Chapter 678

Chapter 678

“The location of Zaun is to the north. Position yourself toward the Pen-Hanil peaks and travel northeast until you encounter a modest cavern. Passing through leads to the ‘Hill That Watches the Stars.’ From that vantage point, swing wide toward the east, and your destination will be within reach. It sits close to the borders of the Empire.”

Magrun delivered these directions with a steady composure, showing no sign that he had been vomiting blood just a short time prior. Enkrid, having spent years traversing the lands as a professional guide, possessed a sense of navigation that far surpassed Ragna’s; he was elite by continental standards, and certainly more competent than a common scout.

Even with his background, the route Magrun laid out was easy to mentalize. The simplicity of the path was actually the most striking part: Zaun wasn’t hidden because of treacherous geography.

In truth, the hamlet where Enkrid had been raised was far more secluded than Zaun. The residents of Zaun didn’t bother camouflaging their trails; they simply refrained from advertising their existence. They didn’t seek the spotlight or hoist flags of recognition. It seemed they had no interest in fame. Or perhaps, one faction desired it while another suppressed the urge.

Enkrid’s mind began to weave together the implications of this detail. He had a knack for reconstructing the entire context of a situation from a single thread—a trait Kraiss often identified as his most potent skill. To see the hidden side of the canvas by looking at the paint—that was his gift.

A question naturally followed: Why remain so quiet?

If he posed this to Kraiss or Abnaier, they would likely provide an immediate breakdown. Even without the full history, they surely understood the geopolitical niche Zaun occupied. Even Enkrid could now make an educated guess.

“The Empire’s border?” Enkrid asked, taking a bite of a sweet potato fresh from an Azpen oven.

The skin gave way with a satisfying snap, and the flesh was soft and sweet. The fragrance of the earth filled his senses. He followed the bite with a piece of pickled radish, the sharp tang balancing the sweetness perfectly. It was a superb meal.

“I said nearby. Zaun borders the Empire, but it maintains its status as a sovereign city,” Magrun clarified. He was busy peeling his own potato, blowing on the steam. One would never guess his recent medical crisis looking at him now. He had even participated in morning drills. He claimed to be recovered, and since Anne—the final authority on health—had given him a supportive nod, Enkrid had to accept it.

A sovereign city in such close proximity to a massive power…

If Enkrid held the reins of a nation, how would he view such a neighbor? He would see them as a threat to be neutralized or an asset to be seized. Yet the Empire had chosen a third path: total non-interference. Zaun wasn’t invisible; the powerful knew exactly where it sat. Still, it remained untouched.

They must have provided a very compelling reason for the Empire to keep its distance. In the theater of war, you never give an enemy a reason to swing, and if they do, you ensure the cost is too high to bear. To conquer Zaun would likely require a toll so heavy the Empire would be left crippled.

Enkrid suddenly recalled a conversation with Crang.

“The Empire is shielded by natural and man-made barriers. To the center, the Pen-Hanil range. To the west, the endless woods of the Beast King. And to the east, there is another protector…”

He hadn’t listened to the conclusion of that thought at the time. Now, it was obvious. That eastern bulwark was Zaun.

Grida slid her chair closer, the wood scraping against the floor. “We claim to have no formal ties to the Empire, but when our kin find they don’t fit in at home, many seek commissions as Imperial knights. It’s a bridge of sorts. The relationship is friendly because it has to be.”

History showed what happened when neighbors couldn’t find common ground—the relentless slaughter between Naurillia and Azpen was proof enough.

“We’ll use horses for the bulk of the trip, but the final stretch is strictly on foot,” Magrun noted.

Enkrid gave a silent nod, his gaze drifting toward the mess hall entrance. The doors were massive, wide enough for five Audins to pass through abreast. Kraiss had insisted on the scale to facilitate the movement of heavy crates and supplies. Considering the knight order’s appetite—fewer than a dozen men eating enough for an entire company—the logistical need for “war rations” made sense.

Beyond those great doors, Ragna stood alongside Rophod. Enkrid didn’t mean to pry, but their voices carried easily across the open space as he finished his meal.

“Rophod, do not let efficiency become a cage,” Ragna advised.

Both men were wielding training blades made of wood. Even a simple branch became a lethal instrument in the hands of a knight; they could snap timber with their grip, so a wooden sword was more than enough to do damage.

Ragna assumed a high stance, the sword pointed toward the sky. He executed a heavy downward cleave, but halfway through the arc, he shifted his weight and transitioned into a lunging thrust with crossed legs. It was a maneuver that required an instinctive, almost predatory mastery of balance.

Enkrid recognized the underlying philosophy: the mercenary techniques of the Valen style. It was a school built on misdirection and seizing the opening.

Rophod struggled to adjust to the sudden change in momentum. He wasn’t lacking in skill, but he was barely able to parry the thrust. The wood clicked and groaned as the blades met and held. A bind.

Ragna didn’t let up. He stepped in closer, maintaining the pressure. To an opponent, this relentless advance would be suffocating. While their swords were locked, Ragna reached out and gave Rophod’s cheek a gentle tap with his free hand.

It wasn’t a strike. There was no pain. But the psychological blow was heavy. Rophod looked stunned. It hadn’t been a matter of being slower or weaker—it was something else entirely.

