Chapter 664

Chapter 664

“A present, you said?” Rem questioned. The remark came only because Shinar had gripped the training blades, appearing fully prepared for a confrontation. As if providing a direct rebuttal to Rem’s skepticism, Shinar spoke. “When offering a gift to a lunatic, a challenge is the only appropriate choice, isn’t it?” Well, that made sense. It was perfectly fitting. The way Shinar articulated her thoughts was so melodic it could have been set to music. Her voice possessed a crystalline quality—reminiscent of a lone drop of water disturbing the surface of a silent pond. Because it had been leveled in the past, the housing for the troops had been reconstructed at a distance from the training grounds. While it could be fixed whenever it was shattered, Kraiss was not the type to watch his hard-earned krona disappear into rubble. Consequently, positioned away from the barracks—visible as a distinct patch from a bird’s-eye view—the training area occupied a specific corner of the encampment. Within that space, the afternoon light poured down, saturating the ground like liquid gold seeping into fine fabric. “Underestimating her will only lead to pain, Sister.” Audin cautioned. The day was waning, and the warmth of the sun lingered. Specks of pollen from the surrounding wilderness drifted through the air, while a soft gust of wind carried the blended fragrance of greenery and petals. It was the sort of afternoon where the mere act of reclining would lead to slumber, and a simple stroll could brighten one’s spirit. Both individuals standing within the boundary of the ring were clearly in high spirits. Enkrid was energized by the prospect of a “gift,” and Shinar was visibly pleased to have finally returned. Stationed at the heart of the sparring circle, Shinar displayed the extent of her transformation. The most striking change was her expression. Her mouth was curved into a subtle, gentle grin. That single smile was potent enough to inspire the formation of a personal battalion dedicated to her safety. Luckily, no one present was so easily swayed as to lose their senses over a mere facial expression. “She’s actually smiling?” “Did she just smile?” Rem and Ragna both gaped, whispering in disbelief. “You’ve discovered how to smile, Sister.” Audin met her expression with his own. “It suits you well.” Teresa remarked, her voice tinged with amazement. “Wait, what?” Rophod found his mind wandering for a second before shaking himself back to reality. “Has a ghost taken hold of her?” Pell muttered, fighting off the hypnotic charm that seemed to be clouding his thoughts. Even devoid of actual sorcery, a look like that could be mistaken for a spell. The continent was full of myths regarding such things. The most renowned tale involved Pello the artist and Zello the master of alchemy. The two siblings were both infatuated with a local girl whose allure was legendary; it was said that any monarch who glimpsed her would immediately crown her his consort. The brothers were well aware of the danger. Eventually, the heir to the throne saw her, followed by the king and a high-ranking aristocrat—all of whom spiraled into conflict to possess her. The monarch went as far as to execute his own vibrant son. The nobleman waged a campaign against the throne to claim her for himself. Civil unrest nearly toppled the realm. In a fit of desperation, Zello committed an atrocity: he concocted a charm and forced her to consume it. She perished as a result. Overwhelmed by sorrow, Pello abandoned food and rest, spending a fortnight painting her likeness until he, too, passed away. That work became the renowned Dorothea Portrait. It was a fabled masterpiece rumored to incite a manic possessiveness in anyone who viewed it. “I, the Golden Witch, have not yet tasted defeat.” The fairy announced, as if the spirits of Zello or Pello had returned to cast themselves at her feet once more. Based on Shinar’s words, she had clearly caught wind of the local gossip despite having only just arrived. But that was to be expected. The displaced fairy clan had remained quiet but observant. Because of this, they were privy to everything. They were particularly interested in the stories regarding the hero who had delivered their people. Every time Enkrid visited the settlement, certain fairies would slip away just to catch a glimpse of him. Jaxon had intercepted them on several occasions. Some had even attempted to take up residence in the area before their leader arrived, though they failed at every turn. Merely reaching Enkrid’s quarters was a feat, and bypassing Jaxon’s intuition along with the arcane wards set by Esther was a lost cause. With no way to intervene directly, the fairies simply kept their ears sharp, absorbing every rumor that traveled through the air. “Word has it the Black Flower emerged victorious.” Shinar remarked upon her arrival, making her subsequent assault inevitable. Regardless, Enkrid focused on the wooden training sword and steadied his racing heart. He thought back to the Shinar he once knew—the woman who had granted him the Sword of Seasons, the one who had been consumed by the malevolent spirit. Shinar hoisted the practice blade and gave it a sharp flick above her head. The movement of the air cut through the scent of the flowers. She lunged forward. The movement of a fairy was always characterized by its weightlessness. In Enkrid’s vision, her frame seemed to expand, and he instantly triggered his accelerated perception to slow the world, swinging his blade in response. Shinar’s strike descended toward Enkrid’s skull. He pivoted his hips and ducked his head simultaneously. The dodge was purely instinctive. With his feet firmly set, he launched himself off the dirt using a physical power that transcended normal human capability. He glided laterally in a fluid motion. To any observer, the movement was breathtaking. Even so, he did not entirely evade the strike. It wasn’t a killing blow, but even within the context of a practice match, Enkrid felt a heavy thud against his shoulder. How was that possible? There was a hidden edge within her strike. The blow combined the overwhelming weight of Ragna’s style with the indiscernible intent of Jaxon’s thrusts. “A breeze from a frozen peak.” Shinar noted, coming to a halt. Enkrid looked toward her, and she met his gaze. He could sense a slight warmth radiating from her entire being. She must have endured grueling, relentless training to prepare this “gift.” She