Chapter 672

Chapter 672

“Are you out of your mind?!” Anne, who had been tending to Magrun while observing the duel, went ghostly white. It wasn’t just concern—she looked truly shaken. In her view, the spectacle that had just occurred was nothing short of suicidal. While she lacked the martial training to track the complex maneuvers or specific forms used in the clash, the conclusion was unmistakable. Enkrid’s edge had halted only after biting halfway through the blonde man’s shoulder. Had the blade traveled an inch further, neither divine intervention nor the most potent elixirs could have repaired the shattered collarbone. “I caught the blow, Sister Freckles.” Audin grunted, the back of his hand still pressed against the spot where Enkrid’s steel had landed. He lacked any physical armor, yet the shimmering gold sand bleeding from his pores had prevented his flesh from being sliced open. Regardless, the sight of blood leaking between his fingers confirmed one truth—Enkrid had swung with lethal intent. “…Right. I nearly took his life.” Enkrid’s tone, however, remained chillingly level—hollow and devoid of agitation. “A missing limb isn’t a death sentence.” The man who had actually received the strike seemed just as unbothered. What is wrong with these madmen? Anne was a practitioner of the healing arts. Her vocation wasn’t born of a desire for violence, but from a drive to preserve life. She had dedicated herself to medicine so that avoidable deaths and senseless ailments wouldn’t claim the people around her. So, this casual dismissal of a mortal wound infuriated her. If a limb is lopped off, the body empties. The blood doesn’t just drip; it cascades. Massive hemorrhaging triggers hypothermia, she reminded herself, reciting her training to stay grounded. The clinical details only made the reality more gruesome—the onset of panic, the deathly pallor, the skin turning cold to the touch. The heart races. The lungs struggle for air. As the internal temperature plummets, the pulse falters or skips beats. The skin takes on a sickly blue tint. Then comes the vertigo, the mental fog, and the final slide into darkness. No warrior, regardless of rank, could survive that indefinitely. Being a knight didn’t grant a person divinity or immortality. Arrogance was a death sentence; if you grew too confident in your physical resilience, you simply died faster. Anne had poured over her mentor’s secret journals and research papers, absorbing everything she could. That was how she reached her certain conclusion— Unless you were a member of the Frokk, you couldn’t simply sprout a new arm. That was the reality of biology. Yet, a nagging doubt flickered in the back of her mind. Wait… could there be an exception? What if the healer possessed the vast reserves of an archbishop? Perhaps then it would be possible? However, mending such catastrophic damage wasn’t just a matter of flooding a body with light. Over the last several days, the Ragged Saint had been instructing Seiki, occasionally dropping pearls of wisdom for Anne as well. Following those instructions, she had been tirelessly perfecting tonics infused with celestial energy. That process had taught her a vital lesson— Divine power is a tool that requires precision. It was comparable to suturing delicate skin with a glowing needle; it demanded immense focus. How many individuals actually possessed that level of grace? And how many decades of practice would it take to achieve it? One would need to witness an ocean of suffering to develop that kind of intuition—knowing exactly how much power to exert and precisely when to pull back. “The Saint once posed a question—‘What would you do if you sprouted a third leg? Or a tail?’” That was the Ragged Saint’s analogy. Wielding such power was like gaining a new appendage. You had to learn its weight, its reach, and how to flex it. It wasn’t just raw energy; it was a learned behavior. To master that, a student required a mentor who understood both the strength and the craft. And by some miracle, they had both. They had the Ragged Saint to provide the theory, and Seiki—who possessed the raw potential of a true Saint—to provide the power. And then there was me. Anne couldn’t weave miracles herself, but she could diagnose the path to recovery—deciding whether to administer a potent regeneration brew or to reach for her surgical tools. She had been practicing her needlework on cadavers since her childhood. Her internal sutures were more precise than the work of the finest garment makers. “…As long as the heart is