Chapter 671

Chapter 671

Contrary to the concerns Kraiss had harbored, the night did not descend into a violent confrontation.

Both factions had already tasted combat. They were well aware that without staking their lives on the outcome, it was impossible to truly measure who was superior.

“A single moment of dominance doesn’t guarantee a permanent lead.”

These words came from the companion who had nearly perished at the hands of Rem. Though his looks were plain, the sharp intensity in his gaze was unmistakable. Enkrid recalled his name—Magrun Zaun.

His features shared a likeness with Odinkar’s, despite the difference in their hair. While Odinkar projected a sense of lethargy, Magrun was his polar opposite—persistent and stubborn. It was a visceral impression, perhaps not perfectly reflecting his character, but it was accurate enough.

These individuals were not prone to masking their identities. Having observed the society of fairies, Enkrid knew that in a culture devoid of falsehoods, deception was an unknown art; they simply never learned to hide their inner thoughts.

“The Zaun lineage flourishes through relentless rivalry. Unlike your lot, who lazily offer up the weak as fodder.”

Magrun spoke as he surveyed the assembly. His keen eyes and rigid stance radiated hostility. It was a clear message: Rem’s victory over him was not the final word on the matter.

And his assessment held weight.

He was critiquing the standard continental perspective on knights—treating them like fragile, precious instruments that were never intended to actually strike one another.

Knights rarely engaged in true duels with their peers. They were considered far too costly to lose. Across the kingdoms of the continent, these warriors were revered and their safety prioritized. To allow them to clash and risk permanent harm or death was viewed as a strategic failure.

Magrun’s rhetoric was a frontal assault on that philosophy. He denounced the stagnation of knights who ceased their growth the moment they attained their titles. His delivery was passionate.

Rem, however, remained entirely unmoved.

What on earth is this man blathering about? In truth, Magrun’s lecture didn’t apply to the Madman from the Border Guard or his crew. The people gathered here were the type who thrived in the thick of battle. They were the ones who stood tall amidst the slaughter, soaked in blood, communicating through the ring of steel rather than words, meeting each dawn with the specter of death at their heels.

Enkrid, in particular, was a walking anomaly—it was a feat of nature that he was even breathing and capable of speech.

That was Rem’s perspective. Audin and Jaxon felt the same.

Then—

Magrun let out a scoff and leveled his finger directly at Enkrid.

“So, you’ve all huddled together to tutor him, have you? His potential must be something quite rare. Has he enjoyed that luxury? Did he simply follow a path paved for his convenience? Is that how he reached this level?”

His words were searing, saturated with absolute conviction. He spoke with the weight of one who believed every syllable.

Snapping out of his private reflections, Enkrid focused on Magrun—specifically on the hand pointed his way.

This was a formal challenge. Magrun’s speech hit with the force of a blade, as if he were pouring his very Will into the accusation.

“Did Ragna guide your every step? Was your arrival here merely a stroke of fortune? Just watch. I’ll overtake you before you know it. It won’t take me even two months.”

Pell had been by Enkrid’s side through the fairy city, through the demon incursions, and the clashes with the cultists. He had seen the entire journey.

“…What is this fool even talking about?” Pell whispered.

“You have no standing to speak,” Magrun retorted sharply, without deigning to look at him.

Pell started to flare up, but Rophod caught his arm to restrain him.

Rophod’s face was a mask of neutrality, though his pressed lips indicated his irritation.

“…He isn’t entirely off the mark, though.”

Rophod’s comment felt like a dare, yet it lacked true spite. Pell understood the underlying meaning.

Instead of arguing, they ground their teeth and made a silent pact—starting tomorrow, they would demand that Audin increase the severity of their drills by several notches.

Was Enkrid’s strategy truly the most efficient? Perhaps not. It might not even be the “correct” one.

But it was the only viable path they had. So, they followed. That was the lesson learned from observing the man before them.

Don’t over-analyze. Just keep moving. If you must fall, make sure you collapse while reaching forward.

That was their creed—the one they had been conditioned to live by.

In that moment, Pell and Rophod shared a single thought.

