Chapter 704

Chapter 704

Heskal was, beyond any dispute, a clever individual. Upon his departure, he had inflicted wounds on several comrades, effectively planting the seeds of internal strife. “One faction witnessed Heskal slaughter their companion.” It was only logical that their gazes smoldered with a crimson rage, their bodies quivering at the sting of such a sellout. “I beheld it with my own two eyes, Riley.” The speaker appeared ready to unsheathe his blade and strike home at a moment’s notice. “If your father hadn’t intervened, you’d have been a corpse last year, you pathetic wretch!” The opposing faction, however, had not personally seen Heskal commit the act. Furthermore, until this turning point, Heskal had led a life of total commitment within Zaun. He had rescued the fallen, tended to the weary, shown genuine affection, and even mentored a youth. That ward had grown to be a pivotal figure in one of the two internal groups. Despite a permanent limp in one leg, his prowess with a blade was comparable to the massive warriors like Anahera. His name was Riley Zaun. Was it not common knowledge that Heskal himself had devised the unique one-legged combat style? Enkrid had engaged in practice duels with him on several occasions. The idiosyncratic cadence of Riley’s strikes had always made him a fascinating adversary. If one had to categorize it—his approach leaned heavily toward a singular, lethal impact. “He was never just another swordsman.” And that distinction didn’t stem from his physical handicap. The majority of inhabitants in Zaun held the latent potential to rise as knights—contingent on a stroke of fortune. Everyone residing within the boundaries of Zaun existed under that very same benchmark. It was a framework designed specifically for the brilliant. Those gifted with natural aptitude received the best guidance, maintained their hunger for growth, and advanced without hesitation. That was the absolute baseline required to survive in Zaun. “But what becomes of those devoid of talent?” Enkrid found himself instinctively projecting his own history into that inquiry—yet no solution materialized. This environment provided no quarter for the unremarkable. To keep one’s spirit from breaking, a mentor was required for guidance. Yet, simply pleading for instruction was no guarantee that a master would grant it. Pedagogical methods differed, but no instructor could maintain their fire when a pupil proved incapable of keeping pace. “It isn’t as if they are demanding krona.” These individuals merely took pleasure in witnessing the flowering of true genius. Consequently, those who were merely mediocre—or worse—were never even granted the opportunity to study. It was a brutal truth, but perhaps that very harshness was the reason Zaun maintained its prestige. Yet, were all individuals truly cut from the same cloth? Was it possible that every person in Zaun cared only for the way of the sword? Among the Frokk, there were those who crafted fine jewelry. One dwarf, though a born smith, possessed the soul of a tavern keeper. Within the Border Guard, there was even a giant who voiced a desire to turn to trade as a merchant. “People are not identical.” That was the lesson life had etched into him. In that respect, the son of Heskal was an anomaly. No observer had ever considered him particularly talented. It was solely because someone had shown the patience to train and nurture him that Riley had achieved his current standing. To take a broken cripple and forge him into a formidable warrior—it was sufficient to mention the name of his benefactor only once: Heskal. Kwaaaaaa—! The downpour, which felt sharp against a knight’s honed perceptions, had subsided slightly. It was a mercy. Had the deluge persisted at its former intensity, the entire landmass might have been submerged. The earth of Zaun, situated on the high rim of the basin, was more than just soaked—it was a treacherous mire. The dark runoff kicked up in great sprays, ruining footwear and garments alike. The patriarch, Tempest Zaun, had declared that their immediate goals were scouting and readiness for engagement. “Soon, the opposition will step into the light.” They would manifest at a time and place of their own choosing. The initiative to ignite the conflict had shifted to the enemy. They remained cloaked in shadows, while the people of Zaun stood in plain view. It was the natural order of things. The physical clash would arrive in due time. From the vantage point of Enkrid, the most pressing matter was stifling the civil unrest that had broken out. He watched closely to see how the head of the house would handle the tension. Ragna drew near and, after receiving a blunt summary from Lynox, spoke up. “There was an individual wearing the visage of Odinkar.” Someone had deliberately masked their identity. The weight of those words was obvious: even Ragna harbored doubts about whether Heskal was truly the culprit. Though he had only encountered him briefly in his youth and again recently, Ragna found it hard to believe Heskal was capable of such infamy. Heskal had cultivated that level of confidence in others. “It was Heskal.” The patriarch cut through the speculation. He grasped every doubt Ragna had hinted at—and because of that, his confirmation was unwavering. Enkrid was unaware, but the family head had already received word of the strike against Ragna’s unit and had reconstructed the timeline of events. It hadn’t occurred right at his gates, but it was dangerously close. Could a lone infiltrator