Chapter 650

Chapter 650

The trek back was peaceful.

Highwaymen were nonexistent, and they only occasionally spotted wild predators or stray beasts in the distance. A cluster of fairies, traveling in the same general direction, remained far in the rear of Enkrid and his party. A gap of about half a day’s march separated the two groups, and after navigating several mountain passes, the fairies vanished from view entirely. Even though Enkrid led only a small advance party, they were part of a city-wide relocation. Such a massive movement of people naturally slowed to a crawl; when a multitude gathers, the collective pace inevitably drops, allowing the lead scouts to pull further ahead.

On the second evening, while they established their bivouac, Lua Gharne caught another glimpse of Enkrid’s evolving prowess. It happened during a practice bout with Pell.

“You wife-stealer!”

Pell shouted a clumsy insult, hoping to get a rise out of him. It failed to move Enkrid in the slightest. Instead, the moment Pell spoke, Enkrid lunged. Against an opponent he could already best without effort, he used the opening to shatter Pell’s concentration further.

His execution had grown remarkably precise. It felt as though he had been under the strict tutelage of a master for a decade. These flashes of sudden growth were always baffling; regardless of raw potential, there are moments when a warrior’s ability simply leaps across a chasm.

But a deeper shock was waiting.

During the high-speed exchange, Pell found it impossible to catch his breath, let alone speak. He was forced into a silent struggle of limbs and steel. Enkrid wasn’t even utilizing his spiritual pressure. Without a word, the duel transitioned into a raw exhibition of power and coordination. Enkrid was dictating every second of it.

Past the midpoint, even refined technique seemed to fall away. Enkrid relied solely on velocity and brute force, trapping his partner with nothing else. When power is truly absolute, sophisticated maneuvers become redundant.

There is a saying that a soft touch can redirect a heavy blow. A massive, linear strike is often neutralized by fluid, circular defense. But what happens when the force is so overwhelming that it simply tramples the defense? Enkrid was demonstrating exactly that.

When Enkrid’s practice blade whispered past Pell’s throat, Pell couldn’t even muster a gasp. A single lapse in rhythm would have been fatal. This wasn’t the psychological weight of a feint; it was a visceral, cold dread crawling up his spine, like a reptile’s tongue flicking against his skin.

Pell threw his entire being into a desperate parry. He had no other choice. Every one of Enkrid’s swings, no matter how effortless they appeared, carried a crushing momentum and a lethal line of attack. It was a relentless assault—like facing a predator with its teeth already at his jugular.

Pell focused every ounce of his Will into his grip. He was standing on the edge of a precipice, clinging on with his fingernails. If his focus wavered for a second, he was finished.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the trees; he had to anchor his stance or be swept away. The glare of the sun threatened to blind him; a single blink would break his guard and end the fight.

I’m going to die.

The realization hit Pell instinctively. Meanwhile, Enkrid continued to strike with an expressionless, mechanical grace.

Clang!

Pell managed to keep hold of his weapon, but his arm was forcibly shoved aside by Enkrid’s redirection. In that heartbeat, Enkrid stepped into his guard and tapped Pell’s chest with his palm.

“It’s over,” Enkrid remarked.

It was an undeniable conclusion.

“…Hah.”

Pell finally let out his held breath. Enkrid had overwhelmed him through sheer physical dominance, bypassing the need for tricks. The fact that his taunts had failed was the least of his concerns.

This freak.

The way Enkrid channeled his Will and handled his blade had transformed since they arrived in this region. He was a true anomaly—a genius who never stopped evolving. It was clear he had surpassed yet another plateau in a staggeringly short window of time.

Pell exhaled, pushing aside his wounded ego. He wasn’t the type to quit just because he was outclassed. If anything, a new, fierce stubbornness took root in him. His gaze crackled with a renewed, hungry intent to catch up.

Lua Gharne, observing from the side, analyzed the display. Enkrid had perfectly calibrated himself to Pell’s level, which meant he was still holding back a significant portion of his true capability.

What was different now?