Idiot. The men here managed to reach their commander’s heels in only fifteen days. And you think you’ll do it in sixty? You think they’ve been sitting still since then? Magrun remained poised and arrogant. It wasn’t baseless vanity; it was a confidence forged in the fires of experience.

“Nurtured and sheltered without ever knowing the sting of real competition…”

His tone was grating—pure, unadulterated provocation.

Before he could even finish his sentence, every eye in the clearing shifted to Enkrid.

He just stared back at Magrun in silence. The group waited for his reaction. It was surely the moment to either strike the loudmouth down or crush him with a retort.

“Two months, you say?”

Enkrid’s voice was flat. He didn’t sound insulted.

If anything…

Why does he look so satisfied? Rem tilted her head in confusion. Jaxon’s brow furrowed.

“Brother?”

Audin tried to intervene, but Enkrid raised a hand to silence him.

Pell, Rophod, and Teresa watched closely, trying to parse his thoughts. Lua Gharne was the first to grasp it.

He’s thrilled. The reason was obvious. These newcomers were capable fighters. That was all that mattered to him.

“I’ll grant you those two months. Prove your worth and then depart,” Enkrid stated.

Magrun wasn’t like Grida. He was aware of his shortcomings. He had a talent for infuriating anyone within earshot the moment he spoke.

While Grida refused to acknowledge her inability to distinguish faces, Magrun offered no such denials.

Consequently, this reaction… was unexpected.

Why isn’t he furious? Under normal circumstances, a man of his standing would list his accolades, claim he was being mocked, and demand restitution.

That was the protocol.

“…Fine. Two months will be plenty.”

The heat in Magrun’s voice began to simmer down.

“By the way—Kraiss? Where did Big-Eyes disappear to?”

Enkrid pivoted the conversation abruptly.

“He slipped away a few moments ago,” Lua Gharne replied.

“Rophod, then.”

“Sir.”

“Secure quarters for these three.”

“Understood.”

Rophod gave a quick nod and departed. Magrun kept his gaze locked on Enkrid. Grida and Odinkar looked at him with visible astonishment.

“Very well. You said your name was Odinkar? Let us have a bout.”

Enkrid spoke as if the reactions of the crowd were irrelevant.

Odinkar possessed a similar fire, but he at least maintained a shred of social awareness.

“Right now?”

He asked the question, but his heart was already racing. His instincts were screaming for the fight.

Still—wasn’t this the point where Enkrid should be offended? Why was he clutching his hilt like a child with a prized gift?

“I haven’t fully broken this blade in yet. I’ll be ready to duel with it properly by tomorrow. For this moment, I’ll utilize this one.”

Enkrid had already tuned everyone else out.

Grida Zaun possessed a gift for spotting vulnerabilities simply by watching.

Enkrid had mentally cataloged her talent. She likely held other cards close to her chest, but that was the most apparent.

He was intrigued by Magrun’s potential as well—but the man was currently wounded.

“Pell, find Anne. Have his wounds tended to,” Enkrid commanded, his eyes never leaving Odinkar.

Knights didn’t recover like ordinary men. With the right concoctions, a wound like that would vanish in no time.

Some could even knit fractured bones within a day. That was the essence of Will—it functioned as pure life force.

Attempting such feats before reaching knighthood required agonizingly brutal regeneration methods.

That was the path Enkrid and Audin had walked in their past.

“Are you grinning because you have a new toy to play with? Or because you just want to hit something?”

Rem asked, sensing Enkrid’s high spirits.

“Probably a bit of both,” Jaxon remarked.

“Good grief, was my brother actually born as a herald for the god of war?”

Enkrid caught their jests. As was his habit, he let the comments slide, offering only the slightest tilt of his blade in acknowledgment.

Odinkar unsheathed his sword once more. Ching—the silver metal flashed as it left the scabbard.

He wasn’t the sort to hold back. If anything, he was famous for his total lack of restraint.

Odinkar took several deep breaths, composed his thoughts, and finally declared:

“I have a bit of an edge here. This blade belongs to my house; I’ve practiced with it for years. And I’ll warn you now—I don’t know how to pull my punches once the rhythm takes me. I’m not a patient man. So if this gets ugly, I hope you’re good at surviving.”