Ragna continued his instruction. “Do not trap yourself in a single rhythm.”

It was the perfect guidance for Rophod’s current plateau. The young man’s eyes brightened as he began to grasp the concept. He was evolving right before their eyes. Ragna, usually the most indifferent of men, was actively fostering that growth.

“He’s unrecognizable,” Grida whispered. She looked at Enkrid, knowing he was the catalyst.

Enkrid had a way of shifting the atmosphere around him. His mere presence seemed to inspire action in others. Even Grida had found herself looking forward to her training sessions lately.

“Didn’t he claim to be finished with the way of the sword?” Magrun added, looking at Enkrid with curiosity.

The man who had transformed a cynical genius was sitting right there. Magrun suspected it was Enkrid’s sheer, unadulterated sincerity that had cracked Ragna’s shell.

Enkrid, however, looked genuinely disturbed. “What is wrong with that guy?”

Grida and Magrun stared at him. Their expressions asked, Why are you the one acting surprised?

“I’m serious,” Enkrid insisted. “Seeing him act like a mentor is actually creeping me out.”

Ragna finished his session with Rophod, wiped his face with a cloth, and headed into the hall. The sight was jarring. The man who usually avoided work was now dripping with the sweat of a teacher. On his way in, he spotted Squire Clemen, who had tripped on the uneven ground.

“Ready your weapon,” Ragna said.

“Beg pardon?” Clemen stammered. Everyone knew the reclusive knight, but few had ever exchanged words with him. He usually moved through the world as if others were ghosts.

Startled, Clemen unsheathed her sword.

“Focus on the fluidity of your grip. It must be versatile yet unbreakable,” Ragna offered.

It was a brief, high-level tip. Clemen offered a confused salute as he walked past. She looked as though she’d just seen a wolf offer a sheep a coat.

Ragna sat down to eat, ignoring the three pairs of eyes drilling into him. “When a man departs… what legacy remains? It is a question worth contemplating.”

His tone was insufferably philosophical, as if he had spent the morning meditating with monks. It was grating. It felt as wrong as Rem trying to be a diplomat or Jaxon acting like an optimist.

Unable to help himself, Enkrid flicked his wrist, sending a splash of water from his cup directly onto Ragna’s head. He felt the man needed a spiritual cleansing. Rem always said a sudden shock could break a possession.

“Begone, dark spirit!” Enkrid shouted with mock gravity.

The mess hall went silent. A server carrying a tray of food turned around and walked back into the kitchen, deciding it was a good time to be elsewhere.

“What was the purpose of that?” Ragna asked. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t even dry himself off. He just stared at Enkrid with a look of profound, patronizing patience.

It was the look of a parent watching a toddler throw a tantrum. It was the “Rem look,” but amplified.

“When people undergo such a radical change…” Enkrid began, feeling his irritation peak.

“…it usually means they are nearing the end of their lives,” Ragna finished with a calm smile.

Enkrid felt the air leave his lungs. He felt defeated. Ragna wasn’t playing the fool anymore; he was absorbing the insults with a terrifying grace. Enkrid felt like there was an invisible elder standing behind Ragna, nodding in approval.

“Captain, there are moments when a man must embrace gravity,” Magrun said, choosing to side with the “new” Ragna.

“Traitor,” Enkrid hissed.

Grida added her own critique. “If you want to exorcise someone, you need a relic or a holy blade. Tap water won’t cut it.”

Enkrid bit his tongue. He knew that any further defense would only lead to more mockery.

“Leave my fiancé alone, you ghost,” Shinar said, entering the room. Her keen ears had picked up the entire drama from the hallway.

Ragna gave her a respectful nod, his eyes as calm as a mountain lake. Enkrid was at a loss. He didn’t understand this version of Ragna, but he couldn’t deny the change was effective. People changed when they found a reason to, and Ragna clearly had.

“Fine… it beats him being a lazy bum,” Enkrid muttered, standing up to locate Kraiss. He saw the commander watching him with narrowed eyes, likely annoyed that Enkrid was about to leave again. He needed to finalize their departure.

“This is a tactical withdrawal,” Shinar declared, stepping between Enkrid and the others like a bodyguard. “Go, my love. I will hold the line.”

Two days later, after the paperwork for the territory was settled:

“Return in one piece,” Kraiss said, providing them with high-quality Greenperl horses, their coats shining with health.

“Let’s move,” Anne commanded. Having mastered riding in a remarkably short time, she led the group—including the three from Zaun, Enkrid, and Ragna—out of the gates.

“Do us all a favor and lose that idiot in the mountains,” Rem shouted as a farewell.

Ragna looked back at him, his gaze deep and serene.

“You want a piece of me?” Rem challenged.

Ragna didn’t reach for a sword. “Rem, I have come to respect your journey. To live as a barbarian is to endure a life of constant trial. Your survival is a testament to your spirit.”

He turned his horse toward the trail.

“Did he have a stroke?” Rem asked the empty air.

“Wrong way, Ragna!” Anne yelled, galloping to catch up with him. Even though the horse was perfectly trained, it seemed Ragna was letting it decide the path entirely on its own.