Chapter 695

Chapter 695

Ragna felt a sense of wonder, but it was devoid of envy or bitterness. Having observed Enkrid from the very start and remained by his side throughout this journey, he knew that jealousy was a futile emotion. “He gave a physical shape to a power that has no form.” Ragna provided a brief summary of what he had witnessed. Enkrid grasped the concept, yet he knew that if he were pressed to repeat the feat at this very moment, he would fail. “I can’t quite catch the sensation.” Truthfully, he remained uncertain about how he had achieved it. The memory felt hazy, like a fading dream. Was it merely a stroke of fortune? Perhaps it was a momentary gift of luck granted after performing tens of thousands of sword swings. Common lore on the continent suggested that the goddess of luck was as elusive as the wind—impossible to trap. A well-known proverb claimed that luck merely brushes against a person but never truly takes up residence. It felt like a fluke, yet Enkrid dismissed that notion almost immediately. “That wasn’t luck. Not even close.” The massive accumulation of hours—the endless days spent perfecting his swing—seemed to be speaking to him now. His current task was to reconstruct and simulate the event in his mind. As he had noted earlier, today was not his only opportunity. Reviewing the duel internally, he recognized that Alexandra had surged in speed at a specific midpoint. “She increased her pace suddenly, shifting the rhythm.” It was an action that defied prediction. The Wavebreaker Sword Style relied on reading a foe’s intent and calculating a response from that data. However, even within her already lightning-fast execution, she had found another gear—making that particular lunge truly shocking. “I never imagined a blade could reach such velocity.” Had there been even a microscopic flaw in her technique… Had the tilt of her steel been off by a hair… Had his mental processing been delayed by a fraction of a second… Had his physical reflexes been the slightest bit sluggish… “I would have perished.” The shadow of death had passed incredibly close. He also perceived that there was a deliberate intent behind every one of Alexandra’s actions—a complex blend of mentorship and provocation. “It felt as though she was forcing my hand.” Her mastery lay in overwhelming an opponent with pure tempo. Reflecting on it, even her verbal engagement before the clash had been tactical. By speaking to him, she had heightened his focus. When Enkrid met her with desperate resolve, she countered with lethal intent, pushing the atmospheric tension to its peak. With mere sentences, she had gauged the depth of his concentration. “Oh? Are you ignoring me now?” she had taunted. Even that first strike that grazed his skin had been a test. She was evaluating his composure under the most extreme duress. She had demonstrated, without any ambiguity, that a lack of precision would result in his end. She was instructing him not to rely on mediocre tricks just because he lacked her speed. Every move was designed to funnel his survival instinct into a single, flawless counter-attack. She had coached and maneuvered him toward that climax. Naturally, within that guidance, his life had truly been at risk. “If I hadn’t matched her, I would be dead.” That was the undeniable reality of the situation. “How many lives has she taken during training sessions?” “Are you talking about Mother?” Ragna replied with a question and a shake of his head. “None that I am aware of.” Ragna had moved away from the estate as a youth. Enkrid scanned the area for Grida, assuming she would possess that knowledge. However, she was not among those watching; only the party accompanying the family head remained. Enkrid’s eyes rested briefly on Anne’s retreating figure before he looked elsewhere. He watched the family head and Anne disappear behind the stone masonry of the training hall as they moved indoors. Alexandra cast a look back over her shoulder but remained silent. “Ragna, go and stay with Anne.” “Understood.” Enkrid spoke simply, and Ragna complied without argument. They were in an unfamiliar place. Whatever Anne’s objectives were, it was prudent to have an ally nearby. There were other considerations as well, but he was simply weighing all potential outcomes. As these thoughts crossed his mind, a figure approached with heavy, confident strides. “Greetings, traveler.” The newcomer carried six different blades and appeared genuinely thrilled. His hands were bound in weathered strips of cloth, and a thick band of the same material circled his brow. Strips of old but meticulously kept crimson fabric were tied around his midsection and shins. Despite the worn appearance of his gear, he did not look unkempt. He stood tall, and each of his six swords looked as if it could be drawn in an instant. His posture spoke of deep, silent discipline. “He likely prefers precise, clean execution.” That was Enkrid’s assessment as the man drew near to inspect him. “You’ve got the right look. I can tell,” the man proclaimed. Behind