The Frokk possessed a unique intuition that allowed them to read an opponent’s potential through their posture. This instinct was firing rapidly in Lua Gharne’s mind as she watched Enkrid. He handled a heavy, lightning-fast sword as if it weighed nothing. More impressively, he was micro-adjusting his output in the middle of a strike to keep Pell alive.

Essentially, he looked like a master craftsman applying every secret of his trade to a single repetitive motion—relentless and perfectly efficient. He did this without needing to steady his pulse or gather his thoughts. He was operating in a state of total, immersive focus.

He had sharpened his mind to a razor’s edge, pouring all his energy into the blade. He was likely applying the insights he gained while taming the Walking Fire.

What would happen if Enkrid unleashed that focus without restraint? He would be capable of sustained, high-intensity combat. During his encounter with the demon known as the First Kill, Enkrid had dismantled and rebuilt his entire combat philosophy. But he hadn’t stopped there.

To truly “create” a style of combat means to fully internalize its essence and application. Such a process inevitably changes the warrior. The world usually categorized skill into levels like novice or master, but Enkrid had moved beyond the standard intermediate thresholds. His personal identity as a fighter had hardened into something unique.

Urke.

A style of the blade founded on a Will that never faltered.

Lua Gharne’s perception was hitting the mark. Since leaving the city of the fairies, Enkrid had gained a clear understanding of his own toolkit: long-duration, high-speed attrition fueled by his immense vitality.

This direction was a product of his history. Both Rearvart and Sir Jamal had emphasized styles built for endurance. Enkrid had absorbed those lessons and accepted them. He felt a sense of completion—an intoxicating feeling that he could stand against anyone.

Yet, alongside that feeling of omnipotence came the sensation of hitting a ceiling. He felt as though he had reached the summit. There was no higher peak to climb, no path extending forward. The journey felt finished.

And yet, his heart remained restless. His talent might suggest a limit, but the Will within him didn’t recognize boundaries. That was the core discrepancy.

As Enkrid moved past his victory over Pell, he began to categorize these realizations. By organizing his experiences, he gained a deeper wisdom that didn’t require an external teacher.

He realized a knight’s spirit is the sum of their life’s choices. Therefore, Will is simply the manifestation of that resolve. This was why the Will of the man he’d encountered in the Holy Knights felt so flimsy. Talent can make someone a knight in name, but a sword forged without a foundation of conviction is as hollow as a shell.

A knight without a sacred vow isn’t a knight at all. This is why oaths are the lifeblood of their strength; they provide the framework for the Will to endure. It was likely why Oara’s presence felt so luminous. The dream didn’t have to be legendary; it only had to be something the person truly believed in. There is no such thing as a small conviction.

This realization mirrored Enkrid’s own values. He was defining knighthood in a way that resonated with his soul.

As he pondered this during their walk, the world grew luminous. Two silver moons hung in the sky, bathing the land in a bright glow. After two nights of this, the silver began to fade. Even with a clear sky, the light grew heavy and dim. A new, darker hue began to stain the night. The arrival of the Twin Crimson Moons—the Red Moon—was imminent.

The rest of the party was too preoccupied to notice. Pell and Zero were obsessively practicing the lessons they had gleaned from their defeat. Lua Gharne was busy trying to explain her clan’s method for reading potential to Enkrid.

“Frokk believed that labeling talent levels was useless,” she explained. “If he could already see where someone would peak, why bother with ranks? In a life-or-death struggle, does it matter if your Will is ‘advanced’? You can still die from a knife in the dark. Unless you are like Frokk, a slit throat is the end of the story.”

Even a legend like Frokk would perish if his heart was stopped. Skill increases the odds, but it isn’t a guarantee.

“Is everyone’s talent the same? No,” Lua continued. “We can see the limits, but we can’t see the ‘color’ of that talent until it is tested. That discovery was the true thrill.”

Seeing someone like Enkrid smash through a perceived limit was even more rewarding. To Lua Gharne, the pursuit of these unknowns was the highest form of joy.

“Depending on the ‘color’ of their spirit, some warriors focus everything into a single, devastating blow, like Pell. Others, like the fairies, use racial gifts to perform impossible, strange feats.”

