Chapter 694

Chapter 694

The warrior bearing six blades at his hip had been observing Enkrid’s laughter throughout the entirety of the combat. To himself, he gave a quiet nod of approval. “A singular spirit.” The sight of Enkrid rushing forward with a grin was unlike anything one would expect from Odinkar or the other scions of the Zaun family—it was evident he was relishing the sheer intensity of challenging the patriarch. Unique, strange, and magnetic. Yet, such a trait wasn’t entirely foreign to the Zaun bloodline. Consequently, he initially dismissed it as merely that—a notable characteristic, but nothing truly world-shaking. However, immediately following his loss, Enkrid spoke: “One more time?” Those simple words pierced like a blade to the chest. While the six-sworded warrior didn’t truly know Enkrid’s identity, he found himself internally rooting for the patriarch to grant the request. One only had to witness the raw longing in those azure eyes framed by dark locks. “Is this not the very thing you have always taught, Lord Zaun?” Had the leader himself not uttered those words just a short while ago? That true desperation always arrives a moment too late. That only the discipline gathered in the quiet hours can provide an answer to the crisis of the present. Yet this dark-haired man, despite receiving high praise, was pouring out his soul as if he were still starving for more. He cried out his hunger: a demand to swing his blade once more, a refusal to accept the end, a plea to persist just a little while longer. “It is respect-worthy to admit defeat, and it is respect-worthy to find joy in the blade…” But to harbor that level of hunger is something far more honorable. It was a pillar of the Zaun family’s philosophy. A personal tenet of the patriarch himself. A prodigy who loses their hunger is a prodigy no more. That was the reason Ragna had been cast out from the manor. But now, the companion he brought with him moved the soul—with a scorching fervor. “…A singular spirit,” a voice whispered. The Zaun family placed high value on such spirit. The remark originated from a fair-haired, middle-aged man standing nearby. The warrior with six swords didn’t even bother to glance over as he retorted, “Singular? It is invaluable. You ought to refine your perception, Heskal.” The intuition of a man who had gripped a hilt for decades whispered that this individual was exceptional. Perhaps it was because his mastery lay in waveforms—but that was the sensation he received. The blond man, Heskal, didn’t appear to share this conviction. His expression betrayed a hint of shock, but his voice remained measured. “As per usual, receiving lectures on perception from you is an insult.” Heskal snapped back, yet the six-sworded man gave no retort. Was such bickering relevant at this moment? Not in the least. They were far from the only observers. Anne was among them. She, too, had been struck by the raw honesty in Enkrid’s tone and found her gaze held captive. The man who had taken the life of her mentor was rising once again—and she couldn’t stop herself from wishing for his survival. Her eyes drifted instinctively toward the man who held the power to answer Enkrid’s plea. In that moment, she thought she glimpsed a puff of dark vapor escaping the patriarch’s mouth. It might have been a visual fluke—it dissipated almost instantly. Then, she caught something she had overlooked in her state of shock: a subtle aroma, the kind only an alchemist with years of experience in flora and chemical agents could distinguish. Anne shook herself out of the emotional wake Enkrid had left behind. Her professional instincts as an alchemist, paired with her personal morals, jolted her into a state of sharp clarity. Ah. Anne realized the truth and opened her mouth to speak—but the wife of the patriarch intervened first. “I shall take the lead.” She moved forward without seeking her husband’s consent, and no soul dared to protest. It was common knowledge that Alexandra’s prowess rivaled that of the patriarch himself. Even Enkrid, currently resting on a single knee, could sense the overwhelming weight of her aura. A few in the crowd knew this detail, while others remained ignorant: the man named Schmidt, an Imperial scout, had been a pupil under Alexandra. Schmidt’s technique was defined by velocity. This was logical. Even before taking the Zaun surname, Alexandra’s blade was legendary for its speed. During the era when the moniker “Knight of the Tempest” echoed across the lands, she possessed a similar reputation: Blitzklinge—the Lightning Blade, in the common tongue. Her primary weapons were a pair of blades slightly longer than daggers. Even on this strangely overcast day, a freezing radiance seemed to envelop her steel. The patriarch is heavy. His wife is lightning. It was no mystery why Ragna, raised under the influence of both parents, had forged a