Chapter 626

Chapter 626

The Evolution of Valen-style
In its primary form, the mercenary swordsmanship of the Valen-style involved a specific posture: dropping to one knee without unsheathing a weapon and maintaining a facade of total composure while observing the enemy. The essence of the move relied entirely on the placement of the hands and the intensity of the gaze. One was instructed never to actually grasp the hilt; the palm was meant to dangle loosely and naturally.

When Enkrid had first encountered this lesson, he marveled at the sheer commitment required to maintain such a deep deception. He had respected the creator’s dedication to the craft of the bluff. However, his perspective had shifted. He now understood that Valen-style mercenary swordplay was fundamentally rooted in Will.

“With sufficient Will, one moves past mere trickery and enters the realm of absolute dominance.”

It was essentially a highly advanced method of psychological pressure. Enkrid had developed his own variation of this concept, labeling it the False Slash.

Strictly speaking, labels were unnecessary. He was aware that techniques should be executed instinctively without the need for mental tags—a lesson emphasized by Rem and reinforced by his own growth. Yet, achieving that level of natural fluidity remained a challenge. To bridge the gap, he used names to give the concepts structure within his mind. Just as one must stand before they can run, naming a move was his way of finding his footing.

The “invisible blade” of Shinar’s energy blade had been a crucial catalyst. Having felt that spiritual force countless times, he had reached this stage of development almost by proxy. In a way, this was another legacy left to him by Shinar.

While it shared similarities with the thread-web of Acker—the pinnacle of pure martial skill—the internal pressure of this technique was far denser. It required a massive investment of Will.

Enkrid braced his left foot against the dirt, gathering momentum as if preparing for a sudden burst of speed. His right hand, previously limp, made two subtle movements. Through this, he channeled his Will—not into a protective barrier, but into an intangible edge. It was a blade that possessed no physical form and left no physical wounds, yet it was this False Slash that descended upon Pell.

“You prick!” Pell barked.

Acting on raw survival instinct, Pell unsheathed Idol Slayer and swung. It was the one weapon they had explicitly agreed to keep out of their training sessions. His blade sliced through the air, hitting nothing but shadows.

The Weight of a Phantom Death
“What in the hell was that supposed to be?”

Even though the exchange had ended, Pell was drenched in a cold sweat that ran down his face and back. He had seen it clearly: Enkrid rushing toward him, a massive blade poised to cleave his head in two. The younger man’s presence had seemed to swell, towering over the clearing.

Naturally, Pell had countered to save his own life. But the impact never came.

It wasn’t just Pell who had been affected. Had Enkrid actually swung a physical sword with that much force, the collateral damage would have been immense. Lua Gharne, who had been observing from the sidelines, had also reacted. She was already in a combat-ready stance, her whip and sword drawn instinctively.

“It is a variation of Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship,” Enkrid explained calmly, condensing hours of internal realization into a single sentence. “A way to project intimidation without a physical blade. I call it False Slash.”

“That explains absolutely nothing!” Pell snapped, his voice tight with agitation.

Even if the attack was an illusion, the experience had been indistinguishable from a fatal blow. He had felt the sensation of his skull being split; he had felt the phantom agony of a finished life.

“Regain your composure,” Enkrid said, meeting his gaze.

Stability was the foundation of all combat. If the spirit wavered, the body would follow. This training was meant for Pell’s growth, though Enkrid was also using it to refine his own abilities. By observing Pell’s innate talent for finding openings and detecting weaknesses, Enkrid was absorbing those traits into his own style. There was always more than one lesson to be learned in a fight.

“What did you say?”

“I said, settle down and observe. You’re still standing, aren’t you?”

To Pell, Enkrid sounded like a man who had walked through the gates of death so many times that he had become a permanent resident.

“It didn’t feel like a game! It felt like I died and was pulled back at the last second!” Pell’s temper flared, the veins in his temples throbbing.

Enkrid realized then that his own history of constant death and rebirth was the very fuel for this technique. A warrior’s lived experience always colors their sword.

“I suppose it has become a blade that forces the opponent to witness their own demise.”

