Chapter 680

Chapter 680

“If I just sit here wallowing because my workplace was destroyed, who is going to provide the bread? I have no intention of letting my daughter marry without a dowry. Unless, of course, you plan on taking her off my hands yourself?”

It happened exactly when his sixth sense began to awaken.

The cobbler, despite the ruins of his shop, had never allowed his hands to go idle. That image had left a mark, one permanently burned into Enkrid’s mind. It wasn’t a spectacle of grand proportions, yet the artisan had displayed his soul through his craft, and Enkrid had been there to witness it.

The process was a rhythmic dance: lifting the cured hides, the rhythmic strike of the hammer, the precision of the stitching, the application of the resin—building the frame and securing the form. Every motion surged forward like a steady current.

What thoughts had crossed his mind as he watched?

“How many years must a man dedicate himself to reach such a level of mastery?”

He had certainly wondered that. He concluded then that if he could only swing his blade without pause, he might eventually achieve that same degree of excellence. Those days were a constant internal battle, a struggle to figure out how to progress.

Then, the memory of Aitri wielding his hammer surfaced.

“Was there ever a moment of doubt in those movements?”

Never. Whether he was honing an edge against a grinding stone or hammering glowing metal, Aitri’s hands remained resolute. If a path is traveled a thousand times over, one can navigate it in total darkness. That was the essence of Aitri’s mastery over steel.

And what of Frokk, who worked alongside him?

The way Frokk doggedly set tiny embellishments with his slick, working hands—was there any hesitation in his dexterity? None at all. Not even a shadow of it. He would rise before the sun, take up the instruments that felt like extensions of his own limbs, melt down silver, fuse gold, and shape every variety of metal—driven by the need to manifest his imagination into physical reality.

Clumsiness has no place in a routine performed daily without fail. Even when errors occurred or projects failed, his hands transitioned to the next task with innate grace. Enkrid hadn’t seen every moment of their lives, but the sheer fluidity of their actions told the story—they had been doing this for a lifetime.

Snap!

Out of nowhere, Jaxon had once crept up and clicked his fingers together. Startled by the sharp noise, Enkrid had whipped his head around.

“How did you just move? Did you contemplate the turn? Did you identify the noise, calculate the coordinates, and then decide to move? Or was it simply a reaction?”

Jaxon claimed he couldn’t put it in simpler terms. Back then, Enkrid didn’t truly grasp the meaning. He had a vague idea, perhaps related to the mechanics of using Will—but he couldn’t actually feel the truth of it.

A merchant of great stature would promote his wares by instinct. A woman searing meat would regulate the flames and seasoning by feel. Did any of them falter or show signs of confusion during their work?

They did not.

Hadn’t he stood in awe of that very sight—the meat being seared in front of the Ragged Saint? It was a flawless sequence of movements, executed without a single error. Did the Ragged Saint have to strain or grunt when invoking divine power? No. It was as natural as breathing.

Seiki had described a similar experience when being instructed. Divine energy was meant to be released with ease—handled and tossed about like a plaything. Seiki had once remarked:

“I’ve understood the flow of divinity since my childhood. I just didn’t realize it was a tool I could command until much later. My brothers were the same way.”

Audin had echoed the sentiment. “You simply do it. It’s not a lack of capability holding you back; it’s a lack of doing.”

Even Ragna, in a state of half-sleep, would murmur, “Just as I practiced my sword strokes ten thousand times, my use of Will is a reflex. It’s just how I’ve always functioned.”

So, if Aitri was capable of such things, then so was he. If the woman roasting meat could do it, he could too. While they were shaping metal and preparing food, he had been honing his swordplay and directing his Will. Because of the limitless reservoir within him, he had logged more focused time than anyone else. He had done it repeatedly, day after day.

And yet, he had convinced himself it was impossible. Why? Because he believed Will was a product of willpower, meaning an explicit intent had to precede every action.

“Why are you struggling with this? It’s an obsession. You’re a mad captain. You think Will only activates when you consciously decide to use it? You think Will and willpower are synonymous? You actually believe that?”

Isn’t Will born from purpose? Yes. But Rem had argued that Will and intent were distinct entities. At the time, the concept eluded Enkrid. But now—he understood.

