Chapter 690

Chapter 690

“Target: right humerus and left midsection.” Enkrid deciphered the lethal focus of the woman who appeared to be Ragna’s mother. The blade gripped in her right hand swept down in a heavy arc, while the one in her left darted forward in a piercing lunge. Both weapons operated in a synchronized cadence. The execution was rapid, yet the tempo was overly mechanical. Consequently— “This is simple.” Straightforward to parry, effortless to evade. Ragna opted for fluid movement over unsheathing his own steel. His feet seemed barely to leave the stone, yet his frame glided laterally. The reflexes of a knight functioned on a plane far beyond the reach of ordinary men. A commoner might be paralyzed by the titanic strength of someone like Frok, shocked by the agility of the beastmen, or cowed by the sheer mass of a giant. However, for a knight, such displays were no longer a source of wonder—nor did they need to be. They had ascended to a level where they could harness equivalent force and replicate such feats. Ragna was demonstrating that evolution right now. Ragna’s mother pivoted her blades, adjusting her trajectory at a sharp angle to track his shift. Still elementary. One steel point thrust, the other edge cut. The pattern felt nearly repetitive. “No, perhaps not so simple.” Whether it was Enkrid’s perspective as a detached observer or his own sharpening intuition, he began to detect the subtle malice woven into the swordplay. The dual blades carved through specific, predetermined angles, narrowing the opponent’s window of response. To illustrate: the right-hand sword plunged toward the collarbone while the left-hand blade swept outward on a diagonal line. It was a dual-threat motion designed to eviscerate both the torso and the limb. An attempt to dodge to the side would only lead the target directly onto the point of the blade. It was exceptionally swift, agile twin-blade work. Purely on the basis of velocity, it rivaled the finest techniques. That speed was precisely what stripped away the time needed for counter-maneuvers. “And there is zero waste.” Ragna was trapped between two choices: draw his blade to intercept the strike or leap back to create a vacuum of space. “If I were in his position, I would seize both her wrists.” Ragna held the advantage in raw physical power, so he ought to leverage that asset. Following the tactical logic of the Lua Gharne-style, that would be the optimal resolution. Once he had secured her arms, he would drive his forehead into the bridge of her nose. Why take such a risk? “Because retreating allows her to reset into an even more unpredictable follow-up.” Merely parrying would give her the momentum to maintain her assault. So he reached a conclusion—and simultaneously grasped the logic his mother was employing. “She is dictating his movement.” If the Spiderweb Sword used by Acker was designed to ensnare and restrict an enemy’s options… This woman’s style carved a specific channel and herded the opponent into it. It shared a common goal but utilized a different mechanism—this was a discipline of directional compulsion. Ragna synthesized three distinct combat philosophies, Enkrid’s included. “Perform multiple counters simultaneously, if possible.” Assuming one possessed the capability. Ragna possessed it. He unsheathed the short sword he carried, using the steel to intercept one of the descending blades. With his left hand, he lunged to pin her right wrist, while driving his right knee upward, snapping a kick toward her jaw. Clang. The moment Ragna’s short blade made contact, she recoiled instantly. Her torso snapped back with elastic grace; his grasp and his kick met nothing but empty air. The golden braid trailing down her spine whipped violently with the momentum. Such a frantic burst of speed left even her attire and hair in a state of wild motion. “My, my, son—you’ve developed quite a bit.” Due to the sheer velocity of her retreat and advance, her fluttering apron settled back over her legs and waist. In that fleeting window, Enkrid caught sight of the sheaths fastened to her outer thighs. “They carry steel even while working in the kitchen here.” Those were certainly not tools for butchering meat. They were longer than standard daggers, and though the metal was stout, the profile remained slender. A bespoke weapon falling somewhere between a shortsword and a gladius. “No—those are inscribed weapons.” He amended his internal assessment. They performed domestic duties while girded with enchanted steel. “It would be strange if I remained the same after such an absence, wouldn’t it?” Ragna retorted, projecting a level of confidence he hadn’t shown previously. It was evident he was ready for her to resume the fight at any second. This was a facet of his character that had been hidden before his departure from this home. Ragna’s mother appeared slightly touched by the display. “True. I