Chapter 110: Chapter 264 - What is the Black Blade Going to Do?
"So, how was it?"
Edin Molsan's father asked the question.
He didn't bother lifting his head, merely moving his lips as he wrote at his desk. As a result, Edin Molsan's guard had to address the top of his head.
The guard stood upright and replied, "He has opened his Will. At least at the level of a squire-knight."
To ascend in mastery over the Will—to awaken, open, touch, realize, or fulfill it—there were many terms, but the crux of the matter was singular: the person in question could now wield Will.
A man with black hair and blue eyes, intriguing but not someone who urgently needed to be brought in, was now someone noteworthy.
"Will, you say?"
The quill scratching against paper abruptly halted. The Count raised his head, his eyes betraying a shift in emotion.
The guard, who found such reactions rare, saw the Count's contemplative pause as he repeated the word internally.
Will.
The implication was clear: the person had genuinely reached the level of a squire-knight, not just the nebulous "squire-knight level" often thrown around.
In reality, the distinction between an actual squire-knight and someone merely at a "squire-knight level" was vast. Comparing an untrained swordsman to someone who wielded Will was an absurdity. And yet, the world often misapplied such terms, suggesting someone could be "squire-knight level" without actually mastering Will—a fundamentally misleading statement.
The Count, setting aside his quill entirely, leaned back in his chair, repeating the word aloud again in disbelief.
Will.
It wasn't something to gloss over. He'd known this individual's reputation, suspected he was far beyond the level of a typical squire, but this? It was a revelation.
True squire-knights were not just physical and mental warriors; they carried the power of Will, something only those who had transcended ordinary human limitations could wield. Most fighters who reached that level were celebrated figures, famous across entire regions.
The Count's face betrayed a subtle smile. "Things have gotten interesting."
Discarding most of the plans he'd been formulating in his mind, he leaned forward. "What do you think of him?"
Seeking the guard's perspective again, the Count's probing gaze lingered. The guard hesitated briefly, pondering how much to reveal.
This man was an enigma. Trusting him was out of the question.
A madman.
Though a noble of Naurelia, this Count had forged an uneasy, shadowy alliance with Aspen's Harrier family, with the guard himself as proof. Officially, he served as a bodyguard and retainer to the Count's family, but in reality, he belonged to the Harriers. He was a squire-knight from Aspen, tangled in this web of political machinations that were beyond his comprehension or concern.
One fact, however, was unmistakable: this man was scheming, and Aspen had decided to entertain those schemes.
Does this man even know fatherly affection?
It certainly didn't appear so.
The room gradually filled with the warm orange hues of the setting sun spilling through the windows, casting a soft glow on the Count's desk.
Finally, the guard chose his words carefully. "He's an extraordinarily difficult opponent. Not just in combat but because of the strange influence he exerts on those around him."
"A man who gathers others and makes them follow him, is that it?"
"Not exactly."
The guard paused, searching for the right words.
"Rather, even without trying, those around him seem drawn to him, as though they enjoy merely being in his presence."
The guard's thoughts drifted to the half-giant woman. Though she called herself a wanderer named Teresa, anyone who failed to recognize her was blind. She had been an enemy, from an entirely different faction, and had even caused trouble.
And yet, where was she now? Whose side had she chosen to remain by?
How such a transformation had occurred was beyond comprehension.
And what about the people surrounding him?
Finally, the guard also noticed a change in Edin Molsan.
He intended to mention the Count's son, but the Count spoke first.
"The Black Blade is targeting him, you say?"
The setting sun cast its light on the left side of the Count's face. At that moment, the guard saw two faces in one. The sunlight divided the Count's expression, creating two entirely different visages. Neither revealed any concern, worry, or even interest regarding his son.
For a fleeting moment, the guard found the phrase "targeting" peculiar, as if it should have been "targeted." But he chose to hold his tongue.
"That's what I've heard," he replied.
