Chapter 708

Chapter 708

The art of the blade originated with forms intended to maximize the mechanical output of the body. It required understanding the precise stance width needed to anchor power, the correct way to grasp the hilt, and the method of spiraling energy from the feet through the core, shoulders, and into the hands. True swordsmanship was the endless study of positions that optimized force and the refinement of the strikes launched from those foundations.

The patriarch of the clan swung his weapon as if he were personifying these core principles. He lunged forward with his left leg, driving a horizontal slash from his right side to his left. Though it appeared to be a standard maneuver rooted in tradition, the atmosphere buckled under its weight.

Silence fell abruptly. The howling wind and the downpour were drawn into the vacuum of the blade’s path, vanishing instantly. Enkrid observed the patriarch’s movement and felt a high-pitched vibration ring in his ears.

Piiiiiiiiiiiiiii.

It was a strike that consumed the environment—negating the tempest and the lightning alike. Enkrid’s heightened perception triggered instinctively, causing time to dilate. He saw the patriarch’s execution and the charging monsters as distinct, isolated frames. His combat intuition pulled a sliver of the immediate future into his mind’s eye.

The patriarch’s sword traced a solitary curve. A dense, violent streak of energy painted the air from right to left, resembling a heavy stroke from a brush dripping with thick pigment. The two creatures caught in that trajectory would be bifurcated and destroyed. Yet, in their final throes, their talons would tear into the patriarch’s shoulder and side. The intent of the beasts, striking from high and low angles, was unmistakable.

Boom!

The ringing tone culminated in a violent burst. Enkrid exhaled a soft sound and gave a sharp nod. The premonition he had grasped through his insight had been altered. This did not shock him. It deviated from his vision, but such a feat was only natural for the sovereign of Zaun.

The patriarch’s blade moved with a velocity that surpassed the monsters’ charge. The two creatures were sliced through and tossed into the air. With sickening squelches, their carcasses hit the mud like butchered meat, leaking dark ichor. Retracting his weapon into a relaxed guard, the leader spoke.

“Show yourself, Heskal. I am here to pass sentence on your treachery.”

Swaaah.

Through the heavy veil of rain, along the path sacred to the disciples of the blade—the grand pilgrimage dedicated to the god of swords—an army of monsters became visible. They were not a chaotic mob; they stood in disciplined ranks. Even the sovereign must have realized the gravity of the sight. No observer could believe the coming conflict would be simple. A man who understood the inner workings of Zaun’s power stood before them as an adversary. He had arrived with a strategy for victory.

However, with that single display of the sovereign’s martial prowess, the momentum of the encounter shifted. What use were conspiracies or ambushes? Could any scheme serve as a shield against such a blade? That was the silent declaration of the patriarch’s sword.

“Then ask your questions.”

From the center of the monstrous battalion, Heskal stood and gave his reply. He was unmoved by the crushing aura of the patriarch or the tension permeating the air. His presence was undeniable. Standing defiantly before the head of the house, he made it clear—he was the architect of this crisis. Their gazes locked through the mist of the rain.

The temperature seemed to drop. A crack of thunder tore through the blackened sky, acting as a barrier between the two men. Yet, it was neither the patriarch nor Heskal who shattered the stillness.

“Heskal.”

A figure limped forward from the standoff. His eyes flickered with uncertainty, though his internal turmoil was surely greater.

“Ah, Riley. I assumed the lord would have kept you under guard. But he is a pragmatic man. Bringing you here despite his suspicions—it was clearly an attempt to unnerve me.”

Swaaah.

The rain fell without prejudice or emotion. It was indifferent. Heskal’s voice and posture mirrored that cold neutrality. There was no outward malice, but there was a total absence of compassion.

“You actually used me?”

Riley’s jaw was set tight. He bit down with such intensity that blood seeped from his lips, only to be washed away by the storm. No one from a distance would have noticed, but Enkrid, standing right beside him, saw the detail clearly. He hadn’t sought out Riley’s company; it was merely a matter of positioning.

‘This is the optimal vantage point.’

Riley occupied the tactical center of Zaun’s formation. It was the perfect place to survey the engagement and react to the flow of battle.

“Were you under the influence of an illusion? Is someone threatening you? Do you need a cure for some poison?” Riley stammered, desperate for an alternative reality. But his theories were hollow. For a lesser man, a life-or-death ultimatum might explain such a betrayal. But Heskal was not that man. He was someone who would have embraced death before turning his back on Zaun. That was the reputation he had forged over decades.

Heskal did not flinch. With his spine straight and his shoulders squared, he projected an air of profound dignity and conviction.

“Do you truly believe that is the case?” Heskal dismissed the idea with the same calm, gentle tone he had always used.

“Then tell me why!”

Riley’s cry cut through the rain. He appeared composed on the surface, but his spirit was screaming. Heskal did not mock him or offer a lecture. Instead, he looked at the patriarch and asked calmly:

“Did you honestly think I would falter because of this?”

“It was a variable worth testing.” The patriarch did not deny it. He openly admitted that Riley’s presence was a psychological tactic intended to disrupt Heskal’s focus.

“Abandon this path. The end has arrived,” Heskal repeated.

Meanwhile, Enkrid focused on the stationary legion of monsters. He estimated their numbers and formation. Slightly over a thousand? A scout’s primary duty is the accurate assessment of the enemy. Enkrid was proficient in that regard. What unsettled him was the absolute stillness of the creatures.