combat style that was simultaneously crushing and swift. As if providing a moment for him to breathe after her declaration, one of Alexandra’s twin swords suddenly lunged—becoming a silver prick aimed precisely between Enkrid’s eyes. TZZZZZTT—! A noise resembling a crackle of electricity trailed the blade’s path. Enkrid jerked his head aside at the final millisecond with total immersion. Snick! The steel bit into his skin, sending a bead of crimson arcing through the air. And in the interval before that lone drop could touch the earth, no fewer than fifteen strikes were traded between the two. Tatatatatatang! Enkrid was back on his feet in an instant, gripping his sword at an angle that shielded his vitals behind the steel. Alexandra had stepped back four and a half paces, holding both blades, her posture unshakable. Rrrrmmmmble… The sound of thunder groaned in the distance as heavy clouds massed above. Rainfall was imminent. Drip. The cut on his cheek was clearly significant. Blood trailed down his skin and gathered at his chin. “I shall conclude this before the downpour begins,” Alexandra declared. “Is that so?” Enkrid managed to answer, his lungs burning for air. How did I parry that just now? He questioned himself—but could find no logical solution. Could it have been pure fortune? Alexandra, seemingly permitting him a moment to recover, spoke once more. “Strange weather. Tempests don’t usually form during this season—especially not of this magnitude. I am unsure which deity is playing games, but it isn’t the god of blades. He only has eyes for steel.” “Is that so?” The corners of Alexandra’s mouth tugged into a smirk. “Oh? You’re ignoring my words now?” No human is without fault. Ragna was well aware of his mother’s idiosyncrasies. She was typically composed, but the moment a boundary was crossed, her polite mannerisms vanished. That was the danger signal.

What… is this feeling? Enkrid locked onto the sensation, something almost within his reach—but slipping away. Like a shimmer on the horizon. If he gave it his all, he might grasp it. And so, without even realizing it, his desperation bled out of him. A deep-seated longing that usually lived in the shadows rose to the surface. What was once joy had transformed into a boiling, frantic need. He craved to swing his blade. Without restraint. He didn’t know the method. He didn’t know the way. He simply needed to move. Then, he added a final prayer to the mix: “For as long as I can.” He wanted to sustain this feeling. Strike after strike. To remain in this heightened state. But how? “Endure.” He possessed Will. He raised Three Iron and hunkered his frame behind it. Thrusting his right foot forward, he imagined a rising line from his toe and met it with the sword—ensuring the opponent saw nothing but the blade. What followed? From their brief exchange, he caught a glimpse of her style—it shared DNA with the One-Killer. It wavered between raw instinct and cold math, yet reason was always the foundation. What if he threw a wrench into that logic? He had stood before that monster before. He had attempted to out-calculate him and met with disaster. “No wasted motion. Only disruption.” Wavebreaker Sword Style hummed to life. Tactical cognition dictated his next move. Enkrid shifted close to Penna, letting his left hand hang loose. He didn’t reach for it. He didn’t even touch the hilt. But that tiny uncertainty would be enough to break her rhythm— Snap! Suddenly, two silver crescents seemed to fall from the sky before him. In a literal sense—two blades, curved like new moons, descending upon him. He heaved Three Iron upward and slid his left foot back, every muscle fiber snapping taut. The world slowed. Without that dilation of time, he would never have intercepted those edges. A single mistake in timing would result in him being cut by his own steel. CLANG! KAAAANG! The twin crescent strikes slammed into Three Iron. Realizing he lacked the time to parry them cleanly, Enkrid utilized Balraf-style hand-to-hand principles to diffuse the force through his entire frame. Scrrrch. His boots ground sideways across the earth. Alexandra pulled back again, having unleashed those twin moon-strikes. “Are you mocking me? I have the advantage in speed, and you try a stunt like that? What kind of fool does that?” Your daughter does. Enkrid held the comment back. This wasn’t the time for wit. It was obvious Alexandra was holding herself back. His body had just been battered by the patriarch. He was far from his physical prime. Was she taking it easy on him? Not exactly. Ragna saw that her darker habits had emerged. Even a cornered rat might snap at a cat. But what if the predator was a tiger? Alexandra Zaun found a certain thrill in cornering her opponents. Her predatory grin revealed exactly how much she was enjoying the hunt. “Hey, you’ll actually die if you keep this up.” Enkrid had no doubt. The