"Well, that's certainly amusing."
"Yes, then I'll take my leave."
The guard suddenly felt nauseous.
Dealing with this man always had that effect on him.
How far can human malice grow?
What is one willing to sacrifice for ambition?
If someone opened the path of knighthood for him, how much would he be willing to give up?
Family? Children?
Would he offer it all as a sacrifice for ambition? Or should he stop in the name of humanity?
The Count seemed like someone who would never stop. Concepts like family, children, or affection seemed entirely absent from his mind.
As the guard exited the study, he noticed someone standing by the door.
It was a man wearing a black helmet and letting his silver hair flow freely beneath it.
The man gave a slight nod of his helmet, and the guard responded with a similar gesture before stepping into the dark hallway untouched by the sunlight.
The black-helmeted bodyguard closed the door behind him.
Thud.
The Count leaned his chin on his hand, staring at the closed door.
Feeling idle, he pulled out a pipe, flicked his fingers, and a burst of flame ignited, pushing back the glow of the sunset.
He moved the flame to light his pipe, then smiled.
Inhaling deeply, he let the smoke settle in his lungs before exhaling. The smoke mixed with the sunlight, appearing like orange mist.
"The Black Blade folks..."
They must be having a hard time.
If the target was not merely "squire-knight level" but an actual squire-knight...
And if, as the guard reported, the people surrounding him were all formidable...
It would be difficult for them to achieve what they wanted.
"Even if they succeed..."
If the Black Blade managed to harm Enkrid and his group, then he would weigh the scales and act accordingly.
But such an outcome seemed unlikely. It was an intuition, but such feelings rarely missed the mark.
"This will indeed be entertaining," he muttered, lost in thought, his mind entirely devoid of any concerns about Edin Molsan.
***
The moment Enkrid grabbed his opponent's wrist, the man pulled back with all his strength.
Of course, the wrist didn't budge.
It remained motionless, like a still-life painting. Veins bulged on the back of the hand from the grip's intensity.
Even though everyone of the madmen seemed like monsters themselves, Enkrid's raw strength was not inferior to theirs.
Crack.
Enkrid twisted the wrist backward, bending it at an unnatural angle. The joint snapped. Yet the opponent didn't let out so much as a groan.
The marketplace was a chaotic sea of people. Half of it was filled with bodies, the other half with goods.
Few around them even noticed the commotion.
"Hey, watch it! What are you stepping on?" shouted a furious peddler.
"There's no room to walk here!" someone else complained.
The need for wider streets was evident, and some efforts to expand the main road were already underway.
The hunchback, whose wrist had been broken, reached out with his other hand.
Before the arm could fully extend, Enkrid's right fist shot forward like a hammer.
To Krais, standing nearby, the movement was invisible. He only heard a whoosh followed by a snap.
Even though she was being held close to Enkrid, Esther barely felt any tremor from the strike, and it left her slightly astonished.
"He's gotten even sharper."
Though a witch, Esther couldn't fully grasp what had changed about Enkrid, but her instincts told her something had.
After breaking the hunchback's jaw, Enkrid grabbed the hood of the man's thick robe and pulled it off. Beneath the hood was a figure with a bulging back and unkempt hair.
Breaking the wrist, delivering the punch, and removing the robe all happened in the span of a few breaths.
But just as this brief sequence concluded, a projectile flew through the air with a whoosh.
With his heightened senses, Enkrid swung his open palm, deflecting the incoming projectile.
The object clattered to the ground, landing vertically with a sharp thud.
It was a dart.
"They're no ordinary folks," Enkrid muttered, nudging the dart with his foot.
"…That's what you say after casually dismantling them?" Krais responded, his voice tinged with disbelief. Just what about these enemies was supposed to be remarkable?
Esther leaped from Enkrid's arms, landing gracefully like a panther. Several bystanders, startled by the sight, gasped in surprise.
