Chapter 699

Chapter 699

Thick clouds massed once more in the heavens, swallowing every trace of the gentle sunlight that had previously filtered through.

The perimeter of Zaun was defined by precipitous drops, with a wall of solid stone rising directly behind them. Under a clear sky, the vista would have been majestic, but beneath the oppressive, leaden firmament, the landscape felt like a jagged piece of a nightmare.

Enkrid stood firm, gripping his blade, his eyes locked on Heskal against that grim backdrop.

Heskal had adopted an unusual fighting stance, holding a gauntlet equipped with a minor shield out in front. He kept his sword hand pulled back, masking the weapon behind the defensive plating.

He leaves nothing to the whims of fate.

Enkrid wondered why that specific realization had surfaced. It had started with a line of questioning born from his time listening to the Ferryman, who spoke incessantly of what was to come.

Does the Ferryman truly perceive the future?

Some of his visions manifested in reality; others dissolved into nothing. The truth was that the future is an unobservable thing. To speak of it is to alter the present—the fundamental paradox of the seer. If they remain silent, there is no proof of their gift. If they record it and it happens, it isn’t a vision; it is merely a chronicle of events.

But what if it is spoken aloud? The listeners, now burdened with knowledge, change their behavior, thus shifting the timeline and rendering the prophecy false. This was the trap of the prophet, and the Ferryman was just as ensnared by it as anyone else.

The Ferryman did not actually know the future.

Yet, his voice carried the weight of certainty. How? When a person dons a mask, they discard their identity to become a character. A ball of masks is captivating precisely because the truth is obscured. Such gatherings are populated by those in magnificent disguises, appearing in forms previously thought impossible.

The Ferryman wasn’t a seer; he was an architect of illusions. He simply chose the right mask for the right moment. He tailored his narrative to fit the unfolding reality.

He does not leave coincidence to chance.

That was the truth Enkrid arrived at. However, achieving such a feat required more than a narrow focus; it required an expansive perspective. One had to grasp the entire current of events to transform a random occurrence into a deliberate act.

His mind raced, spinning thoughts like fine silk, weaving them into the sword art he was currently manifesting. His logic surged toward a definitive end. Why had he originally structured his instinctive combat style around the concept of the counter-move? Because it was the only path that felt natural.

But he needed to understand the “why.” He required a mapped route, a microscopic look at the mechanics of his own soul. He probed deeper, seeking the underlying reason. A natural prodigy might perform such feats by whim, but Enkrid knew he possessed no such innate genius. He had to understand every individual gear in the machine.

For someone like Enkrid, the gap between acting on reflex and acting with total comprehension was vast. The solution, which he had been dwelling on for days, was actually quite simple. He had likely known it all along.

One must first permit the situation to unfold and then provide the answer. That was why it functioned as a counter-blow. It was a blade that harvested coincidence.

This was the third manifestation, succeeding Wavebreaker and Flash.

As with the previous two, if the core meaning, the mechanical execution, and the path of training were codified, it would solidify into a formal technique. Had the process become easier now that he’d done it twice before? Not at all. Birthing a new sword technique felt like breaking into an entirely new dimension.

Yet, today, the favor of luck returned. But was it really luck? No—it was the result of intent.

Even the rolls of the dice must be bent to my will.

That was the soul of the technique: to ensure that every wandering piece of fortune seemed to flow directly toward him. Its practice involved utilizing every random variable that appeared in combat. Its training was the accumulation of thousands of skirmishes, encountering every possible variable until the response became second nature.

Was raw experience the only way? A flicker of uncertainty remained—a hint that the technique could grow even further. But that was a path for another time. For now, Enkrid relied on what he knew best: learning through the struggle. He just needed to finalize the definition.

And so, he used Heskal—his current “coincidence”—to sharpen that definition.

Suddenly, Heskal shoved his shield forward, cutting off Enkrid’s line of sight. Simultaneously, he signaled a movement to the left. Enkrid reacted by instinct, the blade of Three Iron carving a tight arc that slammed into the shield. It was like hitting a mountain; Heskal possessed the raw power of a titan and the finesse of a master.

