Chapter 698

Chapter 698

While Enkrid spent the previous days immersed in physical conditioning and duels, and while Grida drifted in and out of sight, Anne had been equally productive. “I think I’ll scout around for a bit,” she had remarked casually. However, it wasn’t mere curiosity. She had actively traversed the estate, memorizing the layout, exploring the backroads, and engaging the residents in conversation. “Cough-cough—what was that?” “How long has that cough been bothering you?” “I’m not sure… maybe since last summer?” Six months. That was the duration of the persistent respiratory ailment. The primary indicator: hemoptysis. It was blood-tinged sputum. According to the sufferer, it appeared intermittently, usually when his strength failed him. She identified three separate individuals displaying these exact signs. “I feel exhausted occasionally, but there’s no pain. Look, Ragna, you’re back! Care for a bout?” One of the afflicted had shouted this before immediately engaging Ragna in a duel. Anne couldn’t fully quantify the gap in their martial prowess just by looking, but their dialogue revealed plenty. “Your skill has surged,” noted the man with the messy brown hair. Ragna sheathed his blade in response. A metallic clink echoed as the massive greatsword settled onto his back. “Constant practice. That’s the only secret.” “…And you’ve returned with the mind of a zealot.” Zaun was a domain where only the gifted thrived. Beyond simple talent, it required a level of discipline and a manic obsession with refinement. Those unable to keep pace were relegated to the hunters’ village. And once their physical prime passed, they moved once more—to the settlement of the retired. That was the final destination for those whose talent had run dry. The smiths and traders occupied their own middle village, serving as the bridge to the Empire and the merchant fleets. Such was the hierarchy of House Zaun. It was a society where status was bought solely with demonstrated competence. Naturally, everyone here existed with a blade at their side. To men of this ilk, being told to “just keep trying” was interpreted as: “You lack the gift. You should quit.” The man had bridled at the comment—though the disparity in their power was undeniable. Anne had observed him intently and later questioned Ragna: “What was your impression?” “He wasn’t talentless, but… at that level, I don’t see him leaving any lasting mark on the world.” “No, not his skill. His health. Did you spot anything unusual? A sudden loss of vigor or a strange twitch?” “Nothing. He appeared to be at the height of his form.” A spar wasn’t a duel to the death—but for someone of Ragna’s caliber, the meeting of steel was a dialogue. He could read an opponent’s internal state through the vibration of their weapons. “Intermittent onset,” Anne whispered to herself. Ragna sensed the girl was investigating something significant—and that he was becoming her unwitting accomplice. “Just another thing I’ll leave behind, I suppose.” Enkrid was a protector of people. Ragna had witnessed this repeatedly. Initially, it had only sparked confusion. Why? Why would a man wield a sword for the benefit of others rather than his own advancement? He grasped the concept intellectually—but he hadn’t internalized it. The warrior’s path was linear. This meant he had never felt the agony of failing to shield someone he loved. That had been his reality. Children born without titles or gold gripped cold iron from the moment they could walk. It began with chains and shovels—then shifted to steel once they realized they could overpower their peers. Setting the high nobility aside, the quickest way to ascend in this society was through violence. If you possessed the skill of a squire, merchant houses would pay a premium for your services. In the world of mercenaries, you were a man of standing. If you fought with the grace of a junior knight? You could live luxuriously on the profits of a trade caravan. Perhaps command your own legion of blades. You might even marry into a noble lineage that lacked its own teeth. With fortune, you might even be legally claimed by a lordly house. Of course, there was a caveat—you had to be younger than your prospective “father.” No nobleman wanted an heir who looked older than himself. Such things had occurred, but for those concerned with prestige, it was a scandal. Attaining the rank of a junior knight meant a total transformation of social class. Becoming a true knight was an entry into a different reality entirely. Even minor lords bowed their heads to knights. That was the world as they knew it. If you held power in your grip—there were few things you couldn’t seize. The strength Ragna possessed had rarely hit an immovable object. Consequently, he had never known true loss. He had never once failed to keep what was his. “Why do you push yourself so hard?” The moment the thought surfaced, Ragna voiced it. Seconds were vital. Human life was fleeting. Ragna felt that weight now, more than ever. Anne was busy analyzing the intermittent symptoms and related patterns, scribbling in a notebook with a charred stick when she looked up. She met his gaze, seeing his crimson eyes glowing through his golden fringe—the eyes of a man starving for understanding. And all discovery begins with that specific hunger, doesn’t it? So she gave him a candid answer. “I despise this sort of thing.” “This sort of thing?” “It isn’t perfected yet, but someone is