Chapter 674

Chapter 674

“What’s with the way you’re staring at me?” Grida tilted her head, her tone casual yet sharp. Ragna’s jaw dropped slightly in a purely physical reaction. “What do you mean by that?” Reflecting on it, her younger sibling had possessed that same quality since their youth, though she had never seen him fix his gaze quite like this before. “I asked why you’re looking at me with those damn eyes.” A trace of enmity colored Grida’s voice. Despite the significant gap in their ages, they had both taken up the path of the blade at the same moment. Hadn’t Ragna’s primary motivation for gripping a hilt been a refusal to be surpassed by her? That was a truth from long ago, a memory from when he was a toddler just starting to grasp the world around him. Of course, just because Grida held onto that memory didn’t mean Ragna was obligated to remember it the same way. “This is my face. I’ll use it however I please.” Ragna shot back without a single blink. He was the kind of brother who, in less than a month of training, had already reached a point where he no longer had to endure a beating. Regardless, he was frustrating. The way he looked at her, the way he spoke—every detail was grating. Grida’s right hand lowered and then ascended in a blur. She relaxed her fingers and then snapped them shut around the grip of her weapon. Ping. The steel hissed from its housing, darting toward its mark. The blade shone with an unnatural pallor, catching the sun in a sharp glare that threatened to ruin Ragna’s vision. The path of the strike was aggressive—the kind of blow that would draw blood if the target failed to evade. It surged upward before plummeting vertically, slicing through the air like a bird diving toward his arm. Clang! Ragna shifted his left foot and pulled his heavy blade halfway out to intercept Grida’s strike. With a fluid motion, he drew it the rest of the way, driving it upward in a counter-slash. They were siblings who had been trading blows since they were children. To them, this was a standard greeting. Even so, Grida felt a spark of genuine astonishment at the exchange, even if it was just a preliminary test. There were two specific reasons for her shock. First: “He actually moved out of the way?” The Ragna she grew up with never bothered to dodge. “Why move? I’ll just stop it.” That had always been Ragna’s philosophy. In those days, people whispered that his raw talent might make him the greatest trailblazer the family had ever seen—but his flaws were glaring. “He’s too pigheaded.” Obstinate. Stubborn beyond belief. There are moments when a warrior must know how to retreat, but Ragna only knew how to press forward. The family doctrine taught that true mastery of the sword was like a river—shifting, stretching, and cutting with constant fluidity. That was the heritage of their bloodline. But Ragna had always stuck to the methods he found simplest. That was exactly how Enkrid had described Ragna during their initial meeting. The version of her brother that Grida remembered didn’t know how to flow. But now—he was doing exactly that. His weapon moved with a grace that defied its weight. It traveled like water. It was a movement Grida never anticipated from him. There was a second cause for her alarm. Grida quickly shifted both hands onto her hilt. She needed the extra leverage to withstand the sheer pressure Ragna was exerting against her. Ka-ga-ga-ga-kak, dr-dr-dr-drk… She didn’t dare attempt to hold him off with a single hand. “How much power has he gained?” Her infuriating, slow-witted little brother. To an observer, Ragna’s rising strike with the greatsword seemed effortless, yet the effort of blocking it sent a chill of sweat down Grida’s spine. Thud! Finally, Grida severed the connection and leaped backward. Whoosh. Ragna’s heavy blade cut through the space she had occupied, finishing its arc and coming to a rest in the air. The point was directed at the sky, his hand steady and relaxed as he observed her. Just moments ago, his gaze had held the primal intensity of the barbarian Rem. But now, his expression had shifted again. “You just keep giving me reasons to be shocked…” The third surprise. A flicker of genuine intent lived in Ragna’s eyes. This was the brother who had walked away from his lineage because he was bored by the life laid out for him. Back then, his eyes looked like those of a walking corpse. He was someone who found everything tedious, exhausting, and hollow. He was someone who treated the sword as nothing more than forced labor. But now, deep within his pupils, Grida could see a glowing ember—a spark she had only ever noticed in that fanatic Enkrid. With her keen perception, Grida caught it instantly. “What on earth happened to you…?” She asked the question in her mind, her fingers tightening on her sword. She wouldn’t use words; she would find the answer through the clash of metal.