wouldn’t have appeared before him with unpolished abilities. She had witnessed him go up against a one-killer. She must have pushed herself to the brink to be ready for this moment. I was careless. It wasn’t that he had become prideful or arrogant. He had simply failed to appreciate her potential. If I can evolve, so can the people around me. Rem had already proven that to him. Why had he let it slip from his mind? Yes, his vigilance had slipped. At that moment, Enkrid finally understood— The fairy standing across from him was also a singular talent, perhaps the greatest ever born to her people. Quite literally, Shinar had been gifted the combined genius of her parents. Only the naturally sluggish perception of time inherent to the fairy race had held her back. Fairies endure for centuries. The trade-off is a loss of intensity. They only flare up for a brief moment in their existence. Much like an igniculus. Therefore, her evolution was bound to happen. Her internal fire was still roaring. “How did you achieve that?” The man who had provided the spark asked. “What would be the point if I explained everything?” Shinar replied with a playful lilt. Yet her radiance made the teasing seem sophisticated rather than petty. Enkrid analyzed the exchange in his mind and reached a verdict. A lethal, high-stakes, ultimate style—that was the essence of Shinar’s combat. It was a fusion of what she had built and what she had been born with. She had scrutinized his wave-blocking sword and developed a specific counter-measure for it. Her tardy arrival was likely a result of that preparation. “A bit more of a delay and you would have been nothing but a fallen leaf.” Was she still referring to their duel? Enkrid asked, puzzled. “What are you implying?” “It is like becoming a piece of fruit that never ripens.” Enkrid tilted his head in confusion. Was there a hidden metaphor? Shinar observed him and spoke more plainly. “I mean I nearly became a widow before the vows were even spoken.” It was the kind of bold, unfiltered fairy humor that was rarely heard these days. “You’ve returned, you eccentric fairy.” Rem said, sounding impressed. She had only just arrived and was already making such outrageous statements. “Let’s go again.” Enkrid, following his usual pattern, brushed off the joke and replied with sharp, unwavering focus. “If I win, are we to be wed?” Shinar refused to back down. She was relentless with her jests, regardless of how they were received. “Are you being serious?” “No, I wouldn’t use force. That would take all the excitement out of the night.” She had clearly become more confident and audacious since the demon was purged. Regardless of her attitude, her prowess was undeniable. Her evolved combat style and her movements served as a message to Enkrid: Perfect what you have already mastered first. His sense of ease shattered. His perspective transitioned. Was it annoying? No. It was a thrill. The physical exertion, the steady march of time, the meaningful dialogues shared with companions—every aspect of it brought him a deep sense of fulfillment. On that day, Shinar executed the same maneuver three more times before shaking her head. “One more attempt and I’ll pass out, you charming brat.” “Where did that name come from?” Enkrid’s jaw dropped in shock. “It reflects the fact that I am your senior. And I am the one who will collapse, not you. However, if I do, will you catch me again? That heat you radiate was truly pleasant.” Shinar was in excellent spirits, though her wit was sharper than her blade. Enkrid chose not to engage with her sharp tongue. A skilled strategist understands when to engage—and when to retreat. With blades, one might simply scrap. But in a battle of words, Enkrid was a hardened veteran of countless encounters. Thus, as a tactical withdrawal, he remained silent. As evening fell, the group assembled, and because they were all present, they roasted a whole hog. Kraiss had managed the arrangements for the feast. “It feels like a professional gathering. A whole pig seems appropriate for the occasion.” Knights do not possess the appetites of commoners. A single pig was barely enough for this crowd. Even Jaxon, who seemed like the sort to eat sparingly, consumed a significant portion. It was a matter of energy replenishment. Enkrid, sitting at the long stone bench outside the freshly constructed barracks, could sense the meticulous planning Kraiss had put in. So if we are exhausted from training, we can eat right here. They had established a mess hall, but also installed stone tables outdoors. One was positioned directly in front of him. It was crudely carved and unrefined, built for utility rather than aesthetics. It was a reflection of Kraiss—who likely factored the eventual destruction of the furniture into his designs. “If I requested that you stop practicing your swordplay during dinner, would you listen? You wouldn’t. So please, eat away from the regular troops now.” The sentiment was never spoken aloud, but Kraiss’s intent was as clear as if it had been yelled. He was incredibly occupied lately. Rumor had it he had commissioned a fairy to excavate an additional well. He was negotiating trade agreements with the merchant hub and even engaging in diplomacy with the Holy Nation. Enkrid understood the strategy and had a grasp of Kraiss’s goals—but it was a chore. He had authorized some paperwork, certainly, but he had made it evident he had no passion for administrative duties. Lately, he had even toyed with the idea of handing all his power over to the castellan. Though Lord Greyham likely had no interest in accepting it. Still, surely a capable individual existed. If not, Kraiss would be the one to suffer. So a replacement would be found, one way or another. As the group ate and drank, the conversation naturally gravitated toward martial techniques and swordplay. The most prominent topic was the framework Enkrid had recently established for the knightly ranks. It was a logical subject. They seldom congregated like this. While they had all consulted with Enkrid individually, this was their first collective discussion on the matter. The dialogue eventually moved from specific styles to the concept of swinging a weapon “naturally.” “What does ‘naturally’ actually mean? Give us an example.” Rem began. “Like I told you—you just swing it. Just like that.” Enkrid sat and listened to all of them, and through their words, he began to clearly see the distinct characteristics each person held.