When Naurillia cleared out the surrounding bandits and monsters to open trade routes, the part they paid the most attention to was security.

If dangers outside the city were dealt with, then the inside had to be equally safe. That way, more people would travel in and out.

To that end, they worked to improve the districts where the poor were gathered.

“That’s what they call the king’s bread,” Marcus explained.

A simple principle: reducing luxury at the royal table could save a hundred paupers. But those who actually put it into practice were rare.

Crang did.

With the budget that would have gone to his own table, he gave bread to the poor.

At first, he handed out loaves once a day for free. He had stew cooked for them. He gathered cheap fabric and made clothes.

After softening the entire slum this way, he gave them work. Kraiss nodded as if he was familiar with this.

“He didn’t just give things away. The city had plenty of work that needed doing.”

Repairs to the walls, new buildings rising, guard posts to be built on the outskirts—many hands were needed. So the poor were employed.

Those who couldn’t handle physical labor were given ladles to stir pots. Children were accepted into royal educational institutions where they were taught and protected.

Wages for the workers, records for the children—all of it was scrupulously tracked.

In other words, whether intended or not, the policy not only reduced the slums but also created grounds for controlling them.

Even from the outside, the atmosphere in the slum was bound to change. Crang boldly emptied the royal coffers, and the result benefited citizens, merchants, and paupers alike.

Because of this, most of the groups that had been using the slums for their schemes had to tuck tail and flee.

Northern Empire, Southern kingdoms—agents and informants scattered everywhere, weeds rooted in the slums—all withered on their own.

“Most of the strong ones among the poor usually turn to pickpocketing or robbery. But if the poor themselves diminish, what happens? Right—by managing them, you prevent thieves and bandits from being generated in the first place.”

Enkrid summed up the back-and-forth between Kraiss and Marcus.

“So once the thieves’ guilds and slums were controlled, spies had nowhere left to work—so they crammed themselves into the salons. And now that they’ve rooted themselves into organized groups and try to extort through force, no one knows where the problem starts or ends. That’s what you’re saying?”

“...That’s why the commander’s so sharp.” Kraiss let out a note of admiration.

“Doesn’t seem like much. You basically spelled it all out already.” Enkrid answered without concern.

“No. No, not at all.”

Kraiss shook his head once and sipped his tea. Marcus finally broached the real point.

“That being said...”

He seemed to weigh his words, scratching his cheek like a man embarrassed.

“There’s a need to infiltrate the salons.”

“...”

And you’re telling me this why? Enkrid’s eyes asked.

“To mete out divine punishment on those who insulted the salons,” Kraiss muttered beside him.

***

The infiltrators inside the salons had used their heads well.

'They moved in cell-like networks, catching hold of the weaknesses of those around them so that no one could trust anyone else.'

The exact method Kraiss had described earlier—nobles fighting one another so they had no chance to even glance at the crown.

'Which made it all the harder to slip in disguised as nobles.'

Marcus had already tried it dozens of times. Even Andrew had attempted it, but all he caught were a few small fry.

Fake identities sent in were uncovered again and again.

'Sending a handful of Royal Guards disguised as soldiers? They wouldn’t be fooled, either.'

In this respect, Enkrid was the worst option of all. His face was impossible to conceal, and the Mad Order of Knights were all too distinctive.

In swordsmanship terms, the enemy was like a man covered head-to-toe in shield and armor. One might think you could just cut through the shield as well, but—

'You had to cut only what was inside it, not the shield itself.'

That was why it was such a headache.

Fake identities were always exposed. And among the nobles, few were suitable for such a job.

Marcus, however, searched for a seam. However well a suit of armor was made, it always had joints. And a sharp blade could still pierce between them.

'Sip.'

Enkrid held a mouthful of amber liquid in one of Naurillia’s largest salons.

Compared to founding-day liquor, it was nothing but a spreading bitter taste. Probably felt worse because he had ordered something not particularly fine.