It wasn’t a sudden, earth-shattering epiphany. He simply thought back to the hands roasting meat. And in that moment, Enkrid found he could naturally channel Will through his blade. It had begun as an effort to display a variety of skills beyond his standard repertoire, but he had stumbled upon his own truth in the process.

“Just transform all of it into your specialty.”

To wield the sword with such natural ease meant there was no longer a need to categorize his techniques. Perhaps this wasn’t the path for everyone—but it was his. That was all that mattered.

“No, Audin moves in broad, sweeping arcs, but when the moment demands it, he turns into a piercing needle.”

A needle can puncture an arc. Yet, it is also prone to snapping.

“Versatility.”

That was the threshold one had to cross to move beyond the rank of senior knight. One had to be both the sweeping circle and the piercing needle—switching between them at a moment’s notice.

Reflecting on this, he realized just how many extraordinary individuals he had gathered into his unit.

“Even after I managed to close the gap once, they all evolved, finding that versatility and pulling ahead of me again.”

Enkrid himself had been the catalyst for that growth. Whether he fully grasped that—or even cared to—was another matter. Simply being in the company of such formidable people brought him a sense of peace. How fortunate was he to have such comrades?

He thought of a tale Marcus once shared regarding the previous battalion commander who had rounded up this group of misfits. A selfish man, only looking out for his own skin?

“I actually want to meet the man now.”

He felt a strange sense of gratitude.

“Ha.”

As he stood lost in thought, a new concept began to take shape—an expansion of his understanding. It wasn’t just about the sword. Was Will truly the exclusive tool of the knightly class? A fresh perspective emerged from the recesses of his mind:

“Common folk use Will as well.”

Naturally, employing it wasn’t a simple task—and even when they did, it wasn’t always obvious. But they were using it. This wasn’t a mere hunch; it was a conviction. He had seen it with his own eyes. Even moments ago.

The meat-roasting woman, Aitri at his forge—they were tapping into Will without even knowing it. That implied that those considered masters of their crafts were, in their own way, practitioners of Will.

“Or, if the origin is identical, perhaps it’s mana rather than Will?”

Perhaps they simply required their own terminology for it. Regardless—raw skill wasn’t the full picture. He remembered the dwarf who had once come to see Aitri. That dwarf possessed technical metallurgical skills superior to Aitri’s at the time. Yet, Enkrid had felt no presence of authority from him.

The thought of authority brought Crang to mind. Crang was both a sharp needle and a radiant star. No matter his surroundings, he was impossible to ignore. Even in tattered clothes, his presence couldn’t be stifled.

“What makes Crang valuable is what lies within.”

And what was that essence? He was starting to see why Crang’s words held such power over people. His poise, his presence, his very essence—these must all be expressions of Will.

“Many people use Will instinctively, in small measures.”

It was the reward for those who dedicated their souls to their labor, who invested their time and spirit. Or perhaps for those simply born with the gift.

As these realizations cycled through his mind, one of his senses triggered a sharp alert. Enkrid felt the shifting air. He caught a scent. It started with his nose. His nostrils flared as he began to dissect and categorize every odor in the air.

The perspiration from their grueling trek, the medicinal plants Anne carried, the metallic scent of blood clinging to Ragna, Grida’s scent, the iron tang of their collective arsenal—all of it was known to him. But cutting through those familiar smells was something alien. A faint, sickening odor of blood and something resembling old fish.

Then came the audio. The breeze moved through the thickets. Shff shff shff—but beneath that white noise was a distinct, deliberate sound.

Finally, the sense of touch. The hair on his arms stood up as a wave of heightened sensitivity washed over him. In a heartbeat, Enkrid felt and mapped his entire environment. The five standard senses—usually as separate as oil and water—fused into a singular sixth sense, drastically widening his awareness.

A cold shiver raced up his spine. He pivoted his head and made a subtle adjustment to the Three-Iron Sword in his grip. The point of the blade, held in his right hand, angled slightly upward.

That minute adjustment caused Ragna and the trio from House Zaun to tense in response. Disregarding them for the moment, Enkrid turned his gaze toward the upper left of his position.

If killing intent were visible, what form would it take? His sharpened intuition and his new grasp of effortless Will combined—and gave it shape. It looked like a short, razor-sharp needle hurtling from the distance to strike its mark.

