Chapter 659

Chapter 659

Ragna’s fingers twitched, instinctively moving toward the hilt of his blade following Rem’s lecture, yet he refrained from pulling the steel. To strike him down at this moment would be to execute a man already broken and bleeding. That would never count as a true triumph; it would be equivalent to a shameful defeat. “Not today.” He could end his life once the man had recovered his strength. Ragna suppressed his urge. Jaxon, conversely, toyed with the idea of opening that fool’s throat before the sun peaked over the horizon. Perhaps using Carmen’s stiletto to pierce him near the solar plexus would be satisfying, or if that felt too final, severing a tendon in his ankle was a tempting alternative. Naturally, these were mere fantasies. He had no intention of actually following through. Instead, perhaps he could taint Rem’s rations with a little something? He knew of a concoction that forced a man to empty his bowels without reprieve. “No, that animal’s gut won’t be swayed by simple toxins.” Those from the West possessed iron stomachs, and Rem was a particularly foul specimen. Even if the substance were successfully introduced, he likely wouldn’t consume it. He would probably detect the scent. And brewing an odorless poison was far too much trouble, an unnecessary expenditure of labor for a barbarian of that sort. “Oh Lord.” Audin whispered to the heavens, his voice devoid of any mirth. This particular “Oh Lord” was saturated with cold, concentrated wrath. The God of War seemed ready to manifest at any second. A shimmering golden radiance surged through his frame like tiny breakers, climbing from his heels to his chest before dissolving. The holy texts commanded one to offer mercy to those who had already faced their rightful retribution, even the wicked, and to show compassion to those who blundered out of a lack of wisdom. This was a case of the latter—of the very latter. Audin resolved to show mercy to Rem, who clearly lacked the necessary intellect in his skull. Rem appeared quite pleased with himself, his expression radiating satisfaction at having achieved his goal. Following his sermon, he resumed his typical abrasive chatter. “Hey, the Captain is finally worth messing with. Listen, Lost Kid, from this point on, address me as Vice Captain. And don’t call the big man ‘Brother,’ stick to ‘Big Bro.’ As for you, stray cat—try to stay out of my sight.” “A Vice Captain position does not exist.” Enkrid immediately shut down the suggestion that threatened to cause chaos. “Oh, is that how it is? We’ll go with that then.” Rem gave a cheerful nod. His expression seemed to say, “What difference does it make?” The other three had already exercised restraint once, so they simply brushed off Rem’s arrogance. They had witnessed the sheer magnitude of what Rem had just unleashed. And Rem was merely the opening act. Every individual here was harboring a hidden trump card. “The ointment crafted from the foliage of Druires will likely be entirely consumed by your own wounds.” Anne stepped forward once the event—be it a sparring match, a brawl, or a localized cataclysm—had concluded. As she spoke, she began applying various salves to Enkrid’s battered frame. Jaxon observed from the periphery, tossing questions her way, and to his surprise, she possessed a deep understanding of pharmacology, allowing their technical talk to flow easily. While the healing took place, there seemed to be no lingering hostility between them. Enkrid turned to Jaxon, who was being uncharacteristically social, and asked, “Won’t your partner be jealous?” It was a casual jab, suggesting he was getting a bit too cozy with Anne. It felt like a lingering trait from spending too much time among the fey. Upon hearing the quip, Jaxon stared with a vacant expression before answering coldly, “All I require is a blade dipped in venom. I just need to close the distance before he can unsheathe.” Enkrid fell silent, ruminating on those words. Had it been two days prior? He recalled Jaxon mentioning he had managed to get behind him. He hadn’t thought much of it then, and Enkrid had felt only a passing sense of startle. But now, with this context, he believed he grasped the gravity of the statement. “My guard wasn’t down then. Even if a hidden blade or a stray bolt had suddenly targeted me, I would have countered. I could even hear Odd-Eye’s breathing from a significant distance at the time.” Odd-Eye had lingered for a few days after ensuring Enkrid had made it back safely, then departed. As if