Having perished in every conceivable fashion, projecting that reality through his Will was second nature to him. After explaining the mechanics further, he signaled for the sparring to continue.

“Again? You’re serious?” Pell muttered, though he nonetheless resumed his combat stance.

It was a fascinating evolution—a simple bluff transformed into something far more predatory. Despite the lingering dread, the martial logic behind it was undeniable. Enkrid “killed” Pell twice more. Even though Pell now understood the trick, he found no way to counter the psychological weight of it.

Surprisingly, Lua Gharne was the first to find a workaround. She shifted her mental focus: if the strike wasn’t real, the heart remained intact. She began to mentally “sacrifice” her limbs to escape the crushing pressure of the killing blow.

The Ferryman’s Prophecy
“That wouldn’t work so easily against someone like Frokk,” Enkrid thought.

That night, following the conclusion of their second day of travel, Enkrid slipped into sleep and encountered the Ferryman. The spectral figure remained silent for a long moment, simply watching him before speaking.

“I have seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“What lies ahead for you. Your future.”

Enkrid, unable to resist a bit of dry humor, replied, “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Are you actually contemplating fatherhood? Do you intend to find a spouse and retire to a quiet life?”

“No. It was a joke, since you claimed to be a fortune teller.”

Without Shinar around, Enkrid found himself mimicking the fairy’s specific brand of wit. It was a sign that he needed to reunite with her soon.

“You are a difficult soul to crack. Very well, I will show you.”

The Ferryman lifted his empty hand. This specific entity felt distinct from the previous ones Enkrid had met. As the hand opened, a void of absolute blackness manifested in the center of the Ferryman’s gray palm. It expanded instantly, drowning Enkrid in a world of nothingness.

Within that void, the Ferryman’s voice echoed—not as sound, but as direct meaning transmitted through Will.

“Deep within the darkness of the tunnel, you will encounter a wall that cannot be moved.”

Enkrid peered into the gloom. Gradually, a shape began to coalesce. Though it lacked a face or a scent, the outline was unmistakable. It was a silhouette he knew in his very bones.

“That will be your obstacle. Your wall.”

The words carried the weight of a hex.

“I see,” Enkrid replied.

Curses only worked if the victim allowed themselves to be shaken. Enkrid remained entirely unmoved. Most men would have been devastated to see such a vision, but he simply analyzed the information. The figure was a woman. It was Shinar, the person he was constantly pursuing.

Over his many encounters with various Ferrymen, Enkrid had learned to listen to what wasn’t being said.

“You said ‘that,’ not ‘she.’”

The Ferryman hadn’t identified the woman as the wall. He had pointed to the situation or the concept of the figure. Shinar herself was not the barrier.

Enkrid snapped awake instantly. In the realm of dreams, the Ferryman who had escorted him out fell into a brooding silence.

“What kind of monster forged that man?” the entity whispered. “I cast a vision of his doom upon him, and he didn’t even blink. How does he catch a slip of the tongue so easily?”

The Ferryman had realized that Enkrid had parsed the linguistic nuance between a person and an object. The collective spirits of the Ferrymen who had previously tormented Enkrid were now silent. They had spent so much time breaking him that they had inadvertently crafted him into this.

“We’ve created a goddamn serpent,” the Ferryman sighed.

The Giant on the Road
Enkrid gave no further thought to the dream or the warning. Dwelling on the cryptic words of a Ferryman was a distraction he couldn’t afford. Even if a wall stood in his path, his direction wouldn’t change. He wouldn’t retreat a single step.

On the third day, the group continued their southward trek. They moved through a light forest and past a field of jagged stones until the sound of thunderous snoring reached them.

“Someone has a lot of nerve napping in the middle of the highway,” Pell remarked.

Lua Gharne tilted her head, curious.

Enkrid led the way until they came upon a massive form leaning against a giant boulder. The creature’s proportions defied the logic of the surrounding landscape. It was a bipedal monster, a member of the Beasts of Red Blood.

A Giant.

