Chapter 716

Chapter 716

Ragna had anticipated that Enkrid would provide him with a specific objective. It was a silent reliance—and yet Enkrid offered no instructions. Why was he being ignored? Scanning the wider chaos of the conflict, his father, mother, and Lynox occupied the primary vanguard, while he remained positioned slightly further back in the secondary line. He had performed his duties thus far, carving through the bestial ranks, but he had yet to truly commit to the front. Was his place beside his father? Ahead, he could see a formidable threat bearing down. Toward his mother, a Death Knight was clawing its way out of the earth, lunging directly at her. Where did he belong? Why did the commander remain silent? From that state of limbo, merely tracking the shifts of the battle, a realization began to dawn. Why had the commander refrained from giving orders? Was this Enkrid’s personal struggle? No. He was acting as an auxiliary. The heat of my anger stems from the fact that this is my birthplace. He had committed to joining the Mad Knights after his tenure with the Border Guard concluded. That choice was set in stone. It remained unshaken. However, Zaun… Zaun was the soil of his childhood. The things I leave in my wake… he finally understood. He would be leaving Anne behind. Leaving Enkrid behind. In the grandest sense, he would be leaving behind his people. He hoped that legacy would safely include his mother and father as well. Ragna shifted his weight and moved. He recognized his destination now. The architect of the fury burning in his chest wasn’t in his immediate vicinity—they were somewhere further, beyond the current skirmish. The peril surrounding his parents—they were capable of handling it themselves. A fierce gale buffeted him, trying to strip away his focus. Shhhhhh. The shrieks of the Scalers attempted to drown out his perception. The cursed serpent looming in the sky exerted a heavy pressure on his frame, warping his senses. Farther off, the creature capable of ascending as a true Lord of the Demon Realm—Medusa—made it nearly impossible to even keep his eyes open and look ahead. Despite the interference, Ragna felt the clarity of his own gift. The trail is visible. No level of sensory distortion could obscure the path illuminated by his natural brilliance. Ragna began his stride. This was a development Enkrid had not foreseen. To be perfectly candid, Enkrid had preferred Ragna to remain in the rear, acting as a reserve to be deployed only when the situation demanded it. But plans rarely survive contact with reality. Such is the nature of conflict. Such is the nature of existence. It is that very unpredictability that causes men to laugh in one moment—and weep in the next. In this instance, fortunately, it provided a reason to smile. “Where exactly do you think you’re going?” After navigating through the monsters, using them as markers for his progress, a voice called out to him. He knew the sound well. Shhhhhhh. Drenched by the heavy downpour, a middle-aged man stood his ground, wet hair clinging to his brow and cheeks. He swept the damp locks away, waiting for Ragna to account for himself. “I’m heading out to find the one responsible for this mess,” Ragna answered. “Are you lost?” “Hardly. I believe I’m exactly where I need to be. Navigating is a particular talent of mine.” Heskal was a man of immense composure—a person so level-headed he might not show outward frustration even once in a calendar year. Even during his disputes with Lynox, he never raised his voice or let his face redden with fury. Even when challenging the patriarch of the family, his speech had remained measured until the end. Few had ever witnessed the true depths of Heskal’s rage. Yet, even he seemed slightly provoked now, his words carrying a sharp edge. “Why have you broken formation instead of staying where you were put?” “I perceived the route, so I followed it.” Ragna’s flat delivery held the steady assurance of a man who trusted his own instincts. That was precisely what grated on Heskal’s nerves. Had Ragna stayed put, he could have been located with ease. Instead, the youth had decided to wander far from the heart of the engagement. Heskal had been forced to make a wide sweep just to intercept him. Why would any sane person march alone into the middle of the enemy’s reserve forces? The boy was reckless. Yet he maintained that this was the intended path. If I hadn’t crossed your path, you’d be wandering in circles and