If there is a beginning, then there is also an end.
Indulging in gluttony to savor a feast.
Being swept away by music in delight.
A man and woman exploring each other's bodies.
All things come to an end.
Enkrid lifted his arm, wiping away the blood streaming from his nose.
The thrill faded.
He had enjoyed the process far more than the victory itself, and so calm returned to him.
Just as he had calculated from the start—Penna was enough.
"I thought you'd collapse halfway."
The female swordswoman spoke. She was kneeling on one knee, head lifted.
Those who had been hiding in fear now sensed the fight had cooled and dared to peek out, turning into spectators.
A boy with wide eyes called out.
"Did you win?"
The answer came from the swordswoman herself.
"Yeah, I lost."
From the beginning, there had been no killing intent.
It wasn't a fight to kill, but a fight to measure.
A rough sparring match, at best.
That was why Enkrid hadn't gone all-out with his sword.
Victory and defeat in battle aren't determined by skill alone.
He realized that again.
If he compared himself to the swordswoman, his skill was superior.
But if this had been real combat?
She didn't show everything she had.
Of course, neither had Enkrid.
"Why aren't you tired?"
The woman asked.
Enkrid studied her face more carefully, dredging up his memories.
"So that's where I've seen you."
"Hm? You know me?"
It had been only a fleeting encounter, long ago.
He hadn't recalled it instantly because the moment had been brief.
Now, her striking presence stirred the memory to the surface.
Back in his mercenary days, when Ger and Pete had died—that day when he'd earned the nickname of "the man who let his comrades die."
The swordswoman who slew the bandits then.
Ger and Pete had sacrificed themselves to hold the line.
At that moment of desperation, this female swordsman had appeared.
Looking back, that cursed nickname had haunted him for years.
It was part of the reason he quit mercenary work and became a guide instead.
"I thought you were a cross-dressing man back then."
Enkrid said. Her hair had been short at the time, her breastplate concealing her figure. With only her face showing, it would have been difficult to tell her gender.
Now, her hair was much longer.
A fleeting connection from his mercenary days—standing here before him once more.
"Well, it's my first time seeing you."
The woman replied.
Enkrid had met countless people, but it had been a long while since someone looked at him so plainly—admiration in her eyes only for his swordplay, not his appearance.
"We crossed paths briefly, a long time ago."
Enkrid sheathed his sword.
She wasn't an enemy. In fact, she had once saved his life—even if unintentionally.
"Oh, no way. I'm good with faces."
Her words, oddly, carried a trace of Ragna's manner.
"Why did you attack me?"
Enkrid asked simply.
He couldn't remember the details—it had been too long—but she clearly hadn't meant to kill him.
"Because watching you made my blood boil."
She grinned.
A raw, honest smile, nothing hidden.
To others, it might have sounded absurd.
But Enkrid understood immediately.
When blood boils, sometimes that's reason enough.
"Insane."
Venzens muttered from the side, shaking his head.
For someone like him, who had lived through countless battlefields of flashing swords and flying arrows, the idea of fighting just because blood boiled sounded utterly mad.
And yet, one of those times, it was Captain Enkrid who saved me.
He remembered the night he had been trapped in a burning tent, only to be carried out on Enkrid's back.
Enkrid glanced at Venzens, acknowledging him silently.
By then, the city guard had arrived—the Captain himself.
They had rushed the moment they heard the scale of the disturbance.
Venzens gestured, and archers lowered their crossbows.
The marketplace was surrounded.
Enkrid and the swordswoman both knew they had been encircled, but neither paid it any mind.
The guards knew they could not restrain Knights like these.
But they had their duty—to buy time.
That was what the city guard was: not to defeat Knights, but to delay them.
To Venzens, this was proof of what a Knight truly was on the continent.
A walking calamity.
If Enkrid or the swordswoman had gone on a rampage, dozens—hundreds—could have died here.
And then, surely, Enkrid would have cut her down.
But no kingdom wasted a Knight on mindless slaughter.
They were too rare, too precious.
And even a Knight could die to volleys of arrows, to bolts from ballistae.
Perhaps not Audin, but an ordinary Knight could not endure that forever.
So no—this kind of scene almost never happened.
Which meant, yes—the woman had spoken the truth.
She hadn't come for slaughter.
She had seen Enkrid, and her blood had boiled.
Enkrid himself was recalling the thrill of their clash.
She wasn't shallow. Not a fake.
He knew it from experience.
The path of the Knight was a journey, not a destination.
If you decided the answer first and forced others to walk that path, you got only fakes.
That was what the Holy Kingdom mass-produced—Knights forged of false convictions and hollow wills.
From Enkrid's perspective, such beings were no true Knights.
But this woman—she had walked her path herself.
He was sure of it, because he had crossed blades with her.
"If you've subdued her, then take her in, Captain."
Venzens said, clearly dissatisfied with the situation, though he hadn't neglected his duty.