him, another man—roughly a decade older than Enkrid—gave a weary shake of his head. “Don’t put too much stock in his words. His intuition is usually off the mark.” His voice was resonant and deep. Enkrid first noticed the intricate carvings on the man’s scabbard. Next, he saw the heavy calluses on his palms, his poised stance, and his rhythmic breathing—all the hallmarks of a powerful warrior. “Neither of these men will be an easy mark.” That was his immediate conclusion. Of course, the dynamics of a true fight could always shift. Even against figures as powerful as Alexandra or the head of the family, the reality of a duel could change once steel met steel. That was the nature of life-or-death struggles. By that same logic, Enkrid couldn’t say his own chances of winning were particularly high. “I am Heskal. And this fellow here—” “I can handle my own introduction, you frozen block. I’m Lynox. If you’re looking for the strongest man in the Zaun family, it’s not me. But I am certainly the most romantic.” The man with the six swords continued his self-introduction. Calling himself “romantic” struck Enkrid as odd, but it didn’t rattle him. He had spent far too many years as the solitary voice of reason in a unit comprised of lunatics. “Enkrid, of the Border Guard.” At this, Heskal reached out a hand. Enkrid shook it. “Forgive the delayed greeting. Welcome to the home of Zaun.” Lynox flashed a grin and interjected, “Forget the pleasantries—keep your wits about you. You’re still looking for a fight, right? Alex likes to start at full throttle, but my style is different.” “It will be a valuable lesson.” From the way they spoke, Enkrid gathered that these two held high-ranking positions, perhaps equal to the family head. They didn’t seek permission to speak, nor did they seem to be filtering their thoughts. The crowd of onlookers had begun to grow again. However, Grida and Magrun were still missing. In their place— “Would you mind if I took a turn as well?” A young woman with an inscrutable expression stood behind the two men. “I would jump in now if I could,” she continued, “but I have to delay—there’s business I need to attend to.” Heskal looked up at the darkening horizon, retrieved a pocket watch from his garment, and noted the time. Details like these kept a person grounded in the present. Enkrid recognized that. Knights possessed a remarkable capacity for analyzing combat—comparing what they knew against the unfolding moment to reach a conclusion. Essentially, they weighed cause and effect, much like observing the flow of natural energy. To put it plainly, their instincts became incredibly sharp. Part of it was innate. Enkrid possessed that kind of natural perception. Even if he wasn’t the greatest with a blade, his senses were acute. He could see the truth of a situation clearly without overanalyzing it. “This is a prosperous house.” Zaun did not flaunt its riches, but they were clearly well-off. Pocket watches engraved with artisan marks were as costly as enchanted artifacts. “They require magic just to function.” Yet, no one blinked when Heskal pulled it out so casually. It was simply a part of their daily existence. Of course, their most significant traditions were found elsewhere. “Are you worn out?” Lynox inquired. There was a hint of concern in his voice, but Enkrid didn’t interpret it as an insult. “I am always at my peak.” He meant it. To him, his current self was always his best self. That was his personal philosophy. As he spoke the words, he realized he felt a genuine affinity for this place. “I’m next!” “Can I get in on this?” None of the dozen or so people who had gathered showed any sign of retreating. It wasn’t out of overconfidence, but rather because they couldn’t pass up the chance to test themselves against such an interesting challenger. These were people who had stayed back while the family head was engaged, only coming forward now. Before Lynox could reply, Enkrid took the lead. “As many of you as want a turn.” At that, Lynox remarked, “You’ll be exhausted after you face me.” “I doubt it.” “…Is your Will bottomless or something?” It was a known fact—no matter how much physical energy you saved, your Will was usually the first thing to run dry. “I have more than enough.” Since the others were speaking candidly, Enkrid followed suit. Lynox opened his mouth to speak, paused, and finally said, “You certainly know how to push people’s buttons, don’t you?” It wasn’t meant as a taunt, but if that’s how it was received, Enkrid didn’t mind. “Fine then—let’s see what you’ve got.” Lynox didn’t look a day over fifty, though he was likely much older. Those who tapped into their Will aged at a slower rate. And this was Zaun. “If they call him a legend…” Then his power must be substantial. The family head and his wife possessed that level of strength, and it was likely this man did too. The thought made Enkrid feel truly happy. “Are you actually smiling?” Lynox asked, sporting a grin of his own. Both men looked as if they were having the time of their lives. The crowd felt the same way.

