Chapter 675

Chapter 675

“Samcheol, are you set?”

That was Enkrid’s answer to the challenge issued by Grida. Watching him, she chose her response with care.

“I’ve warned you to stop that. You sound like a complete madman.”

She wasn’t joking. The object was an inanimate blade—why did he insist on holding conversations with it? Enkrid didn’t bother to argue. He spoke to the weapon because, in his mind, it earned that respect.

The sword bore the name Samcheol—a masterpiece crafted with a core of black iron, its dual edges refined with true silver and dusk-gold. Had it possessed a Will of its own, it would have easily ranked as an engraved weapon. Not every piece from Aitri’s forge reached this level. Samcheol was distinct. While a weapon like Penna felt natural in the grip, Samcheol felt like a literal part of his own anatomy.

In its own way, the steel spoke. It hummed with a desire to leap, to clash, and to find rhythm against other steel. It craved the heat of conflict. It was a melody intended only for Enkrid’s ears.

Though, in truth, he didn’t literally hear words.

“Samcheol mentioned he’s in the mood for a duo performance.”

“…I usually don’t find common ground with you, but you’re genuinely looking more unhinged than usual. You realize that, don’t you?”

The voice belonged to Rem, who had arrived to observe the bout. She had been awake since the first light, her skin still glistening with sweat from her dawn exercises. The sharp, frozen bite of winter was finally surrendering to the gentle warmth of the spring season. The sun broke the horizon earlier these days, yet the rhythm of early morning drills remained constant. The sweat shed was the same, day after day.

Grida had eventually come to terms with it. The man was a training zealot. Even within the walls of House Zaun, where a fixation on the blade was the standard, he was an anomaly. She hadn’t expected to find such a person on this continent. Occasionally, these erratic, brilliant types appeared.

The strange thing was that despite his obvious natural gifts, he seemed to be at a standstill. Even after sixty days of consistent dueling, she hadn’t detected a visible transformation in Enkrid.

There has to be something more.

There must be a factor she was missing—he had managed to achieve knighthood and gain the admiration of his peers through some means. As a spring gust drifted by, a faint chill pierced her chest. Grida felt her fibers tighten in excitement. Her pulse accelerated—a perfect state. This level of adrenaline would only make her reflexes more acute.

I’ve been too relaxed.

Even during her travels across the land under the guise of searching for Ragna, she had never abandoned her practice. However, there was a vast gulf between solitary forms and clashing with individuals who were truly devoted to the path.

That’s why my edge has dulled a bit.

Still, that was her own choice—she accepted the results. It wasn’t a matter of being oblivious, and it certainly wasn’t sloth. She had simply prioritized what she felt was necessary. The patriarch who sent her to locate Ragna hadn’t even imposed a time limit—there was a hidden meaning in that silence. Besides, the simple pleasures of eating and drinking while traveling were enjoyable.

She recalled a certain aristocrat who had tried to claim her as a concubine after seeing her just once. The expression on his face after she removed the hands of his trio of bodyguards remained a cherished memory. Even the man she had briefly called a lover had departed to seek his own destiny—that, too, was now just a thought in the past.

Pushing those memories aside, Grida inquired, “Did you eventually uncover the secret of Zaun?”

Enkrid gave a nod, his blade hanging loosely by his leg. In reality, there wasn’t much of a mystery. Grida and her companions had never made an effort to conceal their ways.

“Is it really a secret if it was never hidden?”

“Phrasing it that way just makes it sound more impressive.”

Grida flashed a wide, white-toothed smile—proof that she maintained her hygiene even on the road. Since knights were rarely touched by disease, their teeth seldom suffered from rot.

They began to measure the gap between them, tracking each other’s movements with weapons ready. Rem wasn’t the only one watching; Audin had stepped out as well. Rophod and Pell were busy securing restraints around their own limbs, preparing to observe while they worked. Recently, they had adopted a regimen of fighting with specific joints bound. Both of them watched the impending duel with a mounting sense of restlessness.

Two months have already passed…

They were still unable to even graze the cloak of a true knight. But that was the reality of the world. Even with organized instruction and refined drills, no one attained knighthood in a day. If it were a simple task, knightly orders wouldn’t be such a rare sight across the world.

