Chapter 697

Chapter 697

“Gorgons and Scale-kin.” He likely had to worry about owl-beasts and chiropterans as well. He had spotted them during his trek to this location. Were the beasts congregating and fixing their gaze upon Zaun? “Or could it be a different catalyst?” A profound shadow—far too calculated to be a coincidence—was simmering beneath the surface. It was unmanifested but possessed a suffocating weight. Creatures of that nature didn’t assemble in such a manner unless a mastermind was pulling the strings. The adversary concealed behind the mist felt more imposing than ever. Like charcoal-stained clouds stretching across the firmament, the barrier shielding them was dense, obsidian, and unreachable. “It would have been simpler if Rem were present…” The sentiment drifted through Enkrid’s consciousness. It seemed that every single time, some form of enchantment was obstructing the way. Recalling previous skirmishes, he remembered a pattern: whenever a foe attempted a meager spell in Rem’s presence, the brute’s immediate instinct was to lash out with his axe. He had once inquired, out of pure wonder, why Rem seemed to lose his composure the moment sorcery entered the fray. “Lose my composure? You’ve got it wrong. It’s a matter of righteous indignation.” “And what sparks this indignation?” “Because their craft is pathetic.” That was the extent of it. It was quintessentially Rem—blunt enough to be abrasive. However, after mulling it over, Enkrid had revisited the topic: “So, you simply cannot tolerate people flaunting mediocre parlor tricks in your sight?” “Precisely.” The annoying part was that Enkrid actually understood the sentiment. “Am I beginning to inherit the savage’s insanity…?” He had pondered that possibility. If one were a master culinary artist with strict principles and a high bar for quality, and someone presented a burnt scrap of gristle and dared to call it a delicacy, wouldn’t there be an urge to strike them down? Anyone truly dedicated to their trade would feel that sting. It was an issue of professional dignity. That was the message Rem broadcasted with every violent swing: “That is not how one weaves magic!” “What are you doing?” A sharp query snapped him back to reality. Enkrid was reclined in a secluded corner of the courtyard, his lids shut. The earth beneath him was moist, but spreading out his cloak provided a reasonably soft bed. Naturally, a dry, sun-warmed patch would have been superior—but given the current climate, that was a pipe dream. He cracked a single eye open with sluggish indifference. It was Grida. She had reappeared the previous night after a three-day absence, exchanged a few words with him, and then retreated to her quarters to cleanse herself and rest. Her slumber had been shallow. She felt as though the patriarch of the house might storm through her door at any second. “Where have you been for three days? What intelligence did you gather, daughter?” And the inquiry wouldn’t be wrapped in fatherly warmth. As both her sire and the head of the clan, he possessed the emotional range of a stone spirit. At times, he appeared utterly hollow of sentiment. The terror that her father might have transformed into a stranger she didn’t recognize gnawed at her vitals. Even if it wasn’t the master of the estate—she had braced herself for some kind of confrontation. In truth, she had almost craved it. She desperately wanted to identify the culprit: Who had the audacity to interfere with her kin? She had been intentionally conspicuous over the last seventy-two hours—leaving blatant trails and making no attempt to mask her travel. And yet— “Nothing occurred.” No one questioned her. No one challenged her path. Upon rising that morning, she discovered Enkrid sprawled on the lawn as if soaking up the rays. Since the sun was nowhere to be seen, it couldn’t be sunbathing. What was the term? Murk-bathing? Honestly, the sight made her want to snap at him. Grida posed her question, then instinctively shifted her stance—someone was approaching from the rear. “Is it a day of repose today?” The voice originated from behind. Grida offered a silent nod of greeting. Alexandra acknowledged their presence with a brief look. “It is.” Enkrid responded from his position on the ground. He had discovered through experience that downtime was just as vital as the grind of practice. Even the people of Zaun adhered to this philosophy. At the very least, they carved out a day of rest every ten days. That amounted to three full days of cessation each month. Their