Chapter 676

Chapter 676

The Zaun bloodline was a collection of souls both warped and reforged. They possessed immense power yet refrained from using it conventionally. For their kin, any sacrifice was valid if it served the ultimate refinement of their blade work. One particular sentiment Grida once shared resonated deeply. “If you look back through the ages of our ancestors, you’ll find our origin. It began with an individual who lacked something vital and gripped a sword to plug that emptiness.” There was no point in questioning the nature of that void. In their world, every deficit was resolved through the steel. Consider, for instance, a man grappling with the agony of a heart broken by unrequited love. A Zaun’s remedy would be simple: perform a thousand swings. What of an orphan mourning the loss of their guardians? How do they process that hollow grief? Once more, they turn to the sword. There was a boy who lived in a state of perpetual disorientation. He yearned for a straight and true path. His innate genius propelled him forward so that, within the realm of martial arts at least, he never strayed. His obsession with finding a moral and literal direction manifested as mastery of the blade. Another child, unable to retain the features of a human face, grew into a man who could perfectly replicate complex maneuvers. Grida possessed a flawless memory—but exclusively for the language of combat. Because of this— “Is that you, Roni? What’s the reason for your visit?” Her failure to use Kraiss’s real name wasn’t a fluke. If one grasped her nature—and the nature of the Zaun clan—it was perfectly logical. “Why is my name always wrong in your mouth? Are you trying to start a fight?” Kraiss gritted his teeth, but Grida merely offered a faint grin. “My apologies. I have never actually exchanged blows with you.” Had they engaged in a duel, she would have recognized his identity through his movements. Deprived of that data, faces were merely blurs to her. Could a person truly justify filling a soul’s vacuum with violence? To the outside world, it was insanity. To them, it was the only reality. This was made possible by a single, undeniable factor: Genius. Those gifted with such talent congregated and twisted their lives into a singular fixation, sacrificing everything to become the sword. That defined the Zaun family. Anyone with a sharp eye for combat recognized the stratagem Grida had employed immediately. Even Enkrid, who had been the target of the move, understood its nature. It was a bespoke counter. It shared a similar logic to Shinar’s previous actions. Where Shinar had devised a way to negate the Wavebreaker Sword, Grida had introduced an element that rendered “logical prediction” useless. It was a specific counter-measure designed to dismantle a single, specific style. “Witness the fruit of two months of effort.” This was the ‘Anomaly’ Magrun had hinted at earlier. It was a sequence of purposeless motions intended to sabotage a strategist’s forecast. She looked as though she would lunge forward with a heavy step, but her kinetic chain would abruptly break. She might turn her shoulder, thrust her blade from an awkward angle beneath her arm, slap her own leg for no reason, or tilt her head—some actions held martial weight, while others were pure noise. Because her physical flow was disjointed, any attempt at calculating her next move was doomed to fail. It was quite a spectacle. This wasn’t a tactic for winning a war; it was a pure exercise in breaking a technique. They intentionally warped logic and then weaponized that very distortion. It was almost absurdly entertaining. But had they truly considered the nature of the Wavebreaker Sword? It, too, was a product of intense mental architecture. What would occur if one maintained relentless pressure against it? Even then, it wouldn’t shatter the Wavebreaker Sword. The result would simply be two parallel forces moving forward without ever truly intersecting. Wavebreaker was an absolute defensive art. In terms of endurance, it was peerless. Despite being born of mental focus, its core was protection. Both Magrun and Grida were aware of this reality. Consequently, if the Wavebreaker Sword was deployed, they would likely disengage. They lived for the thrill of deconstructing techniques and found the intricacies of the blade mesmerizing. Watching from the sidelines, Odinckar began to chuckle, his shoulders bouncing in amusement. Enkrid shifted his weight and reset his posture. Grida was a master at identifying flaws; it was her primary gift. “Once more.” Enkrid locked eyes with Grida. He hoisted his blade high above his crown, exposing his torso, his ribs, and his flanks. Grida instantly identified a dozen openings. Her muscles reacted on pure reflex. She needed only to drop her point and lunge. Yet, despite the clear invitation, Grida hesitated. Why? Because of the heavy steel Enkrid held poised above him. If I step into his range, I will be crushed. Grida retracted her blade in a fraction of a second. Her sword caught the light, gleaming like a white spark as she transitioned to a vertical guard, tip toward the earth. Enkrid shifted