always held the belief you would return.” “I haven’t returned for a homecoming—I’m here to take the sunrise.” “The sunrise? Was that a gift promised to you?” She tilted her head, casting a glance toward the man who seemed to be Ragna’s father. “No.” The father gave a slow shake of his head. “You’ve found your spark, boy. It suits you.” His mother beamed as she looked back at her son. What a bizarrely upbeat household, Enkrid mused, mentally replaying the encounter. It was a short clash, but it was dense with tactical revelations. He had even garnered a fresh insight. Not all martial arts could be categorized neatly into finishing blows, defensive maintenance, or total mastery. To put it another way, raw instinct and cold calculation weren’t enough to explain everything. The technique Ragna’s mother had just exhibited— “Transition.” She was dancing across the threshold between subconscious reflex and analytical thought. It wasn’t a state of perfect balance. Rather, she swayed like a pendulum between the two extremes and snapped back. “And added to that—unrivaled velocity.” Enkrid had labeled his own methodology “Flash,” but its true strength lay in the streamlining of cognition. It centered on stripping away every unnecessary variable in a split second. He recalled the swordsmanship Grida had once demonstrated to him. Specifically, the tactic Grida used to sabotage an opponent’s mental calculations. In a practical sense, it was nearly impossible to apply in a life-or-death struggle. To utilize it effectively, one would need to maintain an impregnable defense with microscopic movements—much like Enkrid’s approach when confronting a one-killer. But Grida’s motions had been far too theatrical for such a purpose. Thus, it wasn’t viable for a real battlefield. During their training, Enkrid had operated with total tactical rationality, while Grida had focused on shattering that logic. He had decided then and there never to provide her with the opening to do so. “Restrict the enemy’s options and choose the most efficient path.” That was the core of Flash. By that definition, it was by no means sluggish, but in terms of pure physical blade speed, the display from Ragna’s mother was far more startling. “A high-velocity cognitive shift powered by lightning-fast steel?” There were surely deeper layers of technique hidden beneath what she had revealed. He felt a genuine surge of anticipation. Unconsciously, his hand began to rhythmically tighten and relax around the grip of Tri-Iron. “That guest of yours seems rather eager for a fight.” Ragna’s mother observed. Enkrid prepared to respond, but Grida intervened immediately. “Don’t. Not now.” It was a firm caution. “…I am traveling with Ragna.” Enkrid felt the urge to test her skills right then—but he deferred to Grida’s warning. Magrun stepped forward to provide context: “This is Enkrid of the Border Guard. Surely word of the Mad Knight Order has reached you? The news was sent through the Intermediaries’ Village.” The mother blinked in surprise, then answered: “Oh, that fellow? The breaker of hearts?” Enkrid winced internally—but maintained his composure. “How did that absurd title migrate all the way out here?” He wondered for a moment, then gave a neutral, monotone reply. “Who was the messenger?” If he ever caught that person, he would get to the bottom of this. In nearly every scenario, the culprit was Shinar. Enkrid finally grasped the extent of the ridiculous rumor she had propagated. She had informed the world that the commander of the Mad Knight Order in the Border Guard was famous for his romantic conquests. At this rate, even the local children would be chanting the name, and bards would be composing ballads about it. Perhaps even a recluse mage in some forgotten tower knew the tale. “No, that is an exaggeration.” He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Locking eyes with her steady gaze, Enkrid spoke again. “Rumors tend to grow in the telling.” “True, but there’s usually a spark behind the smoke. And looking at your face, I can see why the story stuck. Mind you, I’ve heard claims that the head of our clan has eight limbs—so people will say anything. I’m Alexandra Zaun. Welcome to our home.” She seemed like a typical woman at a glance, but her prowess had been proven just minutes ago. “I would argue you’re the one who needs eight arms.” The clan leader remarked from her side, and his wife gave a short, airy laugh. Though she was in middle age, her skin was smooth, and she possessed a remarkable youthfulness. Knights did not age at the same rate as others. “She must have attained knighthood at a very young age.” Truly a rarity. The clan leader was an emotional void, and while his wife seemed approachable, she was equally impossible to read. “At a high enough level, masking one’s presence becomes second nature.” Hadn’t Jaxon mentioned something similar? Enkrid understood the