forebears must have recognized that relentlessly swinging a blade was not the sole avenue to power. It was a custom handed down through the ages. There were infinite lessons to be gleaned simply through observation. Daily sword practice tempers the physique—and clears away mental clutter. On days of rest, they utilized the interval to contemplate, analyze, and plan. Perhaps it was the appropriate window to permit oneself a bit of mental wandering. It was an ancient protocol. Enkrid grasped the utility of recovery, so he adopted their tradition of the rest day as his own. This meant there would be no dueling today. That didn’t equate to abandoning the fundamentals, however. He had still woken at dawn to go over the techniques Audin had imparted and refine his stances. By the post-meridian hours, he lay there, gathering and sorting the tangled thoughts in his head. The frantic urgency that used to compel him to train until exhaustion had faded. Because of that, this stillness was now achievable. To a layman, it likely still resembled a form of training. But for a standard grunt, even one from the Frontier Watch, this would be viewed as a half-day of leisure. For a member of the Mad Knight Platoon? This was practically a vacation. In Enkrid’s estimation, this was a level of sloth comparable to Ragna. “Those clouds are exceptionally dark.” Enkrid gestured toward the distant, obsidian mass dominating the heavens. “Those are known as blackstorm fronts,” Alexandra noted, tracking his gaze. “This particular set looks quite formidable.” The gloom hung heavy over the world. Dense and oppressive. It did more than just block the light—it felt as though a second firmament made of ink-black rock had solidified above them. That colossal weather system was drifting closer with a slow, grinding inevitability, like an entire continent floating through the air. “If the sky breaks, it’s going to manifest as a catastrophic gale.” Alexandra’s voice was tinged with apprehension. Enkrid sat up slightly, looking past her toward the surrounding structures. “Are these masonry dwellings reinforced for that kind of turbulence?” The robust architecture provided the answer—it was a testament to how long Zaun had been established in this place. Zaun possesses strength. So why do they refuse to relocate? For instance, Heskal frequently traveled between the three neighboring hamlets, overseeing Zaun’s interests. The geography was so punishing that commercial convoys couldn’t reach them with ease. While it was true that unique flora and produce flourished in these isolated crags—one could simply employ foragers for such things. The central village served as little more than a collective of blacksmiths and traders. “Regardless, I am fond of this place,” Heskal had once remarked. He was the one constantly fretting over the longevity of Zaun. And what of Lynox? He preferred to characterize himself as a man of romantic ideals. “No rations? Then you endure without. If you lack a resource, you acquire it when the need arises.” He and Heskal were ideological opposites. Heskal believed Zaun could expand its reach; Lynox saw no utility in striving for more. In his youth, Lynox had been consumed by the sword—like a fanatic. Currently? He was consumed by the act of instruction. Yet his judgment of potential was notoriously poor. Rumor had it he would label at least five individuals a year as “the most gifted talent I have ever encountered.” Every two months, he would proclaim a new prodigy. “Exactly like that sellsword from my home.” That was the very ruse that had enticed Enkrid into taking up the blade. Nevertheless, Lynox wasn’t entirely mistaken. The majority of those who endured the trials of Zaun earned the title of genius. There were at least five legitimate knights residing within Zaun’s walls. “They claim the Mad Knights are supplemental strength. The same is true of Zaun.” Observers might not perceive it, but Zaun held its own terrifying power. Some of the youths still succumbed to Lynox’s sugary praises—but by this point, most had learned to view his accolades with skepticism. He appreciated the poetic nature of life. But he had no interest in the mundane details of reality. His aspiration was to roam the lands with nothing but a single blade. “Don’t you currently carry six?” “I’ll simply discard five of them,” he would reply with a grin. What was the common thread between him and Heskal? They both existed to safeguard Zaun. Their paths diverged, but the destination remained identical. Lynox remained