Chapter 689

Chapter 689

“Odin? I thought he had traveled ahead of us?” Magrun inquired.

It was the same line of reasoning that had just crossed Enkrid’s mind. Odin was the familiar shorthand for Odinkar, Magrun’s constant companion. As the question hung in the air, Magrun’s features twisted into a deeper mask of concern.

“He was with you—why are you directing that question at me?”

Enkrid scrutinized the clan head’s expression and tone, searching for a tell. Was there some hidden layer to his words? It seemed unlikely. Enkrid didn’t believe the man was some ethereal being incapable of deception, but that didn’t mean his statements were inherently trustworthy.

Yet, could they be falsehoods?

He couldn’t tell. That was the unsettling reality. Because he could sense nothing, his mind instinctively dug for a hidden motive, searching for the “why” behind the blankness. But his efforts yielded zero results. This was a brand-new sensation for him.

He re-evaluated his gut feelings and cross-referenced them with logic. He worked through the data with the speed of a seasoned professional. Still, he found nothing. There was no trace of apprehension or doubt to be found. The clan head spoke with a voice completely drained of sentiment.

“I gave you the task of retrieving Ragna, and you return as if you’ve just finished a leisurely stroll?”

“Actually, the sightseeing was quite pleasant,” Magrun countered. “So, Odinkar hasn’t shown up? And the clan is functioning normally?”

“Business as usual. Why should things be otherwise?”

To Enkrid, the interaction felt like two orchestras playing entirely different symphonies at once. Pure dissonance. The claim that nothing was wrong felt absurd. On their journey to this very spot, they had battled through ancient hexes, survived a mage’s ambush, and killed a creature of an unidentified species. Furthermore, they had noted that the Scalers they encountered were unprecedented in this territory.

“And the travelers moving between the villages? No reports of trouble?” Enkrid asked.

The Zaun clan maintained steady ties with three specific settlements: the hunters’ town, the retirees’ enclave, and the trading post for intermediaries. People from those areas were constantly traveling back and forth. If a crisis had struck the clan, those peripheral villages would have surely felt the tremors.

“You seem obsessed with ‘problems’—I take it your trip wasn’t exactly smooth? Seeing Magrun’s face fall at the news of Odin’s absence suggests it was more than a minor hiccup. If something happened recently, it might have coincided with the visit from the village patriarchs. Heskal was assigned to guide them.”

The clan head appeared to look right through Ragna, Enkrid, and Ann, as if they were ghosts. Ann remained frozen, her voice stolen by the man’s chilling aura. Enkrid stayed quiet as well, his mind entirely focused on the act of observation.

I still can’t find a crack in his delivery…

One fact was undeniable: the clan head possessed a terrifyingly sharp mind. He had reconstructed the entire situation and pivoted his responses based solely on a few facial twitches and a couple of pointed questions.

Then, breaking the tension, another individual who lacked any sense of social timing decided to speak up.

“I’m here to claim the sunrise,” Ragna declared, announcing his return like a prodigal son.

The clan leader didn’t show a flicker of shock or agitation. “You understand the requirements for taking it, I assume?”

“I do. That is why I made sure to return while Father was still drawing breath. It felt like the achievement would only hold weight if I did it that way.”

To a bystander, it would have sounded like a monstrous rejection of family loyalty—a peak display of disrespect. But perhaps within the culture of Zaun, such coldness was standard. The clan leader didn’t even blink.

“Correct. That is the proper way. You did well to return.”

Was that honestly the appropriate reaction? Even if someone thought otherwise, it wasn’t the place of a stranger to intervene. This was a matter of blood and heritage.

“You’ve lost your mind! Was that your plan all along? When you said you had something to fetch?” Grida was the only one reacting with common sense. Magrun also looked blindsided, whispering, “Then where the hell is Odin?” while staring at Ragna in disbelief.

It was certainly a revelation worth the shock. Enkrid, however, remained a silent witness—not because he approved, but because his attention was still locked on the patriarch.

