Chapter 673

Chapter 673

Grida had been fond of this place from the moment she set foot in it—but as the days turned into weeks, her affection only deepened. Had she felt otherwise, she would have departed immediately upon settling her affairs, regardless of the supposed “two-month” obligation. She had wandered across the breadth of the continent and witnessed much, yet few locations resonated with her quite like this one.

She wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

“This is absolutely incredible,” Odinkar remarked, clearly won over. He was currently savoring the daily special—a mix of minced meat, onions, and flour, grilled to perfection and tucked into a crusty loaf. He offered an enthusiastic thumbs-up, grease from the meat glistening at the edge of his lips. It was the sort of meal that demanded your full attention. The memory of the meat searing on the grill stayed with you, while the savory juices coated the palate before sliding down.

Grida gave a firm nod and returned the gesture. There was no denying it; the cuisine here was exceptional. The seasoned dried meats and the expertly charred bread were top-tier. Then there was the slow-roasted pork, cooked over a low flame for an entire day until it could be pulled apart with a fork, drenched in a savory glaze and served on long buns. A pulled pork sandwich, if she recalled the name correctly.

Yet, the delights didn’t stop there. The pumpkin soup was rich, and the fresh fruit juices were refreshing. The hot broth provided a comforting warmth that reached deep into one’s core. While the Zaun family certainly didn’t lack for culinary talent, the food in this place possessed a distinct personality. Even when the ingredients were familiar, the preparation felt innovative and vibrant. That variety alone was a source of constant pleasure.

Odinkar, never one to shy away from a good meal, sighed contentedly. “Would it be so bad if I just stayed here forever?”

“Do you actually think that’s an option?” Grida countered, bringing him back to reality. She reminded him of the four wives and the children he had waiting for his return.

“I’m just messing with you,” Odinkar chuckled deeply.

“If you’ve finished stuffing your face, get out here and fight!” Enkrid’s voice boomed from outside the dining area.

Odinkar swallowed his last bite. “What’s the plan for today? Solo or two-on-one?”

Enkrid shouted back his inquiry from the yard. Odinkar lacked any sense of moderation, which meant their sessions often felt like actual combat. After several intense bouts, Anne had found it necessary to intervene with a sharp tongue. “What’s wrong with you? Are you some tattered puppet looking for a violent end? Do you want to be held together by nothing but stitches?”

Despite nearly having his collarbone shattered in one instance, they had sparred twice more. Odinkar had actually claimed victory in one, a match where Enkrid had come dangerously close to death. Only a split second before a blade found his throat, Jaxon had intervened, deflecting the strike with a hidden dagger. Simultaneously, Audin had lunged forward to restrain Odinkar’s arm.

It became clear to everyone that such reckless dueling couldn’t continue. Someone was going to end up in a grave.

It was then that Rem proposed an interesting alternative. She mentioned a training method from her former unit where one warrior would be pitted against three others of comparable talent.

“Wasn’t that just a way to bully the soldiers?” Kraiss muttered under his breath, though the effectiveness of the method was hard to dispute. Of course, everyone suspected it was a drill that appealed directly to Rem’s more sadistic tendencies. Forcing a person to face three foes without any guidance or strategy—leaving them to learn through the sheer agony of defeat while she watched and laughed—seemed perfectly in character for her.

“I think it’s a solid plan, brother,” Jaxon interjected. He was talking more than usual, likely out of a desperate wish to see the suicidal duels come to an end. “If three talented warriors push a single person to their breaking point, that person will grow. Meanwhile, the three learn how to strike in unison.”

If Rem’s common soldiers could manage it, the knights certainly could as well. Thus, the nature of their training shifted. Enkrid began taking on two or three opponents at once. Odinkar did the same. Depending on the schedule, Rem and Audin would also take turns playing the solo defender.

What truly struck Grida was how Odinkar began to display restraint. Rem merely gave a wicked grin. “If you get hit enough times, you eventually learn how to avoid it.”

Jaxon viewed it as a simple matter of breaking old habits and forging new ones. Audin, on the other hand, claimed it was an act of divine intervention—that he was merely delivering the message of God through the impact of his knuckles. Though their explanations varied, the core message was the same: they were beating the bad habits out of him.

