Chapter 662

Chapter 662

Enkrid understood that simply practicing his forms wouldn’t trigger a sudden moment of enlightenment. He had to approach it systematically. The first step was to give his vision a title. “I’ll call it Flow.” He would use the Connecting Sword of Oara as his cornerstone. His goal was simple: “Make every action effortless.” The concept: to move like a persistent stream that never halts its journey. The practice: to make his blade move as instinctively as drawing breath. However, when he tried to design the actual training regimen, he hit a wall. As per usual, his lack of innate genius stalled him—yet that frustration brought him a strange joy. Enkrid was a man possessed, someone who found satisfaction in scaling the invisible barriers that blocked his path. This time, the obstacle was tangible and right in front of him. This was merely the opening act. He had caught a glimpse of the horizon his companions had already reached. It wasn’t just about doing more; it was about being better. That epiphany sent a chill down his back and a pulse of excitement through his chest. The sensation rushed to his head, erupting in a wave of pure bliss. “Ah.” The sheer thrill of it nearly pushed him over the edge. A clear roadmap hadn’t manifested out of thin air, though. The only tool he had was his practice, so he committed to it. With clumsy, relentless determination, he drove his sword through the air. Relying on the one skill he possessed, he worked tirelessly, never losing the grin on his face. Like a youth experiencing his first infatuation, he stayed lost in the rhythm of the blade. “…Has he finally lost his mind?” the Ragged Saint whispered with a look of concern. Why was he talking to himself and smiling while swinging a weapon? It was truly bizarre. The question was valid. Enkrid was too focused to hear him, but the others simply nodded. “He’s definitely crazy. That’s just who he is,” Rem remarked. “He’ll come back to earth eventually. Don’t get worked up,” Ragna said. “It’s fine. He’s just in a state,” Audin chimed in. Hearing the nonchalant attitudes of Rem, Ragna, and Audin, the Ragged Saint scoffed. He couldn’t resist a biting retort. “You three are the last people who should be judging someone’s sanity.” The Ragged Saint was new to Enkrid, but he knew Rem and Ragna well. He had even watched the transformation of his own adopted son. Men who once spoke only of spilling each other’s blood were now standing together in harmony. It was surreal. What had changed them? The answer was obvious. It was that madman in the center, grinning as he trained. “Right… he is the axis.” Everything seemed to orbit around that single soul. The order of knights, the entire city, its residents. Was it a feat to be admired? Truly, it was. It made sense that such a peculiar group would gather around a center as strange as him. Observing the man with the sword, the Ragged Saint felt a storm of conflicting emotions. Pity and regret washed over him. What if a person like this had existed when he was young? Someone who could have softened the edges of both himself and Overdeer? A leader everyone could have rallied behind? He had known a man like that once—a man with talent that seemed gifted by the heavens. His voice held authority, and his presence was a blend of divine light and martial perfection. He could be a younger brother or an older mentor depending on the need. He possessed the power to command and the heart to protect. His ambition was the only thing that matched his overwhelming capability. If they had stood by him when he ascended to the papacy, would history have been different? The Ragged Saint knew the truth deep down. “It wouldn’t have mattered.” That was the tragedy of it. Legion was the entity that broke him, forcing his betrayal. The most brilliant mind Legion ever saw had lost his home and his love, eventually vanishing into the Demon Realm to nurse his vengeance. He didn’t weep or rage. He simply turned his back on everything and walked away. “If this is what the gods demand, I refuse them.” Those were his final words. “He was too pure for his own good.” His brilliance made him a poor fit for the papacy. He shone too brightly, inviting the shadows of jealousy. People were desperate to pull him down to their level. Following that disaster, the Holy Knight Overdeer suppressed his own will, pledging to follow any orders the subsequent popes gave without question. The old memories stung, leading the Ragged Saint to a new conclusion. “Power wasn’t the point. A leader should know how to bring people in. They should be willing to give themselves up for others.” A true leader is validated by their spirit, not just their strength. The Holy Knights provided the muscle. Others provided the miracles. But the one at the peak shouldn’t be defined by talent, but by the weight of their soul. “Hah…” The Ragged Saint was self-aware enough to know he wasn’t built for that throne. He didn’t want the burden; he just wanted to heal the person suffering in front of him. The Holy City required a leader of a different caliber. And Border Guard… it needed someone like Enkrid. A person who didn’t crush those beneath him or rule through fear. “He isn’t a king.” He was destined for something else. “Didn’t he mention wanting to be a knight?” he asked, throwing the question toward Audin. He knew the answer—the story of wanting to be like the knights from the legends. He couldn’t find it in himself to mock that dream. Not because of Enkrid’s current behavior, but because he once held similar hopes. Watching him move through the streets, it was clear: Enkrid drew his sword only to shield