Chapter 710

Chapter 710

Under normal circumstances, there was no reason for the members of Zaun to follow the instructions of anyone other than the patriarch. “What is he rambling about?” That would have been the natural reaction—dismissing him without a second thought. But this moment was different. The timing necessitated leadership, and because it was Enkrid giving the orders, it took hold. More specifically, following his lead didn’t feel like a mistake. Enkrid had shared their meals, their rest, and the relentless rhythm of their training. Those hours spent clashing steel were particularly profound. Despite being an outsider from beyond the borders of Zaun, Enkrid was a man who seemed to belong to the landscape of Zaun more naturally than anyone else. Now, Enkrid had unsheathed the weapon known as Zaun, ready to direct its edge. As Anahera launched her strike and the creatures opposing the Family Head, Alexandra, and Lynox surged forward, the main force advanced. The swarm of beasts closing in on the defensive line held by the Family Head began organizing themselves around the Scalers. This wasn’t a mindless stampede; they were systematically establishing a siege line. If Enkrid had witnessed it, he might have offered genuine praise to whoever had coached monsters to execute such maneuvers. Ragna remained unaware of Enkrid’s commands. He stayed in that uncertain space behind the Family Head, just as he had before. “Father.” Ragna spoke to his father’s back. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his heavy greatsword already out and resting low. To an observer, it looked like a relaxed, purposeless pose. In truth, it was the readiness of a predator. That stance mirrored his father’s almost perfectly. It was inevitable—Ragna had mastered the blade by observing him. He had always aimed to reach his father’s level, picking up his weapon even while enduring his mother’s discipline. That was where Ragna’s journey began. “Go on.” His father answered, never turning around. The monsters were drawing near. They weren’t a lethal threat to men of their caliber, but this could still mark the final chapter for Zaun. Which meant it would be the end for his father as well. “What is it you hope to leave behind? What have you already established?” Perhaps he had been influenced by Enkrid—that peculiar interest in the dreams of others. He specifically wondered about his father—what were his desires? What had he been hunting for all this time? “My frame can no longer mend itself. I understand my own condition better than anyone.” The reply was instant. It was as if he had been holding onto that realization, waiting for the right moment to voice it. On the surface, it seemed like an irrelevant comment. But if his father decided it was time to say it, Ragna knew he had to truly hear it. “Inherit Ilchul. But let go of the family.” Tempest was well aware that his strength was fading. Having the chance to say to his son what he had previously told Enkrid was an opportunity he wouldn’t waste. Still looking forward, he added: “I am leaving the family in the hands of Odinkar.” Was this intended to soothe Ragna’s conscience? The delivery was almost casual, as if it didn’t matter. Like handing someone a piece of candy without looking. Even though the leadership of the clan and the blade Ilchul were not topics for casual conversation, that was how he spoke of them. It wasn’t a lack of heart. Tempest simply found it impossible to weave emotion into his speech. It was a lifelong trait. A private truth known only to a tight circle—his spouse, Grida, and a few others. Ragna had always understood this intellectually. But now… now he felt it. His father’s intent cut deeper than it ever had before—like a sharp edge sliding past the surface to bite into the bone. His father’s words were always rooted in truth. When he spoke, it was only to reveal his inner reality. He couldn’t project warmth, yet he deeply loved his wife, his household, and his people. So he chose this path: ensuring every syllable was heavy with his absolute sincerity. A father might tell a child “I love you” a thousand times, yet the child might still feel a chill. So the father did the only thing he could—he made sure every word he uttered was undeniable. That was the conviction—and the oath—of Tempest Zaun. And that conviction finally reached his son. Ragna understood. He was the boy who had wandered away and lost his path, only to grow up and find his way back. Now he could perceive his father’s spirit. Now he could truly listen. The family seat was not his to take. His life was no longer bound to Zaun. The reason Odinkar had been tasked to fight for Zaun, even at the risk of death, was clear: He would guide the family in Ragna’s stead. And to his son, Tempest would grant Ilchul—and his liberty. “Then this conflict will be my final obligation… Father.” Ragna spoke in harmony with his father’s cadence. The silent meaning was clear: I honor your choice. “And my desire,” Tempest added, “is a sturdy boundary. One untainted by malevolence or rot, if it can be helped.” “No one will be permitted to disrupt your vision,” Ragna vowed. Their independent thoughts intertwined flawlessly, concluding as a pact made for one another. Then, like a breaking storm, the monsters thundered forward. Ragna moved by instinct to cover his father’s rear—and waited for the signal from Enkrid. He trusted that Enkrid would identify what needed to be done. So, for the moment, he simply stood ready. ‘For the order.’ Ragna breathed the words silently—and took his position.