However, their approach was surprisingly methodical. Their tactics, their spacing, and the way they structured their matches were all meticulously planned. Could pain truly be such an efficient teacher? Odinkar had lived his life on the edge of a blade since he was a boy; such deep-seated instincts don’t usually vanish overnight. What was the real trigger for this transformation? One couldn’t grasp it just by observing. It required deeper analysis. Perhaps Magrun understood it; analyzing such things was his forte, after all.

Enkrid remained the focal point of everything. Once the sparring became more structured and less lethal, these fanatics threw themselves into it with even greater intensity. Enkrid, in particular, displayed a level of dedication that left even someone as hardy as Odinkar at a loss for words. It wasn’t just his prowess in a fight; it was the way he dedicated every waking hour to improvement.

He rose before the sun to condition his body. In the morning hours, he took strolls—sometimes accompanied by the leopard, other times by the Black Flower, the witch with the flowing dark hair and revealing robes. But even these walks were training sessions in disguise. He dueled with the mage at least twice a week. He held separate training blocks with the barbarian, the assassin, and the fairy, with each session customized to his partner’s specific style.

Furthermore, he took the time to instruct others. Whether it was the town guards or his own personal unit, he provided guidance, mostly by setting clear objectives for their progress.

“I won’t be knocked down this time!” shouted a particularly driven squire named Clemens. Despite his raw talent, it was his fierce determination that drew the eye. Seiki, who visited occasionally, was clearly the most gifted of the lot, though he seemed largely indifferent to the grind. The day-to-day training of the unit fell to the other members.

The reality was simple: every spare second Enkrid had was spent in combat. Sparring. Over and over. No pauses. No recovery. Just endless repetition.

How does his spirit not shatter? Grida wondered. The physical strain was one thing, but if the mind gave way, the body would surely follow. Mental endurance was the foundation. Yet, Enkrid took it all in with an eerie sense of peace. That alone was a marvel.

Lost in these thoughts, Grida waved down a man passing by. By this point, she had committed the names of nearly everyone in the Mad Platoon to memory.

“Hey, Rophod! Do you have time for a quick round?” she called out.

The man stopped and scowled at her. “The name is Pell. Shepherd Pell. Why do you insist on mistaking me for that idiot?”

“My mistake,” Grida said with a shrug. “You two just happen to share a look.”

Pell didn’t hesitate; he drew his blade immediately. “Let’s settle this.”

Grida smiled. These people were certainly lively. She engaged in a spirited match with Pell and found it quite enjoyable. Later, Lua Gharne approached her, asking complex questions about Frokk-style combat theory, which brought a rare smirk to Magrun’s face.

“A level of sophistication I wouldn’t have expected from someone who learned their craft in the wilderness,” Magrun remarked. Grida was stunned to hear such a thing from him. The man, usually known for his sharp and biting commentary, was actually offering praise?

“Is this your doing, Frokk?” Magrun asked.

“No, it was his,” Lua Gharne replied, gesturing toward Enkrid.

Magrun looked perplexed. “Is that so? Well. That is quite intriguing.”

Even Magrun lacked a sarcastic retort for that. There were very few people he spoke of with such respect—even back in Zaun. Enkrid had somehow earned a spot on that very short list. He hadn’t used any magic to achieve it; to an outsider, it looked remarkably mundane. He would simply walk over, offer a few insights, and engage in a dialogue. Neither he nor Magrun ever lost their tempers. They were calm, logical, and deliberate. They met privately at least once or twice a week to talk.

It was peculiar, yet Grida felt a similar draw. Initially, she had considered the possibility of a romantic spark. Now, she found she didn’t want that at all. Romance often led to awkwardness if things ended, and she didn’t want to ruin what they had. She liked the current dynamic.

“I’m not one of his suitors,” she told a golden-haired fairy. The fairy seemed visibly relieved by the news.

“Can I bring you some fresh spring water?” the fairy offered, noting a bruise Grida had sustained during her match.

“That would be lovely. It seems like the line of admirers is getting long,” Grida replied. Truthfully, aside from the Black Flower and the Golden Witch, she hadn’t seen many others actively pursuing him.