beating.” Rem’s voice drifted in from behind her. “Even so, this is reckless,” Anne grumbled, her hands already flying into a rhythm. She sprinkled a caustic white powder to seal the vessels and leaned in to inspect the damage. Did it need thread? Or just a heavy application of salve? She had recently finished a new batch of ointment using water from a hidden fairy spring and gathered morning dew—a mixture designed for rapid skin closure. Should she dull his senses with a sedative? …No, she would just stitch the gap and apply the medicine. He was a knight; he’d have to endure the pain. “I lost by a hair this time. It won’t be the same next time.” Odinkar grunted. He had sustained a wound that would have ended most men, yet he remained defiant. Enkrid had already formed an opinion of him: He was a gambler. It was easy to see how a man like this had lived so long. He possessed the raw gift necessary to turn sheer stupidity into a display of courage. “Correct. Next time, you’ll just be a corpse.” Enkrid spoke as if he were reading a weather report. “…You put on that show at the start just to rattle me, didn’t you? You’re more calculating than you let on. There’s a bit of the fox in your blood. And that way you kept ‘measuring’ the distance during our exchange…” Enkrid wiped a smear of blood from his upper lip with his hand. The observation was accurate—he had employed the same analytical mindset he used against Grida. Calculation. Viewing the chaos of combat through the lens of mathematical probability. Jaxon had planted the seed of that idea, but it still required polishing. Perhaps it could eventually be forged into a unique school of swordsmanship. “And yet you still swing like a wild animal. It’s a strange mix.” “Wild, am I?” “It makes things interesting.” Odinkar flashed a bloody grin. The white powder had finally stemmed the flow. Looking down at the ruined flesh of his shoulder, he remarked: “That’s a hell of a medic you’ve got.” One could tell a healer’s quality by the confidence of their touch. “If you’ve noticed that, then do me a favor and be quiet. He needs to recover.” “I’m a knight. This will be closed by sunrise.” “Even a Frokk wouldn’t bounce back that fast.” Anne muttered, squinting as she determined the spacing of her stitches. Enkrid looked down at Odinkar. “Welcome to the Border Guard.” “A bit presumptuous, isn’t it?” “No, that spar was your true induction.” He gave Penna a quick spin—the very blade that had just tasted Odinkar’s marrow. The light caught the crimson streaks on the steel. As Lua Gharne had suspected, Enkrid was desperate to dissect the techniques of the Zaun Family. Could he simply ask for their secrets? Unlikely. And if they refused, he would simply have to take them through observation. For now— It was about the craft. His victory over Odinkar had been heavily influenced by fortune. Had the variables shifted slightly, he might have been the one on the ground. But that uncertainty was what made it exhilarating. The tactical questions could wait for another hour. The three representatives of the Zaun family opted to remain. Enkrid, meanwhile, was forced into a period of rest. “You aren’t moving until I say your treatment is finished,” Anne told him with a look of absolute steel. “Otherwise, you’ll drop dead and I’ll have to use your body for my anatomy studies.” The threat carried a heavy weight of sincerity. Enkrid’s own state was precarious. Even with the heightened recovery of a knight, the mental strain of his constant calculations had left his brain feeling like it was being pierced by needles. It took two full days for the fog to lift. During his recovery, he watched from the sidelines as Audin traded blows with Grida—and later, as Rem tested her skills against the girl. Of the three Zauns, Grida was the only one who seemed entirely indifferent to the outcome of her matches. “Isn’t it a bit unsporting to wrap yourself in divine light like that, Jaxon?” “If you can’t remember my name, I’d prefer you didn’t address me at all.” Even after Audin’s frosty rebuttal, Grida remained cheerful. She proved to be a frustratingly elusive opponent. From Enkrid’s perspective, Audin’s style was expansive—fitting for a holy knight. Divine power was fundamentally protective. That shimmering gold grit that coated his skin functioned as a celestial shield—a layer of defense that no common weapon could hope to breach. “He’s totally cheating! Help me out, Rem!” “That is actually my name.” When Rem, who was spectating, pointed this out, Grida just continued to use whatever names