Chapter 677

Chapter 677

“You’ve transformed quite a bit. Are you aware of that?”

Grida’s words drifted over as Ragna shifted his gaze. She had been observing her younger brother as he practiced his drills in isolation beneath the glow of the moon. She didn’t bother to ask why he had chosen the bare earth over the nearby seat. Likely, it was simply because the detail didn’t interest her enough to warrant a question.

“Have I?”

“Indeed.”

Ragna offered a noncommittal motion of his head. Perspiration tracked lines down his skin, falling in heavy droplets from his chin.

“People are going to be stunned when they see what you’ve become.”

Ragna merely gave another nod. Whether the world was shocked or indifferent held no weight for him. The detached manner in which he acknowledged her made his lack of concern palpable—he truly didn’t care.

“So, in the end, you are returning to the family nest,” Grida remarked.

“I am not returning.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I am passing through.”

“For what purpose?”

“To reclaim something.”

Grida gave him a long, searching look, wondering if he was being genuine, before she brushed the dirt from her clothes and rose to her feet. A small cloud of dust billowed from where she had been resting.

“Well, your affairs are your own concern.”

She found this iteration of Ragna deeply strange. Even after Grida departed, Ragna did not cease his training, continuing to drive his blade through the air. He had made the choice to revisit the ancestral estate, but if he intended to seize what was required, he needed to reach a level of strength far beyond his current state.

Because—

There was no time to waste.

That was the reason he funneled every spare second into his drills. Whenever he moved his sword, the trajectory of his progress revealed itself. It had been that way since his earliest days. He could visualize the distance he could travel and the ultimate destination he would reach if he maintained this regimen—it was all visible to him.

Even without effort, the path was simply present. He didn’t need to struggle or fight against the current; the road was already paved. So, was there any point in actually walking it?

Visions of the past flooded his consciousness like a rising tide, pooling in his thoughts.

“Become a knight,” his father had commanded.

“To what end?” Ragna had questioned.

His father had peered at him as if inspecting a baffling, alien creature.

“Do you require a justification?”

The members of the Zaun were individuals consumed by the essence of the blade. Ragna was unable to mirror that passion. Swinging a weapon provided him with zero satisfaction.

“You find no joy in this? Why?”

It was a question everyone posed, but his retort remained unchanged.

“What is there to enjoy?”

“The desire to overcome a rival, or to shatter your own ceilings—doesn’t that ignite something in you? It’s supposed to be exhilarating, isn’t it?”

That was the sentiment of others. Ragna couldn’t relate. Overcoming someone? Perhaps not today, but within a month’s time? He would. The result was a foregone conclusion, an unalterable reality.

“What are you talking about? Do you fancy yourself a seer?”

To those who ridiculed him, he provided proof through action. Yet even the act of proving it was agonizingly dull. Talent was the ultimate arbiter of everything, a truth Ragna understood well. Even among those blessed with natural ability, Ragna was an anomaly.

This only made existence more monotonous. A wearying life. He would swing a blade until his heart stopped—and he already perceived exactly what that end would look like.

Am I destined to spend my years swinging steel along a fixed track, only to perish at the end of it?

A novel style? A fresh direction? He saw nothing of the sort. Only the path that was etched in stone. What ought to have been a divine gift—his extraordinary talent—had transformed into a heavy shackle for Ragna. The heavens had granted him the ability but omitted the spark of will to drive it.

Then, he moved away from home—and encountered Enkrid.

“Why do you push yourself to such extremes?” he had once inquired.

“I wield my sword to survive the present. But I refuse to live merely for the sake of survival,” Enkrid had replied.

That was during the period when Ragna believed Enkrid’s basic techniques were fundamentally broken. Even then, Enkrid’s resolve never faltered. His trajectory was a straight line—constant and unshakable.

Steered by these recollections like ripples on a calm lake, the Ragna of the present moved his blade.

Ping.

The steel cut a line perfectly level with the horizon, vanishing into the fluid motion. The moonlight seemed to pursue the wake left by his greatsword. As he moved without hesitation, the silver light chased the edge, and the edge seemed to play with the light in turn. Countless shimmering arcs materialized and dissolved repeatedly in the dark air.

In Ragna’s mind, the words of Enkrid took root—always surfacing whenever he needed them most.

“I wish to live according to my own convictions. To draw my blade for the destitute and the ailing, for the sake of honor, and for the people I hold dear.”