‘Are they conditioned? Or is this mental subjugation?’

Regardless of the method, they were a terrifying prospect. Monsters that remained organized were no longer beasts; they were an army. A force that maintains discipline under pressure is considered elite. It isn’t just about raw power—it’s about the commander’s ability to ensure they execute orders as trained. Inexperienced troops break under pressure; they flee, hide, or charge blindly. But those who hold their line are true professionals.

‘They resemble the regular forces of the Border Guard.’

These monsters looked like they had been through rigorous drills. They would be a difficult hurdle.

“Why, damn it, why?”

Riley’s spirit had fractured. It was a testament to how much he had respected Heskal. Riley’s frame shivered. When the inner resolve breaks, the body follows. It was as if he had been struck by an invisible blade. If so, Heskal was a master combatant of the soul, having devastated a man’s spirit without ever drawing a weapon.

Enkrid felt the emotional pressure from everyone around him. Lua Gharne used to say: “What sort of incompetent leader is ignorant of their own soldiers’ condition?” Knowing the enemy is vital, but it is useless without self-knowledge. That was her tactical philosophy, and Enkrid applied it now. He scanned his allies. Some were fueled by rage, others by grief, and a few remained stoic. Each projected a distinct signature.

The most unusual among them was the giantess, Anahera. She was vibrating with anticipation. Her breathing was heavy and ragged. She was on the verge of a violent outburst, her fingers dancing over her sword’s hilt. If her restraints were removed, she would succumb entirely to the instincts of her giant heritage—becoming a Beast of Red Blood.

‘In a real clash, her value is equal to or greater than a knight.’

Enkrid mentally categorized the group. Those blinded by sorrow would still fight effectively, but those in the grip of panic would only serve to increase the body count. He identified those ready to strike, those who needed a moment to steady themselves, and those who should be relegated to the rearguard.

‘And the opposition has practitioners of the occult.’

Mages aside, shamanic hexes targeted emotional instability. Curses fed on the cracks in a person’s heart—Rem had taught him that, and his own experiences confirmed it. He maintained a clear mind and sharp judgment as he mapped out the potential battlefield in his head.

“Ah, Enkrid of the Border Guard. You were so eager to leave, were you not? Why do you remain? What do you hope to achieve here?” Heskal called out to him. He maintained his distance, shouting from across the gap. It was a calculated move. If the patriarch and his wife coordinated an attack, Heskal would be in mortal danger. He refused to provide that opening.

“What was that dream of yours? You promised to tell me. I couldn’t just walk away without an answer,” Enkrid yelled back. Their voices carried clearly through the downpour.

“Is your curiosity that persistent?”

“Ever since I was a boy, I couldn’t rest if I didn’t understand something.” It wasn’t a total fabrication—at least regarding the sword. He generally ignored everything else.

“You are a fascinating individual,” Heskal remarked, showing a flicker of genuine interest for the first time. “Behind me stands one who seeks the mantle of a deity. The name of the alchemist Dremule is known to many.”

It was a name of legend and infamy. If Anne were present, she would likely protest the logic of it. Dremule was the mentor of Raban—a psychotic alchemist who had engineered plagues and orchestrated massacres. He was supposed to be a relic of history, long since deceased.

Heskal stated his ambition with total composure. “Just as he crafts a path to divinity, I shall do the same. I will forge my own godhood.”

He was entirely earnest. The goal was preposterous, but dreams are often defined by their impossibility. That which is out of reach, that which requires the unthinkable—that is what people call a dream.

However, Enkrid sensed a void. ‘He isn’t telling the whole story.’

Attaining divinity could simply be a tool. For what purpose? If he feared his own end, he would have spoken of eternal life. If he sought to reclaim a lost loved one, he would have mentioned revival. But Heskal offered no further details. He only revealed that his long-guarded dream was the theft of divine power. That was the extent of his disclosure.

Those few words served to stall for time. And in that interval, several people responded exactly as Enkrid had anticipated.

“You’re out of your mind.”

Riley Zaun reaffirmed his loyalty with that single insult. He was a true blade of Zaun. The instability in his eyes began to fade. Even in a storm, a seasoned sailor remains upright. Riley had found his footing.

‘Impressive.’

Enkrid noted the shift with approval. Several others were silently girding themselves for the fight. But the recovery wasn’t universal. Many had looked to Heskal for guidance or salvation in the past, and they remained caught in the emotional tide. They were not yet fit for the front lines.

‘The sovereign, his wife, Lynox, myself, and Ragna.’

Those were the five primary knights. There were two others who sat on the threshold of that rank. The giantess Anahera and the man standing across from Riley. The latter had been acknowledged by Lynox years ago but had spent a decade wandering, stifled by the immense talent surrounding him. His journey hadn’t been easy; everyone endures their own version of hell. His path had taken him through the villages of veterans, hunters, and fixers. After his long exile, he had returned with a hardened spirit. Like Anahera, he was likely more effective in a true life-or-death struggle than his rank suggested.

‘Anahera has her lineage. That accounts for her strength.’

The man opposing Riley, the wanderer—Kato Zaun. He was a versatile combatant who had even mastered elements of Ail Caraz’s martial traditions. He had outfitted his body with bladeless hilts and concealed weaponry. He was known as Kato of the Bladed Armor.

Five knights plus two specialists. Zaun had approximately seventy capable combatants. The rest stayed back. This was the sum of Zaun’s true military strength.