Clang!

Upon impact, Enkrid felt his own momentum being swallowed and redirected. The shield hadn’t just blocked him; it had parried his force. Heskal’s feint to the left vanished as he reappeared on the right side. He had used the shield as a curtain, faked a retreat, and then launched a thrust from the opposite flank.

The tactic was elementary, yet the execution was so flawless it nearly overrode Enkrid’s battle senses. Three Iron was stuck on the far side of Heskal’s defense. The distance required to bring the sword back was too great; the opening was wide and inviting.

The steel came lunging in.

As if he had written this script himself, Enkrid retracted his weapon just enough to slam the pommel of his sword against the tip of Heskal’s incoming blade. If the edge couldn’t make it, he would use the weight of the hilt.

Clang!

the collision was precise and violent.

“Are you trying to chip my point?” Heskal remarked, sliding back.

Enkrid flexed his numbed fingers and shot back, “A blade with those types of engravings won’t break from a tap.”

“You did that on purpose?”

Enkrid gave a firm nod. He didn’t hesitate for a second.

Every coincidence—bound by intent.

In truth, it hadn’t been planned. He had been genuinely surprised. That was Heskal’s “fang”—the lethal, hidden edge of a deceptive combatant. Heskal used overwhelming pressure to herd his enemies into a corner, only to finish them with a lie.

In the world of the blade, the victor survives and the loser ends. Heskal was undeniably formidable. And while Enkrid’s Sword of Coincidence wasn’t yet perfected, it was the natural predator of a style like Heskal’s. Heskal hunted for openings through trickery; the Sword of Coincidence transformed those very openings into a planned outcome.

Of course, this wasn’t a trick for the novice. It required the muscle memory of a thousand life-or-death encounters. Heskal, with his veteran’s intuition, realized exactly what Enkrid was doing. He understood that to pull off such a feat required a lifetime of being cut, stabbed, and surviving. It was the work of a century of constant warfare.

“A rare sort of talent, I suppose…” Heskal whispered to himself.

Enkrid lowered his guard and exhaled, his eyes drifting half-shut. As he balanced the theory of his sword with the reality of the duel, another realization clicked into place. The sword art he was developing mirrored his current life situation.

He stepped back mentally, viewing the recent events from a distance to gain clarity. If the goal was to make intent look like a random accident…

A theory began to form. What if the strike against Anne wasn’t a calculated move? Why her? Was she actually a threat to them? How would they even recognize her? What if the person delaying them and the person who attacked Anne weren’t even coordinated?

He didn’t have every answer, but he felt he had the core of it. They had spotted Anne by pure chance. They recognized her as a potential problem and tried to eliminate her on the spot. They failed. The malice was genuine, but it wasn’t a grand conspiracy. They were simply taking advantage of a moment.

“Were you observing?” Heskal suddenly spoke, directing his words away from Enkrid.

“It has been quite a while since I’ve seen a man that focused while holding steel,” the clan head replied, standing near Anahera.

“Is that so? I found it quite stimulating. Enkrid of the Border Guard.”

Heskal traded brief remarks with the leader before giving Enkrid a respectful nod. Enkrid returned the gesture, acknowledging the lessons he had gleaned from the exchange. There was a wealth of knowledge to be found here.

“How does your health fair?” Heskal asked the leader.

“Do not fret. I am well aware of my own constraints,” the clan head answered, his voice devoid of emotion.

The leader departed, and it was Anahera’s turn to step into the ring. Though she was technically at the level of a quasi-knight, her physical heritage meant she could trade blows with the best. Giants were a species capable of devastating entire squads of men.

She hadn’t earned the title “Beast of Red Blood” by being gentle. By all rights, she should have been a whirlwind of violence. Yet, she had found a place within Zaun. When asked why she chose this life:

“Because this is where the excitement is.”