It was one of those moments people called “spoiling the palate.”

Enkrid’s appearance drew eyes wherever he went. For infiltration, he was not a good choice.

All the more so because—

“Tsk. It tastes fine, but it’s lacking.”

Rem was with him. The gray-haired barbarian from the West would stand out just walking down the capital’s boulevards.

And with them, a fairy with golden hair.

“When we go to the fairy city, shall we drink Leaf Liquor, fiancé?”

As always, she spoke brightly. Flaunting otherworldly beauty, she shone like a light among the lamps scattered throughout the salon.

There were many high-class hostesses, but none as beautiful as she.

Men and women alike stared openly.

Her aura of fragile beauty only heightened it—her face was paler, her presence weaker after suffering internal injury to her energy in a recent battle.

If they knew this fairy had shattered Balrog’s crystal with a single kick, their stares might change. But those who didn’t know saw nothing but a peerless beauty looking frail.

“I should like to serve you Frokk’s traditional liquor too.”

With Frokk alongside the fairy, their group drew every eye in the salon. The moment they entered, attention fixed on them—it was inevitable. Still, they calmly took their seats, ordered drinks, and began their meal.

“It isn’t made from bugs, is it?” Rem asked.

“You know it well. A very special liquor.”

“Damn it, now I’m curious about the taste.”

Rem was more of a gourmand and a drinker than he looked.

Enkrid, half-idly scanning the surroundings, locked eyes with a man half-bald, his gut sagging heavy.

“Hm.”

The man coughed awkwardly and looked away. He headed to the bar, where he struck up conversation with a woman sitting alone.

Enkrid watched absently as the woman hid her mouth behind a fan and laughed, the man laughing with her. They seemed to be getting along well.

The woman was large-framed, but her looks carried a noble refinement.

Because all eyes were already on his group, Enkrid felt the sting of hostile gazes.

Suspicion, curiosity, fear, jealousy, unease, admiration—the emotions in those looks were varied and complex.

An ordinary person’s skin might have prickled under such scrutiny, but Enkrid paid it no mind.

“Dreaming of knighthood?”

“To wipe out the Demon Realm?”

Whenever such dreams were discussed, Enkrid had grown used to ignoring the contemptuous looks cast his way.

At least now, ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) among the gazes fixed on him, there was no contempt.

If one had to choose the strongest emotion in them, it would be fear.

Not that Enkrid gave it much thought. Even inside the salon, he was the same as in the training yard—lost in thoughts of swordsmanship.

'Can I cut past shield and armor, and strike only what’s inside?'

Was that possible?

His thoughts, no matter the subject, always circled back to his swordsmanship. Of course, it was impossible. But—

'Audin’s techniques included something called Divine Penetration.'

More precisely, among the martial monks—what people called Monks—those who reached a certain level learned a skill that ignored iron armor and struck directly within: “Divine Penetration.”

Enkrid had once experienced blocking the Divine Penetration of the High Priest of the Cult Annihilation Order.

'If I could imitate that...?'

Suddenly, one of the Valen-style mercenary sword techniques came to mind.

'The feigned cut strike.'

A move where one pretended to slash with the blade, then twisted the wrist to club with the flat instead. Without training forearm and wrist strength, trying it could ruin the tendons in your wrist.

From the start, Enkrid had always thought the Valen-style was nothing if not faithful to fundamentals.

And that basic principle was: if cutting and stabbing won’t do, then strike. Striking would send shock into what lay inside.

Thoughts linked together.

'Even in the dream, when I cut the giant...'

On the surface, it had looked like a cut made with strength and technique.

'But no.'

The blond man who had been one of the Ferrymen, whenever he swung, had used Indules. But it wasn’t simple at all.

“You catch on quickly,” it was as though the Ferryman’s voice echoed in his head.

'Indules can be layered with Will.'

A realization, sudden and unbidden, surfacing in this unlikely place.

