The owner of the club had dark skin. Darker even than Nurat.
They said there were many Black people in the south, and it was as if he were proving those words.
Ragna failed to gauge his opponent's skill at a glance. What did that mean?
'A man who knows how to fight.'
Enkrid divided the ranks of knights, but in Ragna's world there were only two ranks.
One: someone who can't fight.
Call them a squire-knight or a knight, it didn't matter—someone who couldn't fight was all the same to him.
Two: someone who can fight.
The standard that divided the two was utterly simple and clear. Could Ragna easily measure their ability with his own eyes, or could he not?
The man spun the club in his hand.
A bluish sheen swirled along the hexagonal chunk of metal. Among Valerian steel, some metals were called true steel; this was an engraved weapon forged from metal of similar strength.
Ragna's gaze never left the man's eyes. More precisely, he had already finished preparing to fight. Ragna's eyes, which looked indifferent, as if all strength had drained out of them, held the opponent's entire body within his field of view.
Spinning the club was nothing more than an attempt to get on his nerves. Even while doing that, the line of his shoulders did not move even a little.
Ragna had known the difference since he was young. Now he read shoulder lines, but at other times he could sense the next move just from the direction of someone's toes. This time was the same.
"Passing by? What the hell is that supposed to mean? You didn't come here to die. What are you, really?"
Ragna figured the man had a habit of asking questions the moment he opened his mouth. It was intuition, but it was the right answer.
"Hey, I asked what you are."
He asked again, gripping the mace's handle with both hands and drawing it back. At a glance it looked sloppy, but his handling of the weapon was no joke. He was so skilled that it only looked careless.
And this time, it was real. He was strong enough to be called a knight. The man's momentum gathered and took shape. Even without intending it, he had naturally reached the point where even his Will's properties shifted.
"Ragna the Madman."
Thinking that, Ragna answered briefly.
"What? You crazy bastard. You came all the way in here?"
The other man answered back, as if in response.
Even while asking and answering, Ragna never stopped reading him. He read the opponent's attacking tactics. That heavy mace would be used on principles similar to a heavy sword.
'If I dodge, I give him the advantage and get driven on the defensive.'
If I block, he comes at me with enough force to numb my hands.
That bastard probably had more than just simple vertical, horizontal, or diagonal heavy swings. For instance, he would be skilled at grappling techniques—moving hands and feet on different rhythms while swinging the mace.
No—he was skilled. Ragna was sure. Otherwise, it would be a bad way to fight.
'The more you block, the more you end up disadvantaged.'
Even if you dodge you get pushed back; if you block and keep blocking, he multiplies the impact and dulls sensation in both hands—something like that.
Even without trading blows, the core of his technique was visible. A faint light flowed in Ragna's eyes. Here, he intended to kill the man. That will became killing intent and squeezed down on the opponent.
"This bastard? You really got no sense, huh?"
The other man felt that killing intent and asked. You're not thinking of running—you're coming at me?
"Do I look easy to you?"
He talked too much. He kept running his mouth. Ragna knew what to do at times like this. He caught the right moment and gave a one-word answer.
"Yeah."
"Die."
The man said it with fury. Today, too, the provocation succeeded.
***
A few officers withdrew, taking the soldiers whose formation had collapsed.
Because some crazy bastard had barged in, the vanguard unit had split in two. One of the officers led the remaining troops and stabilized them. It was an excellent response. A monster should be left to another monster.
'Damn it.'
The officer cursed inwardly, shouting and waving his arms.
"Move! Forward! Don't look back!"
The one remaining elephant headed forward. It was the one that had barely survived. The rider hurriedly snapped the whip and urged the elephant on.
Snap! Snap!
GRAAAH!
It probably didn't even tickle, but trained for years to understand the whip's intent, the elephant didn't stop lifting its feet.
"Forward, forward."
The rider muttered.
'Did a Naurillia knight come this far?'
That's insane. It was hard to understand why.
'Causing chaos because they think they're at a disadvantage?'
And they burn a knight's strength here for that? That's madness.
Knights are people, too. If they're surrounded and impaled on spears, they die. And if he came all the way here, allied knights would fight alongside him. The enemy had done something stupid.
"Forget it. Hell, we're going forward."
That was the voice of a comrade riding behind him.
Whatever was happening, they were the vanguard—the goal was to reach the enemy position. For a rider who had focused solely on controlling the elephant, it seemed like all they had to do was avoid that monster.
So, when the elephant's head suddenly burst, and the rider stood there like an idiot and got crushed to death, it was understandable.
WOOOOOOONG!
Somewhere, a roar that tore the air apart rang out, and the air compressed in midair, releasing a circular shockwave.
The mass that came flying with that shockwave turned the elephant's head into something no sturdier than a well-ripened squash.
BOOM!
The burst head sprayed its mess in every direction, and the wobbling elephant toppled to the side.
BWOOOOOOO—, CRASH!
A huge creature made a huge racket even when it fell. Dust rose around it.
The rider sitting on the back of the headless creature was so shocked he couldn't even scream before he was crushed to death.
Because he was pinned face-first, the sound—"Kk—"—was his last words.
The other survivor had his waist crushed, spilled his insides, and died choking out broken screams.
"Always sloppy at the finish, that bastard."
Of course, it was Rem's work. As he gathered up the sling he'd just used, he lightly smacked the beastkin standing beside him on the back.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting ready to fight?"
Dunbakel smelled ominous odors moving from all directions. When allied knights moved, the enemy moved too. That was only natural.
