A Knight Who Eternally Regresses-Chapter 280: The Black Blades Excel at Sabotage (2)

Why Did Marcus Have to Obey the Summons from the Capital?

“The bastards from my own house should’ve backed me up, shielded me in a time like this. Instead, they threw me under the damn carriage, made me the scapegoat. Damn politicians.”

That was Marcus’s own remark.

For a moment, Enkrid wondered if Marcus was inadvertently insulting himself, but now wasn’t the time to point that out.

“The Border Guard’s expansion—raising warhorses, training archers—looks like a sign of rebellion to the capital. ‘Why are you gathering military strength in the North? And why is it a noble from a prominent central house leading it?’ That’s what they’re asking.”

“A prominent house?”

“My house.”

Enkrid didn’t bother asking which one.

The point was this:

Marcus had been planning to reorganize the North under the Border Guard’s structure.

But to the capital, it looked more like: What are you planning to do with all that power you’re amassing?

And when he answered, ‘I’m trying to govern the North properly,’

They responded with: ‘Doesn’t seem that way. Come up here and explain yourself. Weren’t you part of a family sworn to protect the capital? Come back. We’ll even give you an administrative post.’

“What if I refuse?”

‘Huh? So you really are plotting rebellion? You’re turning this down?’

“I told you, it’s not a rebellion.”

‘Then come to the capital. Talk it out. And stop harassing the neighboring territories. You’re just defending, right? Then they won’t touch you either.’

“If I leave, they’ll pounce the moment I’m gone. I’ll go after I’ve settled things here.”

‘See? You are rebelling. Traitor.’

“I said I’m not.”

‘Then come to the capital.’

Strip away the pleasantries, the titles, the filler, and that’s basically how the conversation went.

Marcus resisted, but it was useless.

He was forced to return to the capital.

“This isn’t over. There’s someone pulling the strings behind all this, and I’ll bet anything it’s those damned bandits.”

Marcus was a natural politician.

But why come all the way here to tell Enkrid this?

Before Enkrid could voice the question, Marcus spoke first.

He pushed off from the pillar he had been leaning against and stood upright.

Straight-backed, rigid, as if standing at attention.

For a moment, it felt like he was drawing in the very air around him.

Then, he steadied his breathing.

“Help Graham protect the territory.”

It wasn’t an order. It sounded like a request.

“Yes.”

So Enkrid answered.

Marcus exhaled, his expression oddly deflated, then muttered:

“...I wasted my time worrying.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

Marcus turned away.

On his way here, he had been mulling over a few things.

Would Enkrid really stay?

Would it be better to abandon this place and drag him to the capital instead?

Or would he just leave to follow his own path?

Damn those bureaucratic bastards.

Marcus wanted to curse the rotten nobles and officials all over again.

Not that he didn’t do that regularly.

But today, he wanted to put a hole in each of their foreheads.

Hire an infamous assassin whose name was etched in history books.

Like Red Dot—a killer so precise he left a crimson mark right before delivering the fatal shot.

Or was it Scarlet Point? Whatever.

Either way, he wanted to cut the rot out and burn it away.

Fine. I’ll go.

But he wasn’t going to sit there quietly and play nice.

He’d hunt down every bastard manipulated by the Black Blades.

But to do that, this place had to remain intact.

The enemy had set their sights on the Border Guard.

So what was Marcus supposed to do?

What I always do.

Leave the fighting to those who are best at it.

And focus on what he was best at.

Before leaving, he decided he needed to write a few more letters.

He had to prepare for every possibility.

And, naturally, his thoughts drifted to the biggest wildcard—Enkrid.

Will he stay?

Ever the politician, he had come half out of doubt, half to persuade him.

But the answer had come too easily.

Enkrid had simply accepted it.

No hesitation, no overblown sense of duty—just a simple confirmation that he would stay.

That was just the kind of man he was.

Marcus didn’t know what fire burned inside Enkrid’s chest, but it was there.

It smoldered beneath the surface, never fully revealing itself.

If Enkrid had truly wanted to be a knight, he would’ve gone to the capital ages ago.

He would’ve fought tooth and nail to join an order.

And yet, despite having Will, he remained here.

Why?

What kind of knight do you want to be?

Next time they met, Marcus wanted to ask him that.

For now, he felt... steadier.

The tight knot in his chest loosened.

Even though he couldn’t fully explain why, even though he didn’t know exactly what would happen next—

I won’t go down that easily.

It was strange.

Graham, the First Company Commander, could train himself to the brink of death and command with every ounce of skill he had, but—

For some reason, he didn’t inspire as much confidence as a single word from Enkrid.

Is it just a difference in skill?

No. Marcus knew, instinctively.

Enkrid had become a terrifying swordsman.

He was walking the path of a knight.

