Kwaaang! Kwaaang! Kwaaang!

Ghislain’s sword clashed again and again with Count Braxian’s, both blades spilling light as they struck.

In just that short span, the two had already exchanged hundreds of blows. As time passed, Count Braxian’s gaze began to tremble.

'Why? Why can’t I win?'

He had heard the rumors about the Julien Mercenary Corps. That they were an extraordinary band, one that even included a superhuman.

He had even gained new information from those who had been abducted—that they had trained for nearly three years under the support of a dragon.

Yet Count Braxian had dismissed it.

He had ascended to superhuman long ago. He knew well how impossibly difficult it was to go beyond that realm. He admitted that the Julien Mercenary Corps possessed talent far beyond their years, but a mere few years of training could not drastically increase one’s strength.

'I was certain I would win…'

At least in a duel, he believed he could defeat even an Imperial superhuman.

And yet now—he was not winning. He was barely hanging on.

Count Braxian could not accept it. Flames burned in his eyes.

'Do you know what I went through to reach this height?'

As the descendant of a fallen noble family, he had lived through endless humiliation. To climb higher, he had taken on the dirtiest, most dangerous work without hesitation.

He had stepped forward for tasks that others shunned, nearly losing his life more than once. He had dirtied his hands with every vile, foul deed thrust his way.

The kingdom’s hunting dog. That was his nickname.

Living so wretchedly, he eventually attained an awakening and ascended as a superhuman. From that moment, no one dared call him a dog again.

His skill, forged through countless real battles, was enough to be hailed as the greatest in the Snowbur Kingdom.

And yet now—he was covered in wounds, driven back again and again.

Kaaang! Kaaang! Kaaaang!

Ghislain struck aside Count Braxian’s sword again and again, cutting into his body each time.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had an opponent this satisfying. You must have fought in many real battles.”

He had heard a brief explanation from Viscount Horento, but clashing in person surpassed the rumors.

Count Braxian’s sword was both ferocious and sharp—similar, in a way, to his own.

His sword was alive. Completely unlike the formulaic, rigid blades of other superhumans.

That was why Ghislain’s blood was stirring. Without using magic, he matched the count using only swordsmanship.

High above, Dark shook his head with a sigh.

“There it is again, that bad habit.”

His master was utterly addicted to battle. The moment he began enjoying himself, he even suppressed his power to prolong the fight.

But this was not the time for such indulgence.

“Kill him!”

“Surround him!”

“Waaaargh!”

The Snowbur Kingdom’s soldiers, who had failed to stop the Julien Mercenary Corps, began to close in on Ghislain.

Kaaang!

Parrying Count Braxian’s sword, Ghislain clicked his tongue.

“Tch. What a pity.”

A little more time, and he could have completely broken his opponent.

Of course, if he went all out, he could kill him right now. But he couldn’t afford that.

He had already spent a great deal of mana fighting the Imperial Army. He couldn’t recklessly burn more when he had no idea what battles lay ahead.

That was why he hadn’t slain Count Braxian in one stroke.

He had intended to conserve his strength and finish the man using only technique. But his companions had escaped faster than he expected.

Ghislain stepped back slightly, and his body lifted into the air.

Count Braxian, already soaked in blood, roared furiously.

“You bastard! Where do you think you’re running?!”

He burst his mana and lunged, instantly appearing before Ghislain.

Count Braxian could not let him leave. His mission, his merit—he had long forgotten them.

Being pushed back by some brat he barely even knew was an intolerable humiliation. Even if he died, he had to restore his pride.

Kwooooooooh!

Count Braxian’s sword unleashed a massive aura blade.

“You think you’ll get away after disgracing me like this?!”

He intended to decide the fight with this strike alone.

But such a reckless attack would never work against Ghislain.

“Tsk, tsk. To lose focus like that… you’ve got a long way to go.”

Ghislain easily evaded the blow and swung his sword.

Slash!

Blood sprayed from Count Braxian’s face as a deep wound opened across it.

That was the end. Ghislain soared into the sky.

But his movement was hindered—the magical fields of the kingdom’s mages.

“Hmm. Then I’ll just go on foot.”