Enkrid was alone in the courtyard, his sword moving in rhythm with his deep contemplation. Would a clear way forward appear if he gave his entire soul to the blade? If he thought of nothing else, would that suffice? No. That wasn’t the answer. He had to unburden his mind. Focusing strictly on the sword would only create a prison. By letting his thoughts drift and allowing ideas to surface naturally, new avenues often revealed themselves—and that had always been Enkrid’s way. As he let his mind wander, he naturally thought of his missing partner. A full month had passed since Ragna was last seen. Yet, no one was panicked. The general consensus was that he would reappear when he felt like it. “Just as Grida can memorize any face, Ragna has likely committed the entire perimeter of the camp to memory by now.” More specifically, he didn’t just know the roads; he understood the very shape of the land. If he had to, he would scale trees or leap across roofs to find his way back. He might have left the city limits, but it seemed unlikely. Just as Jaxon frequently left to handle business, Ragna would occasionally head to the markets and pass the time as he saw fit. Everyone expected the same outcome: he’d eat his fill, find a sunny patch of grass, take a nap, and wander back whenever the mood struck him. It was a reasonable theory. Enkrid agreed with it, and so he didn’t waste energy worrying. He let the events of the last month play back in his head. The routine training, the combat drills, and the arrival of the three from House Zaun. Zaun. He had observed, listened to, and gained knowledge from what they offered. In that journey, Enkrid felt a new flame ignite. To be fair, the very concept of the knightly order he envisioned was a constant fuel for that fire. His internal passion was always at a boil, so this wasn’t entirely new. If Kraiss knew the state of Enkrid’s mind, he’d likely laugh. “Even Juri who sells marmalade knows our captain is like this.” He would probably say something along those lines. Regardless, whether it was Jaxon or Rem, none of them were the type to sit still. Enkrid found that quality admirable. The trio from House Zaun were like butter on fresh bread—they made the whole experience richer. “Identification. Assessment. Reaction.” As Enkrid meditated, a specific phrase from Jaxon echoed in his mind. It surfaced suddenly, circled his thoughts, and then clicked into place. “First, recognize your target and the surroundings.” Identification. “Next, plot out the possible paths of the attack.” Assessment. “Finally, anticipate the consequences of your own movement.” That was the reaction. Jaxon had been describing the core principles of assassination, which remained the foundation of his style. What had Enkrid taken from that? The essentials. Doing what he was already doing—but with more precision. That was his current requirement. Identification, assessment, reaction. That had been his path recently, as grueling as it was. But it had a glaring weakness. “Relying too much on mental processing for assessment limits your stamina.” That wasn’t the goal of the Wavebreaker Sword. But was Wavebreaker his only option? No—it wasn’t. “Finish the assessment in a heartbeat.” He thought back to his bouts with Rem, his practice with Audin, and the training with Jaxon where they confused each other’s perceptions like snakes fighting for their own tails. He practiced without rest, always analyzing, always considering. Concepts that once required a brush with death to grasp were now becoming beacons on a path, as his experience grew into a massive peak. And now was one of those moments of clarity. Drawing from that inspiration, Enkrid distilled everything he understood. Rem lived for the immediate second. Jaxon accounted for the entire setting. Audin maintained his preferred gap even through trickery. It all merged together, creating a new vision within Enkrid. When he deflected arrows or sensed the rocks Rem threw, it all happened in a world of split seconds. Within that expanded time, he had to seize those moments. “A strike only counts if it connects.” Flash. A burst of light. It wasn’t merely raw pace—it was speed dictated by intent. The true essence of a flash. The concept: a sudden eruption of light. The execution: a fatal velocity born from mental preparation. The training: “Swing in the moment using instinctive tactics.” And above all, never lose that speed. It was a grueling road—anyone could see that. But Enkrid, having discovered it, was shaking with a sense of peak happiness. “What is he doing this time?” Magrun, who was studying sword forms in a corner of the yard, asked as he watched Enkrid. The man was vibrating all over, a look of pure bliss on his face. He looked completely unhinged. He had performed a single swing, fallen into deep thought, practiced by himself—and then started acting this way. It wasn’t normal behavior. Even in House Zaun, which was packed with strange characters, no one was quite this bizarre. To Magrun, it was beyond understanding. “Just ignore him. He’s having the time of his life.” Rem had witnessed