As they drew near, the snoring ceased. The creature’s nostrils flared, and its heavy eyelids slid open to reveal piercing blue eyes. Its hair was a matted, oily mess, and the stench coming off it suggested it hadn’t seen water in weeks. The ground was littered with the remains of meals—shards of bone and strips of cured leather.

The Giant let out a massive burp, sending a cloud of foul breath toward them. Even sitting down, the creature loomed over Enkrid, forcing him to look up.

Their eyes locked. In a voice that sounded like a tectonic shift, the Giant spoke without emotion.

“Blue eyes.”

Pell winced at the smell. Enkrid, however, didn’t flinch.

“Yours are blue as well,” Enkrid countered, his tone just as flat.

“I am aware. Time to stand.”

The Giant rose, and the massive boulder behind him groaned as it shifted under his weight. Giants were creatures of immense density; they didn’t swim, they sank. While Frokk worried about his heart, Giants feared deep, still water. But here, on the dry road, the creature was in its element.

Flashing a row of stained, dark teeth, he asked, “What is your name?”

“Why does a beast need his name?” Pell cut in.

The Giant glanced at him dismissively. “Hold your tongue. You are merely the second course.” He pointed a massive finger at Enkrid.

“Second course for what?”

“To be slaughtered. You’re after him.”

Lua Gharne stepped forward. “Who exactly are you planning to kill?”

The Giant grinned. “You are Enkrid, are you not?”

Enkrid remained stoic. “I didn’t realize I was famous enough for roadside receptions. Do we have a history? Or were you sent by a man in a black hood with a lamp?”

The creature chuckled deeply. “You should have tried harder to stay unnoticed.”

“So, no formal introduction. How did you track me to this specific path? That’s what I find interesting.” Enkrid tossed the question back.

“Keep talking like that, and you’ll find yourself surrounded by killers. Or, if your luck truly runs out—you’ll find me.”

The two continued their verbal sparring until Enkrid shifted the topic.

“How old are you?”

“Ancient.”

“Give me a number.”

“Beyond a century.”

“That’s all?” Enkrid asked.

“You arrogant little human—”

“I happen to know a woman who is over four hundred years old,” Enkrid interrupted. “So your century doesn’t impress me.”

The exchange was hollow, filled with meaningless provocations. Yet, Enkrid’s dismissive attitude clearly grated on the Giant. He couldn’t tell if the human was genuinely fearless or just incredibly stupid. Was he relying on Frokk? Frokk wasn’t enough to stop him.

Everything about the encounter irritated the Giant—the boy’s tone, his lack of fear, the way he spoke as if he were the predator.

“You won’t have a peaceful end. I’m going to eat you while you’re still screaming.”

“I’ll make sure your death is tidy,” Enkrid replied. “Where should I mail your severed head once I’ve wrapped it up?”

“GRRAAAAGH!”

The Giant unleashed a roar that shook the very air. It was a Howl—a weaponized manifestation of Will designed to paralyze enemies with pure terror.

Enkrid immediately activated his Rejection Will, shrugging off the mental assault as if it were a light breeze. Pell gasped, stumbling back, while Lua Gharne retreated several paces in a single bound.

The sheer power of that roar confirmed it: this Giant was at the level of a Knight.

Enkrid had already sensed it from the creature’s stance. As his hand closed around the grip of True Silver, the Giant spoke again.

“Repeat what you just said.”

“The wrapping. The head. A clean death.” Enkrid mocked him with the same sharp edge he used with Rem.

The Giant’s fury boiled over. He hated that his Howl had failed. He hated the human’s defiance.

“I am Hatun! An Apostle of the Demon Sanctuary Church!”

With a roar, Hatun reached behind the boulder and retrieved his concealed weapon. It looked like a whip at first glance, but as he swung it, the truth became clear.

It was a massive, heavy iron chain.

WHOOM!

The weapon tore through the atmosphere, slamming into the spot where Enkrid had been standing a millisecond prior.

BOOM!

The impact shattered the earth, sending a spray of soil and jagged rocks into the air. The force was so immense that fragments the size of a man’s fist were launched like cannonballs. Pell had to use his sword to deflect a stray piece of debris that whistled toward him, the stone hitting the ground with a heavy, metallic thud.