his mental framework—moving from a sustained calculation to a sudden, explosive one. If defense is the act of halting the tide, then offense is the flash of a lightning bolt. That was his philosophy of the blade. Zzzzt. He glided across the dirt without breaking contact. Dust billowed around his soles. As his lead foot advanced, his rear foot snapped into place. He seized the exact range he desired. “Don’t try to parry!” Odinckar’s voice rang out just before the impact. A sense of dread forced the warning from his lips. Magrun’s eyes widened in shock. Rem, Audin, Ragna, and Jaxon all lurched forward in a collective reflex. They were too slow. Zzzzt—! Enkrid dragged his right foot in a diagonal slide, twisted his grip, and anchored the flat of the metal with his finger. A “thumb grip” technique. Then he unleashed his power. In that heartbeat, he accounted for every possible evasion Grida might attempt. His tri-iron sword collided with Grida’s white blade and sheared right through her defense. BOOM! The sound of the impact was like a thunderclap. Grida let out a sharp, choked noise. Enkrid had delivered a rising horizontal blow. Its brilliance lay in its versatility; even if halted, it could transition instantly from a high guard into a killing thrust. And that was his follow-up. He whirled the sword back over his head, knocked Grida’s white steel aside to the left, then slid his own edge down her length, trapping her blade with his cross-guard before driving inward. The momentum forced Grida to drop to a knee. To the observers, it seemed as though her life would end right there. But the blade stopped. Enkrid had arrested the strike an inch from her. “…I think I’m going to be sick.” Grida whispered under her breath. Enkrid glanced at the long shadow stretching out behind him. “Had my goal been a kill, I wouldn’t have used a horizontal arc—I would have led with a diagonal slash into an upward rip.” “I didn’t step in for a reason,” Rem interjected, offering a dry observation. Odinckar was already on his feet, his hand on his hilt. The outcome was undeniable: Enkrid was the victor. Grida had been bested. She let out a long breath, the adrenaline fading as she slumped onto the dirt. A dry laugh escaped her. “Hey, you were supposed to maintain that analytical insight until the very end.” “I never made such a promise.” “Fair point,” Grida conceded. Enkrid smiled and slid his weapon home. “It was flashy, but it doesn’t seem practical for a friendly bout, does it?” Ragna remarked. “Is that all you have to say?” Rem barked at him. Meanwhile, Rophod was in a trance, having barely processed the speed of Enkrid’s execution. A moment of pure clarity had taken root in his mind. If your patterns are anticipated, what is the next step? Enkrid had provided the solution. You must alter the nature of the logic itself. What if one possessed a repertoire of different analytical styles? Not every calculation had to follow a linear path. That was the epiphany. It might not have been deliberate… or perhaps it was. Perhaps every lesson he’d endured had been leading to this singular moment of growth. He hadn’t anticipated such a profound shift from a single duel. Lost in thought, Rophod began to trace patterns in the air with his hand. Pell watched him and nearly spoke, but decided against it. Interrupting a moment of enlightenment was a sin. Even if it was someone with far less natural ability. Pell’s ego as the shepherd of the wastelands wasn’t so fragile that he needed to belittle others. He remained silent. Enkrid, meanwhile, turned his attention to the side. “Damn. I’ve been outplayed.” It was Magrun. But his frustration wasn’t just about the words he’d spoken. While he had been abrasive for the last two months, his edges had softened. Lately, he had begun to treat Enkrid with the familiarity of a comrade. “Magrun,” Enkrid called out. Magrun attempted to smile, but his expression twisted into a pained grimace before he began to retch—it was blood. His shirt was rapidly stained a deep crimson. Odinckar moved instantly to his side, sheathing his sword in silence. Grida picked up her weapon and moved away. “Tch. Terrible timing for the affliction to flare up.” Grida grumbled. Enkrid scanned the area for Esther, then looked at Rem, then back at the fallen man. Esther had been away for two days on some celestial errand. Rem merely frowned. Hurk! Magrun spat out more dark, thick blood. His eyes rolled back, and he lost consciousness. Odinckar caught his falling frame. “What kind of curse is this?” Enkrid demanded, staring at Magrun. Grida rubbed her chin. She didn’t sound particularly worried. If she were seeing this for the first time, she would have panicked, but her calm suggested a grim familiarity. “It’s the sort of hex that claims the unlucky. Some pull through; some don’t. Usually, it’s a slow descent into suffocation… followed by the end.” Her voice was flat. Ragna seemed to recognize the symptoms. “That’s the one.” However, his knowledge ended there. Odinckar performed a silent triage, holding Magrun steady. “Jaxon.” “Here.” “Get Anne. Audin—” “I’m on it, brother. I’ll see what I can do.” Audin was aware