to discover a protégé who would surpass his own shadow. He claimed he couldn’t depart until he had bestowed everything he knew upon a successor. He felt his purpose here was unfinished. He was a superlative combatant—and a brilliant mentor. He handled six distinct blades, each tied to a unique methodology. As a sparring partner, he was by far the most stimulating. His blade-work transcended rigid systems—it was fluid, kinetic, and unrestricted. In Enkrid’s internal lexicon, it would be described as: “Martial arts centered on the pinnacle of sensory intuition.” Two terms characterized his approach: spontaneity and control. Extend your arm—there is your trajectory. Advance your foot—there is your foundation. He had invented over a hundred distinct forms. And he had discarded just as many. He forged new arts daily and dismantled them just as rapidly. That was the origin of his moniker: “The Six-Armed Devastator.” Quite blunt, wasn’t it? By Grida’s standards, Lynox was a theorist—a scholar of the blade. Prowess and classification were distinct entities. Another insight gained. Simply by hearing their accounts, one might assume that the pioneering spirits made the finest warriors. But—no matter the objective or the process, unrelenting dedication eventually leads to the summit. Heskal was no different. Much like Grida, he was a sentry—someone burdened with defending the clan’s legacy and ensuring its survival. He was every bit as capable as Lynox. His method was serene, orderly, and polished. There were no openings. No errors. It was a style that prioritized stability over the gamble of victory or defeat. “He keeps his claws retracted in every bout. The deceptive wretch.” That was Lynox’s perspective. They were comrades. Competitors. Now they functioned in different spheres but still shared a bottle of wine on occasion. That fact alone spoke volumes. After clashing blades with them, Enkrid could feel the sincerity of those connections. And what of the head of the household? Rigid. Substantial. A man of terrifying endurance—the sort of person who would stride into a wyvern’s den if it achieved his goal. Unless Enkrid’s intuition was failing him, that was the profile he had built so far. And Alexandra? She accepted and sheltered everyone. Not through handiwork or comforting platitudes—but through the language of her sword. And Andante? He had been absent for a month on “commissions abroad,” reportedly acting on the patriarch’s instructions. Too many gaps in the narrative. Enkrid’s philosophy was straightforward: if he lacked knowledge—he would simply seek it. “Alex… Grida was gone for several days. Why haven’t you inquired about her activities?” THOOM— Another phantom bolt of lightning fractured the sky. Because of those obsidian clouds, the middle of the day felt like the dead of night. For a fleeting moment, the world was bathed in brilliance. The electricity scrutinized their small circle—then faded away. Is this man for real? Grida thought. However, she only cast a glance his way that asked, what kind of absurdity are you uttering now? She barely maintained her composure. “That is a fascinating inquiry,” Alexandra replied effortlessly, a smile playing on her lips. “Is it?” Enkrid countered with equal poise. His face remained unreadable. “We honor the autonomy of the young. They have reached maturity. There is no benefit in dragging them into a room and grilling them over every minor detail.” It rang true. That was the spirit of Zaun. Provided nothing untoward had occurred—then yes, that was the appropriate stance. As they conversed, several junior knights of Zaun stole glances at them. They were mostly the younger lot. It was a day of rest. But at that age, the body yearns for activity. “I’ve conceptualized a new maneuver.” One of them approached tentatively and announced. Enkrid replied without emotion, “Is it not a day of repose?” “You can tell them a thousand times, and they still won’t heed it,” Alexandra said, playfully ruffling the youth’s hair. “I stated it was a rest day, did I not?” “But everyone else is making strides. If I become stagnant while waiting… what if I fail before I even get the chance to fight?” A blight—or a malady. Everyone within Zaun was aware that it wasn’t truly a supernatural hex. They all labored to transcend it. Even Millesthia, the veteran medic. For Enkrid, the status quo remained. Rest, practice—the same cadence. The same cycles, repeated. But for the others? While he was taking action, they had not been stagnant. Most notably, Anne.