that simple confirmation was the extent of their bond—he didn’t seek extra attention or physical affection. “Everything from the presence of Odd-Eye to the shifting of the wind was within my field of perception.” If a threat had emerged, his instincts would have alerted him instantly. Yet Jaxon had bypassed every single thread of that sensory web to tap him on the shoulder. “I allowed him to reach my blind spot.” If Jaxon had been wielding a lethal toxin back then— “That was the moment, wasn’t it.” “That was the moment.” It was a realization shared exclusively between the two of them. “What are you two whispering about?” Anne inquired, but neither man chose to clarify. There were aspects of their craft that defied verbalization—like the untraceable strike or the method of infiltrating the mental perimeter established by one’s awareness. Anne didn’t press the issue. She wouldn’t comprehend the mechanics even if they tried to explain, and truthfully, her curiosity lay elsewhere. Her heart was set on the refinement of medicine, the creation of panaceas for every possible ailment—and Ragna. Enkrid absorbed Jaxon’s admission and sank back into contemplation. “Rem utilized slings and engineered projectiles that detonated even upon impact with a shield. Jaxon claimed he could penetrate my rear defense.” In a way, it was distinct from his clash with Rem, yet equally exhilarating. Like a childhood game of tag where a ribbon is pinned to one’s back, and the goal is to snatch it away. “I cannot allow my back to be vulnerable.” There was no utility in a standard duel with Jaxon. The path to victory lay in dominating the theater of perception. With Rem, the challenge was weathering the storm of projectiles he unleashed. Both men seemed to be delivering the same message. That was how he interpreted it. He hadn’t been overtaken yet. The words were left unspoken, but a strong resolve doesn’t require a voice to be understood. These two had stepped over a threshold and were sprinting forward once more. How long has it been since I moved past them, only for them to begin closing the gap again? Rem claimed he was only the start. Next was Ragna. As soon as Enkrid’s constitution allowed, he faced Ragna once more. To put it plainly, Ragna was dead set on shattering the defensive swordsmanship Enkrid had been honing. A sharp whistle of air. The confrontation with Ragna was the antithesis of the fight with Rem. Their weapons didn’t even meet—resulting in a lack of spectacle. “What did you think of that?” Ragna asked. A spark of excitement he had never previously displayed danced in his crimson eyes. He was genuinely thrilled. He remained poised in the follow-through of his strike. Despite the posture, there were no gaps in his defense. A mundane sword technique had been infused with something terrifyingly unique. That abnormality was practically visible to the naked eye. “How did you achieve that?” “I simply used force.” Hearing such an answer made Enkrid feel a pang of sympathy for Ermen the fairy. Could that truly be considered an explanation? “Can you actually produce that result just through raw power?” “I can.” Ragna spoke with absolute certainty, and Enkrid, deep down, found himself agreeing. If the only way forward is to break through with strength, then that is precisely what must be done. What other choice existed? Ragna had, for a fleeting second, doubled the perceived mass of his blade and draped something akin to a fairy’s spirit edge over the metal before striking. Enkrid had evaded it by a hair’s breadth, his gut telling him that attempting to block it would result in his death. To put it another way, this wasn’t intended for a friendly spar. “Is this still a duel?” Enkrid questioned. “Do you find it distasteful?” Ragna countered. Between that cursed Rem and the damnable Lost Kid—everyone was simply manifesting their inner mania. Rather than refining the art of the duel, they were merely hunting for the most efficient way to slaughter. Rules were nonexistent. Nothing was regulated. There was only the drive to advance, the hunger to transcend one’s current state. How could anyone find this boring? “No.” Enkrid replied simply. A grin had already taken hold of his features. Naturally, he didn’t hate it. Ragna’s strike was virtually impossible to parry or avoid. It was a technique that seemed designed to sever the very concept of a wave-blocking blade. “I must decipher the nature of the radiance surrounding his blade if I hope to withstand it.” Ragna himself appeared oblivious to