Chapter 703

Chapter 703

Alexandra was notorious for the way she toyed with her sparring partners, finding amusement in their distress. Odinkar, on the other hand, possessed a focus so intense that he frequently lost track of the line between a friendly bout and a lethal confrontation. Grida, quite literally, struggled to recognize a single face in a crowd. Then there was Lynox—whose particular flaw was an utter lack of loyalty. Unless he was following a sudden impulse, he felt physically restless, as if his very skin were crawling with discomfort. A classic story from his years as a traveling sellsword perfectly captured this erratic nature. “Why on earth have you switched sides?” A comrade from his old unit once demanded. To which Lynox replied with unsettling confidence: “Well, I just felt like this side suited me better today.” “Are you serious? You were paid by Krona to fight for us—do you possess no scrap of professional integrity?” “Oh, be quiet.” Lynox had then attempted to end the man’s life simply to stop the lecturing. He didn’t succeed, but the intent was there. He had transformed from a brother-in-arms to a mortal foe over the course of a single night and a few drinks. The actual reason? He had encountered someone on the opposing line who impressed him. After a brief clash, he had decided, “This guy is far too skilled to kill,” and promptly traded his allegiance. The conflict had started as a petty territorial spat between two minor lords. Following Lynox’s betrayal, one lord became so incensed he blew his treasury on a legendary mercenary guild. Naturally, his rival did the same to keep pace. What began as a ten-man scuffle ballooned into a devastating war. The conclusion was nothing short of a disaster. Both noble houses collapsed. One went bankrupt trying to pay the soldiers; the other faced a bloody peasant uprising. If Lynox and his fellow mercenaries had actually finished the fight early, it might have been avoided. But since the outcome was already inevitable, why bother putting in the effort? It was no wonder he had earned the title “Ruin-Bringer.” While the name referred to his talent for shattering an opponent’s technique, it also acknowledged his tendency to burn down the entire situation for everyone involved. He was also known as the “traitor-in-waiting,” which wasn’t exactly a badge of honor. In truth, Lynox never made a firm choice of his own. He wasn’t a leader or a visionary; he was a follower of others’ momentum. He understood that whenever he acted on his own whims, total anarchy followed. This was why he could never truly lead a clan. His recent inquiry had been a perfect reflection of his nature. He had presented the facts and waited for the patriarch to make the call. That was Lynox’s way. And the head of the house had given his answer: “To war.” In that moment, a gravelly shout cut through the divided crowd. “Are you claiming my father is responsible for this?” The sound was partially drowned out by the heavy rain, but the anger was unmistakable. Why was the village of Zaun split into two warring camps? The reason was both simple and deeply convoluted. One faction was fueled by grief, seeking vengeance for loved ones killed by Heskal. The other faction remained steadfast, convinced that Heskal was incapable of such atrocities. Despite the mountain of proof, they refused to turn on him because of the unwavering loyalty he had shown them in the past. As the tension between the two groups reached a breaking point, a strange phenomenon occurred in the dark clouds above. A thick, viscous mass of vapor began to twist together, forming the likeness of a colossal human face. What in the world is that? Enkrid peered upward, squinting as the raindrops pelted his eyes. From the heavens, the massive visage began to speak: “Wretched children, I am here to take you into my care. Come forward and find your salvation. You shall survive—and every desire you hold shall be fulfilled.” It was a charm. A warning. And a crushing display of power. It was only natural to feel overwhelmed; a giant head was hovering over the training grounds like an angry deity. The sheer malice behind the words made Enkrid’s skin prickle. It felt greasy. And then came the distraction. While everyone was distracted by the sky, a dark silhouette lunged from behind the patriarch. The four of them moved as one. Enkrid pivoted out of the way. The patriarch whirled around and delivered a crushing elbow. Lynox lashed out with a precise, open-palm strike. Alexandra’s sword hissed—leaving its scabbard and returning so fast the eye couldn’t follow. It was a coordinated execution attempt by a Scaler—a beast covered in black scales with veins of deep red. It wasn’t a legendary monster, but it was certainly a mutation—something that had been artificially evolved or altered. SHINK! Alexandra’s strike tore through the creature’s throat. The patriarch’s elbow connected with its skull, sending the beast tumbling away like a broken toy. THUMP, CRASH! The horror rolled through the mud, then incredibly, began to scramble back to its feet. A persistent devil. Still breathing after all that? Lynox finished the job. He stepped toward the monster, drawing a thin, elegant blade. “Just what are you supposed to be?” With a fluid motion, he sliced through the creature’s neck. The head slid into the mud. The sword was back in its sheath before the blood could spray the ground. “Hmph.” Lynox clicked his tongue, shaking his hand out. To anyone who knew his style, it was obvious he wasn’t at full strength. The wound where Heskal had tagged him was now a dark, bruised color—the mark of poison. It was taking a toll. “The bastard claimed the venom would take two days to fully take hold. I also caught a graze from his tainted blade.” A marked weapon meant it was infused with a warrior’s Will. To coat such a weapon in filth was a perversion. It was madness. Poison would eventually erode the Will itself. Yet Heskal hadn’t hesitated. Enkrid wondered what kind of mental state leads a man to that point. Actually, it wasn’t that hard to piece together anymore. The puzzle pieces were clicking into place in Enkrid’s mind as he reviewed the timeline. ‘Schmidt arrived from the Empire. He was just a pawn with no hidden agenda.’ But Heskal had exploited his presence. He had made it seem as though Schmidt was an imperial spy trying to subvert Zaun. Looking at Schmidt now, the man looked absolutely disgusted, as if his reputation had been dragged through the muck. He was furious. ‘He used Schmidt’s rhetoric to sew discord.’ It was a basic strategy, but effective. Looking back, it was obvious. But at the time, even Enkrid had been suspicious of imperial interference. ‘Heskal manages the trade and travel between the villages. He would have known the moment Odinkar and Magrun were spotted—and that we were traveling with them.’ ‘And why go after Anne?’ That likely wasn’t Heskal’s direct command. He had facilitated it—clearing the path—but he wasn’t the architect. The planning felt like the work of someone well-versed in the arcane. A sorcerer or a witch doctor. ‘He’s working with one—or has one in his service.’ He never left anything to chance. That was the essence of Heskal. Even Enkrid realized he had been played like a fiddle. ‘He made the patriarch doubt my intentions.’ Ragna had returned after a long absence and immediately demanded Ilchul. The patriarch and his wife, wary of the shadows surrounding them, couldn’t just hand over such a treasure. That created the perfect opening for doubt. “Could this Enkrid from the Border Guard be a Trojan horse sent to destroy Zaun?” It was a logical fear. The Border Guard was a new, mysterious element. To an outsider, it looked like a secret strike force from Naurillia—much like the hidden knights of Azpen. “So, Naurillia finally grew some teeth.” That was the perception. Zaun was a prize. They were powerful enough to attract recruiters like Schmidt. They had consistently turned down those offers, and that constant rejection had made their neighbors paranoid. Heskal had leaned into that paranoia, feeding the fire. ‘He intentionally showed Grida those monster tracks.’ He was stalling. Buying time. Enkrid had faced obstacles on the road to Zaun, only to find the same games being played inside the gates. ‘Damn it… he had us the whole time.’ Would veterans like Kraiss or Abnaier have seen through it? There was no way to know. But Enkrid finally saw the pattern. Heskal’s goal was delay. The ultimate objective was still hidden, but the tactic was clear. ‘And what about the patriarch?’ Anne had mentioned he refused to let her examine him, saying “not now.” He had only shared that with her and Ragna. Anne had been desperate to find a remedy for the supposed curse, asking questions that made the locals uncomfortable. The villagers had become defensive. A stranger asking about their illnesses—their coughing—looked like an attempt to smear Millestia’s name. ‘The patriarch’s “not now” wasn’t a refusal for Anne. It was a message to be passed on.’ It was a signal for patience. “Not now” meant: don’t take the sword yet. Or: wait, and the truth will be revealed. It had taken a while, but that phrase had finally made sense to Enkrid. ‘The head of the house was waiting for this exact moment.’ On their journey, Odinkar had been frustrated by an enemy he couldn’t see. ‘The patriarch felt the same. He needed the traitor to show his hand.’ If you don’t let a wound drain, the infection just spreads. He needed to identify the snake in his garden before the venom killed the whole house. ‘I see.’ The patriarch had been using Enkrid as well. He had seen the reputation of the Border Guard and the raw power Ragna possessed. He had ensured Anne could move through the village without being stopped. Even when it wasn’t obvious, he had been clearing their way. ‘He even allowed Alexandra to train me.’ That was the ultimate proof: a gesture of trust. If Enkrid had been a foe, so be it. But if he was a friend, he was the perfect reinforcement. ‘The patriarch didn’t leave things to luck either.’ He had pulled the unpredictable newcomers as close to his side as possible. He forced Heskal to act. And Heskal had been waiting for the perfect strike. The two of them had been playing a high-stakes game of chess for years. “These people are unbelievable…” Enkrid whispered to himself. The giant face in the clouds was still droning on, even as its assassins were being slaughtered. “Is this your plan, Tempest Zaun? You think two wandering blades and a young girl can change the inevitable?” Enkrid let out a short laugh as the patriarch raised a closed hand toward the sky… and slowly extended his middle finger. That specific gesture. The world was full of different languages and customs, but here? The message was universal: Go to hell. Or perhaps something even more vulgar. It was a crude, defiant act—totally out of character for the usually reserved leader. But Enkrid finally got it—the man wasn’t emotionless. “Grida is blind to faces. Alexandra treats training like a blood sport for her own amusement.” “It’s not as bad as you make it sound,” Alexandra grumbled from his side. But sometimes, it takes an outsider to see the truth. “Magrun can’t help but be a cynical prick. And you—you just can’t show what you’re feeling, can you?” The patriarch gave a silent nod. The warmth he had shown Ragna earlier—the relief and joy—that had been the real man beneath the mask. CRACK-BOOM! A bolt of lightning, more powerful than any before, tore through the atmosphere. A dozen white fingers of electricity converged on the floating face, vaporizing it instantly. The heavy, dark clouds reclaimed the sky. Ragna finally stepped out from the building and remarked: “Some maniac was trying to get to Anne. I cut him into pieces. What did I miss out here?” Enkrid answered with a single word. “War.” Ragna nodded, a faint spark of anticipation in his eyes. It wasn’t quite joy, but it was certainly a release of tension. He had been wound tight—frustrated and angry, like a man who hadn’t been allowed to hit anything in a long time. He might play it cool, but the rage had been simmering. ‘I’m probably the most normal one here,’ Enkrid thought. Then he recalled what the voice in the sky had said. “Just two swordsmen.” ‘Just?’ Enkrid grinned. That was a bold assumption. But before he could dwell on it, he had a bigger problem: preventing the two groups of villagers from slaughtering one another.