what he loved. That was his entire world. And that singular focus had brought him this far. It made him a fanatic. “What a ridiculous man.” Struck by this realization, the Ragged Saint sank to his knees in prayer. He folded his hands and called out to his deity, asking for forgiveness for his past and for a bright path to open for this madman. “…You know that praying doesn’t take back what you called us, right?” Rem was standing right there, his hand resting on his axe. The old man had clearly overstepped. He had grouped them all together with that lunatic. Even if he had phrased it as a comparison, Rem was sharp enough to know he was being called a madman too. To Rem, that was a provocation. He didn’t care about the Western tradition of respecting elders; the old man wasn’t a Westerner. “He wasn’t exactly lying though, was he, my northern friend?” Audin said, trying to diffuse the tension. “A stray cat always defends a wildcat.” Rem didn’t just gesture; he gripped the handle of his axe. The weapon seemed to hum under his touch. He wasn’t going to start a bloodbath, but the threat was palpable. “Every single one of you is a headcase,” Ragna stated, ending the debate. Conveniently, he acted as if the insult didn’t apply to himself. “You directionless, blind bastard—you’re the worst of the lot!” Rem drew his weapon and struck. He swung with a violent snap of his wrist, the axe moving as an extension of his own body. Ragna met the blow with a calm draw of his blade. He pulled his massive sword as effortlessly as if it were a small dagger, catching Rem’s heavy strike with the base of his steel. Clang! Metal screeched and sparks showered the ground as the two glared at each other like predators. “Truly, I am surrounded by lunatics,” Audin sighed, stepping between the two. A golden radiance gathered around his hand like glowing dust. Rem instantly retreated. Ragna held his blade in a defensive posture and stepped back. The trio began a circling dance of combat on the ruined dirt of the training grounds. Enkrid, meanwhile, remained in his own world, whispering and swinging. Rophod and Pell watched the spectacle and sighed—then immediately began their own bickering. “What are you staring at?” “Certainly not your ugly face.” “Maybe I should fix that for you. You don’t need both eyes.” Their banter was just as sharp as the blades nearby. Lua Gharne showed up shortly after, taking in the mess. She spotted Teresa and looked thrilled. “Hey, giant—if you’ve been practicing, why don’t we see what you’ve got?” “I’d like that, Sister.” Teresa’s voice was deep and powerful, vibrating with newfound confidence. It was a sound that commanded attention. And with the Ragged Saint still kneeling and praying in his finery… …it was a perfectly normal morning. Several days passed. It was the morning after Rophod had assigned the training of the new recruits to a squire named Clemen. “Am I ready for this?” she had asked. “Yes. You are,” he replied. Clemen was a recognized squire of the Mad Knights. Enkrid had overseen her training and respected her intensity. He valued that kind of spirit. Regardless, both Rophod and Pell had cleared their agendas at Enkrid’s request. It was a day they had all prepared for. Enkrid rose before the sun to begin his routine. “Good.” Spring had arrived, but the air at dawn still carried a bite. That coldness was refreshing. He enjoyed the sensation of his muscles heating up until he broke a sweat. He savored the rising warmth in his chest. Audin had already been out there, practicing the Isolation Technique in the dark. Rophod and Pell arrived just as the sun broke the horizon. Enkrid didn’t believe in miracles through force. He believed in the steady, logical progression of hard work. He had created a framework and categorized the different energies in his mind. Now, he had two perfect opposites to test his theories on: Rophod and Pell. They were ideal candidates. “You both want to be knights, don’t you?” It was a rhetorical question. The two of them pushed themselves to the breaking point every day. There was no other reason to work that hard. “No need to state the obvious,” Pell grunted. Rophod gave a solemn nod. “Correct.” Enkrid had spent a long time contemplating this. Could a specific training system actually guide someone toward the path of a knight? He was about to find out. He wasn’t aware that other legendary units had tried this path before. Given how much a single knight could change a war, it would be foolish not to try. Naurillia had once harbored similar goals, but political corruption and cultist interference had ruined their plans before they could bear fruit. But things felt different now. It wasn’t just a lull in the fighting; it felt like a genuine moment of calm. “Maybe the cultists really are finished. The loners are gone, and even the monsters are thinning out,” Kraiss had noted while reviewing reports. He had added: “If it stayed like this, I’d be a happy man.” Kraiss had known only war and demonic threats his whole life. Peace was a foreign concept to him. Even if that peace was bought with blood—and even if he was the one who spilled it—it still felt strange. In times like these, training was the best investment. Kraiss had seen the shift coming, which was why he poured resources into the unit. He hadn’t expected the cultists to be eradicated so thoroughly, though. In this era, a few elite soldiers were worth more than an army of conscripts. Thus, forging new knights was the highest priority. Rophod and Pell both braced themselves. Enkrid, Rem, and Audin moved in closer. To an outsider, it looked as if the two were being hunted by a pack.