The day that had always ended before sunset had changed today. As proof of that change, Ragna turned his body.
As Ragna, with his sword lowered, caught his breath, the Junior-Knight, who had resembled a grim reaper, collapsed.
Blood gushed from the severed part of his body. New blood was supplied to the already crimson-soaked carpet.
"How?"
Encrid's mouth opened. It wasn't quite terrifying, but he was certainly surprised.
He was genuinely curious, so he asked.
Was he asking how Ragna had come here? Krang, who had been watching, also thought the same. It was a timely assistance that arrived at an opportune moment.
In reality, it was the result of a twisted day, repeated over and over, but Krang couldn't know that.
As Ragna silently shook the blood off his sword, Encrid asked clearly about the reason for his surprise.
"How did you find the way?"
How could he not be astonished?
Ragna had come here alone. He hadn't secretly followed them, so he must have come straight from the castle gate.
Unless the Goddess of luck had not only kissed him but held his hand and led him, this wouldn't have been possible.
In response to Encrid's question, Ragna stood tall and spoke.
It was as if he had come all this way just for this moment.
"I know a shortcut."
"Luck?"
Encrid asked a condensed question.
He was asking if Ragna had arrived through pure luck.
Ragna also gave a brief reply.
"Skill."
It meant he had a natural talent for finding shortcuts.
Krang blinked.
What on earth were these guys doing?
It was an incomprehensible conversation.
Surely, this was the talk of madmen.
Well, it wasn't his place to say anything. The important thing was that he had survived.
It wasn't even night yet.
Krang realized that everything had ended before what he had prepared could even come into play.
"I almost pissed myself."
Krang muttered as he plopped down.
It wasn't exactly what one would expect a future King to say, but saying so didn't diminish his dignity. He was that kind of man.
Why should a man lose dignity for rejoicing in his survival?
He would have said the same if anyone had asked.
Encrid, after finishing his brief conversation with Ragna, crudely reset his dislocated right wrist with his left hand.
His eyes still lingered on Ragna.
By now, his gaze was different from when he had made that casual joke earlier.
Finding the way was one thing.
But what next?
Ragna had pushed away an opponent Encrid himself could not handle and had beheaded him.
He had witnessed the entire fight.
Anyone who had seen Ragna's fight, who had seen his sword, would know.
Ragna, though not yet a Knight, would become one.
Such was his talent. A glimpse of that talent had surfaced. Even Matthew's eyes widened, and his breathing quickened.
It was enough to astonish. Encrid's mouth opened.
"Thank you."
The words expressed gratitude, but the tone conveyed emotions beyond simple thanks.
Krang's ears perked up, and he turned his head.
Normally, Encrid wouldn't show his emotions so easily, but now it seemed difficult for him to contain them.
Krang looked at Encrid and shouted.
"Healer! Bring a healer!"
Two of his guards were gravely injured. Taking care of them was urgent as well.
Whether out of a strong sense of duty or loyalty, two attendants and maids immediately appeared.
"Yes, yes, Your Highness."
He had somehow managed to avoid both death and injury, hiding who knows where.
No, this was to be expected.
If everything had gone according to the dead Junior-Knight's intentions, it would have been Krang's corpse they would be dealing with now.
Besides, unless someone was a deranged, murderous maniac, there was no reason to kill the attendants or maids.
Even though the man was dead now, he had still been a member of the Knightly order. Krang knew this, which is why he had called for help.
"Bring a healer."
Krang, still seated on the ground, spoke, and the attendants and maids moved into action. Even so, Krang's gaze remained fixed on Encrid.
"I nearly died."
Ragna spoke. It was clear he was referring to how Encrid had nearly been killed. Was it because he sensed the emotion behind Encrid's words of gratitude? Was Ragna criticizing him, asking if that was how he should express gratitude to the person who had saved him?
It seemed to carry that implication.
Krang had a knack for sensing the deeper meanings hidden within people's words.
It could be called insight.
Yet, Encrid's gaze remained unchanged.
Encrid aspired to be a Knight. Even though someone like that had tried to stop the opponent with all his might, he hadn't been able to.
And it wasn't just him—he'd been helped by Krang's bodyguard, Matthew, and another spearman, yet this was the result.