What occurs when your vision and your rival’s intent collide? The answer is simple—it is settled by the ancient law of the land. Which is to say, the one with the greater power dictates the outcome. That was the rule in the Empire. That was the way of the world Enkrid had always known. In the end, only the victor’s dream is left standing. This clash was no different. Some sought a new era. Others sought to preserve their legacy. “You are being reckless.” The one craving change spoke. “Heskal. You have never bested me.” So claimed the one standing guard. Even without speaking face-to-face, it was a dialogue. They conversed through their deeds. Shhhhhh. The rhythmic rainfall never faltered. BOOM! A sudden crack of lightning joined the symphony of the struggle. They would measure their wits, their cunning, and their physical might. That is the nature of war. Enkrid had deployed Anahera and Kato—the two swiftest among them. And on this front stood another man whose legs were failed him, but whose blade-work was their equal. “Riley, take the center! Aivan, Lennon, Lontis—advance to the left and form up! Whoever was paired with them, get in line! Right flank—Betty, Ludens, and Kal, hold your ground. You are the support! View yourselves as the last line—if you buckle, we are finished!” Instinct is a mechanism that draws solutions from the subconscious, fueled by history and wisdom. That was the tool Enkrid wielded now. His stay in Zaun, every duel and every drill—it wasn’t for nothing. The strategy was obvious. He understood Zaun. Perhaps not perfectly, but well enough to lead them. ‘Still, I have a grim intuition.’ A feeling nagged at the back of his mind like a persistent itch. Sssssshhhhhhh—! The Scalers let out their haunting cries—meant to warp and confuse the mind. That was their primary weapon. Following their shrieks, ghostly shapes—Plague Maidens—began to manifest in the mist. ‘They didn’t direct any toward the Family Head.’ Naturally. Tempest, Alexandra—warriors of their caliber could dispatch spirits in an instant using their Will or other techniques. Heskal truly understood how to orchestrate a front. He directed every unit precisely where they could do the most damage. The conjured ghosts drifted ahead, trailing pestilence. “Break it out and apply it!” Enkrid shouted while tracking the spirits. Anne was highly capable—and Enkrid was even more so. They had anticipated this. While Enkrid had been honing his combat skills, Anne had been busy harvesting plants and brewing remedies. Before they set out, she had distributed clumps of amber-colored powder to everyone. At Enkrid’s command, those near Riley produced the powder and smeared it across their steel. “Now that we’re prepared—let’s begin!” Even with that dark premonition clawing at his mind—even though the odds weren’t in their favor— “This is going to be exhilarating.” Just as Lua Gharne had once remarked, Enkrid felt a surge of excitement as he set the pieces in motion. A combat zone is a stage—and the troops are the instruments you play. ‘We shall not fall.’ As the adrenaline rose, a cold determination anchored him. “What kind of madness is that!?” Riley still found the breath to retort to Enkrid’s talk. He pulled a throwing blade, drawing his right arm back. He had obsessed over this throwing style, as his mobility made traditional footwork impossible. It wasn’t the technique of Jaxon, but it carried its own weight. He planted himself on his good leg, treated his entire torso as a catapult, and snapped his arm forward like a released spring. PANG! The steel cut through the air—moving almost too fast to see—striking the heads of two Plague Maidens and banishing them into the storm. It was a move that drained every fiber of his being. Not a strike he could repeat indefinitely. His throwing arm nearly brushed the mud—he had put every ounce of strength into it. It was a strike that seemed to hold his entire soul. ‘Not bad.’ Enkrid noted the feat without outward emotion. Riley, too, was a sharp edge of Zaun. Despite being crushed by Heskal, he hadn’t disintegrated. He stood tall—looking forward. He, too, was prepared to step out from beneath his father’s shadow. ‘Those who refuse to progress have no path.’ Riley would live to see another day. He had earned that future. DUDUDUDUDU! The Scalers mounted on lizards slammed into the front line. One of them lunged with a blackened staff—held in a reverse grip like a mace. It didn’t take an expert to realize those weapons were soaked in toxins. They collided with the unit led by Riley. “If you perish before this fool does, you’re an even bigger embarrassment!” Riley bellowed. A war cry that drowned out the Scalers’ unnatural noises. It cut through the deluge—a rallying scream. Riley had no formal military background, but he had been shaped by Heskal. Being down a leg meant he was accustomed to fighting in coordination with others. In this moment—he was the only one capable of guiding even a small contingent. Witness how, on the brink of slaughter, he boosted their spirits. Of course, that was only possible because Enkrid had built the foundation. “Hahaha!” Anahera’s booming laughter echoed from the distance. The warrior adopted into the clan, a massive figure, gripped a sword so wide that normal men couldn’t even wrap their hands around the grip—and swung it like a feather. CRACK! CRUNCH! SHATTER! Her heavy blade plowed through a line of lizard riders—splitting both beasts and pilots alike. “Den! Gather nine others and pierce that opening!” Enkrid unsheathed his steel and signaled. Den was one of those who had been paralyzed by shock. Enkrid had noticed him react to Riley’s yelling—muttering “damn it, you moron” while drawing his sword—and called him out. Den wasn’t a master, but he held respect among his peers. Two of the four men Heskal had murdered were his close companions. That was why he had looked at Riley with such venom. But perhaps… seeing Riley rush into the fray had sparked a sense of shame. If even the son cast aside by his father is standing his ground—what am I doing? Thoughts like that must have crossed his mind. Regardless of the motive, he was ready to kill—and so Enkrid put him to work. Ten warriors rushed forward with Den—each wielding a single sword. They were of Zaun. If you set aside the fact that many hadn’t reached their full potential due to circumstances, these men were formidable warriors the moment they entered a real fight. Even while directing them, Enkrid’s gaze flitted from side to side, never losing focus. BOOM! CRACK! The Family Head sliced through the horde with his greatsword—each strike carrying more weight than anything Anahera had displayed. And he hadn’t budged an inch from his spot. Beside him, Alexandra fought with equal ferocity. She blurred and pounced within a small radius of her position. Severed parts and heads of beasts rained down around her. Lynox utilized two of his six blades. In his left hand—a slender rapier: Esterc. In his right—a heavy, curved falchion. With Esterc, he parried. With the falchion, he reaped. A basic tactic—but executed with lethal perfection. The pile of dead monsters at his feet was the largest among the three. Enkrid had studied this before. There was a wealth of knowledge to be found in his style. ‘Use the light steel to guide the enemy away. Use the heavy steel to end them.’ He traded the concept of blocking for redirection, and every strike was a study in minimal effort for maximum destruction. He was exactly the sort of warrior who could dismantle a hundred styles—and then invent a hundred more. SHHHHHHHH! Suddenly, the rain became a wall. Perhaps because the Plague Maidens had pulled back once more? Despite the copper smell and the rot of the fight, Enkrid detected a new sensation— A sugary, heavy perfume in the air. No magic had fallen yet—and the storm raged on—but Enkrid’s heightened perception caught the change. Zaun possessed knights. And Heskal was a strategist. If he initiated this conflict knowing there would be knights present—he would have crafted a countermeasure. This was one of those measures. Drmul might be the origin of the sickness, a creature aspiring to divinity. But the architect of this slaughterhouse—was Heskal. And his master plan? It hadn’t even been cracked yet. That was Enkrid’s assessment.