Chapter 707

Chapter 707

Enkrid shifted his gaze toward Ragna. “You should consider it a miracle if even half of them survive this,” he remarked. Anne, who had been resting, pushed herself up into a sitting position to watch those departing. Her stare was intense, her eyes unmoving. If one were to stand before Anne at that moment, they would see the retreating figures of the warriors mirrored in her wide, glassy pupils. At her soft declaration, Enkrid, Ragna, and Grida—who remained lying down—all turned to look at her. “I apologize, Ragna. I claimed I could heal everyone.” In reality, only fifty percent could be saved. And that estimate only held true if they weren’t slaughtered in the coming conflict. To Enkrid’s ears, the weight of her words was heavy. Anne had the intelligence to offer excuses or list the insurmountable obstacles she faced. But she chose silence instead. Even a prodigy is powerless against the flow of time. The plague that had gripped Zaun was no natural occurrence; it was a deliberate cruelty, a testing ground for someone’s malice. The intent behind the disease was exceptionally foul. Had Anne been granted a single year, her tone would have been different. She would have confidently promised to save the vast majority. Given three years, her stance would have been absolute. She would have boldly sworn that the illness would claim no more lives. But she lacked that luxury. To implement the medical framework she had synthesized through alchemy, she required endless trials and periods of observation. In the face of such a desperate deadline, talent felt as fragile as a withered leaf. “Forgive me,” Anne whispered once more. Ragna didn’t look away from the horizon. He watched the backs of the people who shared his blood and his soil. From her position, his sister, Grida Zaun, spoke up. “None of us hold this against you.” Ragna had always struggled to find a definitive path for his life. He never knew how to choose a single direction. Yet, he hadn’t viewed this uncertainty as a burden. He saw it as a gift. He loved the novelty of new horizons and unexplored worlds. A path walked under the sun would feel like a mystery by moonlight, and he found joy in that. He never saw it as a curse. However, the moment a hilt was in his palm, the fog vanished. The way forward became a straight, undeniable line. In the realm of swordsmanship, Ragna possessed a total, instinctive understanding. Because it was so clear, it bored him. That was the true reason he had wandered away from his heritage. One might call it a flight from responsibility or a search for a life less predictable. “Ragna, this kingdom is your cradle,” Enkrid reminded him. Since his return to Zaun, Ragna had been interrogating his own soul. ‘I was avoiding the dawn,’ he realized. He searched within himself for the reason behind that avoidance. “The solution lies within. The history you’ve written becomes your guide,” Enkrid’s words echoed in his mind. He finally understood the permission to be furious. “They defiled your sanctuary, tormented your kin, and sought to erase the land of your birth,” Enkrid continued. The beauty of a sunrise was irrelevant now. His body had often moved on its own, swinging at shadows or freezing in his tracks. It wasn’t a fear of an empty legacy that stopped him. He had simply paused. It was a primal pull. A deep-seated intuition. As if a divine hand had stayed his progress for this specific moment. Now, the reason was undeniable. ‘My home is under siege.’ Enkrid might view Zaun as a minor territory, but for Ragna, it was the dirt he played in and the community that shaped him. It was his starting point. The prodigal son had physically returned long ago, but his spirit had only just arrived. He saw his father’s wasted frame and hollow cheeks. He saw the uncharacteristic spite in his mother’s eyes. He saw the wound in his sister’s side. He saw his childhood friends and fellow soldiers spitting blood as they struggled against the rot. “The architect of this misery is waiting out there,” Enkrid stated. “I am aware,” Ragna answered. The clarity of his rage was total now. Had he truly hesitated because he felt unworthy of his station? Had he feared the judgment of those he had left behind? “A single battle won’t erase years of absence,” Enkrid noted, his voice somewhere between a cold truth and a brotherly warning. He was making it clear that even if Ragna fought with everything he had, he wouldn’t necessarily be redeemed in everyone’s eyes. Whether Ragna absorbed the weight of that or dismissed it didn’t matter; his reply was firm. “That is of no consequence to me.” Enkrid gave a sharp, satisfied nod. That was the Ragna he knew. With that, Enkrid pushed aside a dark memory from his own past. Dwellling on old pains was useless. His only goal now was to ensure his friend didn’t have to witness the same devastation he once had. “Grida.” “I’m listening.” “Keep Anne safe.” “I would give my final breath to do so, even without your word.” Grida wasn’t alone in the shadows of the mansion. Others remained—those who had been overcome by the sickness after Heskal left, their lungs failing them. Anne was their only tether to life. Among them was the young squire who had first met them. At only thirteen years old, even Anne’s expertise was reaching its limit with him. The boy’s time was running out. He had been infected by the most aggressive form of the “seeds” planted by the monster outside. His internal organs were being choked by growths—a slow, agonizing end. Since he could no longer march, he stayed to guard the rear. “I will stand watch over her as well,” the boy declared. He seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation far better than Ragna had at that age. His resolve was etched into his voice. “I can’t join the vanguard, but if any assassin tries to reach the doctor, I can still draw blood.” Enkrid believed him. The boy’s spirit was