"So, who wants to die today?"
Rem, as usual, poured his heart into training his soldiers.
To an outsider, it might have looked like abuse.
He would pick them one by one—forcing them into duels with him, or worse, throwing them into three-on-one skirmishes against him.
The latter was preferable, of course. Facing Rem alone was far worse.
But at his words, none of the unit spoke.
Their spirits burned, though—promising to kill whoever stood in their way.
Even those who once muttered complaints no longer voiced them.
They had learned the truth: resist, and you'd just get beaten bloody—and still have to finish the drills afterward.
Crafty bastards.
Rem pushed them harder for it.
Training had to be brutal, or else they'd crumble in battle.
Those who had felt death's breath at the edge of Rem's axe fought far calmer when facing monsters.
On expeditions outside the city, hunting packs of beasts or magical creatures, his unit often distinguished itself.
And it wasn't just about fighting.
His soldiers never harassed women in the territory, never stole, never begged for free food at taverns.
For men who looked so wild, they were surprisingly disciplined—a rarity among garrisons.
No wonder Rem's reputation was rising by the day.
Everyone knew this was the Madmen's Assault Unit.
Even southern nobles, once wary of him, began to relax.
Not that anyone who met him personally dared to act friendly.
Rem, absorbed in training, was once again grinding his men at the mountain-side training grounds.
Crunch, crunch.
The careless footsteps reached him first.
Whoever it was, they didn't bother to hide their presence—their gait carried arrogance, their aura openly hostile.
"Are you the Noble Killer? Gray-haired, ugly face—yeah, that's you."
The voice belonged to a man striding toward them from the slopes of the Pen-Hanil Mountains.
A sword dangled in his hand, its blade slick with black blood.
Rem had sensed his presence long before he appeared.
He remained seated on the makeshift wooden platform, leaning against the railing.
The boards creaked under his weight as he shifted lazily, speaking without even drawing his axe.
"Where'd this husk roll in from?"
"'Husk'? If you mean me, you're dead today."
The man answered sharply.
His armor was thin, but finely made; his sword, clearly not common steel. He had the bearing of a noble.
But his killing aura was savage.
"Is this bastard insane?"
One of Rem's men muttered.
This one bore a scar under his eye—a mercenary once called the Mad Axe.
He had calmed somewhat since joining, but only compared to the past.
"Hey, if you don't want to die, get lost. Shoo, shoo."
Another veteran waved him off with the back of his hand.
They knew well that provoking Rem never ended well.
"Do you even know who you're walking up to? You think this is some suicide ground?"
They each had something to say.
Finally, one of the kinder soldiers stepped forward.
"Go. If you screw around here, you'll really die. Try the Holy Unit instead—they won't kill you."
The Holy Unit punished with boulders strapped to backs and endless marches, but they didn't kill.
Here, things were different.
Rem's men were rough, and never shied from a fight.
The stranger gave no warning—his bloodied sword lashed out in a blur.
Even Rem only reacted once the blade had already traced its arc.
"Down!"
Whoosh!
The shout erupted at the same time as the strike.
Every soldier flinched reflexively, their muscles obeying words drilled into bone.
One man threw himself backward, practically collapsing.
Thud!
Rem's axe split the air, intercepting the strike before it could cut the soldier.
It was only his hand-axe, thrown as casually as one might toss a stone—but Rem was infamous for turning anything he picked up into a deadly missile.
The stranger's sword deflected it with ease.
What's more, his original target had been the soldier's chest.
To change course mid-swing, counter the axe, and still hold his form—
He wasn't ordinary.
"Where'd this one crawl out from?"
Rem rose at last, stepping down from the platform.
The distance between them vanished in moments.
The swordsman's blade fell without warning, cutting straight for Rem's skull.
Rem met it with a rising axe swing.
Steel crashed against steel.
Screech!
Sparks showered as the weapons locked and sprang apart.
Rem dug in with his thighs, absorbing the shock, then swung again.
His arms cracked like a whip—the axe flared like lightning.
The air itself burst.
Boom!
The blade cleaved through space, aiming for the man's head.
But it split only an afterimage.
The stranger had already slipped aside, lowering his body and retreating a step.
Not luck.
Rem knew it instantly.
That dodge had been deliberate, the timing perfect.
Even as he evaded, the man thrust, his left hand gripping near the sword's guard for precision.
A grip-thrust.
Basic—but deadly when executed like this.
Won't catch him in one go.
Rem kicked forward, leaning his head just enough to let the thrust pass.
The man didn't overcommit.
He pulled back and skipped away, sword rising smoothly into a two-handed grip.
The contrast in their stances was stark.
Rem set his axe across his shoulder, relaxed but ready.
"Tch. Where the hell did you come from?"
Rem muttered.
Something about the man's form irritated him—almost familiar.
The swordsman had brown hair, brown eyes.
Calm as a still lake, fierce as a storm.
An odd one.
"Why do you care?"
The man's tone was cold.
"Didn't care anyway, bastard."
And his words were just as irritating.
Rem never spared his tongue.
Especially not for strangers who rubbed him the wrong way.
The swordsman shifted his weight forward, right foot sliding.
Resolve hardened into Will—his strike carried pressure like a storm front.
A mastery of Middle-Sword Form.
The kind of pressure only someone who had trained it to its peak could emit.
So what?