Nearby, Pell and Zero were shadow-boxing, their blades cutting through the air. Their goals were identical—to stab and slash—but their methods were worlds apart. Pell aimed for a single, perfect execution, while Zero unleashed a flurry of six strikes in the same window.

Enkrid considered this. It reminded him of his conversation with Pell during the “wife-stealer” banter. Pell was easy to read because he was an honest, straightforward man who saw no need for deception.

Then he thought back to the fairy city. Ermen used silence to perfect his misdirection. Enkrid had picked up on that subtle trait. It reminded him of Kraiss. Pell was impulsive; Rem was similar. Ragna acted like a brute but secretly enjoyed the tactical chess match of combat.

Everyone’s innate nature dictated the shape of their strength. This was what the Frokk meant by “color.”

“A Frokk once tried to name these categories,” Lua added, “calling them things like the ‘pupa’ or the ‘larva.'”

Enkrid began to layer these concepts in his mind. One’s temperament dictates how they receive training. Therefore, the way one is taught must be personalized.

Lethal-strike, Endurance, Versatility.

Those three umbrellas covered almost everything. Perfection wasn’t necessary; completion was. Pell belonged to the lethal-strike category. Rophod was a specialist in endurance. They were opposites.

Some were born versatile, possessing both. While it sounded ideal, it was often inefficient. To master both required double the effort. As the Frokk believed, if you have a finite amount of talent, splitting it between two paths only weakens the individual results.

Furthermore, there were those who focused on raw physical power and those who focused on the intricacies of technique. Power-types favored heavy or fast blades. Technique-types favored deception and light weapons.

By synthesizing his observations, Enkrid was defining his own form. He realized the importance of self-knowledge.

I am an endurance type.

For now, at least. With Urke, he could thrive in battles of attrition. He had learned this from watching Rearvart and Azpen’s knight.

Eventually, shouldn’t a warrior aim to bridge the gap between a lethal strike and endurance? He couldn’t see the path yet, but he felt a faint shadow of what lay ahead.

If he used this logic, one man in the order stood out as an anomaly: Jaxon. He was a rare hybrid—a lethal-technique specialist.

Unique.

Usually, lethal types were power-focused. But there were no set rules. Starting with a fixed answer only produced “imitations.” The hollow soldiers of the Holy Nation were the result of that—forcing people into a pre-made mold.

“Ah.”

Enkrid felt a rush of creative euphoria. This wasn’t just learning; it was the joy of discovery. He looked up and saw that the moons had fully transitioned into a deep, bloody red. The Twin Crimson Moons.

Night had fallen while he was lost in thought. He had been walking on autopilot, successfully avoiding obstacles without consciously seeing them. Now, his full awareness snapped back.

And as he looked ahead, he saw the intruders.

“We have been expecting you, Border Guard Enkrid.”

A voice rang out in the red light, devoid of warning. There had been no sound of footsteps, no ripple in the air—just the voice. A black veil seemed to flicker and dissolve in front of him.

A perception-warping spell. It was a barrier designed to keep the mind from acknowledging what was right in front of it. Enkrid had encountered such magic enough to recognize the slight mental “itch” it caused.

The group that had been concealed by the veil stepped forward. One was encased in heavy, midnight-black plate. Two others wore the robes of sorcerers. The figure in the center gripped a long staff topped with a jagged iron ring, its spikes pointing toward the sky in a ritualistic pattern.

“We represent the Sanctuary of the Demon Realm, the Church of Rebirth.”

Under the blood-red moons, it was clear these were no common bandits.

“We have brought the remaining Apostles to meet you.”

Before the sentence could even finish, Enkrid’s danger sense screamed.

The ground beneath them ruptured. Jagged iron lances erupted from the earth, aiming for Enkrid’s gut, Lua Gharne’s chest, Zero’s skull, and Pell’s throat.

Enkrid’s mind shifted into a higher gear. The world slowed to a crawl, as if he were moving through thick syrup. Within that frozen moment, Enkrid acted.

Would you like me to continue the story and describe how Enkrid handles this sudden ambush?