murderous intent she was projecting was no illusion. The aura she radiated now was distinct from the previous encounter. Before, it was the crushing mass of a greatsword. Now, it was like a bolt notched and pulled back, aimed right between his eyes. One twitch of a finger, and it would be the end. The lethal pressure honed his focus, setting his mind on fire. “To keep her off-balance, I have to offer up more vulnerabilities.” Which meant— It was a death wish against an opponent this fast. “That was a foolish thought.” He embraced it anyway. His internal simulation finished in a heartbeat—just as Alexandra launched herself off the turf. Thump! She became a blur. React. Enkrid barked the order to his limbs. A focused lunge followed by a storm of slashes—just like before. He didn’t rely on conscious thought to block. His body took over. Thwack! Three Iron deflected her diagonal cut—but she carried a second sword. The other blade whipped toward the crease of Enkrid’s right hip—a gap in his protection. Borrowing the force from his parry, Enkrid pirouetted, turning a lethal impalement into a mere scratch. A minor wound—just a spray of red on ruined fabric. “Swing with your entire core, you brat! Start from the midsection—make it like iron!” He heard the ghost of a mercenary captain from his days fighting for gold. “Don’t just wave your arms. Use the whole body.” And so he had practiced—every single day, without fail. Then Audin had instructed him on how to further densify his muscles—making them broader, harder, more springy. He had obeyed, carving his physique into that very mold. “My body is responding well enough.” He had also learned to be decisive when faced with a split-second choice. Ragna had been the one to teach him that. Now, primal instinct and raw intuition rose to the surface. Alexandra’s strikes were coming from a realm beyond his ability to see or compute. Thus, his senses had to transcend first. A cold draft brushed his ears. Every nerve ending was electrified, reading the most minute shifts in the air. Alexandra’s form now emitted a faint radiance, her swords shimmering. Left hand concealed. Right hand cutting down. “React.” Enkrid once again commanded his frame. A nebulous shape took form in his grip. His limbs moved before his mind could process the intent. Will surged. It was a movement he had performed thousands of times in isolation—but now it felt as though invisible wires were pulling him into position. BOOM! An explosive impact. Enkrid was hurled backward like a marionette with severed cords. But this time, a hand caught him from behind. Instead of tumbling across the dirt, he stabilized on one knee—exactly as he had against the patriarch. The same stance. The same conclusion. “…How did you do that?” It was Ragna. His eyes were wide with shock—a sight seldom seen. “I haven’t a clue,” Enkrid panted. “Alex, were you genuinely trying to kill him?!” The warrior with six swords bellowed toward Enkrid’s rival. “Ah, it was a close thing. Are you alright?” Alexandra had reverted to her usual self. “Actually, you seemed fine. You intercepted that quite well, didn’t you?” She let out a laugh. Enkrid gave a slow nod. “Yes. I intercepted it. And it was a thrill.” He was being sincere. Ragna gazed at him, replaying the moment in his mind. Stunning. “He channeled Will into his blade.” It was only for a heartbeat—but he had witnessed it. Will was a thing without substance. Ragna had long believed the next plateau was to give it physical manifestation. To bring it into the world. He had looked to his father’s technique for guidance. That was the origin of the heavy sword style. Now, it required condensation—purification. “The captain just achieved it.” In that brief window, by meeting his mother’s edge, Enkrid had stepped further along the path Ragna was walking. “Shall we continue?” Ragna inquired. “…No. I don’t believe I can,” Enkrid replied, a shake of his head following. “But there is always tomorrow.” Natural talent is a heartless thing. Some find it in a single moment of inspiration. Others toil for an eternity. Yet despite that grim reality— “This is enjoyable,” Enkrid remarked. Very few people would find a reason to smile like that. Truly, a rare breed. Ragna had just supported his captain’s collapse with his own hand. “When did this begin?” Anne asked, moving toward the patriarch. He looked at her in silence. Her expression made it clear she was not joking. “Give me an answer.” She spoke with the authority of a command—but for Anne, this was her nature. To her, status was irrelevant. If a person was ailing or near death, she would stop at nothing to provide aid. That was her sacred duty as a doctor. “…Let us go inside. We shall speak there.” The patriarch finally broke his silence. Alexandra signaled for the spectators to disperse. “The display is over. If you learned something, go put it into practice.”