fierce. “They relied on toxins before, and Anne neutralized them. If the threat is the same, I am more than capable of holding the line,” Grida added. She was trying to offer them peace of mind. Despite the hole in her abdomen, she could still wield a blade, though pushing herself would likely be fatal. They couldn’t allow that. The objective was simple: hold the line. What lies behind you is what you define as your worth. That is the mark you leave on the world. Ragna turned to Anne. “If I return…” “Don’t start with the omens. I don’t want to hear about life and death. Just come back. If I’m in danger, I’ll scream until you hear me. Just be there to save me again.” Ragna nodded solemnly. “I will.” If he fell here, what would remain? He thought of the girl who carried the world’s guilt on her shoulders despite her innocence. Ragna started to speak, but stopped. He pushed down the thought: ‘The version of me you carry in your heart will remain.’ “It’s time,” Enkrid said, stepping toward the exit. Ragna followed. ‘It isn’t just Anne.’ She wouldn’t be the only one to remember him. There was also the man who had dragged himself out of the depths to tell Ragna his anger was justified. That man would carry his memory as well. They stepped out of the estate. On their way, they passed a woman from the household walking with a heavy gait. The short-haired woman looked at Enkrid and asked, “Why is Enki even doing this?” Enkrid had grown to appreciate her during his stay. Whether it was for his friend or the people he had come to know, his reasons were many. But he wasn’t the type to voice such sentiments. Ragna trailed behind, keeping his distance. He hadn’t formed the same bonds with the staff that Enkrid had; his focus had been solely on Anne’s protection. The woman found Ragna’s presence overwhelming. Enkrid slowed his steps to match hers. “Samcheol.” “…What?” “He kept begging for a chance to play.” The eccentric man patted the hilt of the blade at his hip. Swaaah— The storm drove the rain against them. The woman took a weary step away from Enkrid. “The healer wasn’t lying. You really are mad.” A lunatic who holds conversations with his steel. “Yes, yes, Samcheol. Today will be quite a performance.” Enkrid ignored her reaction and stroked the sword’s metal. The woman hurried away. He hadn’t intended to mock her. Should he have admitted he hated the person who ruined his comrade’s home? Or that he hoped the people he’d met wouldn’t end up as corpses? It felt too vulnerable. It was easier to pretend it was all about the thrill of the hunt. Samcheol was “crying.” It wasn’t a metaphor. The blade was vibrating, reacting to the intensity of Enkrid’s Will. It wasn’t literal tears, but the physical manifestation of his intent saturating the metal. “Why are you playing the fool?” Ragna questioned him. It wasn’t a lecture, but Ragna could see through the performance Enkrid was using to mask his sincerity. “Me?” “You know exactly what I mean.” “If I asked what you plan to leave behind, what would your answer be?” Enkrid redirected Ragna’s own philosophy back at him. “Simple. The memory of my blade in the minds of those who saw it.” Ragna offered a bright grin, oblivious to the downpour. He laughed. The fury toward those who had poisoned his home had transformed into a focused energy. He was moving toward his purpose, so he could afford to smile. To an outsider, the sight of them would look like pure insanity. Zaun was situated in a basin, meaning the path upward was a long, sweeping incline. The road was wide and well-paved, known to the family as the Pilgrimage Path of the Sword. ‘They truly do revere the god of blades,’ Enkrid thought as he climbed. Rain pooled in the depressions of the stone, but the road remained solid. It wasn’t a path of religious sanctity, but one of martial respect. A pilgrimage of discipline. At the base of the winding road, the architects of this chaos had congregated. The curtain of rain obscured the distance. However, the silhouette of the Lord of Zaun and the enemies blocking him were visible. Enkrid and Ragna watched the older man’s back. Without a word, the Lord unsheathed his weapon. The opposition moved instantly. Two warriors with mottled black and red scales broke formation, charging from the flanks. The Lord met them alone. Had Anne’s concoctions taken effect? Most of what she had prepared were likely temporary boosters to keep the dying on their feet. Real healing was a slow process. Yet, as the Lord moved, the pressure emanating from him was twice as potent as before. Like a massive, immovable blade, his presence dominated the storm.

“How are they still standing?” Heskal hadn’t felt this level of disbelief in years. The thought escaped him as a frustrated whisper. They should have been bedridden or dead, yet they were forming a line of battle. And they didn’t look like they were merely faking strength. Beside him, the student of Dremule spoke. “This shouldn’t be possible.” The man was over seventy and had been blind since youth. Instead of seeking spiritual sight, he had grafted a third, monstrous eye into his brow. Through this Evil Eye, the rain was no obstacle. “We have an interloper. Wasn’t the healer reported dead?” Heskal, his mind racing through the variables, answered. “She survived.” It was the only logical conclusion. That girl, Anne. His gut told him he was right. Dremule hadn’t targeted her on a whim. Dremule was well aware of her potential. The moment Heskal had described her, Dremule had ordered her execution. The sick must die, and those who stop the sickness must die first—that was the logic. Heskal’s first move had failed. But Dremule’s disciple remained unmoved. And Heskal regained his composure. “It is a temporary setback. No one can dismantle years of Master’s work in a single afternoon.” That was the truth. Even with this surprise, Heskal was certain the final curtain would fall in their favor.