conducting trials here. And I’d wager it’s a wretched human being. I hate that they are perverting alchemy for this purpose. I hate it more than I can express.” Her tone carried immense gravity. If Enkrid were present, he would have recognized that she possessed Will. Because those who are entirely devoted to their vocation—those who pour their soul into it—inevitably manifest Will. Anne was such a person. She never held anything back. And her next words were no different. “This is your home, Ragna.” Was that meant to be an explanation? Ragna gave her a skeptical look—Is that supposed to justify it? Anne wanted to yell You dense moron, and give him a sharp kick. But she maintained her composure. He’s always been this way. I knew that from the moment we met. Explaining the “why” of affection always ended up sounding clumsy and forced. It was simply that her spirit had been stirred. Perhaps his appearance had been the catalyst—but beauty alone wasn’t enough to keep her anchored to him. Yet now, Anne’s heart was firmly moored. “I want to safeguard your father, your mother, your comrades, your kin.” It was more grounded than Enkrid’s abstract vow to “watch over his back.” “Because one day… they might be the grandparents of my own child.” Anne stated it without hesitation. Perhaps it was because she had brushed against death on the journey here. That brush with mortality had acted as a lever, prying her secrets loose. If your end could come at any second—you shouldn’t squander the present. Not that she was currently perishing. She wasn’t panicking. Simply— “I want to truly live today.” Just like Enkrid. Anne was perceptive. She had vision—and she had intellect. She had gathered much wisdom. Specifically, how to exist in the now. That philosophy—that was what prompted her to speak. But there was a deeper layer. Navigating the border between science and medicine, she frequently recalled those she had lost—people who were as close as blood. Each time, she felt the same yearning: “I want to bring a child into this world.” One day, she would bequeath her medical secrets to that child. She would take on the role of a mother. She would laugh, weep, guide, and fear—experiencing every facet of life. And alongside that— “I will spread the Remede Omnia across every kingdom.” It was an ambition. A vision. And visions weren’t restricted to a single goal. Anne desired motherhood. She desired to evolve the art of healing into something eternal. And she desired to be Ragna’s wife. That was the dream she clutched. Her gaze was luminous as she spoke. Light played across her freckled skin, catching the attention of a man who had once been aimless. Ragna was a man. He wasn’t a fool. And he recalled every sacrifice Anne had made. The freckled girl who had remained by his side, detailing her aspirations. Now, finding himself in agreement with that vision, Ragna finally gave his word. “If I survive what’s coming—let’s revisit this conversation.” Anne scowled. Was that a confirmation or a deflection? It was vague. To Ragna, it was the most honest reply he could offer. “Are you intending to die here?” Anne asked without sugarcoating it. “No. But a man of the sword never truly knows his final hour.” “If that’s the best excuse you have, you’d better find a more convincing one.” Having voiced her truth, Anne filed that dream away in a corner of her mind. “Right now, I have a plague to dismantle.” Her focus shifted back to the task. Ragna remained her shadow in the following days, and as they worked, Anne pieced together several truths. “The contagion… it’s been altered.” It wasn’t the same pathogen she had encountered previously. “The symptoms have become diverse.” The reason? Because it was no longer being cultured using only vermin or common beasts. “The variety of seeds has grown.” “Seed” was the term for the biological source of the plague. Some were taken from rodents. Others from chimeras or predatory monsters. Even the essence of rot from corpses had been integrated. The inclusion of toxic flora or venomous insects was standard practice. The formula involved blending these elements and selecting a vector for transmission. Once the infection took root, a victim would be consumed by fever, racked by muscular agony, and eventually expire. Anne had dissected all of this in her studies. She had classified specific origins like the heatblossom seed, the pain seed, and others. A cough was supposed to be a secondary effect. Now, it was frequently the opening symptom. Lethargy, too. These novel indicators proved that someone was still refining and evolving the toxin. “But who?” Her instructor, Raban, was gone. Raban’s own mentor would have succumbed to age by now. Then who remained? “The world is massive… and brilliant minds are everywhere.” Anne whispered, a self-deprecating smirk on her face. She hadn’t seen it before. But now it was undeniable. Above her, heavy storm clouds obscured the heavens. Ragna stood like a statue beside her. He didn’t understand the pathology. However— “It can be cured.” With the resources provided by the Border Guard, her investigation had accelerated. “I simply need to formulate a specific antidote for every variation.” She didn’t possess it yet. But given time, she would succeed. There was more to unravel, but Anne’s conviction was absolute. Her eyes shone with a light even more intense than during her confession. She projected a Will—forged from an unwavering belief in her own capability.