There was no need to waste mana fighting a tug-of-war with them.

Ghislain landed and pushed off the ground.

Kwaaang!

His body shot forward like lightning.

The faint remnants of Deneb’s Wall of Light still lingered in the air, making escape even easier.

Behind him came Count Braxian’s furious cry.

“Julien! Next time, I will kill you!”

Ghislain smirked at the words.

“I’m not Julien.”

It seemed the count had mistaken him for the mercenary captain.

It was an understandable mistake—Astion was the one more famous as a mage, after all.

“Well, I suppose that’s not a bad thing.”

If it ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) elevated Julien’s reputation, then such a misunderstanding was harmless.

“Until next time, Count Braxian.”

The reason Ghislain spared him was simple.

He liked his way of fighting—but more importantly, it was for the coming war against the Demonic Realm.

Superhumans were invaluable. Especially one with instincts as sharp as Count Braxian’s.

He couldn’t afford to kill every talent that crossed his path. Unless it was unavoidable, as with the Imperial Army, he would let them live.

The Snowbur soldiers tried to give chase, but Count Braxian barked a command.

“Enough! Do not pursue!”

Clutching his wounded face, he growled,

“Chasing him will only shame us further. We return.”

After all, their reason for being here was to block the Julien Mercenary Corps’ escape. Though they had failed, they had at least tracked their movements. Their primary mission was fulfilled.

In fact, letting the mercenaries break through more places might even be preferable—it would tarnish his own reputation less.

For that reason, he would not immediately spread word of this battle.

Of course, that wasn’t the only reason.

'Such incredible swordsmanship… I couldn’t even fathom the height of it.'

Even this fight alone had granted him great insight. He wanted to return quickly and fully grasp what he had learned.

If he became stronger, he could surely earn great merit in the war against the Demonic Realm. Enough merit to erase the disgrace of letting them slip away.

And beyond that, he had found a new goal.

'He won’t be easy to kill.'

If that man somehow survived the Pope’s clutches—

'Then we’ll settle this again, Julien.'

That was Count Braxian’s new objective.

***

The army of the Kingdom of Flovitz had been forced to march into another kingdom under the Empire’s orders.

They were stationed much farther away than the other kingdoms’ armies that had once received aid from the Julien Mercenary Corps.

It was inevitable. King Alex of Flovitz had regained his throne thanks to the Julien Mercenary Corps.

After Marquis Falkenheim fell to the mercenaries, the Kingdom of Flovitz publicly declared itself a supporter of the Julien Mercenary Corps.

The Empire, fully aware of this, scattered Flovitz’s forces across distant positions—accompanied by heavy pressure to stop the Julien Mercenary Corps at all costs.

No matter how much Flovitz wanted to aid the mercenaries, they could not refuse. Defying the Empire’s word would mean the kingdom’s destruction.

And among the commanders sent so far afield was none other than Marquis Valesant, who had risen to his title thanks to Ghislain’s help—known now as the “elegant” Marquis.

Marquis Valesant looked up at the sky with a solemn expression and said,

“Oh, the weather is just marvelous. Why is it so beautiful today? My, look at that—not a cloud in the sky.”

“……”

At his side, his self-proclaimed soulmate and aide was still with him.

Now that he was a power in the kingdom, he could have replaced the man with some knight or noble of higher station. But Marquis Valesant insisted on keeping his long-time aide at his side.

The aide glanced around and spoke in a low voice.

“My lord, rumors are spreading that the Julien Mercenary Corps has escaped. If you should happen to encounter them, what will you do?”

“Ah, I don’t know.”

“…Will you fight them?”

Marquis Valesant flinched in shock at the suggestion.

“My goodness, are you insane? Do you have a death wish? Have you forgotten what monsters they are?”

“Well… no, that’s true.”

Neither of them could forget the mercenaries’ exploits—the operation where they had thrown out an army of a hundred thousand as bait and struck Marquis Falkenheim head-on.

Valesant himself had been unlucky enough to be captured and dragged along. Yet in hindsight, it had worked in his favor.

He had witnessed that monstrous scene up close. There was no way he could entertain the thought of fighting them.