only find your way back when the dust had settled. From the perspective of Zaun, this was a stroke of fortune. If Heskal hadn’t sought him out, Ragna would still be drifting. If Enkrid had been present to witness the trajectory Ragna had chosen, he might have grasped the young man’s logic. But to Heskal, it appeared as nothing more than madness. Everyone else was fighting for their lives—so why was this boy just strolling off on his own? From a tactical standpoint, it was a disaster. On a personal level, it was simply cold. His parents were in mortal danger—so why was he standing here instead? “If I were Tempest, I would never have permitted your departure.” “You possess a smaller spirit than my father does.” Ragna spoke without hesitation. Having met Enkrid, listening to others discuss the ‘capacity’ of a man’s soul felt almost comical. As he spoke, Ragna pondered the journey he had taken. I have gained much insight. In truth, he had. When he held a blade, the direction was always evident. But until one truly treads the path, its true form remains a mystery. The terrain he had covered was uneven. There were steep inclines and sharp descents. Some sections were treacherous, while others were smooth. By physically moving through it, the nature of the journey had transformed. A path is not a fixed thing. It evolves based on the actions taken upon it. Who decides what is impossible? Unless you are a simpleton who allows the words of others to cage you, you are the one who defines your own boundaries. If you declare, “this is my limit,” then that becomes your wall. Enkrid had looked his own limitations in the eye and refused to yield. Ragna had learned to adopt that same defiance. To push past the ceiling— It’s exhilarating. The same rush he felt when he first gripped a hilt vibrated through his entire frame. What could possibly rival the ecstasy of breaking through into a new realm of potential? Heskal’s gaze shifted to Ragna’s massive sword. The steel was smeared with grime and filth. “No Dawnblade, I see.” Dawnblade was a longsword. Ragna did not appear to be hiding it anywhere on his person. “I’ll retrieve it eventually.” “Is it that you’re terrified of falling short of the family head’s expectations?” To carry Dawnblade, one required the patriarch’s approval. Tempest Zaun was not a man who would entrust the ancestral treasure to someone he considered inadequate—regardless of blood ties. “The weapon I carry is an engraved blade,” Heskal noted. Yours is not. The implication was clear. Ragna paid it no mind, tightening his grip on the greatsword with both hands. The point remained near the dirt. He didn’t hoist it high but let it hang low behind his hip. “Scared of the lightning, so you’re keeping the steel down?” Heskal was attempting to dissect his psyche with a few targeted remarks. Trying to find his measure. He plays it safe. Old patterns are difficult to break. Ragna had always possessed a habit of adhering to established routes. Heskal remembered this well. If he faces a foe he can wear down over time, he won’t gamble for a quick victory today. Ragna lacked a sense of desperation. Because of his natural talent, everything came to him without struggle—meaning he never felt the urge to take a dangerous leap. A handful of skirmishes across the world wouldn’t simply wash away that trait. To change him, someone would need to force a sense of life-or-death urgency upon this prodigy. But who could truly push someone of his caliber? Even within the halls of Zaun, no name came to mind. Has he ever stood against someone who made him feel truly cornered? Likely not. One of Zaun’s greatest assets was fostering geniuses alongside one another—but Ragna had lived outside that circle. Resentment toward his talent had left him in solitude. “Have you finally discovered what it means to give everything you have?” Heskal inquired. Ragna offered no verbal reply. His crimson eyes shimmered in the gloom. It was a clear indication that his body was overflowing with Will. I’ll have to account for him being more powerful than I thought, Heskal considered. He was a man who always overestimated his rivals, just to be safe. That was why he never committed his full strength immediately—he preferred to wait for the perfect gap. Forcing a path through raw power or sheer Will was not his way. Ensnare them with a physical blade. Strike with a phantom one. That was his craft. It sounded basic—but for the one facing it, it was anything but. One Point