Natural talent should have overwhelmed Enkrid, swept him away. His own limitations should have stalked him like a predator and forced him to his knees. That was the destiny Ragna had envisioned for Enkrid.

Yet Enkrid had shattered every prediction Ragna had made. Even while carrying a weight that felt like a curse, he pressed onward and outpaced his shadows—never once cloaked in hopelessness or defeat. Observing someone like that moving forward right beside him… Ragna felt a tremor in his soul.

Was it truly that vital to follow the road laid out for you? Had he ever truly walked that path himself? Enkrid had posed these questions through his deeds, through his very existence, and through his iron will. Ragna possessed no answer.

Thus, he felt compelled to walk—just like the man ahead of him—to discover if the road truly belonged to him. In that moment, he finally began to find pleasure in the sword. It was a sequence of startling revelations.

Guided by those assembled memories, Ragna moved forward.

“You paid a visit to Juri’s residence, didn’t you?”

Anne, the practitioner of healing and alchemy, asked him.

“I did,” he replied truthfully. He saw no reason for deception.

Anne paused for a heartbeat, then suddenly locked eyes with him and inquired, “Are you interested in Juri? Or is it that you… have an affinity for children?”

“What kind of person do you take me for?”

He felt a flicker of genuine offense. Observing his irritation, Anne brushed her carefully woven hair over her shoulder.

“Then forget I asked. Why were you there, then?”

“To observe.”

“Observe what?”

“Do you believe people always require a specific motivation to want to do something?” Ragna countered.

Anne considered the thought before responding, “I’m not sure.”

She was far too preoccupied with her own journey to worry about the movements of others. Her interest was narrow.

“Exactly. That is all there is to it.”

“What sort of vague answer is that?”

“Let’s discuss you instead.”

Ragna had evolved. Not only from the person Grida Zaun once knew, but even from the man Enkrid had first encountered.

“…About what?”

“You were unsettled by the fate of Magrun.”

It seemed she wasn’t entirely oblivious—just perhaps a bit lost in her own direction. Anne murmured something under her breath, then spoke again, maintaining eye contact.

“That isn’t some supernatural hex. It’s a malady. To be precise, it’s a sickness carried through the air, transmitted by microscopic dust. It claimed over a hundred lives in the city where I once resided.”

Anne had been stripped of her parents, her kin, and her companions by that very shadow. She had endured only through sheer fortune—or, more accurately, her innate gift. She had acquired the foundations of alchemy from Raban during her youth. That knowledge had been her salvation.

But now the truth was clear. Raban was her adversary. No—her true foe was the person who had instructed Raban. The architect of this plague. Anne was aware of the reality.

“The person who unleashed it where I lived was still in the experimental stages. That’s why it vanished so abruptly. Once the populace began labeling it a plague, even those who showed no symptoms were burned alive in their homes.”

Those who entered the world with the sickness were meant to perish then. That was the sight Anne had witnessed. People born with misfortunes—like her own parents. She had watched her father, who could not walk, and her mother, who could not speak, consumed by flames.

In that horrific moment, she understood she had two paths: she could nurture a dream of vengeance, or she could forge an entirely different trail. Anne chose the latter. Her targets were far too miserable to even merit revenge.

Some panicked beggar had stealthily set the straw shelter ablaze under the cover of night. It wasn’t the act of a lone individual. A segment of the slums had watched it happen and chose silence. Some had even cheered it on. They ignored it, incited it, joined in, or simply permitted it to occur.

Who bore the guilt? The world at large? The aristocracy? The comfortable commoners who stood by? The city watchmen who walked the beats? Some of those guards, even as the people burned, had brought water to try and quench the inferno.

“I am sorry. I am so deeply sorry.”

One of those watchmen had wept. Anne didn’t even recognize his face. But she didn’t believe he had anything to apologize for. In that moment, she discovered her purpose. A path she would follow for the duration of her life.

I will not be defeated by disease.

She made that oath. She constructed a fortress of determination in her soul. She also promised herself to eradicate the terror that sickness dragged in its wake. Recently, with the shifting of the Fairy City, she had come into possession of unique components. It provided the opportunity to push forward research she had previously only imagined.

So she worked. When she informed Ragna she hadn’t slept for days, she was being literal.

Is there a panacea that can mend all ailments?

Anne questioned herself. It was a complex riddle, but she already held the solution.

No, there isn’t.

But actually—there is.

It doesn’t exist, yet it does.

There is no physical medicine. But there can exist a person capable of curing every sickness.

Become that healer.

