Chapter 647

Chapter 647

The metropolis of the fey was no small settlement. The area where Enkrid had previously resided and observed was merely the fringe of the domain. “It is quite expansive.” In terms of sheer scale, it potentially surpassed the size of Border Guard. The city was partitioned into several massive zones, all interwoven by meandering trails and mystical conduits. Had Ragna set foot here, he surely would have labeled it a labyrinth. “Ragna would be lost in here for eternity.” Even scaling the massive trunks to find a vantage point was usually a waste of effort—the canopy was so thick with foliage that it created a literal ceiling, obscuring any sense of direction. The city was full of such dead ends. Consequently, Ragna would never have managed to navigate it. Truthfully, the environment would be a nightmare for almost any outsider. However, for the local residents, it was as familiar as their own skin—not a single issue for them. “I suppose that explains the legends of woodsmen disappearing into fairy realms for decades.” There was a specific myth. A classic fable about a laborer who happened upon a hidden pool where a fey was cleansing herself. He made off with her garments and fled, only to be trapped wandering the thickets for twenty years before finally finding the exit. That particular tale had spawned countless variations: in one version, the man and the fey started a family; in another, his lost tool fell into the waters and was returned as a silver treasure. “Just folk stories, I suppose.” Yet, he could see the root of such myths. The city pulsed with an undeniable air of the supernatural. It was shielded by timber and sculpted from the living wood—Enkrid could almost map the internal layout in his mind. Every resident he questioned during his travels provided gracious answers, often offering far more detail than he had sought. “It is essentially a fortress of nature.” This was the reason the city lacked artificial fortifications. Even if an invader believed fire was the solution and attempted to drench the perimeter in pitch to spark a blaze… Even if they torched the peripheral groves to ignite a firestorm intended to smoke the inhabitants out… Could it truly be accomplished so easily? “The corruption struck from within. Had it approached from the exterior, it would have failed utterly.” These were entities capable of shaping essence and commanding the spirits of the world. The various lineages—including the Dryads and the Woodguards—were formidable in their own right. Furthermore, the very “ramparts” of this city were composed of the remains of fallen Woodguards. One did not simply set them aflame. Enkrid recalled watching Bran ignite a smoke against his own skin without leaving a single blemish. Of course, a Woodguard with an affinity for fire was a rare exception. Lost in these reflections, Enkrid waded into the pool. Calling it a “pool” was an understatement—it was vast enough to be a lake. “Was this entire body of water part of the move as well?” It was known as the Fairy Spring or the Spring of Restoration. A steaming, comforting reservoir that seemed to dissolve his exhaustion instantly. After a grueling day of physical exertion, submerging himself felt like reaching a personal heaven. And when he took a long draught of the iced herbal infusion provided by the fey… Gulp, gulp, gulp. Enkrid experienced a flash of pure serenity. the heat drew out the toxins from his skin, a refreshing breeze brushed his forehead, and the cold drink provided a surge of joy—comparable to finding water after a week in a wasteland. “This is absolute perfection.” Soaking here for several hours after training had become his new custom. He had been taken aback when the relocation strategy included transporting a lake-sized body of water. Now, the idea of being without it was unthinkable. While he was savoring his rest, someone paddled toward him from the distant side of the misty water. The expanse was significant enough to be considered a lake. The rising vapor obscured vision at a distance, making it easy to ignore others—until they drew near. Once they entered his immediate space, he could feel their presence. His intuition immediately identified the newcomer. “What do you want?” Enkrid inquired. “I’ve designated today as a bathing day,” the voice answered. “Is this an official holiday for your people?” “Not at all. I simply made the decree this morning.” A truly eccentric fey. “Your attitude is quite bold. I am the sovereign of this realm.” It was, predictably, Shinar. “And I am the man who rescued it.” “Are you really going to claim that title so brazenly?” She was teasing, well aware of Enkrid’s true character. “Am I incorrect?” “No, the statement is fairly accurate.” Enkrid let out a soft chuckle. Shinar cut through the wall of steam and drew closer—close enough for him to see her clearly. She was buried in the water up to her chin, revealing only her face. “Does that bother me?” Not particularly. “You were the one who suggested this new location, weren’t you?” Shinar made a small splash as she spoke. The perfumed water—infused with the scent of blossoms—sprayed onto Enkrid’s brow. Her movement caused a portion of her body to breach the surface momentarily. A pale, curved shape—perhaps a shoulder or an arm—glimmered briefly. Enkrid gave a simple nod of confirmation. “It just happened to be a suitable place.” “I appreciate it.” Shinar had been expressing her gratitude with increasing frequency lately. “Didn’t you claim before that you were bound to the city?” “I spoke the truth as I knew it.” “A slanted version of it. A specialty of your kind—I’ve seen it firsthand.” “What are you implying? Falsehoods do not exist in our world.” Observing Shinar’s wide-eyed, innocent expression, it was difficult to accuse her of being disingenuous. With a face like hers, it felt like being targeted by a master swindler. Any ordinary man would have surrendered his very heart the moment she looked his way. “Right. I suppose you’ve just wiped that deception from your mind—the part about becoming a ruler of nightmares?” There was no way she had forgotten the various half-truths she had spun within the labyrinth. “You are being quite disrespectful.” “Understood, Majesty.” After exchanging a few more playful insults, another “thank you” was whispered. “In that case.” Shinar began to rise from the waters. Enkrid, failing to look away in time, caught sight of her unclothed form. It wasn’t a deliberate act of voyeurism. “When did you sustain those injuries?” He had caught a glimpse of a jagged burn mark that trailed from her arm across her torso. It was a harsh, permanent scar. Shinar was acutely aware that her skin had been marred. That was the reason why, despite several chances to bathe near Enkrid, she had consistently avoided it. She could have easily shared the water with him—but she had been