Chapter 679

Chapter 679

“What’s got me in such a foul mood?” Rem grumbled to himself as he tracked the group’s departure with his eyes. Standing beside him, Audin gave a quiet chuckle and remarked, “He probably hit some kind of epiphany.” He was talking about the state Ragna was in. “Or maybe he’s finally lost his mind?” “I wouldn’t rule that out either.” Rem shifted his gaze toward Audin. The previous night, just before Enkrid was set to move out, Rem had watched him trade blows with Audin. Actually, Enkrid had been the one to initiate it, appearing out of nowhere with a sudden request. “I want to test myself one last time before I go.” Seeking a duel on the very eve of a long journey? For Enkrid, such behavior was perfectly normal. Rem hadn’t been worried at first—until the moment Enkrid was defeated. It wasn’t a simple loss; he had been completely overwhelmed. Halfway through their exchange, Audin had questioned him, “Did you gain much from that?” “A bit.” In Rem’s eyes, Enkrid was the sort of man who would embrace death with a smile if it meant mastering one final blade path with his dying breath. It was a passing thought, but it rang true. Enkrid had carved his way to this point by dying and reliving the same 24 hours over and over, struggling for every inch of progress. “You told me to parry with the wave and strike with the light, right?” “Correct.” “By doing that, you’re laying your entire style bare for the world to see.” “Seems so.” “Tactically speaking, that’s reckless. But I trust you realize that being foolish doesn’t make it the wrong choice.” Rem found himself agreeing with that logic, even if he stayed silent. The obsessed bear beastkin had voiced everything necessary. With dark bruising forming around his eyes, Enkrid merely gave a nod. Had that strike landed any harder, his eye might have been destroyed—but his physical form was as tough as reinforced plate. When he went on the offensive, he hadn’t yet reached the peak of his own martial discipline, but when he was taking a hit, he had. His instinct had forced his Will to surge, shielding his body. How was it that he only succeeded at the defensive part? ‘It’s because he’s been thrashed so many damn times.’ That was Rem’s internal verdict. He had endured so many beatings that his body reacted reflexively, using Will to survive the impact. If he could only channel that same energy into his offensive swings… To the likes of Rem, Audin, Jaxon, and Ragna, his inability to do so was baffling. If you can turn a doorknob with your left hand, why can’t you do it with your right? Yet, somehow, he couldn’t bridge the gap. It should have been maddening to watch someone who had already achieved knighthood and surpassed them at times continue to develop at such a sluggish pace. But in reality, it wasn’t frustrating at all. Because they had long ago accepted that he was walking a completely separate path. “He’ll return more powerful.” Rem pushed his worries aside and spoke aloud. Slow—but unwavering. That was the essence of Enkrid. “Yes, I’m certain of it,” Audin agreed with a nod. “And since that aimless idiot might be planning his own demise, maybe we should start brushing up on our funeral rites.” Rem’s tone was a mix of dark humor and spite—but his intuition was sharp. Ragna’s shift in demeanor stemmed from the realization of his own mortality. “That can’t be right, can it?” Audin was well aware of Ragna’s potential. Even though Audin himself was hailed as the most talented among the war apostles, he had to concede that Ragna possessed a different spark. That ability to find profound clarity through sheer focus—it was something that couldn’t be taught or mimicked. He wasn’t jealous, though. Audin understood his own limits. He knew the value of protecting what was already his. Since his only method was to move forward a single step at a time, he would continue to do exactly that. And his captain, who had taken his lessons to heart, would follow that same rhythm.