That was her ambition. She possessed a distinct target and a destination she had to reach. She had no bandwidth to look elsewhere. That was why she couldn’t bring herself to care about others.

“We must travel to the source of the outbreak. It likely originated from a fungus or a blossom. We have to locate it and verify it. That is the sole method for synthesizing a remedy.”

“If you contract it, is it fatal?”

“Eventually, yes. You will die.”

Anne’s confirmation was steady as she continued.

“The timing is purely a matter of fortune. Magrun was spitting up blood. You mentioned the patriarch is infected as well? Some will appear healthy. Others will wither in agony and lose all vitality. It’s because the sickness manifests uniquely in everyone. It is not a curse.”

Ragna gave a nod.

“Occasionally, when I visit Juri’s place, the youngsters are glad to see me.”

It was a stray observation—offered just as it crossed his mind. Anne accepted it regardless.

“And?”

“And so, I go.”

Juri’s residence was a haven for children. Anne had asked why he frequented the place. Now, the answer was clear.

“You took your time saying so,” Anne whispered, feeling a sense of quiet relief. She had been concerned that Ragna had become Juri’s paramour. As long as that wasn’t the case, nothing else was of consequence.

Anne muttered to herself and went on her way. Ragna returned to his exercises, thrusting and cutting as he adjusted his footing. He followed a high horizontal sweep with a revolving slash, a slanted strike, then a lateral feint that transitioned into a crushing overhead blow meant for the skull of a cornered foe. Every gesture flowed into a response.

A ghost opponent shifted their stance. Ragna dragged his heel and struck downward. He traced the path of the enemy’s steel. The phantom foe attempted an overhead strike from a high position. Ragna visualized his weapon being snared by the opponent’s—then he retracted, stepped into the inner circle, and threw a punch toward where a face would be.

Whoosh.

Naturally, he struck only the air. It was a mental construct.

“That looked like a counter to my flash strike.”

A voice cut through the silence. It was the presence that had been lingering nearby—the one he referred to as “Captain.”

“You know the outcome would be different in a real engagement,” Ragna answered, allowing his sword to hang low.

“Sometimes it’s wiser to finish it before the blades ever lock.”

It was Enkrid, now standing at his side. He must have emerged after cleaning up from his own training. He wasn’t perspiring. A refreshing spring gust drifted past, carrying a faint hint of flowers.

“The saint mentioned that someone in the town is already fulfilling her goals. At Juri’s house,” Enkrid noted.

Juri, the seller of marmalade, provided a home for orphans of war, the forsaken, and those who had lost their kin. The group had been small at the start, but their numbers had swelled, and so had the helpers. They were always short on krona. Someone had been providing them with consistent donations.

“You.”

“You handed over all the gold you took from Kraiss, didn’t you?”

“Nurturing children requires a significant amount of krona.”

“Nurturing people always does.”

That was the action Ragna had taken.

“Why?” Enkrid asked with genuine curiosity.

Ragna remained silent for a moment.

“The children there don’t necessarily possess ambitions or grand targets. But I thought, perhaps, they should be permitted to exist just like anyone else.”

Is a dream a requirement? Must a life be lived with a specific intent? Ragna was suggesting that not everyone does—just like his younger self.

“That sounds like simple decency,” Enkrid acknowledged.

Some people only desire tranquility in their sunset years. Some hope for a tomorrow that mirrors today. Others pray tomorrow bears no resemblance to today.

“I simply wanted to assist,” Ragna added.

“In the West, they say that when a man undergoes a change, it signifies his end is near.”

“Are you wishing death upon me?”

“No, merely making an observation.”

“I will return once I have retrieved that one item.”

His intent was unmistakable—he wasn’t going “home.” This place was home now.

“I wasn’t concerned. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Enkrid said, turning to walk away.

Ragna gave a casual nod. When he was solitary once more, he returned his blade to its sheath and then coughed softly into his palm.

“Fortune,” he mused.

Crimson blood marked his hand. His vitals throbbed with a dull ache—as if something was fundamentally broken within. His stomach felt laden with lead. It was the mark of the illness. As if destiny were posing the question: How much time do you believe you have left?

He had once believed he was traveling a fixed road. This was not a detour he had anticipated. And peculiarly—that made it stimulating.

If my journey concludes here… what will I leave behind? What can I leave behind?

Ragna had begun supporting Juri’s home once those queries had taken root in his mind. What will remain of me?

He didn’t have the answer yet. Or so he believed.