that curses didn’t take hold of Enkrid. And he held no fear of them himself. He channeled a warm, golden radiance into his palms and pressed them against Magrun’s ribs. “Ugh,” Magrun groaned. “If this truly is a curse, it’s not the variety that responds to my light, brother,” Audin reported. One might think holy power would be the natural remedy. But it wasn’t that simple. Divine energy could replace the blood lost, but the root of the curse was more akin to dark sorcery than a physical ailment. Enkrid turned to Rem for answers. But Rem didn’t move to help. “No scent of decay,” Rem noted, then leaned toward his weapon. “You don’t smell it either, right?” To a stranger, he looked insane for consulting an axe, but he spoke with total conviction. Grida couldn’t resist a comment. “Does your weapon ever mention wanting to sing a song?” “My axe possesses its own consciousness, thank you.” Perhaps, but to any observer, the optics remained bizarre. Grida kept that thought to herself; it wasn’t the right time for jests. Enkrid had wondered if Magrun’s health had been failing during their time together, but this collapse felt abrupt. Soon, Jaxon arrived with Anne in tow. “If we were dealing with a severed limb, we’d need Seiki’s help too,” Anne remarked as she hurried over. “It’s not a wound. Just an old hex showing its teeth,” Grida answered casually. Anne didn’t waste words. She knelt by Magrun and peeled back his eyelids to check his pupils. “Hold his mouth open.” Odinckar did as he was told. Through their past encounters, everyone present knew that Anne was a healer of incredible caliber. To be honest, even Enkrid’s noble household had never employed anyone with her level of expertise. She skipped his tongue and instead scrutinized the inner lining of his cheeks. She produced a curved metal instrument from her attire, took a sample from his cheek, and carefully folded it into a piece of parchment. “You’re certain this is a curse?” Anne asked. “Yeah,” Grida confirmed. “It isn’t a curse.” Anne sighed, rose to her feet, and turned away. She walked with a slight wobble—not because she was physically impaired, but like someone burdened by a heavy realization. “Hold on.” Ragna caught up and took her by the arm. “What is it?” “You looked like you were about to fall over.” “…I’m fine. Just exhausted. I’ve been losing sleep over my research.” As they departed, Grida remarked, “He’ll pull through with some rest. Our patriarch has lived with that same affliction for over a decade. He’s still standing, isn’t he?” “The progression is faster now, but he still fights like a demon,” Odinckar added. Enkrid felt a surge of curiosity regarding this “patriarch,” but he remained silent. It wasn’t as if their paths were destined to cross. The following morning, Magrun regained consciousness. “I’m back on my feet,” he said, acting as if nothing had happened. Later that day, Anne approached Enkrid, with Ragna following close behind. They cut a striking pair. “I need to depart for a while,” Anne stated. “To where?” “The Zaun estate. That’s the place. Ragna offered to show me the way, so we’re going together.” Enkrid asked without hesitation, “Was it always your goal to be a traveling medic rather than a priestess?” “Excuse me?” Anne’s eyes widened. Ragna answered for her. “I have matters to attend to at home anyway. I’ll ensure she gets there.” They spoke as if it were a simple trip to the market. But they couldn’t possibly travel alone. Unless Anne had some hidden talent for navigation—which she most certainly did not. She loathed travel. Her journey to find the border guard had nearly cost her her life several times. She’d admitted she’d used up her lifetime supply of luck on that trip. “It’s about time we headed back ourselves,” Grida noted from nearby. “Indeed, you should,” Anne agreed, then looked toward Grida, Odinckar, and Magrun. “It’s a literal wonder that you people are still drawing breath.” That was all she said. Enkrid didn’t fully grasp the medical nuances, but he knew his own mind. “Then I am coming as well. I won’t ignore a crisis involving your kin. It is Ragna’s birthplace, after all,” he announced. Ragna had been an invaluable ally. Enkrid saw no reason why he shouldn’t assist in protecting his friend’s home. With the others away, only Shinar was present to hear him. She watched Enkrid and decoded his true meaning. “What he means is: he’s desperate to test himself against your patriarch, so he’s tagging along.” Grida nodded. A madman uttering madness—it was to be expected. And though Anne called their survival a miracle, she didn’t seem shocked by it. If the affliction were going to kill them, it would have done so years ago. However— “Do you actually know what this is?” Grida couldn’t help but ask. Countless people had perished from this ‘curse.’ No one had ever found a way to stop it—but if a cure existed, any of them would give anything for it. “I have a strong suspicion. I’ll confirm it once we arrive,” Anne replied. Enkrid added his support: “I believe in Anne’s judgment.” “And that,” Shinar translated once more, “is his way of saying he’s definitely coming, just so he can have that duel.”