Defeat. They had lost.
An ordinary person might have been consumed by despair. Even if they hadn't felt defeat, seeing Ragna would have stirred other thoughts.
To not feel jealousy would be inhuman. Can someone truly be human if they aren't affected by such feelings?
That's what Krang thought.
And looking at Encrid, he thought:
'He's not even human.'
"When this is healed, let's have a duel."
Encrid raised his injured right wrist as he spoke.
The emotion blazing in his eyes—what was it?
There was no jealousy. Only exhilaration, joy, and a desire for competition.
Ragna, seeing this, chastised him.
"If you've barely survived, you ought to exercise some restraint."
It wasn't really Ragna's place to say that, but this time, Encrid had definitely gone too far.
Encrid acknowledged this and nodded.
"Krang?"
He called out to him. Krang paused briefly, about to act.
His mind was already full of thoughts for what was to come.
In Krang's eyes, his own 'preparations' came into view. He hadn't wandered the continent all this time merely to escape.
This was one of the results.
"You're late."
A man with short brown hair spoke as he approached.
Ragna looked at the man who had confidently strode down the hallway and instantly recognized him as a formidable opponent.
"Sir Ingis."
Krang called his name. Encrid recognized the man's affiliation.
No one could fail to recognize someone wearing chest armor adorned with the crest of two swords and the emblem of the Sun God.
"I am Ingis, of the Knightly order."
His voice was young. His face was young. He didn't look older than twenty, at best. In reality, Ingis was only twenty-eight.
Looking so young was a bit of a complex for him.
He was also a prodigy, known as the most talented Knight within the Red Cape Knights.
During his years of wandering and fleeing, Krang had also seen the southern region. Specifically, he had encountered a Knight defending the border region, which was adjacent to the Demon Realm.
"Sir Cyprus."
He had seen Knights with names attached to their units and conversed with them. He had even witnessed the battles of the south. During those times, Krang had nearly lost his head four times.
Thanks to this, he had seen the battles of the south and understood the dangers they faced.
"I will not ascend to the throne by borrowing the strength of Knights."
Krang foresaw the future. He envisioned the path ahead for the Royal Palace. And because of that, he knew that drawing on the power of Knights, an extraordinary force, was not something he could afford.
Would he have to cut off the palace's own flesh to seize the throne?
"Maintain your honor, and I will do my work."
He wouldn't. He would make a foolish, stubborn choice. That's what Krang had done.
And maybe because of that.
He had earned a promise and now stood here, face to face with Ingis.
Holding out for half a day had brought him here, prepared to be the solution.
"I've come with eight Squires."
Ingis spoke. Just as he said, the others were busy organizing the front of the castle gate, and Ingis had rushed here.
His gaze shifted to the dead Junior-Knight Ragna had slain.
"Sir Filten."
There was a hint of sadness in his voice. However, he did not blame Ragna or anyone else.
He merely cast a brief, somber glance at the dead Junior-Knight. Everything had been Filten's choice. Ingis knew well that Filten had harbored jealousy toward him. But that didn't mean he had wished for this outcome.
Filten had become a traitor and had chosen his side. Whether it was right or wrong, it was the path he had decided.
Therefore, it was only right that he took responsibility for the result.
Inwardly, Ingis was somewhat grateful. If Filten had survived, he would have had to kill him with his own hands.
Ingis lifted his head and spoke.
"I must go to Her Majesty."
Master Cyprus had given him two orders.
Ensuring Krang's safety was one of them, but if there was any disloyal threat to the palace, Ingis was also to suppress and neutralize it.
"I was planning to go there anyway."
Krang agreed.
Could the Junior-Knight from the south have been the only weapon Krang had prepared? Would everything hinge on one person's decision, hoping that their mind would change?
Of course not.
But nothing else had come. Which meant that something had gone wrong elsewhere.
The group moved as one toward the Queen's hall.
* * *
"Are you the Tax Collector?"
Jaxon had arrived at the palace, reaching his destination.
This was where he had been aiming to go.
Jaxon was looking for the client who had hired the Assassin's Guild.
At first, he thought it was Viscount Mernes. After all, the one who had benefited from using the Black Blade Bandits was him.