clever in her avoidance. The droplets rolled down her scarred skin, tracing over her hip and falling away. The burn marks extended from her back down to her legs—vivid, painful-looking reminders, as if she had been touched by white-hot metal. The sight alone was distressing. “The Spring of Restoration has many benefits.” Shinar offered that instead of a direct explanation. She had carried those marks until this moment as a way to hold onto the past. Enkrid tilted his head in confusion, and she continued with a gentle grin. “These marks—most of them, at least—could be healed. If they were gone, you would see nothing but flawless skin.” “And?” “You would even be allowed to touch it.” “…” “It would be… quite a pleasant experience.” Why am I having this absurd conversation with a fey? Enkrid averted his gaze, his expression clouded with a hint of embarrassment. “Remain with us, child of visions and potential.” The fey lady spoke softly. “Is that an incantation or a threat?” “It is a blessing.” Shinar beamed—the same genuine smile she had shown in her subconscious state. Witnessing it, Enkrid couldn’t help but return the smile. Whatever the circumstances, she finally seemed to have shed her heavy burdens. Shinar departed. Enkrid decided to remain in the heat for a while longer. He shut his eyes and allowed the warmth to cradle him. Within that temperature, he drifted into a profound state of contemplation. Occasionally, a flash of insight arrives without warning—and this was one of those times. “Shinar chose not to erase her history.” She retained those scars as a testament to her failures. Now, she had resolved to acknowledge them and move forward. Not to dwell on the morality of the past, but to march toward a new dawn. Just as Enkrid’s essence influenced those around him, the positive transformations he triggered often returned to him in surprising ways. The change in Shinar ignited a spark in Enkrid’s own spirit. He couldn’t define the source, but a wave of inspiration flooded his consciousness. Fragmented thoughts began to align, swirling together to form a coherent pattern—finding harmony within the mess. Through the thick mist of the spring, a phantom appeared. “This is all because of me. Don’t you ever dare cast me aside.” A lingering shadow of the darkness he faced? Or merely a stray thought born from his mental turbulence? It was irrelevant. Once Enkrid reached this level of concentration, the external world ceased to exist. The phantom dissolved, and he made no effort to cling to it. He plunged into the concept—losing himself, his blade, and his surroundings—only the raw inspiration mattered. He was fortunate; nothing disturbed his trance. The massive pool that mended his flesh held him safely at the surface—there was no risk of sinking. He remained warm, and hunger was not a concern. The waters even seemed to provide him with basic sustenance. Supposedly, that was the true nature of a healing spring. Some of the Dryads would even go without food for days while submerged, knowing it accelerated their physical mending. The heat also stimulated his circulation, making his mental processes sharper. Historically, the fey elders would hold their most important councils while sitting in these very waters. Ideas twisted and turned. Theories took solid shape. The first realization to surface was one of self-critique. “I was overconfident.” When he had finalized the Wave-Blocking Sword, he had convinced himself that he had reached the peak of that insight. He was wrong. “There is no final destination.” At that time, it felt like the conclusion. But it wasn’t. The spirit always seeks more. A fresh horizon was expanding inside him—one distinct from the path of the blade. It was manifesting right now. He gathered every piece of knowledge he needed to embrace this novelty. He traveled back through his own history. He recalled the moment he first approached the fey city and was met with a barrage of arrows. He had perceived them and neutralized them. He had felt the displacement of air—applying the sensory methods he had studied under Jaxon. At the time, Enkrid had dismissed it as mere gut feeling. Jaxon hadn’t contested the point but later classified all such feats under the umbrella of “sensory mastery.” There was no point in splitting hairs over names, Jaxon likely believed. Consider the technique “Endure”—the act of focusing Will to toughen the body. If one could do that instinctively, there was no requirement for a formal name. “But is it possible for everyone?” To use Will as naturally as breathing? To execute high-level techniques by reflex? That was far from simple. If he hadn’t categorized his moves and practiced them with intent from the very beginning… He wouldn’t have given up, but reaching his current state would have been a near-impossible journey. Would he have even attained the status of a knight? Just the thought was nauseating—like being pushed off a precipice with his limbs bound tight. He had been favored by fortune. The powers of luck must have been watching over him. Regardless— “A structured progression is vital.” Especially for a man of his background. He had constructed his foundation of logic and skill by trekking across the land and studying under various masters. Some taught identical principles, some offered contradictions, and others attempted to build grand, logical systems. “What functions for the masses might not function for you. My techniques weren’t designed for the ungifted, so please, just leave.” He vividly remembered one master saying that—essentially pleading for him to go away. The man wasn’t malicious. Though he had the power to drive Enkrid away, he chose to use words. Not that Enkrid had complied immediately. He had stayed for three additional months, badgering the man for every scrap of wisdom he could provide. Then there was the veteran warrior living in a seaside village—a man who had left a lasting mark on him. “You must carve your own path. How? By constant review and introspection. Follow the tracks others have left, but keep what is useful to you and discard the rest.” Some of that advice was sound. Some was flawed. “There is nothing I can afford to throw away.” He needed every single tool in his possession just to make an inch of progress. So that is exactly what he did. “Even if it is born of desperation.” He would drag himself forward if he had to. His determination transformed into Will. Will became a radiant glow. That light gave shape to his aspirations. Every memory stored in his internal archives came flooding back, creating a whirlwind in his mind. Time passed in this state. Finally, Enkrid spotted a marker in the midst of his mental journey. “Yes… a marker.” Techniques were the markers on the road. You gave them names. You practiced them until they were part of you. “Initiate knights must cultivate specific techniques to harness their Will.”