popped into her head. The only person she didn’t misidentify was Enkrid. Audin eventually claimed the win. It wasn’t a brutal victory, just a controlled demonstration of skill. Grida conceded without a hint of ego. Her bout with Rem, however, was far more volatile. On the surface, Rem’s stance was riddled with obvious flaws—but that was the trap. She used her perceived vulnerabilities as a lure. Grida was an expert at identifying and exploiting those openings. She took the bait. And she was defeated. Rem manipulated her axe with a subtle flick of her wrist—a maneuver she had once used to irritate Ragna. The weapon seemed to lose all mass, weaving through the air in a jagged path to intercept Grida’s lunge. Clang! In the instant the steel met, Grida felt the cold shadow of her own mortality. Witchcraft. If divine power was the shield of the faithful, then witchcraft was the jagged edge of the primal. That power—crudely bound in simple cloth—could easily devour its user if their will faltered. But Rem steered it with the steady hand of a master. “…You have a heavy strike.” Grida beamed despite her loss. Setting aside her inability to recognize faces, she was easily the most approachable and friendly of the Zaun trio. “You’re Lua Gharne, right? We have a Frokk back home who fights just like you. I believe one of his kin helped refine some of our family’s forms.” As she socialized, Rophod and Pell doubled down on their own training—biting down on wooden pegs to muffle their groans as they endured grueling physical conditioning. Magrun, meanwhile, remained a silent phantom, watching every movement and filling pages with observations. The Zaun family didn’t just train soldiers. They operated on a clear social structure. First came the Pioneers—those with the raw genius to map out new frontiers of combat. Odinkar was their archetype. Second were the Researchers, often referred to as the Delvers. These individuals were captivated by the philosophy of the blade—inventing new forms and then immediately finding ways to dismantle them. They often got lost in academic minutiae, but they were the intellectual foundation of the Zaun legacy. Magrun was a member of this caste. Finally, there were the Observers or the Guardians—like Grida. Their personal win-loss record was irrelevant. Their purpose was to document everything, ensuring the family’s collective knowledge was passed down intact to those who followed. To maintain a complex system, you needed people dedicated to its order. That was the engine of the Zaun family. “Is it wise to be sharing these family secrets with me?” Enkrid inquired. Grida only offered a cryptic smile. The spring rains had finally arrived—a heavy, drum-like deluge. ShwaaAAAA. Her voice cut through the roar of the downpour with perfect clarity. “Anyone who walks through the Zaun gates eventually learns these things. And besides—you’re curious, aren’t you?” They stood together under the shelter of the overhanging roof. Through the veil of falling water, Grida’s amber eyes sparkled with genuine interest. Enkrid gave a slow nod. “I have nothing of value to give you in exchange.” He stated it bluntly. He held no currency for information. And if her interest was of a romantic nature, he would have to settle matters with the Golden Witch before even considering it. “You invited another woman here?!” That had been Shinar’s greeting at dawn the day after the spar. The confusion was eventually sorted out, but Shinar had made sure to give Grida a stern warning: “There is a queue for his attention. You’re at the very back.” “…Right, if you say so. You’re the Black Flower, aren’t you?” Grida replied, seemingly identifying Shinar in her own way. It was ironic that someone with hair like spun gold would be nicknamed the Black Flower. The girl had a knack for sensing a person’s essence, even if she couldn’t keep their features straight in her mind. How she managed to report accurate data was a mystery… but one Enkrid didn’t need to solve. The spring weather was temperamental. Two days of downpour were followed by two days of scorching sun that baked the mud dry. It was the time of year for blossoms to open and for young fruit to take hold. The heavy rains moved on. Yet Ragna remained absent—even after fifteen days had passed. Throughout that time, Enkrid remained close to the Zaun visitors—observing, learning, and integrating their lessons. It was a brief window of time, but an incredibly productive one. And so the sun set on another day. And the next. The current of time pulled them all forward.