Focus. It was a hallmark technique of the Zaun lineage. This meant both men were intimately familiar with its mechanics. As they exchanged words, both began a rapid acceleration of their cognitive processes. I’ll end your life and deliver your head to the patriarch, Heskal thought. Ragna’s mind was empty. He felt only the weight of the greatsword in his palms. Then, he even let go of that sensation. Heskal initiated the engagement. He lunged forward—moving at a pace that seemed remarkably sluggish for a knight of his standing. He extended a thrust while keeping his profile narrow, his left hand tucked away behind his back. His frame aligned perfectly. His sword was a singular point aimed directly at the space between Ragna’s eyes. Ragna pivoted, his greatsword still held low. Drkkk. Ting. The steel bit into a stone in the mud, throwing off sparks. They both evaded the initial exchange and reset their positions. Heskal continued to keep his left hand hidden. Whatever he was concealing—it wasn’t a minor trick. His engraved sword lashed out once more. Everyone acquainted with him, including his ward Riley, knew the blade’s title: Routine. It was so remarkably steady and precise in its execution that it remained incredibly difficult to intercept. “Even as we speak, Ragna, your father’s life is slipping away.” Heskal’s tone remained as mild as ever. He sounded almost as if he were kindly suggesting Ragna go assist him. But it was a lure, meant to disrupt his mental focus. “Do you actually believe that?” “Your father has been a shell of himself for years. His strength is gone. You’ve witnessed it yourself.” Ragna had. But that was a limited perspective. “I’m certain Alex is currently engaged with the Death Knight.” No desperate cry for help came. Just more frustrating conversation—but Ragna was unmoved. In a previous life—before he met Enkrid, that desert savage, that cunning feline, and that obsessive believer—he might have flinched. But those days were over. Enkrid’s insults were more biting. The barbarian’s tactics were far more deceptive. “Heskal.” “Go on.” “You’re losing your hair. The rain makes it very obvious.” Ragna tossed the insult back with total indifference. Heskal wasn’t easily rattled—but he was genuinely caught off guard. “Your words have developed a bite.” “So has my edge.” “We shall see. But truly, do you intend to fight me without an engraved weapon? I’ll offer you a way out. Flee. Desert Zaun just as you did before. No one will find fault with it.” Expertly delivered. When it came to verbal sparring, he was almost on par with Enkrid. A joke about his hairline wasn’t going to break this man. “I never walked away from it.” “Is that so? Then was it the family that walked away from you?” Attempting to win a battle of wits was a waste of time. Ragna truly didn’t want to resort to this—but he channeled Rem’s attitude for a fleeting second. “Shut your mouth, you bald idiot. Are you just going to talk all day? Your breath is foul.” He felt a pang of regret immediately. However, it seemed to land. Heskal’s brow twitched for a moment before smoothing over. “Your language is embarrassingly crude. You sound like you belong in a common hunter’s camp.” “You’ve stayed in your little bubble too long. See the world. Out in the west, there are men whose breath alone could be a weapon.” He was thinking specifically of that bastard Rem. Heskal looked as though he wanted to retort, but instead, he lunged with sudden violence. This time, his speed doubled. Ragna managed to twist away—but the edge clipped his shoulder, slicing through a portion of his leather armor. Steel grated against steel in the narrow windows between strikes, and finally, Ragna unleashed a massive swing of his greatsword. A rising blow. BOOM! With a thunderous displacement of air, Heskal was forced back. In his prime, Heskal had been counted among the three greatest talents of Zaun. The force of the swing momentarily cleared the falling rain. Heskal regained his footing and thrust forward once more. Ragna began to sidestep— And then the blade lengthened. It was an impossible shift. Heskal had never shared his weapon’s true identity with anyone. It was not Routine. Its name was Camouflage. A deception woven into the physical blade—perfectly suited for his style of combat. The sword bared its true fangs—its point buried itself deep into Ragna’s shoulder. Thwuck! A heavy, wet impact. The sound of cold steel shearing through leather and sinking into living tissue.