really have bypassed every sentry in the sector? Not even he possessed that capability. Therefore, he had reached a verdict: there had to be an inside collaborator. But where did this betrayal start, and how far did it reach? And what was the motive? The answers remained elusive. “So, what is my path?” He posed the question and provided his own resolve. When a warrior lost their way during sword training, what was the protocol? “You hold your ground until the trail reveals itself.” Whether concerning the blade or life itself—the principle remained the same for him. Even as his malady grew more severe with each passing year, he stood firm. Tempest possessed a temperament far more stoic than the average person. He did not easily share in the feelings of others. That was why “fickle” was the most inaccurate term one could use for him. Throughout the continent, his capacity for waiting was the stuff of legends. It was a rare quality, forged from an emotional void. And when he did express feeling, it was only through the clashing of steel. He compensated for his inner emptiness through his mastery of the sword. He was a combatant who lived the core philosophy of Zaun. He waited. Though the alleged family blood-curse was in truth just a sickness, even as more people fell ill and the origins remained a mystery, he did not break. But then, the situation shifted. The ailment began to advance with unexpected speed, placing an immense burden on his constitution. For over half the day, he was left without any physical power. His chest felt constricted—his breaths became ragged. He suffered tremors as if gripped by a fit. A knight was still fundamentally human. Most ordinary sicknesses could be suppressed—but this was no ordinary bug. It was a plague spread and intensified over years by a calculating hand. It was rotting him from within. Regardless, he persevered. And in that interval, he executed what measures he could. “Odinkar. Set out and escort Grida and Ragna back.” By dispatching Odinkar, he ensured the man’s safety and moved him beyond the reach of localized paranoia. Though he did so with reluctance, Odinkar carried out the task. “There is a terror lurking within the Border Guard.” Grimy and exhausted, Odinkar’s report made it clear that his trek had been fraught with danger. The patriarch pushed his reflections aside and stepped into the center of the bickering multitude. “I refuse to credit it,” Riley Zaun stated—the very youth Heskal had raised. Though no biological tie existed, the world viewed them as father and son. This was exactly why the fact that Heskal had not taken Riley with him made the situation so complicated. It was only natural for suspicion to fall on Riley. If the traitor truly were Heskal, he surely would have brought Riley along. That was the consensus among the observers. The patriarch turned his gaze toward the group opposing Riley—those with bloodshot, vengeful eyes. “I’ve just finished tending to the hole in Grida’s gut. She was a hair’s breadth from death,” one growled. It was clear they had been present for the assault. “It was Heskal’s own hand. If it wasn’t him, then who? The bladework, the stance—it was a perfect match.” The speaker’s tone was controlled, but a bonfire of rage simmered beneath the surface. It was a heat that the falling rain could not dampen. The family head surveyed the scene. Not a single soul was dry. Riley’s eyes were darting with intense agitation. As he watched the silent patriarch, he looked like a man on the brink of a breakdown. “Was I… discarded?” That thought—sharp as a blade—must have been carving through his mind incessantly. He had always battled a sense of isolation, always hungered for a place to belong. That was the essence of Riley. And now, he finally carried the name “Zaun.” “Riley.” “…Understood.” “Go and demand the truth from him. When Heskal shows himself, ask him the question that is hollowing out your heart. Until that moment—stay strong.” He didn’t wait for an acknowledgment. Riley had already stopped trying to justify Heskal’s actions. The patriarch didn’t command him to attack blindly. He told him to seek an answer. That implied the moment of reckoning was still on the horizon. The assembly had fractured into two camps, but Riley’s side was clearly outnumbered and outmatched. Had a brawl started, and had a lucky bolt of lightning not struck to distract the others, Riley’s group would have been crushed. “We are going to fight. Until then, hold your strength in reserve. This is a direct command.” The patriarch’s mandates were final. Unless the survival of Zaun was at stake, he rarely issued such hard orders. Everyone recognized the gravity. They were not a formal army, so there was no shouting of rank. Swoooooooosh. A flash of lightning painted the dim sky white through the thinning rain. KWA-BOOOOM! It felt as if a deity had reached down to strike a mortal—only to miss the mark. The bolt tore into the ground just outside the perimeter of the basin. Had it landed within the walls, it would have surely claimed lives. Despite the massive lightning rod positioned on one side of the basin, the strike had landed elsewhere. “Our only certainty is the steel we hold. Conduct yourselves with that in mind.” The patriarch turned his back and walked away. Enkrid observed the departure and gave a slow nod. “There’s no requirement to fix the infighting.” There was no necessity to place blind faith in everyone standing behind him either. The only thing that could be relied upon was the weapon