Chapter 683

Chapter 683

“I always believed that searching for trails and stalking prey wasn’t my forte. I never cared for it either. To be blunt, it was simply because those things lacked excitement. So, what did I occupy myself with instead of tracking or hunting?” Odinkar spoke, ending his thought with a query. It was the sort of remark that made one wonder why he was raising the subject so abruptly—Enkrid and Ragna certainly didn’t have an answer. Grida provided the response. “You sprinted.” “Like a madman.” Magrun chimed in naturally. Both were well-acquainted with Odinkar’s conversational habits. He gave a nod at their observations. “Exactly. Few can keep pace with me when I’m at full tilt. Even if an enemy placed a snare in my path, I’d likely miss it by avoiding the common trails, and if I spotted it ahead of time, I could bypass it and keep going.” Odinkar wasn’t foolish—he wasn’t simply sprinting into the mouth of danger. Rather than sticking to the route they had traversed on their mounts, he intended to bolt across the dark earth toward the distant peaks on the left. “I’m not here to debate your tactics or what you’re capable of. Why is it you want to head out in advance?” Grida questioned him. They remained ignorant of their foe’s identity or goals—was it truly prudent to fracture the group? Her gut feeling as a guide warned her against it. From the perspective of a knight, however, the plan held logic. Odinkar had made light of remaining at the border guard, but even before their arrival, he had spoken of a lingering dread. Even after linking up with Enkrid, he had confessed that this region didn’t feel like a place where he belonged. “That’s fair. Likely, nothing has befallen Zaun. Not a chance. But that doesn’t mean the situation is dormant. On my way, I could swing by the hunter village and ask them to rendezvous with you.” Magrun added his thoughts. The hunter village was one of the many settlements that peppered the outskirts of Zaun. Those who sought entry into Zaun but failed to earn the family name occasionally went back to their roots. Others, having no other refuge, established lives nearby. The hunter village was born of such people. “So you’re arguing for efficiency.” Grida nodded. That was the core of Odinkar’s reasoning. “If there’s an ambush ahead, I might be the one to spring it. Or, as Magrun suggested, I could reach Zaun and give a report on what we’ve found. I’m undecided about the hunter village—if I travel solo, I can make a straight shot for Zaun.” Odinkar went on. He seemed so restless to depart that Enkrid suspected if anyone shouted “Go!”, he would vanish in a heartbeat. Regardless, it was a sound assessment. Knights were not all-powerful. They were viewed as calamities because they could achieve feats beyond the reach of normal men, but the knights themselves were keenly aware of their limitations. To ignore those limits was to invite ruin through arrogance. The crucial detail was that Odinkar had little to contribute here beyond keeping pace with the group. Tracking and scouting were not his talents. Magrun, conversely, was highly skilled at interpreting the environment and the terrain. Grida, at the front of the pack, was analyzing the adversary’s strategy like a veteran scout. Either Magrun or Grida could have split off while the other stayed, but both were currently essential to the group’s progress. Simply put, they had no motive to leave. But Odinkar—unless he was actively fighting—was like a sword left in its sheath. And a weapon that remains sheathed is of no consequence. Odinkar understood the fundamentals of scouting, certainly, but he wasn’t exceptional at it. A blade confined to its scabbard. So perhaps his most effective path was to move ahead. Enkrid wasn’t certain if the ferryman had offered him a glimpse of tomorrow, or if today was simply warping itself to torment him with hopelessness once again. He didn’t know if this path was the correct one. But he understood one reality: what they required at this moment was a strategy where everyone utilized their specific strengths. Essentially, Odinkar should go. “You’re quite perceptive,” Grida remarked, as if reaching a final conclusion on the matter, looking toward Enkrid. He gave a nod and answered, “Most women reach that conclusion after three sentences with me. It’s one of my seventeen magnetic qualities.” “…Did you seriously just crack a joke? You’re as unstable as ever.” Magrun shook his head, delivering his customary sharp retort. He was like a man under a hex to utter a bit of bile every day, lest his tongue wither. Enkrid observed him with a blend of sympathy and amusement. Why couldn’t he just accept the reality instead of snapping? That cynical perspective had its uses—it permitted Magrun to analyze swordplay with freezing precision—but it also left him perpetually bitter. That was his weakness. Enkrid had gained much wisdom from Shinar, and one such lesson was that if you’re going to be funny, be bold about it. Whatever you declare—say it with total conviction. So he did. “I was being entirely honest.” “Oh, you’re just marvelous, aren’t you?” Grida piped in. Her eyes shifted momentarily toward Anne. Anyone with a sliver of intuition would have seen that the creature had been hunting her. That realization must have made the situation feel even more convoluted. Enkrid’s jest, in truth, was a small gesture of comfort meant for Anne. The others were seasoned knights—they could maintain their composure. But the freckled healer was out of her depth. “That was painful to hear.” Anne joined the conversation—whether she genuinely caught the joke or just replied out of instinct, it softened the tension. As they swapped these lighthearted words, a tall shadow stretched across the fire. “I’ll be on my way then.” It was Odinkar, who had risen after stowing only the most vital supplies. A massive pack would only hinder his speed and agility. He carried only a modest bag draped across his chest, sufficient for dried meat and concentrated rations that could be mixed with water. To an average person, such food was nearly impossible to process—but knights possessed iron constitutions, and they’d burn through the calories just by the act of running. Odinkar glanced at Enkrid one final time. “I’ll see you in Zaun.” Enkrid offered a nod. Odinkar gave his horse a grateful pat on the neck, then stepped out into the darkness. The sky above was void of moonlight, obscured by heavy clouds. As he passed beyond the lantern’s glow, it seemed as though he were walking into the open throat of a titan. But if a predator of that magnitude were close by, its scent and aura would have been unmistakable—so it was improbable. And even if there were, he would likely hack his way out. Enkrid tracked Odinkar’s silhouette until it faded into the gloom. The man was among the elite of Zaun. That was why they could permit him to go solo without hesitation. No one knew how this choice would play out in the end, but for the moment, it was a logical course of action. If the others had voiced opposition, Enkrid wouldn’t have pushed the matter. But everyone deferred to his guidance. Magrun, reflecting on the situation, shifted his gaze to Enkrid. He was kneeling by the embers, inspecting his equipment. Why did I just go along with him so readily? Was it because his logic was sound? After months in Enkrid’s company, he had come to realize the man’s perspective was far from typical. Or have I simply fallen into the habit of following his lead? Enkrid possessed an inherent magnetism that compelled people to pay attention. It was no wonder they called him a devil. Word was that the entire battalion had turned into training obsessives just by witnessing the manic way Enkrid drove himself. Magrun had seen the reformed standing army of the border guard. He hadn’t known them before, but he was certain no other force on the landmass could rival them. Only the imperial legions might stand a chance. He didn’t know how they would perform in a true war, but in terms of pure quality—they were a match.