He had even awakened Will.

But that wasn’t it.

Back at his office, Graham was already waiting for him.

“Apologies. We won’t have time for a proper appointment ceremony, and honestly, I have no idea what that bastard in charge of the Green Pearl garrison is thinking. If he’s turned against us, things will get tricky.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t lose to some bandit scum.”

Graham was a skilled soldier, a solid man—

So why didn’t those words reassure him as much as Enkrid’s simple ‘Yes’?

Marcus shook his head slightly and patted Graham’s shoulder.

The situation was turning into a complete mess, and yet he had to leave.

It was a frustrating feeling.

But it only strengthened his resolve.

He would see this through.

And every single bastard responsible—he would cut their throats himself.

***

"The Cult has surfaced in the south of Martai!"

It was the talk of every merchant and traveler passing through the region.

A so-called bishop of the Cult had appeared in the south, leading a horde of beasts.

Rumors were spreading that a man known as the Wolf Bishop—a high-ranking figure within the Cult—had mobilized an army.

And, of course, it wasn’t just a rumor.

[Winter is upon us, and for those who shiver and starve in the cold, I shall personally proclaim this land a holy sanctuary.]

The bishop’s declaration had been written down and scattered far and wide.

Even the Border Guard caught wind of it.

“Well, shit. That’s a goddamn mess.”

Some of the soldiers clicked their tongues after reading it.

Because what it meant was clear.

The Cult had declared Martai and the entire Border Guard region as their holy land.

In other words, if you stand in our way, we will kill you all. So leave quietly and get out.

This was a serious problem.

With Marcus gone, the First Company Commander—now both the acting lord and the battalion commander—broke into a cold sweat as this crisis surged toward them.

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Why the hell is the Cult suddenly showing up now?

The situation was dire.

The army’s limitations were clear, yet now they were being attacked from two different sides—by the Black Blades and the Cult.

“Has Marcus fled in fear?”

Viscount Tarnin escalated his provocations, pushing his forces forward under the pretense of a border skirmish.

The scent of war was in the air.

“I need to send a request for reinforcements to Count Molsen.”

Graham wasted no time.

A high-ranking noble from one of the most powerful families in the region happened to be present in the territory.

Surely he wouldn’t ignore this?

Graham even subtly reminded him, Your two sons are here, after all.

The reply came swiftly.

[The Cult is spreading in my lands too, and with winter here, the monsters are running rampant. Handle it yourself.]

BANG!

The First Company Commander slammed his fist into the wall.

It was made of solid brick, so it didn’t break, but the pain shot through his knuckles like fire.

Not that it mattered right now.

“Goddamn it! We’re next, you idiot! Your land is next!”

Molsen’s territory wouldn’t be spared from this madness either.

The ones pushing Viscount Tarnin forward, the ones pulling strings from behind, were the Black Blades.

No, at this point, they weren’t even bothering to hide.

Several well-known swordsmen directly affiliated with the Black Blades had openly shown their faces.

They weren’t just stirring up trouble—they were making a move.

Meanwhile, the Cultists pushing up from Martai and the bandits attacking from Tarnin’s side seemed to have an unspoken agreement.

Neither group was encroaching on the other’s territory.

It was coordinated.

And if it looked coordinated, then it probably was.

Would they be satisfied with just taking over the Border Guard?

Would they stop there, pat their bellies, and call it a day?

Not a chance.

They’d only get worse.

Graham sent crows and pigeons flying toward the capital.

No reply came.

Instead, another message arrived.

“Battalion Commander.”

Hadn’t Marcus told him he was sorry for leaving this burden behind?

There had been no formal appointment ceremony, but Graham had intended to solidify his role as battalion commander through this crisis.

But then—

Marcus’s last words came to mind.

[If things get too bad, don’t hesitate to run.]

Was this that moment?

The news that had just arrived threatened to crush him completely.

His eyes darkened with despair.

"Azpen has made a move."

There was a man who had once been a reserve battalion commander.

He had stationed troops in the Green Pearl Plains, where he was training warhorses, opening new farmland, and settling villages.

His first priority was fortification—building barracks, setting up palisades.

Turning what was once a simple village into a proper estate, then pushing it further into a true part of Naurillia.

And now, a messenger from the Green Pearl had arrived.

Azpen had mobilized his army and crossed the border, breaking the treaty.

It was an invasion.

Azpen had lost once, but there was no way he would sit quietly, sucking his thumb, forever.

But why now?

This was a problem that could only be solved with support from the capital.

There was no way the Border Guard could handle it alone.

Reinforcements would come—Azpen’s actions guaranteed that.

But.

We have to survive until then.

The moment Graham was officially appointed battalion commander, he wanted to run.

The Black Blades’ schemes had become a blade tearing through the Border Guard.