The man stood stationary by the gateway between the enclosures, not moving a muscle. Then, with sudden fluidity, his hand drifted toward his hip. Enkrid had been momentarily distracted and almost missed the blur of motion.

The clan head shifted his intent, his muscles coiling as if to engage his left hand; Enkrid’s battle-hardened intuition caught the shift instantly. It was a perception born of pure survival instinct.

“Sharp senses,” the clan head remarked as he unsheathed his blade.

The movement was effortless, as natural as a breeze catching a lock of hair. It was so fluid it was almost hypnotic. There was no metallic ring of the sword leaving the scabbard; it simply appeared, aimed directly at Enkrid’s brow.

Most would have flinched, but Enkrid remained rooted. He only reacted when the steel crossed a specific invisible boundary he had set in his mind.

Chring.

The Tri-Iron Sword was out and rising like a streak of silver. Simultaneously, Enkrid’s mind mapped out dozens of potential trajectories the patriarch’s blade might take. He analyzed the flow, realizing the possible variations of this attack numbered in the hundreds.

If I try to account for every single one, I’ll burn out before the strike even lands.

He transitioned to the Wavebreaker Sword Style in a heartbeat. The Tri-Iron Sword lunged forward with the speed of a lightning bolt, cutting through the atmosphere.

Tap.

Before the observers could process the movement, the clan head had already returned his weapon to its rest. Enkrid twirled his own blade through the air and guided it back into its sheath as well.

Tring.

Other than that soft chime, there was no outward difference in how they had moved.

But I was defeated.

Enkrid knew he had lost that exchange. The clan head hadn’t even needed to commit to a full strike or extension. Enkrid had been forced to respond with a full move. And that was exactly what the older man had intended.

Would it be different if our lives were on the line?

A surge of competitive fire rose in his chest. Some people wilted when faced with superior power, but Enkrid had spent his life fighting uphill battles against monsters and men far stronger than him. Even after earning his knightly spurs, he had never suffered from the delusion that he was unbeatable. He lived for the challenge; he thrived on the climb. He didn’t back down.

“One round?”

Ragna wasn’t the only one capable of ignoring the gravity of a situation. Grida and Magrun, fully aware of what a “round” between these two would entail, looked like they wanted to kick both of them out of the village.

The clan head allowed the smallest ghost of a smile to touch his lips. If it could even be called a smile—it was a mechanical movement devoid of any actual warmth.

“You’ve brought home an interesting companion, Ragna.”

“He is the commander of the knightly order to which I belong.”

“You are part of an order? And he is your superior?”

Under normal circumstances, such a question would be laced with shock, but his tone remained entirely flat. Or perhaps it wasn’t just flat—perhaps he was truly incapable of feeling.

Still, can’t we just fight? Enkrid thought, his mind simultaneously analyzing the man and nursing a rebellious urge to test him.

“Welcome. I won’t deny you a match, but looking at you, you aren’t in peak form. Wouldn’t a rest be more prudent?”

“This is as good as I get,” Enkrid shot back.

“You’re both nuts,” Magrun broke in. “Do it later. Right now, we need to determine what happened to Odin.”

Enkrid had to concede the point. However, he was fairly certain nothing nefarious had happened to Odinkar within the Zaun territory. His logic was straightforward. First, could someone really subdue a knight of that caliber without a massive struggle that would have woken the whole clan? Second, Odinkar had traveled the exact same path they had. If he had been waylaid or beaten, wouldn’t there be evidence?

It was highly improbable. No spell or hex could mend shattered timber and erased bloodstains so perfectly that no trace remained.

“Magic is an art of transformation, but it isn’t omnipotent. If it could perform true miracles, Audin would be a far better practitioner than I,” Esther had once told him during a training session.

So, how had Odinkar vanished? There was only one logical conclusion: he had left of his own accord. Enkrid had reached this deduction by filtering the limited information through cold reason. While the others were rattled by the strange silence and the previous attacks, the objective answer was staring them in the face.

“Step inside and fill me in on the details. Your guest is invited as well.”