the mechanics of his own feat. To grasp it, he would need to investigate, challenge, and dissect. “Systemization.” The process was far from over. In reality, it was just beginning. No—this was the true starting line. Since they were at the inception, there was an immense amount of work ahead. Eventually, even Audin discovered a path forward. He mimicked Enkrid’s technique exactly. “It is a tactic to survive a deluge.” His execution might have varied slightly, but he employed the wave-blocking blade to endure and persist. When he lost his rhythm in the middle of a trade, he simply absorbed the impact with his frame, but his holy steel-reinforced plate was rugged enough to deflect Penna. However, in that precise moment, Audin funneled sacred energy into a form that mirrored the previous two. The amber radiance condensed, shifting into something resembling thick, impenetrable hide. “He compacted and fortified it.” Will is an abstract, intangible force. Can it truly be gathered through effort alone? The question hung in the air. It birthed skepticism. But his perspective quickly pivoted. “If I believe it to be impossible, then it shall remain so.” If one believes it can be done, the impossible becomes reality. Acker, a legendary knight from a bygone era, had once poured his Will into a blade, forging something akin to a cursed weapon. What he had infused was a fragment of his own intent, which evolved into a distinct consciousness dwelling within the metal. That was his unique manifestation. “Will, sorcery, sacred energy—all of it is subject to change.” To endure is the power to hold firm, but with enough discipline, it becomes living armor. Will transmutes and becomes a bastion that solidifies the physical form. “They speak of a level where the source never runs dry—that is known as Uské. And there is a further stage where the very substance you hold is transformed. That is called Indurés. It is a term from the old tongue.” He recalled a phrase Lua Gharne had once uttered. She had shared a proverb passed down through the ages, and now Enkrid could meditate on it and find a fresh meaning. “Uské is the well that never empties—it concerns the volume of Will. And Indurés…” It wasn’t about the quantity, but the essence. A Will of an entirely different caliber. How does one attain it? How does one trigger that awakening and reach an understanding? The road ahead was shrouded in fog. He felt as though the Boatman might appear out of thin air to ridicule him once more. “When do you expect to master that? After suffering a thousand more deaths as you did before? Crumble and shatter. That is how you will be unmade and imprisoned in this moment.” The Boatman’s taunts carried no weight. Enkrid, following his nature, only felt a surge of excitement. “Indurés.” He possessed Uské. He had even integrated it into his martial art. But Indurés remained a territory completely alien to him. Thump. His pulse quickened. A rush of pure joy flooded his system—he felt a desire to run. That was the intensity of his internal storm. Thrill and wonder merged into a sensation that made him feel as if he might burst. “…Are you truly intent on sleeping in the dirt? Why wreck a perfectly functional building? I don’t understand. Not that I have to. I’ll reconstruct it. Larger this time. Until then, make do with the tents. They’re more practical, aren’t they?” Kraiss’s voice drifted in from the side, but it was little more than white noise. “Are you even paying attention? Clearly not. Fine, not listening. Why is he in such a mood this time?” Kraiss turned away from Enkrid. There were documents to sign and logistics to manage. Attempting to converse in this state would be a waste of time. Enkrid, remaining stationary, executed nothing but three hundred consecutive vertical slashes. Thinking through physical repetition had always been his sanctuary. He meditated and analyzed. In the process, he looked toward a new horizon and allowed himself to dream. How could such a thing not be a source of happiness? As the moon rose and his fervor began to settle, Enkrid surveyed his comrades and voiced his genuine thoughts. “I mean this with total sincerity—every one of you is completely mad.” Rather than just observing, he felt as though he were channeling Crang’s voice. It was a remark delivered with profound honesty. And every member of his squad took great offense to it. “…Honestly, you are the last person on this earth we want to hear that from, Captain. I’m serious.” Rem didn’t bark back; instead, he spoke with