So now, wasn't it time to go meet them?
"Why the hell are you causing a scene in the middle of the enemy camp like an idiot? Just roughly clear out the elephants and giants and get out."
Rem said it. Dunbakel didn't particularly object. If there was a better method than moving on your own interpretation, then doing that was right.
It was a principle she'd known since before going east.
"Fine. A strategy of hitting and running in a thoroughly cheap, filthy, dirty way."
"Why are you adding all those words—cheap, filthy, dirty?"
"I'm a beastkin. I've got a mouth that speaks the truth."
Rem swung his axe. Dunbakel hunched her neck and dodged. PANG! The air-bursting sound was loud.
If someone saw it, they'd ask if he really meant that as a joke swing.
Of course, inside the Madman Knights, this was practically gentle.
"...I can't exactly carve things up here and leave, seriously. Boss, you owe me for this."
After a single chop, Rem steadied himself and muttered.
Normally, in a situation like this, there would be a boss who moved on his own. Having to fill that gap made his temper flare a little. Not true rage, though. He enjoyed fights like this.
More specifically, fights where he got to hit someone one-sidedly.
And mixed into it was the will of, if the vice-captain doesn't step up here, who will?
"Hey, let's go. A bunch of ominous stuff is coming."
Rem and Dunbakel turned their heads to one side. Some of her fur bristled up. Goosebumps rose. Instinct reacted.
"Do we really not need to help?"
The direction she looked was where that unfortunate swordsman who kept losing his way was fighting.
"If he dies, that's his fate."
Rem said.
"That's true."
Dunbakel agreed. Rem liked that answer.
"I'll let your earlier nonsense slide once. Let's go."
The two ran again. Rem and Dunbakel were both fast enough to run like a horse over short distances.
Ragna had killed two, and Rem had killed one in the rear, but there were still elephants left.
"Peekaboo!"
Rem aimed for another elephant's head and threw a throwing axe.
Dunbakel targeted the ones whose heads rose clearly above the humans.
Their size and monstrous strength were, without exaggeration, worthy of being called the strongest fighting race among intelligent species.
In sheer strength they surpassed Frogs, and their skin, from birth, resembled iron. On top of that, their innate fighting instinct earned them the nickname: monsters with red blood.
"You stink!"
Two giants roared their fury. Dunbakel leapt between them and flicked her curved scimitar as if brushing off dust.
In that process, her feet struck the ground six times. Her steps were light and made no sound, but that didn't mean she was slow.
Afterimages appeared. Her white hair drew long lines. At the same time, the scimitar passed through the giants' throats.
Left and right at once. She recovered the swung blade and sprang forward. Her footwork was beyond quick—soldiers would think she looked like a ghost. Where that ghost passed, blood gushed from the giants' necks.
Thud, thud.
The kneeling giants collapsed forward, crossing as they fell. The sound of them crashing down was loud.
While Rem and Dunbakel played gleefully like that—
"Advance!"
An officer's shout exploded.
If behind you is hell, then you just go forward, don't you?
The officer commanding the vanguard was the kind who would thrust his spear even if the back of his head burst open. No matter what chaos raged behind him, he ordered the march.
The High Pontiff's vanguard consisted of elephant riders, giants, and the Ochre Corps. The convict unit that carried ochre-colored flags was a group that didn't know retreat.
At the commander's order, soldiers each put a pill, a little larger than a thumbnail, into their mouths, chewed, and swallowed.
That pill was their special supply. Its name was Carny Festa—the meaning being a festival of drinking blood and chewing flesh.
Gulp, crunch!
They swallowed it in one go, then chewed and swallowed again. Then, within their unit, screams erupted.
"Uuughh!"
"Graaaah!"
"Kihihihihi!"
They all lost reason, eyes bloodshot. Muscles swelled over their entire bodies, and blue veins covered their faces.
From now on, to neutralize this drug, they had to drink the enemy's blood and chew flesh. So only one premise remained for them now: to live, they had to fight.
Even the frontline commander took the same drug. From this point on, this unit had become berserkers who fought until they died.
They were similar to the holy berserkers the Holy City Legion boasted—though if you included drinking the blood of the people they killed and tearing off and eating flesh, they were even worse.
Those holy berserkers, drunk on sanctity and singing of a god's love as they fought, might look like the same kind of madness to outsiders.
"Those crazy bastards…"
Rem's mouth fell open on its own. The shamans of the west were familiar with drugs. They used them, too, to cloud the mind and make spirit possession easier. That was why he could roughly tell what they'd done.
"Chase them."
He judged they couldn't let that unit meet their allies as-is.
"It stinks like hell."
Dunbakel took Rem's words, and the two started to run toward the enemy rear.
At that timing, as if it had been waiting, a momentum filled with killing intent stabbed into their backs. Rem and Dunbakel turned at the same time.
The motion—snapping their heads around and opening distance left and right—moved identically, like mirror images.
Of course, what followed was completely different.
Rem raised his axe to chest height, and Dunbakel pressed hands and feet into the ground, lifting her head and baring her fangs.
Grrr.
The beastkin instinct reacted so strongly that even a growl spilled out.
In front of them stepped figures wearing pitch-black masks. Masks without even eyeholes. Just black. There was no sound of breathing, and reading expressions was impossible. Naturally, they didn't speak either.
Each held a weapon. A trident and a longsword.
Rem faced the trident, and Dunbakel faced the one with the sword. The two opponents stepped forward as if they'd been waiting, choosing matchups that favored them.