Rem's axe thrummed, its edge trembling in anticipation.
He would break this little display apart.
And he did.
As the sword fell, his axe rose to meet it.
From his toes to his waist, his body poured force into the swing.
Heart of Might, the technique once named for its monstrous strength, surged naturally into the strike.
The focused power of Giant-Cleaver flowed into the axe as well.
Crash!
The ground shook.
The shockwave rippled like a meteor striking earth.
"Crazy bastards… monsters, the lot of them."
One of the soldiers muttered, but it was what they were all thinking.
Rem hadn't killed his opponent.
Instead, he rested his axe atop the man's head.
More precisely, he angled the blade, diverting half the force of the strike and absorbing the rest with his body, then slammed his left fist against the sword's flat.
In that instant of imbalance, he hooked the man's leg and toppled him.
These were tricks Rem had honed after countless bouts with that brat Ragna once Enkrid had left.
And so the duel ended with his axe pressed against the man's crown.
With a Knight's strength and skill, he didn't even need to lift the axe fully—just a light stroke would have split the man's skull.
The intruder knelt on one knee, blood streaming beneath his tattered pauldron.
"I'll ask one question. Answer it well."
Rem's voice carried no jest.
This wasn't the teasing killing intent he flashed during training.
This was the sun at noon—blinding, searing, absolute.
Answer wrong, and the axe would fall.
"What's your connection to that directionless bastard?"
He asked.
Meanwhile, elsewhere, Audin faced his own opponent.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes.
A square jaw, a large frame—though not quite on Audin's scale.
"I came here to meet someone."
The blond man spoke.
Audin almost asked how he had gotten inside—but dismissed the thought.
Sneaking in or walking straight through, no guards could have stopped him anyway.
Beside Audin, Luagarne's large eyes shifted warily.
"Where did this one crawl in from?"
Her gift of appraisal made her an excellent judge of strength.
Can't see it clearly.
Enkrid's growth she could gauge, since she had watched him steadily for so long.
But Knights—true Knights—often lay beyond her sight.
That meant this man was, at minimum, a Knight.
"I heard he was here, but wasn't sure if it was true."
The man spoke carefully, as though selecting each word.
Audin, ever smiling, responded gently.
"Wouldn't it be polite to give your name first, brother?"
The blond man's face showed little, but Audin's insight saw it clearly—his hand was ready to draw at any moment.
So Audin shifted his stance, feet spreading apart, arms loose at his sides.
His hands were ready—merciless, crushing tools, waiting to break whatever they grasped.
"What I want to know is… well, precisely, I'm asking your name. Are you Enkrid?"
The sudden question made Ropord and Pel stare.
What the hell was this?
In these lands, Enkrid was the Demon-Slayer, Guardian of the Border Guard, and the one who ended the civil war.
Stories of his black hair, blue eyes, and his ability to charm women of every race were widespread.
"Does that look like a lady-killer's face to you? Where? Show me where. Look at him—does he look like a killer of hearts?"
Pel blurted.
From Heartbreaker to Hearts-Killer—it hardly mattered. It wasn't even his nickname anyway.
Audin, though, was left baffled.
He had always been content with his own face, but hearing this left him flustered.
"…Brother Shepherd?"
Pel muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Nope."
Teresa quickly agreed.
"Absolutely not."
She emphasized it, determined to avoid any misunderstanding.
"Sister Teresa?"
"I'll do my best to clear things up."
This is clearing things up? Audin asked with his eyes.
"Where did you come from that you can't even recognize our captain? He may not kill hearts, but he does have a hobby of tearing people in half. Watch your tongue—Sir Audin is offended now."
Ropord spoke firmly.
"So my hobby is tearing people in half?"
"W–wasn't it? In the Holy Infantry, they warned us that a mistake could get your body split in two…"
Perhaps the training methods had been misguided.
Audin reflected briefly. Maybe their drills hadn't been harsh enough.
Proper training left no room for idle thoughts.
The blond man blinked a few times.
He hadn't heard that nickname before, but one thing was clear—this bear-like man was dangerous.
"That's not the point anyway."
The man's face shifted—expectation, even delight, breaking through.
"Let's fight."
Audin knew the attack would come before the words finished.
The man's aura flared, and his sword cleaved through space.
Golden sand gathered around Audin's hands, coalescing into gauntlets of sacred power.
The divine armor caught the falling blade.
Clang!
Steel met Will, sparks flying.
Audin instinctively used Sacred Penetration, but the man disengaged instantly, shaking it off.
His sword was single-handed, its blade a pale blue-white, its hardness undeniable.
Not ordinary steel.
A seasoned fighter.
Audin judged him.
A man of great skill, tempered by real battle.
And the man, in turn, gauged Audin.
So that hobby about tearing men in half might not be false after all.
The crushing grip of his hands, the honed technique—it wasn't far-fetched.
He had even tried to seize and snap the blade earlier.
"Interesting."
The blond man's voice carried laughter.
Audin sensed a familiar scent.
Something of Enkrid.
Something of Ragna.
"My name is Odincar Zaun."
"Audin Pumrei. I wield the Sacred."
"Then let's play."
Zaun—bearing Ragna's surname—raised his sword.
It gleamed faintly, Will gathering thick around it.
A different quality of Will.
This man, too, had crossed a wall.
A genius in his own right.