However, after investigating and finding more evidence, he realized there was another person involved.
He had uncovered much by wiping out the entire Assassin's Guild.
As a result, he learned who the leader of the Black Blade was, and who had commissioned them.
It wasn't something he had figured out on his own.
It was the result of external pressure.
To be precise, it was thanks to the scheme of none other than Krang.
Krang had physically divided the nobles, forcing them to choose sides.
Thus,
'It's not wrong to say the leader helped.'
The Black Blade had been exposed thanks to being thoroughly beaten.
If not for that, there wouldn't have been the pressure to form the Assassin's Guild alliance, nor the commission.
In fact, none of this would have required direct involvement at all.
"Did you fail?"
A question was met with another question.
A man standing in front of a large window came into view. He was quite large. At his question, Jaxon nodded.
"Not even close."
"Why?"
"Skill difference."
"You're blunt."
"I have something to ask, and I hope you'll answer honestly."
"Go ahead."
The man had started as a merchant, bought his way into nobility, and had now become a Tax Collector for the Royal Family—a position tasked with collecting royal taxes.
Rumor had it he had even sold his soul to a demon to get to where he was.
"Is it the Black Lily?"
The large Tax Collector twisted his mouth. It was a smile, but his face was too distorted to call it that.
"Damn, I knew I should've been thorough back then and burned everything."
At his words, the image of a burning mansion flashed in Jaxon's mind.
He was in the right place.
Jaxon drew his sword and spoke.
"The heir of the Vensino family has returned."
The Tax Collector never once removed his hands from beneath the table as he spoke. From beneath the thick, sturdy, and expensive hardwood desk, his hands emerged.
In them were two modified crossbows.
They were preloaded, ready to fire as soon as the triggers were pulled.
"Think you can dodge this in such a small room?"
"I stand here in the name of one who has lost his family and as a child who lost his parents."
"Cut the crap and fight."
It was filthy, hardly a worthy final act for someone who had orchestrated so many deeds through the Black Blade, but Jaxon didn't criticize his opponent.
He merely wished for one thing.
"I beg you, don't ask for forgiveness."
He meant it sincerely.
"Screw you!"
The Tax Collector fired the bolt from his left hand. With a twang of the string, the blackened bolt shot into the darkness that had fallen with the setting sun.
The bolt had been coated in the poison known as 'Ten Breaths', meaning just a scratch would be fatal.
Jaxon didn't hide in the shadows to confuse his opponent.
This was a moment to act according to his instincts, to show his opponent his presence clearly until the very end.
He swung his sword and deflected the bolt.
This wasn't anything impressive for him.
With a sharp crack, the bolt snapped and bounced off to the wall and floor.
In the meantime, a second bolt flew toward him.
A staggered attack.
Jaxon pulled his sword back and struck down the second bolt as well.
The shattered tip of the bolt grazed his cheek. He hadn't wanted to avoid it, so he didn't.
A shallow cut formed on his cheek.
A sharp pain followed. Poison.
"Got him!"
The Tax Collector shouted. His tone was light, which didn't sit well with Jaxon.
He hadn't expected his target to be a man of great stature.
But this was just pathetic.
He was nothing more than a filthy man.
"Are you trying to elevate him in your mind? Do you think the ones who burned your family's home needed some grand reason to do it?"
His master's words came back to him. He had been right. Jaxon had imagined it that way. That only someone powerful with a compelling reason could have done it.
A demonic altar, the revival of a Dark God. At least something on that scale.
Or perhaps a powerful noble controlling the Kingdom?
That's what he had thought. He had built up his enemy in his mind, believing there had to be a significant reason for what had happened.
No, there had been a reason. Humans could kill each other for even the smallest of desires.
It was a mistake. But it was okay. Mistakes can be corrected.
Hadn't Encrid shown him that?
What do you do when you've taken the wrong path?
'You return.'
You start again. And if you fail again? If mistakes pile on one after the other? That's fine too. You just keep going. You start over. You keep trying until it works. Encrid held his sword and dreamed of becoming a Knight.
Was that dream absurd? Was it laughable? Something to mock?
Not at all.
By repeating, moving forward, and not giving up, you build your tower and walk your path.