Nevertheless, the two of them were improving rapidly. This was most apparent to Magrun, who had joined the crowd and recently shared his thoughts with Grida. He sensed potential in them.

They’ll get there.

The methods Zaun used to produce knights were very particular. Based on his years of training, Magrun was certain—what he observed now was a guarantee of success. Even the frustration those two felt would serve as the spark for their advancement. That was the core of the Zaun way.

Zaun thrives on rivalry.

That friction fueled the drive to improve. But in this place, the environment was even more cutthroat. The Border Guard drilled as if they intended to break their recruits. it was the polar opposite of the self-motivated culture of Zaun.

Enkrid kept his focus locked on Grida. She was a formidable opponent, though she still sat a tier below the likes of Odinkar or Magrun. That fact remained unchanged.

“So, what was your discovery?” Grida asked, shifting her weight to the flank. The morning light poured over her shoulder, aimed directly at Enkrid’s eyes.

He pivoted slightly to the right to block the glare and answered. “A state of perpetual rivalry to ensure no one slows down.”

He had spent time analyzing the trio from Zaun, engaging with them, and observing their quirks. His thirst for knowledge and his natural inquisitiveness had led him there. It was far more efficient to grasp their principles through dialogue than by just copying their movements.

And this was his realization: Zaun was built on competition—and the heart of all competition was a deep-seated craving.

If someone were to ask Enkrid how to develop one’s will, he would say: “You must have the fire to chase what you desire.”

Zaun preached the same doctrine. How do you forge a will? Through a flame of passion that never goes out. That was the foundation of Zaun—and Enkrid had pierced through to that truth.

Because he possessed the gift, he could recognize it. Those who founded the family likely shared that same spark. To tell those without talent to rely only on heart? That wasn’t the Zaun method. That wasn’t a road Enkrid intended to walk either—but there were still lessons to be taken from them.

“They push you to further sharpen the skills you already master,” Enkrid remarked, lifting the point of his sword. He continued to speak, but his vision had already mapped out Grida’s stance. The internal simulation began—evaluating every possible strike and counter-move before the first blow landed.

Grida stood her ground and smiled. “Spot on.”

“Those who can’t keep up are discarded.”

Only those who found joy in the struggle would survive. That was the engine of their growth.

“Also correct,” Grida agreed.

After Ragna had come back, they had reminisced about his early years.

“Ragna? Back then, you might say he was… lacking in certain areas. But he was fundamentally different—he was an outlier. His gift was the genuine article.”

Concepts that others had to bleed to understand, he grasped without effort. And yet, he lacked any ambition. That staggering talent was both his greatest asset and his greatest burden.

“Moderate talent breeds a hunger for more. Absolute talent kills it.”

That was the verdict. The clan leaders stopped expecting things from Ragna, and Ragna didn’t mind. That marked the start of his wandering nature.

“He found almost everything tedious. But he loved to travel once he set out. He said discovering new trails was where the fun was.”

Enkrid hadn’t heard Ragna speak so candidly, but he had heard similar stories. Ragna had no interest in paths where the end was already visible. That was why striking out on his own was truly exhilarating for him. If he couldn’t find his way, then every turn he took was a fresh discovery. For Ragna, losing his way wasn’t a failure—it was a gift.

The inverse of talent.

In those days, was Ragna held back by his lineage’s hopes? Or was he truly liberated to follow his whims? If your natural aptitude and your heart’s desire are at odds—what is the solution?

Enkrid knew the answer. And he honored it.

“Zaun has no interest in hunting monsters or external causes. We live for the blade—nothing else. And we find fulfillment in every second of it,” Grida concluded.

Indeed, that was the Zaun philosophy. They weren’t hesitant to share, study, and evolve through their rivalries. They never squandered their strength—they simply existed within that pursuit.

“You can call us a stagnant pond if you wish—but to keep the water from fouling, most of us travel the world on a journey of discovery. Others stay with those who share the vision and leave a legacy.”