in his own grip. Well—Lynox carried six of them, but the sentiment held. In place of an inspiring oration, the family head had delivered a cold reality. As he left, Ragna approached Enkrid to relay the details of what had transpired within the walls. Once the briefing was finished, Enkrid nodded. “I understand.” “Their target is Anne.” “Then we’ll ensure they never get close enough to try.” It was a brief conversation—but both men were unyielding in their commitment. If they crossed paths with the architect of this chaos, they would show no mercy. The rain had eased somewhat, but the sky showed no signs of clearing. A violent gale continued to howl, strong enough to sweep a person off their feet if they lost their balance. “This is bad. Very bad. Curse it all, my own symptoms are acting up now.” Lynox walked over, his face etched with a pained scowl. “What’s happening to you?” “It’s my hands. I lose my grip entirely sometimes. I’ve only been functional because of the tonics Milezcia provided.” “That isn’t just a random ailment!” That was Anne’s voice cutting through. A gust powerful enough to uproot crops drove her right into Ragna’s chest, and she cried out with simmering indignation. “That isn’t a natural illness—it’s a contagion that was deliberately spread!” Lynox finally grasped the full extent of their predicament. This was why the news of Heskal’s turn didn’t even shock him anymore. He wasn’t the only one whose health was failing. If the enemy struck at this moment? Yes… that would be a catastrophe. A complete disaster. Absorbing this, Lynox asked, “What are you saying?” “Everyone—get under cover! I can’t explain this out in the storm!” The conditions were horrific. Anne felt as if her very skin might be flayed if she stayed in the rain much longer. Ragna draped his heavy cloak over her head and hoisted her up. They retreated indoors. The most stable building remaining was the residence of the patriarch. “Family Head!” Lynox tried to get his attention but realized a subtle sign would never be noticed in this chaos. He shouted Anne’s demand instead. “Follow the girl’s lead.” The patriarch made the call, and the crowd followed Anne into the hall. Anne, the first to cross the threshold, snatched up a cloth and began frantically drying herself. She then took a position on the staircase leading to the upper floors. The ground level was underwater—it was no longer habitable. “Where is Grida?” she demanded, wringing water from her hair. “Bring her here.” The patriarch gave the word, and Anahera, along with several others, moved at once. Anahera had always maintained that Grida was her closest companion. Even the giants understood the weight of friendship and debt. And yet, a man who had pledged his very existence to Zaun, who spoke of his love for it, who had taken the sacred oath of a knight—had driven a blade into its heart. It wasn’t a clean cut, either. It was a savage, messy betrayal that had thrown Zaun into total disarray. Anne looked down upon the gathered warriors like a magistrate on a bench. She had spent her time traveling across Zaun, cataloging the symptoms of the afflicted. Her mind was a library of countless herbal formulas—some taught by a mentor full of spite, some she had puzzled out herself, and others she had bartered from Kraiss and the Border Guard using hard-earned krona. “I need everyone to describe their symptoms again and then go get the plants I specify. Can you manage that?” “I can.” The patriarch was the first to give his assent. Enkrid knew the man was emotionally hollow—and thus, by some strange logic, he could sense what the man was actually feeling. “Urgency.” The family head couldn’t put it into words, so he manifested it through his presence. “And perhaps… a hint of anticipation?” Even if his face remained a mask. “Then let’s begin.” Ragna stepped forward, his voice booming to organize the crowd. “Form a line!” Structure would be their best ally. The moment Ragna spoke, the patriarch took the lead position. “Start now,” he said. He was likely correcting his previous mindset: “Not later.” Anne stared at him, stunned by his bluntness. “Your condition won’t vanish in a heartbeat. I can’t fix you this second.” “…Then give me a suppressant. Something to dull the symptoms during a fight that works as soon as I swallow it.” “You have very particular requirements.” “Is there an issue with that?” Anne didn’t flinch. She didn’t even stop to reconsider. She gave her answer instantly. “I can do it.” There was an immense workload ahead. Rumors of an incoming invasion were howling outside—but her mission was to ensure that every person inside was physically capable of holding a blade. She had to start immediately—and even before she moved her hands, her intellect was already calculating the ratios. There was no room for hesitation or nerves. “Do you have any centella?” “…What is that?” Lynox, standing right behind the patriarch, looked to the man behind him. Anne had asked him—and he simply passed the question down the line. “It’s green, with a shape like this. Go search for it.” She used her hands to trace the outline of the leaf, though it was a vague description at best. “Go to the laboratory of Milezcia. Grab every plant that looks like a medicinal herb. And keep them dry.” The patriarch issued the command without a second thought. He was just as focused. Gathering herbs in the middle of a hurricane without letting them get wet was a nearly impossible task—but those who still had their strength began to move out into the rain.