The aide cast a glance behind them and muttered,

“But… the Imperial inspector is still here with us, isn’t he? We can’t just let them go.”

“Ugh, how irritating. I hate that man. Hate him. He makes me uncomfortable.”

Marquis Valesant scowled.

An inspector from the Empire was indeed present.

The official pretense was to “provide intelligence on the Julien Mercenary Corps,” but anyone could see the truth: he was there to keep the Flovitz army under surveillance.

Imperial inspectors had been dispatched to every kingdom with any connection to the mercenaries.

The Empire was pouring everything into capturing them.

In such a situation, if by chance they did encounter the mercenaries, they could neither let them go nor dare to fight them.

Marquis Valesant pondered a moment, then said quietly,

“Still, the odds of us meeting them are nil, aren’t they? Who knows where they’ll run in this vast continent? And besides, we’re positioned relatively close to the Empire. There’s no reason they’d come this way.”

The aide nodded. Indeed, the odds of running into them were slim. If they fled, it would surely be far from the Empire, not closer.

And yet, unease lingered in the aide’s chest.

“But hasn’t the Julien Mercenary Corps always pulled off absurd operations? Last time, they went straight for Marquis Falkenheim.”

“Oh, and now you’re saying they’ll go straight for the Pope? Does that make any sense? Do you think the Pope and Marquis Falkenheim are equivalent?”

“Of course I know it’s nonsense, but… what if they come this way for some other reason? To conceal their movements from the enemy, they might hide somewhere closer instead…”

“Hmm… that’s not impossible.”

Marquis Valesant, who wanted above all else to avoid crossing paths with the mercenaries, fell into deep thought.

A moment later, he declared,

“Let’s change our position.”

“Pardon?”

“This is one of the main routes the Empire predicted, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Though there are several other choke points as well.”

“Exactly. So let’s move somewhere completely off their predictions. Then the odds of encountering them drop even lower.”

“…But will the Imperial inspector allow it?”

“Trust me. I’ll convince him.”

Having made up his mind, Marquis Valesant strode lightly toward the Imperial inspector.

He spread out a map and began persuading the man with all his heart.

“…Listen! If they come, the chance is much higher they’ll come here, where I’m pointing! How do I know? My dear, I fought a war alongside these people. You can’t think of them with ordinary logic.”

The inspector continued to object. After all, the Empire’s cleverest minds had carefully designed the line of interception.

But Marquis Valesant had a stubborn streak.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Do you know them better than I do? I said I’ll take responsibility! If they come, this is where they’ll be!”

Pressed relentlessly by the marquis’s bluster, the inspector finally nodded.

He trusted Valesant’s experience of fighting alongside the mercenaries, and his fiery determination to stop them.

Besides, the actual chance of the mercenaries appearing in this region was slim—they had almost certainly fled much farther away.

Humming to himself, Marquis Valesant began moving the army.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, the aide said,

“Um… my lord. Do you remember? Last time we moved like this, we accidentally ran into them and got dragged along… that just popped into my head…”

Marquis Valesant sneered.

“They’ll never come this far. And even if they did, what are the odds they’d show up at the exact random spot I picked? I just jabbed a finger at the map.”

“W-well… that’s true.”

“What are the chances such a ridiculous coincidence would happen twice? If it did, it wouldn’t be coincidence—it’d be fate. And in that case, I might as well marry the Julien Mercenary Corps.”

Marquis Valesant sincerely believed it.

The Empire’s brightest minds had created this cordon. No matter how oddly the mercenaries moved, they would be caught at one of the predicted points.

That was why he had felt uneasy here in the first place.

But if he simply went somewhere unrelated, all the problems vanished.

'And if they slip through the predicted routes? Oh, whoops, my mistake. Sorry, I misjudged. That’ll do, won’t it?'

Better to suffer that embarrassment. At least then he wouldn’t have to choose between fighting them or letting them go.

Once he had moved the army, Marquis Valesant finally felt at peace. The constant dread of the past few days felt like a lie.

He felt wonderful.

And a few days later—

At Marquis Valesant’s camp, the place he believed no one would ever come…

A ragged band of beggar-like riders came galloping straight toward him.