That's all there is to it. That's all you need to do.
Jaxon decided not to be disappointed just because his opponent was a filthy man.
"Ten Breaths?"
Instead, he revealed the nature of the poison.
"...Was it really Geor's Dagger?"
The Tax Collector muttered, a hint of confusion and tension in his voice. As he spoke, he subtly grabbed another object and tossed it to the floor.
Bang!
Smoke billowed out. It was a smoke bomb. Jaxon felt a vibration that dulled his hearing. His vision was obscured by the smoke.
Still, it wasn't a problem.
He had pierced through tricks like this hundreds of times before.
Sensing with his sixth sense, detecting movement, and feeling the disturbances in the air—he relied on those to find his opponent's location.
The man was trying to escape through the window. Jaxon quickly closed the distance and grabbed him by the neck, hurling him backward. The man swung wildly, holding a hook-like weapon.
Jaxon caught the man's attack with his left hand, tossing him aside. With his right hand, he drew a stiletto and blocked the attack, parrying it away.
He then took a few steps toward the man he had thrown back.
The man didn't scream or groan. Instead, he spoke words from within the smoke.
Words that, of course, were for himself. They meant nothing to Jaxon.
"If you spare me, I can give you unimaginable wealth. I can give you treasure! I know the secret vault of the Black Blade Bandits!"
"I know the secret vault of the continent's greatest Assassin Guild."
The Tax Collector broke into a sweat at the implications behind Jaxon's words.
Jaxon opened the door.
Several corpses lay scattered outside, greeting him.
They were his handiwork. Those who had tried to stop him on his way here.
Among them were bodyguards and assassins.
These were likely the preparations made by the leader of the Black Blade Bandits for him.
Not everyone was dead. There was no reason to harm the attendants or maids who hadn't tried to fight and had simply hidden in a corner.
Jaxon waited for the smoke to clear before turning his head. He noticed the Tax Collector holding a curved-blade dagger. To be precise, he saw the man holding it in reverse, hiding it beneath his thigh.
Jaxon raised his longsword and, with a simple thrust to the thigh, suppressed his opponent's intentions.
Thud.
The tip of the longsword sank into the Tax Collector's thigh.
"Aaah!"
A scream echoed. Jaxon twisted the blade and then withdrew it, stabbing the man's other arm and leg in quick succession. After severing the tendons in the Tax Collector's limbs, he took the weapon from him, tossed it aside, and then used a wide strip of cloth to bind the wounds and stop the bleeding.
"You crazy bastard!"
The Tax Collector spat out, his voice filled with fury.
"I hear that often, but it's not exactly endearing."
Jaxon replied nonchalantly, pulling out a stiletto and a whetstone to sharpen the blade.
Alongside it, he also produced a serrated dagger. Next to these, he lined up an awl, a pair of pliers, and other tools. They were instruments of torture.
"What do you want? The Black Lily? Do you want me to tell you who the others are? Or what? What do you want to know? What is it, you bastard?"
Jaxon blinked a few times and then replied.
"Nothing."
"...What?"
"Just a request: don't ask for forgiveness. Your tongue will be the last thing to go."
Jaxon didn't consider his revenge to be beautiful or even justified.
"So what? It doesn't matter."
Encrid's words came back to him.
Just because something is necessary doesn't mean you should stab a friend in the back.
It's not just about moving forward but also looking to the side.
Do people live by screwing others over?
Not everyone.
But it didn't matter either way.
He would do as his heart dictated.
"If anyone asks, tell them Jaxon of the Vensino family sent you. I'll send all your friends too. One of them should already be on their way."
"Aaaaahhhhh!"
The Tax Collector's screams echoed throughout the mansion.
"It wasn't meeeee! It wasn't meeeee!"
The Tax Collector kept screaming his denial, but Jaxon didn't listen.
* * *
"Should I say it's been a while?"
The Queen's hall was also in chaos. There had been trouble here as well.
The Queen sat on her throne, with a wizard on one side and Frog Luagarne on the other.
A few nobles were gathered below.
To Encrid's right was the Marquis of Octo, along with an old man he had never seen before but who resembled Marcus.
On the opposite side was the man who had just spoken.
It was Count Molsen.