a rare gravity. “Depart, foul shadow. Oh Lord, purge the madness residing within this man’s spirit.” Audin offered a prayer. He even beckoned Teresa to perform a hymn by his side. Teresa gave a solemn nod and immediately joined the effort to exorcise whatever spirit had taken hold of Enkrid. “Who are you to judge anyone? Did Anne put something in your drink?” Jaxon remarked after noting the visible fire and glee in Enkrid’s gaze. One couldn’t behave this way without chemical assistance. There was no logical explanation for his state. Then again, reflecting on it, this was his normal. He would experience sudden leaps in skill and perform irrational acts without warning. It had ceased to be shocking. He simply disliked being grouped with the more uncivilized types. Jaxon took a subtle step back and nudged Rophod into the spotlight. “Count me out. I’m perfectly sane.” Rophod dismissed the claim. Pell whispered from his side, “Is insanity a prerequisite for genius?” Hearing the comment, Rophod snapped, “In that case, you must be a prodigy. You’re already a certified lunatic.” Their eyes met in a sharp challenge. Esther, in her feline form, rested on the roof with her chin propped on a paw, taking in the scene. Lua Gharne was busy charring caterpillars near a tent situated by the ruined barracks. When prepared this way, they were sweeter than nectar, so she had no intention of offering any. Not that anyone was brave enough to ask. While the insects sizzled on their spit, Lua Gharne puffed out her cheeks and grinned. “Do you really feel the need to state the obvious?” As if to say, “Isn’t it apparent to everyone?” Naturally, her words fell on deaf ears. The truth is often unpalatable—but if you keep it to yourself, you can keep it hidden. “You’re claiming I’m the unstable one? Doesn’t feel right. Granted, they all pulled some insane stunts during what was supposed to be a simple match, so… perhaps.” Ragna’s parting thought sparked a new wave of tension. “What? You looking for a fight? The Captain might be short an arm, but your head is still attached, Lost Kid.” “I’ll have it off before he can take a step.” “You want to test that?” “Try me.” Rem and Ragna began their bickering anew. “Quit complaining about natural talent. If you draw a line in the sand for yourself, you’ll never cross it.” “Oh, I see. I’m fine because my potential is limitless, but you’re bitter because yours has a ceiling. I get it. I empathize. I won’t offer you pity, but I’ll act like I didn’t hear that. I won’t mention it to the recruits you’re supposed to be leading.” Pell said, miming the sealing of his lips. Rophod winced at the jab. When had this man become so incredibly vocal? His insults had become sophisticated. They used to be cut from the same cloth, but now he had evolved. “Looking for a grave?” Rophod snarled. “Oh my, are you truly the only person in existence seeking a quick end?” Pell retorted effortlessly. It was undeniable—he had matured. The cause? His time spent with Enkrid. He had gained wisdom during the return trip. With that realization, Rophod shot a look of mild annoyance at Enkrid—before quickly letting it go. Initially, he had been confused why Enkrid focused on Pell individually, but now it seemed inconsequential. He could simply close the gap. Lua Gharne finished her meal and ate in silence. Jaxon started whittling a piece of timber he’d acquired. As he worked the blade, thin curls of wood drifted to the earth. Observing the entire tableau, Enkrid let out a soft laugh. And a realization struck him— He genuinely cherished this place, this position, and these companions. None of them looked down on another’s aspirations. If they felt their prowess was lacking, they applied themselves to training. It was the natural order of things. They didn’t succumb to petty envy or attempt to climb through sabotage. To them, this was the only way to live. Was it truly so simple? How long had he searched to find such a reality? How many people had resented, cursed, or laughed at him? It finally dawned on him—everything he had ever wanted and envisioned in a brotherhood of knights was right in front of him. Consequently— “Would you consider taking the vows of a Holy Knight? You ought to place your faith in the Divine.” —when the proposal came the following day, he was able to decline with a resolute heart. “…And who are you supposed to be?” “You might think of me as your guardian, Brother.” It was an unexpected visitor who had arrived at Bodyguard while Enkrid was away in the city of the fey.