Balrog’s strikes had been heavier than his own. Faster, fiercer, stronger. Many reasons contributed, of course, but clearly his way of wielding Will played a part.

'The Demon Realm.'

Fighting Balrog had taught him this much.

To slay demons and erase the Demon Realm, he had to advance further still.

A knight who spoke of war and of the end.

Enkrid’s dream remained unchanged. Becoming a knight was not the end.

Clink.

The sound of ice against glass drew his eyes upward. A man stood there, clad in purple velvet, thick-feathered white shirt, fitted trousers, and carrying a cane.

Everyone, from Rem on, could tell that inside that cane was hidden a long, slender blade.

A swordstick—concealed weapon for self-defense. No one could carry a longsword openly inside a salon, so many such hidden blades were present.

Salon guards did body searches at the door, but those who wished to conceal something always found a way.

That said, no fool would dare draw blood here so recklessly. To enter a salon at all, one had to prove their reputation.

Enkrid and the Mad Order of Knights were exceptions. Guards had no power to stop them. In fact, no one in the city was insane enough to block a knight’s path.

At any rate, the swordstick was hardly unique to this man.

The weapon wasn’t even the point. Enkrid and Rem, with bare hands alone, could kill every soul in the room.

Which was why some nobles, seeing Rem, shrank back in fear. And Rem seemed to enjoy it, tearing into a roasted duck leg with his bare hands—something he could have eaten with noble etiquette if he wanted.

Certainly, a perverse taste.

Most of the fear filling the room stemmed from this gray-haired barbarian from the West.

From outside eyes, Enkrid was no different—just as bold. The Butcher of Monsters, the one who trampled beasts and swarms as though they were nothing.

Even among the mercenaries brought as escorts, none dared challenge him. His fame was simply too great.

The gaze of longing mostly came from swordsmen. Some, obsessed with swordsmanship, wanted nothing more than to speak to him, to learn something.

Of course, none dared approach while Rem was there.

“What?”

Rem greeted the newcomer amiably. The fact that he didn’t start by throwing a punch was, for him, friendliness enough. Still, the man swallowed nervously.

“I came to offer my gratitude for such an honorable visit—by gifting you a bottle of wine, friend of the king.”

The man chose one of Enkrid’s nicknames. Among “Civil War Ender,” “Demon Slayer,” “Butcher of Monsters,” “Knight of Enchantment,” and “Heartbreaker of Women,” he had picked the safest.

He was the owner of the salon.

With his words, he gestured, and an attendant behind him placed a bottle on the table.

The salon was dim overall, lit by magical lamps imitating spell-objects. From the lack of true spell resonance, they were likely crafted by some second-rate spellcrafter.

Still, even that would fetch a high price. And with more than sixteen such lamps around, the amount of krona spent on them was proof of this place’s wealth.

Plastered walls were left visible to give the atmosphere of ruins. Sofas were plush, the air dreamlike.

Here and there, men and women puffed white smoke.

The young were attendants, servants, or hostesses. Mostly, this was a place where older patrons gathered.

The capital had three notable salons. This one was called the Kalderan Ruins, named after the ruins where the ancient war began.

Rem uncorked the bottle, sniffed the bouquet. Sensitive nose—not as sharp as a beastman’s, but keen enough.

Enkrid suddenly wondered how Dunbakel was doing. No word of his death—so surely still alive.

“Hm.”

Rem didn’t curse. The aroma was good, it seemed. He poured and downed a glass.

“You drinking?”

He shot Enkrid a look. For him to ask before even commenting on the taste meant it was high-grade. Enkrid shook his head—he had no interest in drink. Shinar’s health kept her from drinking, and Lua Gharne turned away too.

Rem grinned and began pouring glass after glass for himself, downing them steadily.

The man in purple velvet exhaled in relief at the sight. So did the nervous guards and attendants behind him.

Enkrid knew exactly why he was here. He was fulfilling that role.

“So—these southern spies. Are you one of them?”

That was the question he asked.