They had driven Marcus out.

They had called in the Cult.

And now, they had moved Azpen into play.

The sky was dark.

Heavy clouds choked out the sun, leaving even the daytime dull and gray.

The same darkness loomed over the land.

“What are you going to do now?”

A Black Blades officer chuckled to himself.

He poured a drink down his throat, savoring the satisfaction.

You thought you could mess with us?

They had used every connection, spent every coin.

And this was the result.

Viscount Tarnin and the Black Blades’ army.

The Cult’s army in the south of Martai.

And now, beyond the Green Pearl Plains where the Border Guard stood, Azpen’s forces were making their move from the east.

So? What will you do now?

***

The relentless flood of bad news had begun to cut off the merchants traveling to the territory.

"They say war is about to break out."

"I heard the Cult is invading."

"No, no, that's not it. Word is the battalion stationed in Green Pearl has turned its back. They're saying, Why appoint someone else as the leader of the Border Guard instead of us?"

"I heard the central government has its eyes on this place and plans to abandon it..."

"And it's not just them—Count Molsen has turned his back, too."

When will the Border Guard fall?

Enkrid let the rumors drift past him without much concern.

But there were those who couldn’t afford to ignore them.

Graham, now both the commander and newly appointed battalion leader, felt like he was suffocating.

It was as if someone had pressed a blade to his throat.

If he gathered the troops to stop Viscount Tarnin, he left his rear vulnerable.

He sent a messenger to the Green Pearl battalion, hoping for reinforcements.

The reply that came back only made things worse.

"The enemy forces are overwhelming. If you don’t want to see your soldiers wiped out, you need to send reinforcements."

Reinforcements?

The hell was he talking about?

Graham barely had enough hands to defend this place as it was—if he could, he’d conjure an entire army out of thin air.

His unkempt beard and bloodshot eyes were a testament to his crumbling patience.

"Fuck you, Marcus."

At last, Graham cursed the man.

What was there to celebrate about being battalion leader and lord, when this was the damn situation?

Just as Graham was teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack, someone in Enkrid’s company was starting to do the same.

"Captain, Captain, isn’t it time we ran?"

What the hell was he talking about?

"You swore loyalty to the queen or something? No, right? I mean, it’s the Cult, the Black Blades, and Azpen—how the hell are we supposed to stop all of them?"

This wasn’t normal.

Enkrid turned to look at King Eyeball, observing him for a moment.

His legs trembled, his fingers hovered near his mouth as if to bite his nails—only to spit instead. He blinked repeatedly.

Even now, he was blinking furiously, eyes darting as he looked at Enkrid. His pupils trembled.

He wasn’t in his right mind.

Enkrid didn’t claim to know every detail about his subordinates’ pasts or understand them completely.

But there were things he’d come to notice.

Like how Rem despised the cold. Or that Ragna was a lazy bastard with no sense of direction.

That Jaxon kept a lot of secrets and sometimes showed an eerie side, but it was unclear what triggered it.

And then there was Crace and his habits.

That big-eyed bastard had clearly been through a rough life.

Then again, who here hadn’t?

Anyone who had lived a peaceful life wouldn’t have ended up here in the first place.

This unit wasn’t called a band of troublemakers for nothing.

Crace was one of those troublemakers, too.

"This is the worst."

Crace muttered, listing out all the worst-case scenarios that could unfold.

"Even if we somehow hold the Black Blades at the walls, what about the Cultists coming up from the south? That so-called Wolf Bishop is a big deal—I did some digging."

His face was pale, drained of any humor.

"That bastard leads hundreds of wolf-beasts. There’s a bounty on his head. Do you know what that means? It means Molsen, the kingdom, they’ve all abandoned this place. Whatever deal they made, they got something in return.

"Think about it. Azpen is blatantly lining up his troops, and yet the kingdom hasn’t sent a single reinforcement. Not even a handful of knights.

"Do you get what that means? This is political. Maybe they struck a deal to abandon Green Pearl in exchange for something. Or maybe they made a deal with the Cult.

"And the Black Blades, at the very least..."

Too much talking.

Enkrid let half of it go in one ear and out the other.

Instead, he looked around.

His men were watching him.

And in that moment, he understood something.

They would follow his lead.

If he said, We’re abandoning this place, they would all leave without question.

Rem, Ragna, Audin, Jaxon, Dunbakel, Teresa, and finally, Crace, drowning in his own anxieties.

Even the leopard that had quietly slipped in would be no exception.

Eight of them, plus himself.

A force that should’ve been insignificant.

But right now?

Their previous victories had been won because Marcus had hidden their true strength.

That was Crace’s analysis.

And Enkrid agreed.

So what would happen if they left now?

What else? The whole place would go to hell.