“Traveling as a group feels strange. We’re all accustomed to operating solo. Even Ragna used to wander out on his own when he was a boy.” This was an observation Grida shared during a moment of idle talk. “Just navigate by the moon. It’s a straight shot.” Ragna replied. “…How on earth is that man still breathing? He should have tumbled off a precipice or into a pit of wild magic by now.” His sister voiced her disbelief, and her brother countered in his own unique way of showing care. “Are your eyes even functioning? You can’t recall a face, and now you can’t even follow a trail? You looked at a cliff and thought, ‘Yes, that’s where I should walk’?” As long as they weren’t drawing steel and attempting to murder one another, this passed for sibling bond. Enkrid decided to view it in that light. The two kept up their “affectionate” bickering. “You could just leap off the ridge and roll, honestly. Oh wait—I forgot you’re too clumsy for that.” “You little… You sound just like Rem, you know that?” Grida flaunted her grasp of local profanities, even sliding in a few insults she’d picked up recently. Rem would have reached for her axe at such a comparison. Listening to them made Enkrid feel like he needed to scrub his ears. Even battle-hardened mercenaries didn’t speak with such vitriol. “What is even happening over there?” “I haven’t the slightest idea.” Nearby, Magrun and Anne shared a quiet remark, pay no mind to the boisterous siblings. The campfire’s crimson light flickered across Anne’s features. Even now, she never suggested turning back. Quite the contrary, actually. “I want to examine that plague.” She didn’t specify in person or with her own eyes, but her intent was unmistakable. “As you wish.” Enkrid respected her resolve. She had made a powerful impact on him since their first encounter. She viewed even alchemy as nothing more than a tool for the art of healing. So what she practiced—was it alchemy or medicine? It didn’t matter. She could name it whatever she pleased. Enkrid drew out his blades and set them by the fire. It was time for upkeep. Jaxon had once remarked that Enkrid lacked any sense of beauty—ten daggers tipped with horn, each one built for utility rather than elegance. Include the Tri-Iron Sword and Penna. He also carried a short blade forged of Valerian steel, just to be safe. He kept most of his weaponry on his person. Nothing was left strapped to the horse. It was a practice from his years as a mercenary—not a formal lesson, but a habit absorbed by watching veterans. Sellswords called it “wearing your tools.” “You’ve worked as a mercenary, haven’t you?” Grida noted. Her perceptive eyes had picked up on it. She had roamed the continent herself and certainly had her own history with that world. She unsheathed her own gear and began her checks—applying oil, checking the leather straps, the whole routine. Ragna and Magrun joined the ritual. The air was filled only with the rhythmic sound of metal on metal. Following that, a period of quiet repose arrived. They all knew the value of sleeping whenever the opportunity arose. Anne eventually relaxed enough to fall into a slumber. Enkrid stayed partially conscious as he rested, but the night passed without incident. Dawn arrived. They went through their morning routines, ate, and handled their needs. Then they pushed onward. Dark soil, undulating fields, the occasional rise. Some mounds were so low Anne could walk right over them, while others were tall enough to obscure the horizon even from a horse’s back. It was a landscape like a frozen sea. As they moved under the gentle spring sun warming their right side—something shifted. Up ahead, a cluster of trees appeared. Around them, a fog began to roll out. It was calculated. Synthetic. Obvious to any trained eye. And Enkrid had encountered this sort of phenomenon before.