When enough threads intertwine, one begins to suspect a master weaver is at work. In reality, it was often merely a series of coincidences piled on top of one another. And perhaps—a clever hand was manipulating those coincidences. “From a strategic view… it’s a possibility.” Refusing to let a chance encounter remain just a chance—that was the hallmark of a keen mind. In the previous night’s slumber, the ferryman had reappeared, speaking of his duty to protect Anne. Enkrid had challenged him, “Why?” “It is a gesture of mercy,” the ferryman had replied. But his gaze was deceptive. His face was a mask, yet there was a subtle cunning beneath it. Now fully conscious, honing his body and organizing his theories, Enkrid mused— “Is the one infiltrating Zaun the same person breeding monsters and sowing plague in the wild?” Perhaps not. Or perhaps one had discovered the other—and made them a tool. “Standing there lost in thought—is that meant to be an insult? Or a dare?” Heskal was positioned before him. Coincidences aren’t just coincidences. He hadn’t intended to bait Heskal—but since the opportunity had presented itself… “Let’s assume it’s both.” Enkrid decided to treat it as a formal challenge. Heskal was poised. Immovable. His technique reflected that stability. Lynox once remarked that the man concealed his fangs—but Enkrid had never witnessed them bared. “Oh, I’m enjoying this,” remarked Anaheira—the towering woman of House Zaun, regarded as its most striking beauty among the giant-blooded. She smirked, showing her own sharp teeth. “Try not to get killed for your arrogance. I’m the next one in line.” She had already marked herself as the subsequent opponent. Enkrid purged his mind and locked onto his target. Heskal was a titan. Whether his fangs were hidden or not, his presence was overwhelming. Meeting his eyes, Enkrid declared: “If you won’t show your fangs, I’ll settle for a molar.” Heskal chuckled. His light hair fluttered in the breeze. The horizon remained dark, but a sliver of sun had finally torn through the black canopy—spilling a pale light over the grounds. Silhouetted against that somber daybreak, Heskal replied, “A molar is far more difficult to extract than a fang.” Then, he lunged. A flawless, linear thrust. But Enkrid saw through the simplicity. An attack like that was never just an attack. If you met it with pure logic, it turned into a stalemate of defenses. He had won such encounters before—but they had left him empty. “I admit defeat.” Heskal had uttered those words once. He had also recognized the essence of Will at a glance. What exactly is instinct? It was the art of the sword governed by raw intuition. But how does one cultivate a reflex? The techniques of Wavebreaker and Flash were rooted in mental geometry. Even a primal style required a foundation of training. And Enkrid, who had once attempted to categorize every movement, had found his truth: “Silence the mind.” Do not analyze—simply respond. Actions burned into the muscles would manifest of their own accord. React. Through Alexandra’s tutelage, he had tasted this state once before. He understood the immense value of that moment. There is a profound gap between a road you’ve never traveled—and one you’ve crossed once by accident. “Leave nothing to the whims of fate.” That mantra echoed in his mind. Was it instinctive? He couldn’t say. But for this moment—he would ride the current. Enkrid shifted, unveiling the style he now designated the Reactive Blade. Wavebreaker was the shield. Flash was the spear. This—was the reversal. Thud! Three Iron brushed aside the incoming point and surged forward, carving a low arc like a stone skipping over water. The defense and the counter-strike were a single heartbeat. Was it a feint? A disruption of logic? To a standard knight, it would have been. But not to Heskal. He was not defeated by blades slower than Alexandra’s. His left vambrace flared out like a metallic wing, functioning as a buckler. Clang! He intercepted the strike with effortless precision. If a man can hide daggers on his person, why would he not hide a shield? “Incredible!” Anaheira let out a breath. The lunge. The parry. Both were masterful. “Quite a sight, isn’t it?” she asked. Standing beside her now, the patriarch of the house answered: “It is.” It was a rare occurrence. He couldn’t recall the last time Heskal had fought with such genuine intensity.