Diversity existed in all races—humans, fairies, Frokk, and giants alike. In her, curiosity and the drive for self-improvement had managed to tame her innate bloodlust.

“I will become a knight,” Anahera proclaimed boldly.

“That path is steep,” Enkrid replied, before delivering a sharp rap to her head. He used the flat of his sword; had he used the edge, Zaun would have been short one striking giantess.

“The difficulty is what makes it worthwhile. I want to be better. I want to face those stronger than me.”

The marriage of her warrior spirit and her ambition was clear now. Enkrid realized why she functioned this way. His time training here was teaching him more than his days with Grida, Magrun, or Odinkar ever had. Part of it was the transparency of the people here, but mostly it was because Enkrid’s own internal world was finally expanding.

Zaun functioned on a specific philosophy: you cannot paint everyone with the same brush. They honored the individual and assisted them in reaching their personal peaks. They shared their secrets and their techniques freely.

It was a paradise designed for the gifted. That was the core of Zaun’s martial philosophy.

But Enkrid was building a ladder for those who weren’t born with wings.

Our journeys are not the same.

In terms of what Zaun had to offer, he had reached the ceiling. Their methods were rooted in natural ability. Once you understood that core truth, you could deduce the rest of their techniques through sheer logic.

This isn’t my road.

Talent was the benchmark here, but Enkrid believed those without it should still have a way to reach the summit. That was what his swordsmanship represented.

He didn’t proclaim this to the crowd, but after he bested Anahera, the respect in the air was palpable. Heskal walked over as the session wound down.

“What is your impression of Zaun?”

“It is a virtuous place.”

Heskal was aged. He was likely a master whose Will permeated his very being, though he kept it suppressed. He was at the age where the body usually begins to betray the warrior. Even a knight’s longevity has an expiration date. Heskal was far older than he appeared, yet he remained the heartbeat of the local villages.

“It is a good place, yes. But does the leader’s passivity not bother you?”

“Because he does not duel often?”

“No, that isn’t it.”

Enkrid was curious why Heskal was opening up like this. Had they reached a level of mutual respect where they could discuss the leadership?

“Zaun is a masterclass in technique, but it lacks the will to stand against external weight. That is the burden of the leader, yet he refuses to pick it up.”

“Is such a thing required?” Enkrid asked.

“You are Border Guard—you know the truth better than most. Can a man stay in one place just because he wishes to? Can a pool of water remain still when the world around it moves? The strength of Zaun is massive. You surely understand why Schmidt is so desperate to bring us into the Empire’s fold.”

Heskal knew Enkrid was sharp. His words echoed sentiments Enkrid had heard back in the Kingdom of Naurillia shortly after the Mad Squad’s inception. People had been terrified of their power, calling for them to be broken up or drafted into the royal knights.

Crang had always silenced the critics with a single thought: “Did you ever help him bleed during his training? No? Then you have no right to demand his soul.”

The nobles who hadn’t faced them kept talking; those who had met the squad in battle stayed very quiet.

“Zaun has to evolve,” Heskal continued. “Before the tide rises too high, we must change. You build a roof before the rain starts, don’t you?”

That was his stance. Was it shared by everyone? No.

“Zaun has power. Genuine power. We should be the ones setting the terms, creating our own defense. We should be aggressive—bring in the best from the outside. The Empire grew by taking our ideas; why shouldn’t we take theirs? They hunt for talent across the world. We should do the same,” was the perspective of Lynox. His thoughts were less polished, but he was a man of action over words.

Heskal was the orator. Yet, despite these conflicting views, the clan head reportedly said nothing, merely listening with a silent nod. No one truly knew his mind.

Alexandra had summarized it best: “They both love this place. As do I.”

Enkrid glanced at the sky again. The heavy, dark clouds felt like a mirror to the tension in the air.

“A storm is approaching.”

Just as Alexandra had warned, the peace of Zaun now felt like the fragile silence before the first strike of lightning.