Some noticed the fallen hunchback, while others saw the dagger in his hand or the presence of Enkrid and Krais.
While itinerant merchants might not recognize their faces, the local border guards couldn't fail to.
"A dagger!"
"An attack!"
"An assassin!"
Well, wasn't that quick? They jumped straight to "assassin" the moment they saw it.
The outcry only added to the chaos.
The area erupted in turmoil, with screams, shouts, and merchants yelling to protect their goods. Stall owners scrambled to shield their wares, turning the market into a complete mess.
Enkrid extended his senses, calmly observing the confusion.
There was nothing to detect immediately.
This was why he had said the enemy wasn't ordinary.
I didn't sense them until they struck with a dagger.
Whoever had thrown the dart earlier must have hidden in the crowd the moment they attacked, leaving no trace.
Their stealth skills were deeply ingrained.
Had the area been less crowded, he might have pinpointed them, but he focused his attention nonetheless.
Where are you?
He sharpened his perception, using his sight, hearing, smell, and touch in tandem. Adding his instinctual sixth sense to the mix, he finally caught a faint trace—an almost imperceptible killing intent.
At that moment, something heavy and slower than a dart whooshed through the air from behind him.
A slingstone?
The thought crossed his mind as Enkrid turned.
His enhanced reflexes, honed through relentless training, allowed him to see the projectile clearly. It was a leather pouch.
Trusting his instincts, Enkrid drew his gladius. Twisting his wrist to angle the flat of the blade upward, he swung it forcefully at the incoming pouch.
Thwack! Pop-pop-pop-pop!
The pouch burst in midair, scattering a spray of sharp metal spikes in all directions.
Well, now, he mused, that's a first.
Screams followed as some of the spikes hit the ground.
Fortunately, being winter, most people were wearing thick clothes, minimizing injuries.
However, the confusion grew even worse.
"Dammit! Everyone, get inside a building! If you stay out here, we'll treat you as enemies!"
A patrol soldier's shout cut through the chaos.
It was a timely order. In situations like this, it was better to suppress with force and regain control.
Enkrid remained motionless, scanning his surroundings carefully.
Krais, looking around nervously, decided it might be safer to stay where he was and stopped moving.
Ping!
Two more darts flew through the air. One was aimed at Krais.
In Enkrid's heightened perception, the dart's trajectory became a visible line. Following that line, he determined its origin and end point within his sensory range.
His focus sharpened to a single point.
Combining acute senses, intense concentration, and an unflinching will, Enkrid moved like a well-practiced performer.
The dart meant for him was evaded with a slight tilt of his head. The one aimed at Krais was snatched out of the air with his hand.
All of this happened in a single, fluid motion, within the span of one breath.
Had the assassin seen this, their hair would have stood on end. Their bladder might have quivered, urging them to flee on the spot.
And of course, they were watching.
Enkrid twirled the dart he had caught between his fingers, dangling it mockingly.
So, they're targeting Krais now?
Meanwhile, another dart flew with a delay, aimed at Esther.
But the panther had already moved.
When it came to sheer agility, how many humans could rival a beast?
The dart struck where she had been, embedding itself into the ground. It was the only proof she had been the target.
Growl.
Esther snarled, radiating hostility, while Enkrid kept his heightened senses active.
The assassins—or rather, the assassin group—were highly skilled.
Letting out intentional killing intent, throwing a pouch of spikes…
And the spikes weren't poisoned? Unlikely—they almost certainly were.
Traces of killing intent flickered here and there before disappearing again.
"Don't push! I said, don't push!"
"Don't step on me!"
"Do you know who you're shoving?!"
"Help me!"
"Aaaaahhh!"
"Get out of the way! Move!"
And so, the market descended further into madness.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
TL here! Thank you for reading!
For some extra chapters or if you want to show your support head here:
https://ko-fi.com/samowek
https://discord.gg/eXsm6WsQE6
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone