The salon owner's hand froze. The tongue that had been ready to pour out flattery stalled. His bodyguard swallowed hard. His attendant's legs trembled.
The atmosphere shifted, and those nearby began to edge away.
'Spies? The South? Who? Who said that? The Demon Knight? The Ender of the Civil War? The Slayer of Demons?'
The weight of words changed depending on whose mouth spoke them. And right now, Enkrid was one of the heaviest voices in all of Naurillia.
The salon owner, face twisted in aggrieved panic, stammered,
"…P–pardon?"
Enkrid judged him not to be a spy. No matter how good the acting, a man couldn't hide every instinctive reaction. Least of all a commoner who'd never hardened himself through training.
"Misspeak, and your skull will shatter."
Beside him, Rem added the threat.
The names flashed through the owner's mind: Noble Slayer. Collector of Noble Heads.
Unconsciously, his hand tightened on the hilt of his swordstick.
He had ties to more than a few nobles, but not one of them stepped forward now.
At a moment of crisis, the only one you could trust was yourself.
The owner closed his mouth, choosing his words with care.
The master of the Kalderan Ruins Salon had been a merchant before he bought himself a minor barony, but he was shrewd enough to know better than to cross a knight.
"If you draw that blade, you may die. I advise against it."
It was Luagarne who spoke, intending persuasion—but in the ears of the man, it sounded like a death threat.
Luagarne's gravelly voice carried fear by itself, and the sheen of her oily skin reflected the lights. She was a battle-type. Fearing her was only natural. By that measure, Rem was the most frightening of all.
The salon owner's thoughts whirled.
'Is this the end?'
'Did I fall out of favor with the royal house? Is that why? But to send a knight against me? That makes no sense.'
His hands shook, his jaw quivered.
"N–n–no. No, I'm not."
"Y–y–yeah, looks that way," Rem mimicked his stammer. Half to mock him, half because he despised what this man represented.
For this owner had clawed his way here by illicit dealings. According to the kingdom's own intelligence, that much was true.
Yet now he had people under his wing, some drawn from the poor. Intelligent children, talented children—he was raising them for his service. That much was good.
He even curried favor with the Church through donations, and had contributed a fair sum to the founding of the royal education institutions.
Kraiss's words came to mind:
"If he poured out that much krona, you leave him be. The worst of it was hawking Eastern relics at marked-up prices, and having a shady past. That's all."
The man himself did not realize it—he thought he had just escaped death by sheer luck—but in truth, that was exactly what had happened.
He had survived because of the effort he poured into running the salon. Kraiss valued that highly.
"Live straight," Rem told him.
The owner nodded quickly. Silence fell over the salon.
"You people are terrifying," muttered a woman, her waist pinched by a corset under her billowing dress.
"Shh!"
The portly noble beside her raised a finger to his lips in panic. The last thing he wanted was the Reaper's company turning their gaze his way.
"Seems we've ruined the mood."
Enkrid's eyes brushed over the noble and the lady, then turned aside as he rose.
"I'll be watching."
Rem scooped up the bottle of liquor, tossed another parting shot at the salon owner, and turned away.
Outside, Enkrid asked Shinar,
"Still following us?"
"How could I pass up the chance to spend the night together?"
How could she say it so brazenly—especially when it wasn't just the two of them, but Luagarne and Rem as well.
Enkrid only accepted it with a shrug and walked on. The night sky was clear. The air was cool, pleasant for walking.
From here and there, night insects trilled.
They planned to visit the remaining two salons tonight. Unless they meant to stay out until dawn, they would have to pick up the pace.
After the Kalderan Ruins, what was next? Ah yes—the Heavenly Square.
Certain devout priests and church branches within Naurillia repeatedly protested, demanding the name be changed. But the salon endured.
"The pursuit of pleasure is the nature of man."
So the salon claimed, even professing to believe in the gods. And it wasn't entirely false.
It had been founded by one of the southern cults.
Their deity: the goddess of pleasure and unguents.
That word unguents carried two meanings. One: to savor, to enjoy. The other: the actual perfumed oils they sold.
The more precious of those oils fetched the price of a church potion.
A salon established by a southern cult—it was only natural to suspect it.
Enkrid was thinking as much when he raised his hand before his face, spreading his fingers and pinching thumb to forefinger.
A slim needle meant for his eye—caught.
The motion was so fast that no ordinary person could perceive it. And another assassination attempt followed. Futile, every one.
"You bastards really are pathetic."
Rem might not have been able to use his old sorcery as freely as before, but he was still Rem. He lashed out with a backward kick at the head of the man targeting his back.
A pivot on the right foot, a simple twist of the waist, a casual snap of the leg. To the eye, nothing more. But the blow was enough to shatter a skull.
The attacker was skilled enough to thrust his forehead forward to absorb the strike—but uselessly so.
'Crunch.'
With one kick, the assassin's neck bent backward. Death. No one lived with a broken spine.
Rem twirled the bottle in his hand, smirking.
"What? Think I look soft without a weapon?"
The attack ended quickly. No—every assassin who struck was killed in a single blow.
"I can't fight yet, fiancé."
Shinar feigned weakness, though none of the assassins targeted her.
Most went for Enkrid. He slipped aside from half the strikes, careful even to keep his clothes from being torn—he needed to look sharp entering the salons.
Tonight his role was to draw every eye. Not by causing an incident, but by sheer presence.
There were six assassins in total. Luagarne captured one. It wasn't difficult. When he lunged with a dagger, she caught the blade in her palm and smashed his nose with her forehead.
"Keuk."
The man groaned, sprawled on the ground, and swallowed a capsule hidden in his mouth. Blood streamed from his lips at once.
Luagarne rolled her wide eyes as she watched, then sniffed the blood.
"Seems he used quite an expensive poison."
Which meant those behind the assassins had deep resources.
Not some shabby information guild or second-rate killers' guild.
The attempt itself had been clumsy, unworthy of targeting knights.
Searching the bodies, they found handkerchiefs marked with symbols: several vertical strokes crossed by a single horizontal line.
"Signs of an anti-royalist group?"
A fine tool for sowing division—fabricating a faction so the king and nobles could not trust each other. It was the very essence of a wedge-strategy.
'The royal house has grown strong.'
That strength translated into royal authority.
Thus the nobles knew the crown could strike them at any time.
And some noble houses had grown with the crown's favor.
'First among them, the Duke of Octo.'
And the Marquis Baisar, Marcus, even Andrew.
At any time, the nobility could reject the crown. They felt threatened even if the crown did nothing. A small spark could topple the tower.
For from the foundation up, everything was precarious.
The method Kraiss had proposed—setting nobles against one another—was meant to prevent all such problems.
'And what about me?'
Enkrid would gather everyone and question them outright. He would break through head-on.
'But is that really the answer?'
Was it the most ideal solution? No. His instincts said so. Just beating everyone down?
'That would be the worst choice.'
Enkrid reflected for a moment. He had been thinking too much like Rem just now.
"Your eyes are unpleasant," Rem said, noticing his look as they walked.
"It's nothing," Enkrid replied.
He didn't think further. He knew it was something beyond his control, so he focused on what was within his power. At the second salon, he unleashed Rem.
"Drink!"
The rampage of a party that drew all eyes.
"The stench of rotten potatoes is everywhere," Shinar muttered, burning the drugs that circulated secretly inside the salon.
"What pretty flames," she said. Once a fairy who had feared demons and fire, now she reveled in playing with it.
"What is the meaning of this outrage!"
The salon's master appeared—the bishop of the cult of the goddess of pleasure and unguents. His half-undone belt told plainly what he had been doing moments before.
This was the smallest of the three salons, but known as the wildest.
"That place isn't a salon. It's a brothel. Purge it," Kraiss had said firmly.
Even if one only struck shields, sometimes the shield itself bent.
"Prevent the corruption of the salons, Sir Knight."
Those had been Kraiss's earnest parting words. Rem had smacked him on the back of the head for it.
"Ow! That hand splits monsters, Rem. You can't hit people with it."
"Your mouth never stops. Maybe I should show you that monster-splitting hand."
Kraiss had run, calling out for salvation.
"Commander, Captain, Lord!"
It was a scene they had all witnessed often.
Enkrid stepped in, restrained things just enough, and granted Kraiss's wish.
Thus was the expedition to purge the salons of corruption formed.
"What madness—!"
"If you've got a problem, come to the Border Guard. This was my decision alone," Enkrid said as he and his party emptied the salon, burning the hidden narcotics inside.
"I'll demand justice for this from the crown!"
The salon master, high on his own drugs, shrieked. At his words, Rem turned back, placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. The simple touch pinned him in place, and his fury broke off at once.
"Really?" Rem asked.
Perhaps the drug's haze cleared in that moment. Or perhaps Rem's cold presence smothered his fire. Either way, his passion ebbed as quickly as it had risen.
"On second thought… no, that wouldn't be right," the man muttered.
"Good," Rem grinned, his teeth catching the moonlight.
"Next."
Enkrid led them to the third salon. The group continued drawing stares wherever they went.
When the night's commotion was over, Enkrid spent another two days before meeting Kraiss again.
Kraiss was shedding his dress and wiping off his makeup—returning from the noblewoman seen in the salon to the Mad Order's Kraiss once more.
"Have fun?" Rem chuckled.
"Quite. It's bigger than I thought," Kraiss replied.
The southern spies had spread like a cell structure, but in truth it was several guilds combining forces. Some had been duped into joining, but none could claim ignorance—they knew full well they were working against the crown.
"His Majesty will move directly."
And there, the role of the Mad Order of Knights ended.
They were knights, after all—armed force on the level of catastrophe. Their purpose was not to meddle further. Their involvement now was simply to show their closeness with the royal family, and because Kraiss had asked.
Enkrid's eyes turned to Kraiss. Big-Eyes was not one to risk himself lightly. So he asked:
"Bold of you to come out in person."
"Ah, well, I did ask Jaxon to watch my back the whole time. Paid him with a fine gift I'd picked up recently," Kraiss admitted.
No wonder Jaxon had been nowhere to be seen.
Enkrid had eaten well and rested for three days. Just as he was preparing to leave, Crang sent people to seize him several times. Marcus also tried to keep him.
"Father is on his deathbed."
By then, the Royal Guard's shadow operatives had already crushed the southern spy network.
But the operation had to be considered a success for the spies.
"If the crown grows stronger like this, what becomes of us?"
Some nobles voiced their unease openly. And at that moment, the Marquis Baisar lay dying.
When someone died, power always shifted. And rumors swirled that the marquis had not named a proper heir.
Three days after Enkrid's midnight rampage through the salons, the funeral was held. Kin Baisar stood in plain black mourning dress. Marcus stepped forward as family representative and heir.
Among the nobles, the mood was ice cold. In the purge of the southern network, several noble enterprises had been ruined. That, combined with their wariness of the crown's power, fueled their bitterness.
"That unrest won't be calmed so easily," Kraiss said quietly, as the rites proceeded.
The Duke of Octo approached Enkrid.
"Have you been well, Sir Knight?" he asked.
Enkrid gave the weary duke a small nod.
"His Majesty asks a favor of you."
Words borne by a duke himself. Enkrid was about to ask what it was, but Crang was quicker.
"Since we are all gathered here, I have something to say."
He seized every eye in the hall as he began to speak.
Every person in the great chamber turned to him.
And Enkrid remembered Marcus's words: that in his final moments, the marquis had smiled.
A smile not of a man worried about what came after.
For he had spoken privately with Crang before his death.