this before and responded without concern. “Is this a common occurrence in the West?” “What kind of question is that? The West is populated by humans too, you moron.” Rem snapped, irritated, and stomped off. “Then what—are you telling me that guy isn’t a human?” Magrun’s confusion only grew. Eventually, Enkrid came back down from his state of euphoria. Now that he had a goal, only the work remained. Then, Jaxon’s final piece of wisdom surfaced. A lesson about avoiding pride and overconfidence. “Getting ready isn’t the end. The final phase is the withdrawal. If there is no gap, why force it? If there is no opening—back away. But even then, you must know the distance of your retreat, the point to stop, and how to handle the trade-off.” Never become so enamored with your own talent that you forget to check your rear. Jaxon had intended it as a warning against throwing one’s life away. But in truth, the value depended on the one listening. “Don’t get so lost in the move that you forget the follow-through.” That was what Enkrid had discovered during his first repeated day. He had become fixated on the lunge and ignored what came after. He had already processed that mistake and promised himself never to repeat it. It was during this solo practice of the Flash technique that Ragna walked back into the training grounds—with Grida following him. He had been gone for a month. “Why were you shaking and drooling earlier? Are you sick?” Magrun didn’t even turn his head as he spoke to Enkrid. Rem was grumbling to himself while honing his axe, and Audin had given a brief look before returning to his work with Pell and Rophod. Audin’s voice cut through the air. “You said the person who yells first is the loser, right? Then let me contribute what little help I can. May the Creator watch over you, brothers.” Rophod and Pell, who were biting down on wooden sticks, turned ghostly pale. It was a reasonable reaction. They knew what was coming. Whoosh. Audin swung a polished metal bar—as thick as a man’s forearm—specifically made for this training. Whack! The sound echoed from Rophod’s leg, which was only covered by thin fabric. “I held it in.” Teresa spoke up. She was watching the discipline match with a focused, serious expression. “Excellent.” Audin smiled and shifted to his next student. Pell was conflicted. Should he give up? No. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. While he was stuck in indecision, Audin struck. Whack! One blow for each—perfectly equal. From a distance, Lua Gharne was perspiring from her own practice with whip and blade when she paused and whispered, “You’ve returned.” That was all. Ragna strolled in as if he’d never left. Odinkar had been practicing by himself on the periphery, but when he saw Ragna, he lifted his weapon. “Hey.” A simple greeting. “Odinkar.” Ragna gave a small wave. That was the extent of it. Odinkar, who seemed to have merged perfectly into the group, greeted him like it was a daily occurrence. It was a display of integration that would put the elven technique of Assimilation to shame. Then, Shinar followed Ragna in and called out to Enkrid. “My betrothed. I think we should pick a name for our child today.” It was just another typical afternoon. “Honestly. You people are beyond strange.” Grida whispered, taking in the scene. Ragna made his way to the mess hall, then the bathing area, before eventually approaching Enkrid. “You’re just in time. I have a use for you.” Enkrid gave him a warm welcome. He had just finished the mental work for Flash. He was dying to give it a real test. Shing. Ragna raised his massive sword. Even though Aitri had repaired it, the edge was still nicked. It had taken a beating during the fights with Penna and Grida. Enkrid pulled out the Three-Iron Sword. Srrrrr-ring. The sound of the metal leaving the scabbard was crisp. Then they began to spar. It was just another day. “And the name for the child?” “It’s already done.” Grida had been listening in silence when Shinar spoke to Enkrid about the baby. When she heard no reply other than the sound of blades clashing, she realized— Yes, this man is truly a fanatic. “Three Iron.” Enkrid, after much deliberation, had named his weapon Samcheol—Three Iron. “It’s a miracle Lucky Odd-Eye didn’t lose his mind again. Honestly.” Rem remarked, observing him. Enkrid nodded in agreement. “Right? It’s a solid name. Odd-Eye was practically vibrating with joy the first time too.” “What a perfectly adjusted brain you have. It’s a wonder you can still function.” Rem left it at that—his version of a high compliment. The days went by—one, then two, then three. Even with Ragna back, nothing shifted in the routine. The same cycle continued, the kind of days that others would find repetitive or dull. It was on a morning during a crisp spring, two months later, that Grida finally approached Enkrid. “Let’s have a real duel.” Grida had spent those two months focused entirely on the basics of her training. Watching her, Enkrid realized she was starting to remind him of Aitri. “Like tempering steel in the coals…” That was the way Grida had been refining herself.