Enkrid and his companions cleared the city gates, striking out toward their destination. The weather was flawless from the start. It wasn’t surprising; north of the border, the arrival of spring usually meant a sharp drop in precipitation. Rain was a rarity for now. Heavy gales might arrive by summer, but the present offered only a stretch of mild, tranquil days. The worst they might face was a bit of mist; a true deluge was unlikely. Legend said the drier the spring, the more violent the summer tempests—but that was a problem for another day. “If we push the mounts and aim for the right flank of the Pen-Hanil Mountains—well, you wouldn’t call it that. We call that section the wing. If we stick to that trail, we can make the crossing.” The only complication at the start had been reining in Ragna, who was determined to lead the pack. “If you take point, we’ll end up on the other side of the world by morning.” Enkrid brought Ragna back to earth. “Hey, was it Sena? Talk some sense into him.” Grida gave Anne a nudge with her elbow. “It’s Anne. I’m getting tired of correcting people. That’s five times now.” “Right, my bad. I’ll just go with Freckles.” “That’s definitely worse.” Anne brushed off the jab and grabbed Ragna’s arm. “Try to stay at my speed. I’m not exactly a natural at this.” Actually, looking at her posture on the horse, she seemed more than capable—she looked professional. Ragna didn’t fight her on it. “Now isn’t the time to obsess over the small stuff.” This was shortly after they had cleared the outskirts. Magrun suddenly spurred his horse into a gallop. “Hyah! Move it!” Odinkar and Grida accelerated to match him, and Enkrid followed close behind. Inevitably, Ragna and Anne were forced to keep the pace. They weren’t in a desperate rush, but they began a relentless march. “Why linger on the path? We won’t last ten days in the saddle anyway. Until then, we fly. It’s the only way.” That was Magrun’s philosophy. They were a group that loathed wasting time in transit. They would rather gallop until sunset and spend the night perfecting their swordplay. Enkrid couldn’t have found a better crew. For Anne, however, it was a waking nightmare. “Are you people completely deranged?” Despite her protests, Anne didn’t fall behind. She had a mission—to diagnose the nature of the sickness as fast as possible. Specifically, to eradicate it. That was the depth of her commitment. “I made a vow. If this plague is still out there hurting or killing people, I intend to be standing right in its way.” It was a passing thought she had shared with Ragna once. Enkrid had overheard it too. The days blurred together—riding under the sun, resting under the stars. Throughout the journey, Enkrid retreated into his own mind to refine his thoughts. He found that his mental clarity sharpened during these long, focused stretches of travel. He entrusted Ragna to Anne’s oversight. Magrun took charge of the map. Grida handled the logistics of the camp. This allowed him to shed all minor distractions. His consciousness was occupied entirely by the demonstrations Audin had provided. He hadn’t requested that final spar just for the sake of it. Enkrid had felt a void in his own capabilities—a gap he confirmed through his clash with Audin. ‘Everyone has figured out how to shut down my best moves too easily.’ It had only been practice, but if the pattern held, it would manifest in a life-or-death struggle. A battle he should win could easily turn fatal. Rem, Ragna, Audin, and Jaxon had all pierced through his wave-based defense. Grida had seen through his mental pacing. Odinkar’s blade was starting to reflect that same understanding. Even his talks with Magrun pointed to it. “You’re a bit easy to read.” Grida had tossed that out once. Her ability to perceive details was terrifying. If Lua Gharne had been present, would she have reached the same conclusion? Skill aside, that Frokk’s intuition was uncanny. Lua Gharne had departed for specialized training with Teresa and Shinar, so Enkrid hadn’t been able to see her before they left. He pondered. He analyzed. Then he returned to the memory of those final seconds against Audin. Audin, bolstered by his sacred armor, would often intentionally create a gap only to seal it himself. It wasn’t a lack of talent. ‘It’s a feint.’ He was purposefully dangling bait, leaving himself vulnerable on purpose. He treated deception itself as a high-level technique. The moment an opponent decided Audin was slow, they had already lost. He was more powerful, more strategic, and more capable than anyone else in the unit—yet he never considered deception beneath him. If you had a specialty, did that mean you were restricted to it? What about Sir Jamal of the Azpen Royal Knights? ‘He kept his true strength hidden until the end.’ It didn’t mean making lies your primary weapon. It meant utilizing every single tool in your arsenal. Oara had once critiqued him for being too cluttered, trying to juggle too many things. She told him to discard the excess. Was it sheer stubbornness that drove him to try and fuse it all? Had he wandered onto a dead-end road? Enkrid was only human. Doubt occasionally clouded his mind. A sharp chill would run down his spine. A dark hunch would make his pulse quicken. But it never lasted. If he had let fear dictate his actions, he would have remained stuck in “the best today” a long time ago. What do you do when the fear hits? You swing the sword. Experience had taught him that much. Besides, he didn’t have many other options. So, he spent his days organizing his mind and his nights practicing his forms. To a bystander, it would have looked tedious and monotonous. However— “The training you do today is what keeps you alive tomorrow.” That was Ragna, who had transformed from a slacker into a paragon of hard work. The rest of the group just stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “I’m aware,” Enkrid replied simply. And he continued his drills. Watching him, Magrun couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. ‘Does he honestly think he’s going to die tomorrow?’ Perhaps he did. That was the nature of such curses. They take root early and slowly drain the life out of you. In Magrun’s case, it was moving faster than the norm. That was why he had a legacy he wanted to leave. His whole existence was dedicated to that goal. To leave the Zaun name etched into history. That was the life of Magrun Zaun. Yet even he had never maintained a schedule this punishing. Enkrid had been operating at this intensity since they rode out. He treated every grueling day with the same reverence. He was doing things that Magrun himself wouldn’t even consider attempting. It was impossible not to be moved by it. “Magrun, do you have time for a set?” That night, Enkrid even came to him for a match. He knew he couldn’t win on technical skill alone. He wouldn’t overcome that barrier even if he fought until he collapsed. Rem was impressive, but when it came to the sheer persistence of sparring—Enkrid was on another level. Magrun, despite his blunt personality, was a man who gave credit where it was due. It was one of his best traits. Because of it, he could analyze techniques and master them faster than most. That was why people said he was a natural-born master. ‘But this guy… he’s slow.’ Magrun had seen his fair share of prodigies. Coming from Zaun, it was unavoidable. But none of them possessed the “dull” talent of the man standing before him. And yet, Enkrid was the most extraordinary of them all. That was Magrun’s takeaway. “Whenever you’re ready.” Clang! Metal met metal as the spar began. After a short, intense exchange, Magrun came out on top. And this was the primary reason he held Enkrid in such high regard. “I lost.” Enkrid was a man who knew how to accept defeat. “You did,” Magrun agreed. Then Enkrid spoke up: “Will you tell me what you noticed?” “I have a few notes.” Magrun dispassionately went over what he had observed. Enkrid probed with questions, reiterated the points, and nodded. Yes, forget everything else—this was the truth of him. To know how to lose, and to embrace it with this kind of focus—no amount of raw power could match that. ‘He leaves himself wide open.’ He sought out knowledge not through begging or flattery, but through pure, unadulterated sincerity. He listened, he asked, and he requested with genuine heart. Could a person who felt inferior truly engage in this kind of exchange? It was incredibly difficult. Truly, it was. Even back in Zaun. Usually, the strong helped the weak. In a place like Zaun, where competition was everything, that hierarchy was strictly enforced. But Enkrid ignored the mold. He knew how to lose. He opened his mind, confessed his flaws, and accepted his shortcomings. How could anyone not be impressed? Magrun wasn’t alone in that feeling. Odinkar felt it too. Grida didn’t even have to say it. Ragna went out of his way to push Enkrid even harder. “If you start pulling your punches just to hide your cards, you’re finished. Don’t you get that? If you don’t, then do it again. Faster!” Ragna was more intense than he’d ever been. If Shinar had been there, she would have called it igniculus—the moment the sparks catch fire. Enkrid didn’t waste a single second of the trip. Even while in the saddle, he was training. Since the route lacked outposts or safety zones, the monsters and beasts they encountered became his practice dummies and sacrifices. Observing others in combat was a tutorial. Deconstructing what he learned by fighting himself was even better. As the riding portion of their journey drew to a close— Form, technique, physical strength, tactical awareness, long-term strategy, perception, choice, and courage— Enkrid realized that all these elements had to exist in perfect synchronization to matter. “They have to become one.” What was the key to making that happen? Dozens of visions and fragments of the past surged through his mind. His thoughts expanded like a massive portal. The time it took to pull answers from his mental archives shortened—and he hit the realization in a heartbeat. “The hands that prepare the jerky.” In the dusty corners of his mental library, a quiet memory stepped forward. From that humble memory came the rhythmic hammering of Aitri. Frokk’s steady, patient hands beside him. The colossus who had transformed into a skilled trader. The merchant who crafted preserves. The shoemaker pulling thread through leather— All of them rose to the surface at once.