If Grida couldn’t see faces and Magrun was a natural agitator, Odinkar was a slave to his own momentum.

He was usually relaxed… because once he lost his cool, there was no stopping him.

For instance, if he encountered a meal he enjoyed, he would eat nothing but that dish for an entire calendar year.

And in a duel?

It was a nightmare.

In a life-or-death struggle, that frantic energy could manifest as brilliant improvisation. But in a friendly match? It was dangerous.

None of this bothered Enkrid. Or rather, he didn’t find it worth his concern.

Can’t see faces? Doesn’t matter. Better than being a wanderer who gets lost every ten steps.

A foul mouth? Almost endearing. Sometimes Rem spoke in a way that made Enkrid wonder if he should light a candle for her victims.

Rem’s wit was becoming more lethal by the hour.

And lack of control? Why bother holding back anyway?

He was surrounded by people who could weather his strikes. People who would sprint past him and remind him he still had further to go.

So why should he restrain himself?

“Come. Two months.”

Enkrid didn’t even bother to use the man’s name.

“I am the two months,” Magrun whispered to himself, utterly baffled. Grida let out a tiny, amused snort.

The realization dawned on everyone. They saw what the madman truly desired.

“People tell you that you’re strange quite often, don’t they?”

Odinkar asked, bringing his sword into a low guard.

The Zaun clan was legendary across the land; most people considered them oddities.

That was the charitable description. Behind closed doors, they were simply called crazed.

Yet here was someone who surpassed them all.

“No. Never once.”

Enkrid didn’t even flinch.

“You are absolutely bizarre.”

Odinkar chuckled. He stopped filtering his words and simply spoke his mind.

So… do I really not need to hold back? The onlookers retreated, carving out a wide circle for the combatants.

Lua Gharne, stepping back, suddenly understood—

Enkrid wasn’t just thrilled because of the fight. There was something deeper at work.

Curiosity.

Enkrid possessed a vision. He had a burning drive. And now, that drive had found a subject.

Frokk’s most prominent trait was curiosity—the hunger for knowledge.

Knowledge of what?

The Zaun family developed their knights through a meticulous, established framework. A formal, legitimate system of knightly training.

Enkrid wanted to grasp that as well. That was his true motive for demanding they stay.

The absence of Ragna was just a useful pretext. Magrun’s “two months” boast was just another excuse.

It was all a facade.

Even without those reasons, he would have forced them to remain.

Lua Gharne was certain of it.

Meanwhile, a grin pulled at Enkrid’s lips. A look of pure contentment.

He had already identified Odinkar’s flaw. The man had admitted it himself—he lacked all patience.

“Do you have a partner?”

“…What?”

“If you do, I offer her my deepest sympathies.”

“Why? Are you intending to kill me?”

Odinkar gave a confident smirk at the comment. But Enkrid wasn’t one for mindless banter.

“No. You mentioned you lack patience, did you not? I simply feel for whoever shares your bed. Her nights must feel agonizingly long. Most likely, she drifts off to sleep… entirely unfulfilled.”

He phrased it with just enough nuance that it took a second for the meaning to sink in.

Odinkar processed it. When the realization hit, his entire face flushed crimson.

“I am not like that at night!”

With that roar, he sprang forward—agile and lethal.

Shatter his focus—that was the strategy. Enkrid smoothly brought Penna up to intercept the strike.

He performed a technique from the Balafian style—Body Flow, channeled through the steel. With a precise flick of the wrist and a shift of his weight, the incoming momentum was washed away.

The blade was merely a part of his arm.

He had dubbed this specific movement Feather Drift.

Relying on pure instinct and foundational forms—by Enkrid’s own metric, this was a mid-level display.

Victory wasn’t always about the complexity of the art. Especially not in a match like this.

The Wavebreaker Sword Style was at its peak in one-on-one duels—it gave Enkrid the definitive advantage.

Clang! The steel collided. In the absence of their voices, the swords sang a high-pitched duet.

Clang! Boom! Shing! And so, the two swords began their rhythmic, violent symphony.