Chapter 663

Chapter 663

Azpen and the Holy Nation had both attempted to produce knights through rapid means, but their efforts only highlighted the stark constraints of taking shortcuts. To a common soldier, even these imitation warriors appeared as walking calamities, yet they could never truly rival the depth of a genuine knight. Enkrid was unaware of these specific political failures, yet he instinctively chose the more arduous, authentic path. Guided by intuition and the principles he had forged through his own journey, he moved forward without overthinking the complexities.

Rophod and Pell stood before him, their expressions solemn and their lips pressed thin as they watched him.

“If I ask you one more time, will your response be the same?” Enkrid inquired. He believed in the necessity of confirming one’s resolve before proceeding.

“Yes. I am determined to reach that rank,” Rophod stated firmly.

“Ask as many times as you like, the answer won’t budge,” Pell joined in. “You might see a lack of talent in me, but I refuse to let that be the end of my story.”

While Rophod spoke with a steady, plain conviction, Pell’s voice carried a sharper edge of defiance. Enkrid simply nodded, unperturbed by their differing tones. Rophod set his jaw tight; even if he lacked natural flair, he would not be outdone in sheer persistence. He was ready to endure any trial if it meant a path to knighthood lay at the end. His determination burned with a steady light, and Pell matched that intensity in his own way.

Pell believed in his own potential, even if it didn’t mirror the commander’s. He knew the Idol Slayer sword was said to consume its master, but he had picked it up with the conviction that he could master the blade instead of being mastered by it. As a former shepherd of the wilderness, he was built on a foundation of patience and grit. Their shared resolve was palpable.

Enkrid considered them for a moment before speaking. “Set your weapons down.”

“…Beg pardon?” Rophod asked, his tension shifting into bewilderment.

“Relinquish your arms,” Enkrid said again. There was an unsettling weight behind the command.

The two traded glances, wondering if this was more of the physical conditioning or isolation drills they had already endured. At that moment, Anne entered the training grounds.

“Why are you dragging a busy woman away from her work?” she grumbled.

“I’m bringing you here to perform your duties,” Enkrid replied.

“What kind of madness are you dreaming up now…”

Behind Anne came Seiki, moving with a light, springy gait, accompanied by the Ragged Saint.

“If I provide guidance, their growth will accelerate,” the Saint remarked.

Rophod and Pell were filled with silent questions about what exactly was being guided. Seiki then announced she would go first, leaving the trainees even more confused. Audin approached Enkrid, wielding a massive iron club that looked like a toy in his large hands despite being thicker than a man’s arm. Rem arrived with a similar weapon.

“I didn’t agree with this method,” Rem noted.

“My path lies elsewhere,” Lua Gharne said, opting out.

“I’ll be a spectator for this one as well,” Teresa added.

Rophod felt a sinking sensation in his gut, reminiscent of the dread he felt as a child when his mother discovered a secret mess he’d tried to hide. Pell felt it too, a sharp instinct of danger like the time he was caught pilfering cheese from the village elders. Their intuition was screaming at them.

“Since you both claim your resolve is unwavering, we’ll simply fetch you if you try to flee,” Enkrid warned. “Ragna. Jaxon.”

“Understood,” Ragna said.

“Don’t worry, we won’t go so far as to snap your ankles,” Jaxon added, moving to block their retreat.

The two trainees realized they were cornered. Rophod looked at Ragna, knowing how brutal the man could be in a fight, but he saw a flicker of pity in Ragna’s eyes.

“Sir Ragna…?”

“Just submit to it,” Ragna replied, offering no comfort.

Pell saw the writing on the wall and shouted for them to run, but it was futile. Surrounded by the elite of the Mad Knight Platoon, there was no escape. Soon, the two were stripped to their undergarments and bare feet, standing defenseless before Enkrid. Rem gripped his club, a dark smirk on his face.

“I truly despise this sort of thing. It’s miserable—but it must be done,” Rem said.

“It is for the benefit of our comrades,” Audin added.

“We begin with full-body percussion,” Enkrid declared.

“What does that even mean?” Pell stammered, his voice filled with denial.

“Audin,” Enkrid signaled.

“Ready when you are, brother.”

Enkrid’s theory was that by striking the body systematically, one could force the subconscious Will to awaken. He believed that a beating bordering on the lethal would produce the best results.

“Are you people losing your minds?” Pell cried out. Rophod, however, simply bowed his head, accepting the inevitable. Enkrid noted their different reactions: Rophod’s logical resignation versus Pell’s instinctive rebellion.

Whack!