However, the correspondence was another story. Invitations to high-society events, letters from influential ladies, missives from various monarchs, including the Eastern Pioneer King, and even a message from a religious order arrived constantly. His fame was undeniable. Even during casual walks outside the city walls, he was recognized.

Aside from the Golden Witch, other fairies attempted to charm him in more subtle ways. “Captain Shinar might be getting on in years, but I’m still in my prime,” whispered a bow instructor from the local militia, leaning in close to Enkrid.

Grida, standing nearby, watched with amusement to see how he would react.

“Being slightly over four hundred isn’t exactly ‘old’ for your kind,” he replied, effortlessly matching the fairy’s playful tone.

“I haven’t even reached half that age,” she countered.

“To a human, two hundred and four hundred are both just ‘very old’.”

“It’s not the same at all!” The fairy widened her eyes with feigned innocence, though a spark of mischief remained. Fairies didn’t technically lie, but they were masters of redirection and nuance. She batted her lashes, emphasizing the age difference.

“You understood exactly what I meant,” Enkrid said, cutting her off with a blunt honesty.

So, that’s how he deals with them, Grida noted. Even the local innkeeper held him in high regard, and a prominent merchant had shown him significant favor. Later, a Frokk craftswoman spoke excitedly about the rare materials she had found and the items she planned to forge. Enkrid gave her his undivided attention, just as he did with everyone else. He listened with a genuine, focused interest.

Observing him, Grida realized something: she truly respected him. Not as a woman interested in a man, but as one human recognizing the worth of another.

“You’re an excellent listener,” she remarked later.

“I simply enjoy the passion people have for their work,” he replied. The casual, sincere way he said it was genuinely charming.

She decided to ask, “Have you ever considered joining the Zaun family?”

She already knew the answer. She had spent a month watching him, and she knew this man wouldn’t be tied down. Yet, he surprised her by asking, “Would I be welcome as a guest?”

“What?”

“I mean, would it be alright if I just dropped by for a visit every now and then?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course you would.”

She understood then. He wasn’t going to join them permanently. He was a person who couldn’t be owned or contained. The Zaun family was like a tranquil, ancient lake—but this man was the wind. The wind might brush across the water’s surface, but it could never be held within it.

“Wind Blade. Have you ever heard of that name?”

“Is that some sort of traveling singer’s tune?”

“It was one of the people who founded the Zaun lineage.”

“I can’t say I’ve heard that one.”

Grida shared more of the history with him.

“If you two stay this close, people are going to start talking,” Shinar joked as she approached. The three of them fell into a long, comfortable conversation. Eventually, Esther joined them, and they sat together drinking tea in a companionable silence. Whether it was talking or just being quiet, the company was excellent. Perhaps this was the reason Ragna had been so reluctant to leave.

Suddenly, a newcomer entered the unit’s grounds. Grida, who happened to be near the entrance, looked at the visitor—a man with blonde hair and striking red eyes.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

The man blinked slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He looked as though he had been wandering aimlessly for a long time, and he smelled like the road. Despite his bedraggled appearance, the greatsword on his back gave him an air of authority.

“Grida?”

“You know who I am? You look familiar… who are you?” She squinted at him. The features were recognizable, but she couldn’t quite place him.

“It’s Ragna. What are you doing here? Did you get turned around again?”

“Oh. Ragna.”

Of course. This entire trip had originally been a quest to track him down. She had been quite focused on the task at first, but then she started having too much fun and let her search slide.

“I was sent to find you.”

“Me?”

“There are people at home who want to see the one who ran away.”

“If they miss me so much, they can make the trip themselves.”

“They aren’t able to. That’s why I’m here.”

Truthfully, if her family hadn’t sent word, Grida would have probably stayed on the road even longer. It had been quite some time since she had traveled, and there was so much to experience—even the unpleasant parts. But now that Ragna was in front of her, she had to deliver the news.

“Our father is looking for you,” she said.

Ragna looked back at her, his expression flat and unimpressed. It was as if he were saying, So what?

I’ve grown to like it here. And I think I’ve started to adopt some of his habits…

Her brother didn’t used to have that look in his eyes. Now, they held the same fierce, wild glint as the barbarian woman, Rem.