His heightened perception tore open a glimpse of the immediate future. On that page of time, he saw a black smear about to collide with Anne’s skull. He didn’t know what it was. He only knew it was a clear, murderous intent.

The Three-Iron Sword traced a fluid arc. Enkrid stepped his left foot out, centering his weight, and brought the sword up in a powerful rising sweep. Because he moved the very instant he sensed the threat, it appeared to any observer as if he had simply lifted his blade and followed through.

Smack!

A violent crack echoed. The sound of tearing tissue and bursting skin.

Screeeeech!

An agonizing wail, like that of a dying predator. Enkrid watched as dark blood sprayed into the air above Anne’s head. The fluid was like ink.

“Ragna.”

He threw the name out even as he completed his swing, and Ragna was already in motion. Vaulting upward, Ragna unsheathed his massive greatsword and cut a diagonal line through the air. He put his entire momentum into the blow—despite having just been in a crouch. It looked like he was attacking the empty air, but Ragna’s gut told him something occupied that space.

Squelch! Screeee!

The sound of shredded muscle and another horrific shriek followed. Enkrid identified his target—a bat-like creature. Its fangs were far longer than any natural bat’s. Bisected, it leaked dark blood and viscera—it was dead before it hit the ground.

Ragna’s target became visible as well. An owlbear. These creatures, with their owl-like features, were feared as “night hunters.” They were infamous for their ability to vanish while stalking prey.

“But for them to get this close without being detected—that is highly unusual.”

It brought back the memory of Jaxon’s stealth. Even for natural hunters like bats and owlbears, this level of concealment was abnormal. Beyond the killing intent, Enkrid had sensed another layer.

This was the result of his encounter with Walking Fire and his time training with Esther. He could smell the presence of a spell. There was no comparison, really—but if Esther’s magic under the moon smelled like seasoned wood… then this reeked of rotting, sugary fruit—cloyingly sweet. It was strangely distinct. Powerful, yet only noticeable to those with the right attunement. Even Enkrid had only just managed to catch it.

And he sensed an anomaly. The bat and the owlbear had shared the same target.

“Why?”

His eyes darted toward the freckled woman—she was shaken and terrified, but she hadn’t screamed. She was resilient.

“Why is Anne the target?”

Did these beasts possess that kind of strategic thinking? Or was it a mere accident?

“Magrun.”

Before Enkrid could even finish the name, Grida was already barking orders, scanning the tree line. “Odinkar, secure the perimeter! What in the world were those things?”

The group had been resting by the fire.

“What is the meaning of this?” Magrun asked, moving closer while surveying the dark.

It might seem an overreaction to some beasts—but the nature of the ambush had put everyone on high alert. Being a knight doesn’t make you immune to toxins. You still bleed if cut. And these predators often outmatch humans in sheer physical power. Can an average man splinter a heavy log with his bare hands? An owlbear can snap a tree trunk with a single swipe of its arm. Their talons are that sharp, their limbs that potent.

True knights would rather overreact than be caught off guard. These were no exception.

Enkrid included. His sixth sense remained as sharp as a needle. The scent still teased the edge of his nose. It was the kind of smell you could only detect when your concentration was absolute. Like trying to catch the scent of a dying flower held directly to your face—if it moves an inch, it’s gone.

“Do these beasts possess the ability to use magic?” Enkrid asked, his focus never wavering.

“What are you talking about? We haven’t even reached our borders yet. This isn’t even the Empire’s soil.”

He was right; this wasn’t the jurisdiction of the Border Guard. They were situated northeast of Count Molsen’s lands—not yet at the peaks of the Pen-Hanil Mountains. This was a lawless, unclaimed territory. And yet, they had been hunted.

“I don’t sense any more direct killing intent… but the smell is still here.”

“Point it out. Where?”

How do you track a foe you cannot see? Enkrid’s eyes scanned the terrain. Utilizing the environment is the core of all strategy. He reached down and grabbed a thick branch from the fire. It was only partially consumed—a perfect makeshift torch.

Fwoosh—the wood flared up, sending orange sparks dancing into the night air on the breeze. The firelight pulsed, and Enkrid’s shadow stretched and ebbed like the tide.