Enkrid had no desire to judge them. Just because one holds power doesn’t mean it must be wielded for a cause. If the need arose, he could ask for their assistance. He believed that if he provided them with the challenge they craved, they would join him.

But he hesitated. Shouldn’t they be permitted to live according to their own wills? That was his choice—one based on his own regard for personal freedom and desire.

A fellowship dedicated entirely to the art of the sword. Burning with zeal through constant testing. Because of that, they exchanged secrets openly and coached one another without reservation.

Would you trade your very essence to the darkness to achieve the perfect strike? Zaun might consider it—but they don’t. Enkrid had received the answer from Odinkar.

“If I surrender my soul, there won’t be a ‘me’ remaining to hold the sword. And that doesn’t interest me.”

Egoistic—but fascinating.

“Magrun has been tracking your progress for two months,” Grida said, raising her blade. Enkrid tilted his own in kind. They were both prepared.

“Stay sharp, Enki,” she cautioned.

As they settled into their stances, a line of spectators formed behind Enkrid: Rem, Audin, Jaxon, Esther, Shinar, Teresa, Rophod, Pell, and Lua Gharne. Behind Grida stood Odinkar with his arms crossed, while Magrun watched from a chair he had provided for himself.

Their gazes locked. Was this the same Grida he had encountered in the town square? Enkrid posed the question to himself—and found the answer.

No. She had changed.

This woman had spent the last sixty days tempering her physical form like a blade—and now, she attacked.

Her left foot lunged. He sensed her opening strike before she even committed to it—his instinct painted the picture for him. A driving step into a straight lunge. The moment he identified the move, her steel was already closing in—sharper, more rapid, and more accurate than ever before.

Clang!

Her pale blade smashed into Samcheol and was deflected. There was no room to pause. Enkrid shifted his weight and drove forward. He bridged the distance in a heartbeat and swung the heavy pommel of Samcheol toward Grida’s temple. A non-traditional, jarring maneuver.

She caught the impact on her forearm.

Wham!

The disparity in raw power was evident. She was sent staggering back. Had she attempted to resist the force, her arm might have shattered—so she used the momentum to retreat. Simultaneously, Enkrid’s mind cycled through dozens of potential counters she might employ.

And Grida used none of them.

Tap tap.

She performed two quick stamps on the ground. It seemed like a pointless gesture—but for Enkrid, it spawned a dozen new possibilities in his mind. Why the stamping? Was it a visual distraction? The beginning of a hidden style? A feint? A setup for a specific footwork? A trick using the terrain?

A multitude of theories raced through his mind in a flash.

If the move is unknown, wait for the follow-up.

He spun Samcheol, reversing the blade’s orientation. Samcheol possessed two distinct edges: the dusk-gold and the true silver. Simply knowing that might suggest the weight distribution was flawed—but Aitri had balanced the black iron core to ensure it remained flawless.

Nevertheless, a slight weight difference persisted—making techniques like this viable. He rotated the denser dusk-gold edge to the front to maximize the impact. He lunged with his right foot, pivoted his core, channeled the energy from his arm to his wrist, and delivered a heavy cut.

Boom!

The sword tore through the air, vibrating as it passed through the spot where Grida had just been. She had rolled low to the side, evading the strike. Of course, she didn’t remain passive. As she completed the roll, she struck the earth with her left palm to spring upward—then slammed her own chest with the hand holding her sword.

Thwack!

The noise was sharp—she had struck herself with considerable force. Why? What was the purpose of that movement? Was it a physical trigger for an attack? Had she lost her coordination?

No.

She repeated the strange motion several more times—until Enkrid suddenly found his footing betrayed him. He stumbled—and in that moment, Grida lunged, her blade driving toward his center.

Clang!

He managed to catch the strike, but blood began to stream from his nose.

“Enjoying yourself?” Grida asked, her eyes fixed on him.

Even as his equilibrium wavered, Enkrid managed a response.

“…Yeah.”

Analyzing the encounter, the logic behind her actions wasn’t difficult to uncover. It was a sequence of chaotic, non-linear movements designed specifically to overload an opponent’s tactical calculations. That was the solution to the puzzle.