon.
The blood speckled across their helmets was evidence of the rough fight they’d endured.
Enkrid nodded in acknowledgment.
"What, did you cut off the commander’s head or steal the Giant’s balls?"
Having failed to tease Enkrid, Rem turned his sharp tongue on Andrew instead.
"Nah, just took down about 200 enemies in his place," Andrew boasted, his tone dripping with obvious exaggeration.
It was pure bravado. Everyone knew it, including Andrew himself, but it lightened the mood.
The atmosphere within the platoon grew relaxed.
"You’re full of crap," Rem laughed, letting it slide.
Even Ragna, who usually carried an undercurrent of tension, seemed to have found some release, slouching lazily in his usual manner.
Jaxon, too, allowed a rare smile to cross his face.
And Audin, as always, radiated a serene warmth. If a divine halo appeared behind him, no one would have questioned his sainthood.
Even while holding a blood-stained club, Audin’s presence felt soothing.
Kraiss observed the scene, quietly contemplating:
"How did things end up like this?"
It was Kraiss’s habit to analyze outcomes and trace them back to their origins.
"Was it the sparring match?"
He prided himself on being the most perceptive member of the platoon.
Kraiss had noticed something shift after Enkrid returned and initiated that sparring session.
Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, and Audin—their moods had changed.
Had they simply been uplifted?
Or perhaps something deeper, some long-standing burdens, had been lifted from their shoulders.
"One sparring session? That’s nothing unusual; we spar every day."
"No, that’s not it."
Kraiss recalled watching Enkrid spar with Frokk.
And later, seeing Enkrid bite off the ear of an enemy commander.
Whether the techniques were borrowed from mercenary swordsmanship or something entirely different didn’t matter.
Kraiss had observed Enkrid for a long time. So had the others.
"Growth."
Remarkable, almost implausible growth.
Despite knowing he could never truly reach their level.
Despite knowing his natural talent had limits.
Enkrid had never given up. He had clawed his way forward, step by painful step.
The platoon had supported him because they wished to see him stand, walk, and run.
But they all knew—knew all too well—that many had tried and failed to surpass the limits of their talent.
No matter what Enkrid did, he could never truly stand among them as an equal.
And yet, here he was.
"Good work, everyone."
Enkrid addressed the platoon, his voice calm as he stood before them.
Kraiss felt a lump rise in his throat.
It was the same Enkrid as always.
And yet, it wasn’t.
The afternoon sun, the warm breeze, the scent of the battlefield, the metallic tang of rust and blood, the stench of death.
It all swirled together, only to fade away.
Kraiss admitted to himself that he was captivated.
Merely watching Enkrid felt like being under a spell.
Perhaps it was the magic of spring.
As the old saying went:
"Spring carries magic within it."
And so, the gaze of every platoon member aligned, fixed on Enkrid.
Not just the platoon, either.
Battalion Commander Marcus approached, his expression similar.
"Let the cheers ring out."
Marcus walked closer, addressing Enkrid with a smile.
"Shout for the greatest hero of this battlefield."
Between the erupting cheers and cries of the Mad Platoon’s name, Marcus’s words carried far and wide.
A roar shattered the spring sky.
This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.
"Uwaaaaaah!"
The cry of victory, the shout of those drunk on the magic of spring.
It was the joy brought by triumph on the battlefield.
And above all, it was a celebration of the ones who had achieved it.
Enkrid stood silently amidst the cheers, quietly enjoying the moment.
Not bad. Not bad at all.