“This is quite grave, isn’t it? How long has this been going on?” Inside the building, where the walls were a checkered pattern of brown and grey stone, two blades were mounted on one side while the pelt of a strange creature hung on the other. When Anne asked the question, the family head turned toward her. The hearth showed signs of recent fire, yet the room felt chilly. The head of the family was twice Anne’s size. Such a presence might have been terrifying up close, but she was unaffected. He seemed to be making an effort not to be overbearing, as he only turned to face her after ensuring there was plenty of space between them. “Is that a healer’s gut feeling?” “No. It is a certainty.” Alexandra had followed them in and posed the question, and Anne answered immediately, her eyes locked onto the family head. Alexandra was a serious woman. Had Enkrid been there, Anne might have joked about her staring at him with such intensity. “Tell me. Are you aware of what caused this?” Her voice wavered slightly on the word “cause,” but her overall tone remained firm. The family head offered very little. Anne was aware that this specific ailment could manifest in numerous ways. “I must identify the source.” Only then would treatment be possible. That was the first requirement. The head of the family was not a man one would describe as soft, but he answered her without any hostility. “Not at this time.” Hostility aside, it was not the response Anne was looking for. “…Beg pardon?” “My husband has said all that needs to be said,” Alexandra spoke on his behalf. Ragna, who had taken a position behind Anne, added, “We should leave.” He could read the expression on his father’s face—there would be no further details. If the family head intended to speak, he would do so plainly. If not, he would remain a vault. No amount of prodding would unlock him. Anne felt a sense of dread. “He knows exactly how bad it is.” Had she brought up curses, she had nearly ninety explanations ready. If he had questioned her ability to treat it, she could have proven her skills in fifty different ways. But none of the scenarios she anticipated played out. Only that single phrase: “Not now.” Anne couldn’t make sense of it.

Following the engagement with the family head, Enkrid stayed for three additional days. The sky remained heavy with clouds, always on the verge of a downpour, yet the storm never broke. However, the people who sought him out always appeared joyful. The brightness missing from the sky was reflected in their expressions. “Can I have a match too?” Even a young delivery boy made the request. In this place, everyone carried steel and talked of swordsmanship. That alone seemed to bring them fulfillment. “Sure.” Enkrid agreed—and then struck the boy squarely in the face before kicking him away. Thump! Crack! To an outsider, it might have looked like he was beating the child to death—but the boy fought back using his blade, his fists, and his feet. That level of force was necessary to hold him back. “Ail Caraz?” Enkrid recognized a familiar pattern in the boy’s strikes and whispered the name. Enkrid might lose track of names, but he never forgot a fighting style. Ail Caraz—frequently called the King of the Dirt Floor. It was a vicious grappling and striking style created by a jailer in one of the world’s harshest prisons. The boy had integrated those brutal techniques into his swordplay, attempting to lock joints while swinging his weapon. It seemed no one had coached him; he had developed the style through his own intuition. It was another thing Enkrid found impressive. Through these constant duels, Enkrid began to understand the essence of Zaun, just as Odinkar, Magrun, and Grida had explained. “They challenge one another, educate one another, and grow together without holding back.” Even if some displayed a stubborn streak— “That kind of conviction and pride—” —it was far better to possess it than to be hollow. That was why the people here seemed so content. As another day concluded and he prepared for rest, the rain finally began to pitter-patter against the structure. Even as he drifted toward sleep, Enkrid heard a rhythm in the rainfall. By the time he was fully awake and reaching for Three Iron, the window was being nudged open. Creak. His room was on the first floor and the latch was unset, making entry easy for anyone. Outside the window, a familiar face came into view. She had spent the last three days wearing a bright, sunny smile. But now, in private, her mood seemed to match the dark weather. “I need to talk to you, Enki.” She spoke with a heavy, somber expression. “Grida?” The night was thick with shadows. Even with his trained vision, he could only just make out her face. Enkrid acknowledged her and asked, “What’s wrong?” Grida bit her lip nervously before speaking. “The head of the family… there is something wrong with him.” It was a startling claim, yet one that Enkrid found himself agreeing with. If there was anyone truly out of the ordinary in Zaun, it was the family head. “Step inside first.” Enkrid stepped aside to let her into the room.