The clan head turned and led the way. His gait was eerily silent. Despite his massive frame, he moved without a sound. Jaxon would have been humbled by it. There was no heavy thud, no clinking of the sword against his thigh.

Facing him felt like staring at a mountain; following him felt like trailing a passing cloud.

“The patriarch is powerful, isn’t he?” Enkrid asked as they walked.

Grida rubbed his head in frustration. “One guy wants the sunrise, the other wants to fight—are you all completely mental? You’re asking if the clan head is strong? Of course he is, you idiot. I could fight him with two clones of myself and still get flattened.”

Enkrid nodded slightly. If he were fighting three versions of Grida, he would have to fight with lethal intent to prevail. A mere sparring session wouldn’t settle it—mostly because Grida lacked the obsessive need to win. Magrun, on the other hand, detested losing. Yet, if Enkrid had to gamble on a fight between Magrun and Grida, he’d put his money on Grida. He had seen the gap in their abilities. That gap was likely why Magrun had survived his encounter with Rem; if Rem had felt truly threatened, Magrun’s head would have been split open.

“A newcomer?”

“It’s been a while.”

“Have you seen Heskal? He promised to critique my forms today, but he’s off on another errand. So annoying!”

As they moved, they caught sight of the clan members. The estate was built like a natural basin, with buildings spaced far apart. About twenty people lined the path they were taking. One woman caught Enkrid’s eye. She was clad in heavy iron plating covering her limbs and torso.

She’s even more imposing than Teresa, Enkrid noted.

When their gazes locked, the woman cocked her head and gave him a knowing smirk. Giants and humans shared a similar physiology, but the scale and presence were entirely different. Much like a human could easily step on an insect, a giant possessed a natural, overwhelming physical dominance over a human.

“Hmm,” the woman hummed.

Grida noticed her stare, gave a quick wave, and leaned toward Enkrid. “That’s Anahera. In terms of our people, she’s considered the peak of beauty.”

Enkrid didn’t like to judge based on aesthetics, but he knew that heavy brow ridges and tusks weren’t the standard definition of beauty where he came from. However, her distinct, swept-back ears did give her a striking look.

“A giant,” Enkrid noted, processing Grida’s comment and his own observations.

“You’re too sharp. It’s no fun trying to mess with you.”

Grida seemed to have relaxed slightly after seeing the clan head. He likely figured that whatever the problem was, the leader would resolve it.

Though it was called an estate, the structures were separated by wide yards, with a massive spire rising in the center like a fortress tower. It wasn’t a military castle, but a sprawling, fortified manor. The clan head led them toward this central hub.

After listening to the report from Grida and Magrun, the leader didn’t hesitate before offering his opinion: “I suspect his disappearance was a personal choice.”

It was easy to see from an outside perspective, but much harder to accept when you were emotionally involved. The clan head, however, remained perfectly detached.

“But why would Odinkar do that?” Magrun asked, struggling to keep up with the patriarch’s pace.

“That, I cannot answer,” was the blunt reply. “However, your guest seems to have already reached his own conclusion. Why not share it?”

“I was planning to bring it up once we were inside. Or if someone actually asked me,” Enkrid said.

The clan head shot a brief look back at Enkrid, but his eyes remained an unreadable void. A man built for secrets, Enkrid thought, continuing the trek.

“Who goes there?”

As they reached the manor, a woman with blonde hair stepped out to meet them. She was wearing an apron, but Enkrid’s trained eyes spotted the pair of short blades tucked away beneath the fabric of her skirt. Her posture and the definition in her arms marked her as a formidable warrior.

“A visitor. And my son.”

“Well, he’s my son as well, so I think I’d recognize him. You actually found your way home? I assumed you’d spend the rest of your days wandering in circles.”

She greeted her long-lost child with words of affection, but her tone told a different story. She didn’t look like she was about to cry; she simply wore a thin, cynical smile.

“Navigating is what I do best,” Ragna retorted.

“Is that so?”

His mother lifted a hand as if to offer a greeting—

Ching.

—and instead drew steel. Two swords, one for each hand. Perhaps this was the Zaun version of a warm embrace.