Was there no way to prevent Knights from strolling into cities at will?
Or perhaps a way to restrain them instantly if they rampaged?
As he thought, Enkrid remembered—the woman had come here searching for someone.
"Did you find the one you were looking for?"
"I think I have. There aren't two fighters of your level here."
The Madmen Knights of the Border Guard had grown famous.
Not like before—it was different now.
The woman had followed the rumors, all the way here.
And now she asked:
"You're the Heartbreaker, Enkrid, right?"
Damn it, Pel.
Enkrid blamed Pel's mouth for half the spread of that wretched nickname.
The other half, of course, was Shinar's fault.
"Yes."
The answer came not from Enkrid, but from Venzens.
Enkrid shot him a look. Was that provocation?
"It's not wrong, after all."
Venzens replied.
The man muttered under his breath.
"And there's the Bear Beastkin who tears people apart."
The Bear Beastkin was rumored to rip apart Manticores, people—anything and everything.
"True. Though he's not Beastkin."
Venzens answered again.
His guard remained up, but he knew enough to respond.
He could see she hadn't fought with the intent to kill.
"And the Barbarian who supposedly drools at the sight of Nobles, eager to split their heads."
There was venom in the rumor.
But that was the nature of rumors—they grew teeth of their own.
Enkrid corrected her.
"I don't drool."
"Oh, really? Then there's the youngest one, the blood-crazed brat, right? The one who loves stabbing from behind? And I heard there's a Fairy tainted by Demonic blood."
More like a Fairy who hates Demonic blood.
"And a Witch hiding her identity."
That part wasn't quite right either.
Esther had even formed her own Magic Division—she hardly hid what she was.
But still, the nickname "Black Flower" lingered.
"And the madman who slashes anyone who meets his gaze. Blond hair, red eyes, right?"
That was true.
Ragna Zaun.
And with her name… Enkrid pieced it together quickly.
"My name is Grida Zaun. I'm the sister of the Blond Madman."
She spoke plainly.
Enkrid wasn't surprised.
He remembered Ragna once mentioning he'd left his family of his own will.
He hadn't gone into detail—Ragna never did.
The family name was Zaun.
A House whose swordsmanship alone was enough to be called legendary.
"Enkrid of the Border Guard."
Enkrid extended his hand.
Grida took it, rising to her feet.
"You're not bad. What do you think of me?"
"…In what sense do you mean—no, don't say it."
Enkrid cut her off quickly.
Venzens was right there, ears pricked.
Among the crowd, Enkrid even spotted a hooded figure who was likely a Fairy, watching from the shadows.
"In what sense? As a woman, of course."
Ah.
"Still irresistible…"
Someone whispered.
For the first time in ages, the old nickname resurfaced within the Border Guard.
"The Irresistible Captain."
"The Irresistible Knight."
"The Irresistible Master."
"The Collector of Hearts."
Half of them were just shouting for fun.
Enkrid knew better than to react.
Reacting would only feed the fire.
He simply noted a few faces to remember later.
Clink.
From within the crowd, a Fairy dropped the bottle she was holding, startled.
She didn't even pick it up—just vanished into the onlookers.
Enkrid saw this much, then spoke.
"Ragna should be at the barracks."
"Right. But are you really not interested?"
"No."
"Oh? Did you lose it in an accident?"
"Lose what?"
"That."
Ragna's sister resembled him in more ways than one—chief among them, her complete disregard for how others looked at her.
She lifted her arm, dangling her fist suggestively.
"I have it."
Enkrid's reply came fast.
"Oh, then is it… preference?"
"Not at all."
"Then it must be that I'm just not attractive."
Grida nodded, oddly assured.
Not offended.
Not even slightly bothered.
Then she asked again.
"But really, when did we meet?"
Moments ago, they had spoken blade-to-blade.
Now, they spoke as ordinary people.
And to Enkrid, this was far preferable to discussing the existence of eggs between his legs.
"Back when a camp was raided, some bandits were killed—you were there. But it was so fast you might not remember."
"That only narrows it down to about a dozen times."
"Have you been wandering lost since then?"
If she was Ragna's sister, that wouldn't be impossible.
"No, not that. Honestly, I found more interesting things while traveling. So I only half-looked for Ragna, while mostly just… playing. Eventually, the family sent more people after me."
"So that's what you meant when you said you didn't come alone."
"Yeah. By now, they're probably testing themselves elsewhere. Don't be too surprised if someone got hurt. They're all the type who can't stand not swinging their blades."
Who exactly got hurt—that was yet to be seen.
"That's my line."
Enkrid said simply, ignoring the renewed shouts of "Irresistible" from behind him.
He walked off.
Venzens dispersed the crowd, and Enkrid quickened his pace.
When he entered the barracks, the place was in chaos.
"You finally here?"
Rem was the first he saw.
Beside him stood a scowling swordsman, blood crusted on his brow.
"You lost?"
Grida asked the man.