implication. Masterful observation was indistinguishable from deep insight. Deep insight was indistinguishable from telepathy. And those who reached that summit learned instinctively to veil their internal states. Whether through logic, gut feeling, or simple habit—they ensured their intentions remained hidden. “Otherwise, the duel between Rophod and Pell would be incomprehensible.” If one combatant could read the other while remaining a mystery themselves, the fight would be over in a heartbeat. Granted, there were strikes that were impossible to stop even if you saw them coming. Still—the logic held. “We were already preparing food for visitors, so your timing is perfect. We didn’t anticipate this many, but the portions are generous. Come and eat. But go and clean yourselves first.” The estate of Zaun was a modest fortress, staffed by only a few people. Enkrid noticed some servants and young pages watching from a distance. They were remarkably stoic—completely unbothered by the violent display of skill they had just witnessed. “I will guide them.” Grida volunteered, and Alexandra, the matriarch, gave a nod of approval. “Very well. The facilities haven’t moved.” In the blink of an eye, she had already returned her blades to their sheaths. Enkrid had missed the motion once again. Storing weapons so seamlessly in the middle of a sentence—that was the hallmark of a veteran. While not every small act was a miracle, this was— “Certainly extraordinary.” The clan leader looked between Enkrid, Ragna, and Ann, noting: “I shall see you shortly. Dinner promises to be lively tonight. It’s been quite some time since the hall was full.” His voice lacked any trace of the warmth his words implied. “Follow me.” Grida bowed respectfully to the leaders and led the group away. “I have a brief errand to run.” Magrun peeled away from the group halfway through the hall. Once they were well clear of the clan leader and his wife, Ann finally spoke up. “I meant to say we were here for a patient, but he was terrifying. Ragna’s father, I mean.” “Was he?” “He looks absolutely nothing like Ragna.” Ragna signaled his agreement with Enkrid’s observation. “They are my foster parents. Resemblance would be a miracle.” “What?” That was news to Enkrid. He turned his head in shock at the revelation, and Grida looked back to add her own comment: “I’m an adoptee as well. You weren’t aware? Not that this quiet idiot would ever volunteer that information.” Ragna offered no rebuttal. He was simply scanning the environment. This was his birthplace, after all. Fragments of suppressed memories were likely surfacing in his mind. “That corridor leads toward what used to be my sleeping quarters. I wonder if it’s changed?” It was a fortress in name, but the interior felt more like a sprawling manor. Stone pillars served as the boundary between the inner halls and the open air. The scale was intimate. Ragna pointed toward a hallway on the right that dove deeper into the structure. To the left was an outdoor garden. “There’s nothing down there but the master bedroom. It’s been that way for two generations.” At Grida’s correction, Ragna tilted his head in confusion. “I must have misremembered.” “You call that a little misremembered?” Grida sounded exasperated, but this was to be expected. No matter how well a place is known in childhood, the passage of time is a heavy veil. For someone like Ragna, getting turned around was par for the course. “The baths are this way. Don’t expect servants. In Zaun, the rule is self-reliance. If you don’t do the work, you don’t get the reward. Though, they will provide fresh garments.” One couldn’t simply wield a sword and expect food to appear. The clan likely maintained a self-sufficient ecosystem. They kept a skeletal staff; everything else was handled personally. “It will be a relief to finally wash the road off me.” Ann remarked. “You’re coming with me.” Grida steered her into a separate bathing area divided by a stone wall. Enkrid stepped into his designated bath and found a massive wooden basin already brimming with water. A hearth stood nearby for heating more. Steam drifted from a cauldron over the flames, and the large tub was prepared. Ragna, despite his navigational failings, had a perfect memory for the task at hand. He grabbed a wooden bucket and began balancing the hot and cold water. He wasn’t just tending to himself—he was preparing a basin for Enkrid as well. It was a clear sign that Ragna was indeed on his home turf. The way he handled the bathwater was a blend of old habit and recent experience. “What exactly is this ‘sunrise’ you mentioned?” Enkrid asked while observing Ragna. He smelled of the trail—it had clearly been too long since his last real bath. That was likely why they’d been ordered to scrub up before dinner. Ragna replied while plunging the bucket back into the water. His words were punctuated by the rhythm of the splashing.