“Gah!”

Pell’s legs gave way under a perfectly placed strike. Rem, who had trained relentlessly to match Enkrid, possessed frighteningly precise control. Audin, familiar with Enkrid’s own physical conditioning, was equally skilled. His club swung and connected with Rophod’s shoulder.

Bam!

“Aargh!”

A cry of pain escaped Rophod. The two were subjected to a relentless battering from head to toe. Afterward, Rem questioned if this was actual systemization or just organized torture. He only said it after the deed was done, naturally. Rophod and Pell lay there, silently agreeing with Rem’s assessment even if they couldn’t find the breath to say it.

The routine persisted for days. Enkrid offered Teresa a spot in the “training,” but she declined instantly. It wasn’t a lack of will; she simply knew her path was internal and didn’t require the external stimulus of a club.

Following the sessions, Enkrid would provide specific guidance. He didn’t use vague, grand metaphors. Having walked the path himself, he gave practical markers.

“If you try to meet Pell’s instincts with your own, you’ll fail. Block him using your own logic,” he told Rophod. Then to Pell, he said, “Don’t try to outcalculate Rophod. Break the rhythm. Use your athleticism or do something completely erratic to disrupt him.”

His philosophy was simple: don’t force a swordsman to use a bow. Rem nodded in agreement, noting that he gave his men axes because it suited their nature as brutes. Even the veterans like Ragna and Jaxon listened closely as Enkrid categorized combat styles—Lethal, Sustained, Versatile—and refined them further into Instinct versus Calculation. He admitted no theory was flawless, but he was committed to refining it.

“Do you actually know if this works?” a bruised Pell asked.

“I don’t,” Enkrid admitted honestly.

“Then why?”

“Because I believe it will.”

Pell gnashed his teeth, his eyes burning with a vengeful fire. He vowed that if he ever grew stronger than Enkrid, there would be a reckoning. Enkrid wondered if he should add “Vengeance Type” to his categories but dismissed the thought. Rophod, meanwhile, used his internal competitiveness to fuel his recovery and resolve.

Enkrid saw that Rophod focused on tempering his body (the Training Type), while Pell gravitated toward refining his skills (the Technique Type). Neither was superior. As test subjects, they were ideal due to their opposite natures and mutual rivalry. Even if they didn’t reach knighthood immediately, Enkrid was certain they would at least master Ironclad—a skill usually reserved for those who had already ascended, but one he deemed necessary as a prerequisite.

He was teaching them to use Foresight, Ironclad, and Hardened Flesh instinctively, believing these were the foundations of a true knight. Enkrid himself was learning through this process. He helped them refine Hardened Flesh, pushing them until their muscles were at the breaking point.

Rophod eventually asked to share these methods with his own squad. Enkrid agreed, believing that sharing knowledge would elevate the entire Mad Platoon. He believed that while structure might not replace raw talent, it allowed others to pursue it.

One dawn, Esther appeared in her human form. “You don’t seem tired of this. Shall we spar?”

Enkrid accepted, leaving the trainees with Audin. Esther carried a long staff he had gifted her, made from a defeated warlock’s weapon. She claimed this sparring was the “payment” for the gift. They headed into the mountains, passing a sentry who saluted them.

“Do you recall how to deal with a mage?” she asked.

“I cut them down immediately,” Enkrid replied.

“Now I’ll show you how to fight one who is ready for you.”

Suddenly, the world felt distorted. Esther felt miles away despite standing right there. A mud construct erupted from the earth, seizing Enkrid’s ankles. It was a simple but effective snare. Enkrid reacted instantly, his sword Penna glowing as it severed the creature’s limb. The mud didn’t fall; it turned into a grasping net in mid-air.

Foresight offered no warning against the unpredictable nature of a magician. Esther’s voice echoed, explaining that magic is the art of change. Enkrid didn’t panic. Instead of retreating, he held his ground, swinging Penna in precise arcs to shred the magical silk.

He had learned to sense the “texture” of spells through his past battles. He didn’t just swing at the air; he struck the gaps in the magical formula, destroying the spells before they could manifest. This “Spell Severance” was a terrifying prospect for any mage, yet Esther didn’t fear it. She used the sessions to push her own magic to be even more complex and unreadable.

As the weeks passed and the rumor of the “Black Flower” sparring with the witch spread, spring arrived in earnest. And with the change of season came the return of the Golden Witch.

“I have brought a present for my fiancé,” she announced.

Her golden hair and vivid green eyes fixed on Enkrid as she stood there, casually manipulating the very strings of destiny.