Chapter 730

Chapter 730

Enkrid did not decline the proposition made by Valphir. No person—not even the patriarch of the clan—possessed the authority to hold him back. How could they possibly intervene when his gaze burned with such intensity at the mere prospect of the journey? Consequently, those left behind did the only things within their power.

“Ragna has departed to claim the Sunrise. It will require several days. Perhaps two weeks at the very most.”

Tempest noted that Enkrid seemed largely indifferent to his words. The young man’s focus was already fixed on the horizon of what lay ahead.

‘Ambition and the drive for a challenge.’

If one attempted to categorize the fire in those eyes, it would demand several definitions. It was a flickering furnace of a soul hungry for knowledge and advancement. The sense Enkrid projected was that his mental baggage had been packed long ago.

“Are you truly departing ahead of the rest?”

Anne, one of those who had aided him, moved closer. Her intent wasn’t to obstruct his path, but rather to seek finality.

“Yes. Make sure Ragna follows with you. If you leave him to find his own way, you’ll never share a home with him in this lifetime.”

“I am well aware of that.”

The absence of a smile on her face betrayed her genuine anxiety for him. From various corners, people approached to press supplies into his hands—strips of salted meat, dried fruits, and even the specialized concoctions unique to Milezcia—all of which were stowed into his rucksack.

“Take this. It’s yours now.”

The notoriously stingy Lynox produced one of his treasured artifacts. It appeared to be a rod only slightly longer than a short blade, but with a sharp snap of motion, it extended outward with a mechanical click, revealing a lethal spearhead.

“A collapsible javelin. It’s imbued with a penetration enchantment; it will punch through almost any defense. Furthermore—”

Lynox leaned in, whispering a deeper explanation of the item’s properties. It was a truly exceptional piece of gear.

“Employ it wisely.”

Enkrid took the gift with a relaxed gesture of gratitude. He secured it to his belt, hoisted his pack, checked his two blades, and pivoted toward the exit. The dark navy mantle draped over his shoulders drew the eye, featuring an asymmetrical crest stitched into the fabric.

“Are the two of you certain you can manage this? If the need arises, just send word. I will come to assist,” Grida murmured as Enkrid walked past.

“Even with a wound in your gut?”

“What, do you think Zaun is empty of warriors? Besides, who hasn’t dealt with a few punctures before?”

Enkrid dismissed the worry with a light wave. To a distant observer, the sight of him bantering with his comrades might have seemed unremarkable.

‘But he is anything but ordinary.’

He was far too compelling for such a label. With his raven hair, eyes like a crystalline lake, and that distinct navy cloak, he possessed the quality of a masterpiece. He was tall, lithe, and his disciplined posture combined with a rhythmic gait suggested a deep, unshakable inner peace.

‘Most high-born ladies would be captivated the moment he entered a room.’

Yet, there was a more baffling element to his departure. Tempest, who usually asked for nothing, felt compelled to reach out to Enkrid with words alone.

“Why is it that you request no compensation?”

He had delivered Zaun from a horrific fate. He had neutralized the looming shadow over their home.

‘Only two blades and a single girl?’

While those three hadn’t acted entirely alone, Tempest knew the truth. What would have become of them had this man not interfered? It didn’t take a genius to calculate the outcome. Events would have unfolded according to the designs of Heskal—or worse, the Empire would have arrived late to the scene with false smiles, exactly as they intended.

The tie with the Empire was less an alliance and more of a silent understanding.

‘The Empire is perpetually poised to consume Zaun.’

But the people of Zaun refused that fate. Individuals might desert for personal profit, but the soul of Zaun rejected subjugation. The role intended for a servant of the Empire had instead been occupied by Enkrid. Therefore, he had every right to demand a price. He could have reached for the power of Zaun itself. Even if he failed, he possessed the reputation to make the attempt.

Yet Enkrid of the Border Guard, the partner and leader to Ragna, asked for nothing at all. Occasionally, one crossed paths with such anomalies—those who ignored the immediate rewards to look toward a distant future. Men of a different scale.

However, to the clan head, Enkrid seemed unique even among those types. He wasn’t even interested in holding a debt for the future. That was the most baffling part.

“What else could I possibly need?”

Enkrid asked with genuine confusion, tilting his head.

Despite his aching limbs and his reliance on a walking stick, Tempest drew himself up to his full height.

“Because you are the savior of Zaun.”

He spoke plainly, eschewing the nuances of courtly speech. He knew the man before him understood the gravity of his actions. He was perceptive and sharp-witted. And yet—

“I have already gained a great deal.”

That was his final word on the matter.

Was it a sudden whim? Or a calculated move to ensure the longevity of Zaun? Tempest couldn’t tell. Instead of trying to decipher a strategy, he simply leaned into the pride swelling in his heart. As the head of the family, he uttered words he had never granted to another.

“If you should ever summon us, Zaun will march at your side. Odinkar, see that my vow is honored.”

“It shall be done.”

Odinkar, standing nearby, gave a firm nod. Perhaps because he had recognized Enkrid’s potential even earlier than Tempest, he showed no hesitation. The delivery of the promise was understated, a result of the patriarch’s stoic nature, but the weight of it was immense. Enkrid, however, showed no shock.

Truly?

He gave a single, curious look, nodded once, and then set off.

“Well then.”

As he walked away, the patriarch spoke one last time.

“A salute to the champion who protected our house!”

There were no shouts or weeping. Instead, they simply unsheathed their steel.

Chachachachachak.

Scores of blades were hoisted toward the sky, a silent, disciplined tribute to their hero. It was the height of summer—the sun was brilliant, and the foliage was a vibrant green.

It took several moments of blinking for Ragna to recognize that he was no longer in the physical world.

‘Sunrise.’

He had entered this state to claim the blade—Sunrise, the ancestral treasure and mystic object of the Zaun bloodline. The weapon lacked a permanent shape, and even its title shifted over the centuries. That was the extent of Ragna’s knowledge, supplemented only by his father’s brief explanation.

“The process is straightforward. Overcome the lingering consciousness within the steel, and it is yours. If you lack the strength of character, you will be left as a mindless shell.”

“I understand.”

Ragna displayed neither dread nor uncertainty. He didn’t even bother to ask for a definition of ‘strength of character.’

The blade was kept in a plain wooden crate, looking corroded and battered, hardly appearing like a legendary weapon. That was its primary defense; no thief would ever suspect its true nature. Moreover, a sword capable of inducing insanity upon contact could hardly be considered a conventional prize. To be honest, the silver-hilted blade Lynox once displayed seemed far more valuable.

“I managed two swings. In those days, its name was Sunset.”

Musing on his father’s memory, Ragna peered forward. Three figures—two men and a woman—stood in his path. The woman, with hair of such a fiery crimson it seemed to burn, gave a bright grin.

“If you dismiss us as mere ghosts of the past, it will be your undoing.”

“I’m in a hurry, so let’s get on with this.”

Ragna countered instantly. During the ensuing struggle, he gathered that they had once been aided by a companion named Acker in the distant past, but he didn’t dwell on the history. Even the warning that his physical form would wither and expire if he lingered too long failed to move him.

“Quite the arrogant youth.”

Only the woman spoke. It seemed Acker hadn’t passed down the traditional forms to him, but Ragna didn’t care. His only objective was the transformative weapon of his lineage, the blade that reshaped itself to reflect its wielder’s Will.

“Do you have no reverence for your forebears, boy?”

He ignored the taunt entirely and drove his greatsword forward. He had watched someone else shatter their own ceilings and advance.

‘I am capable of the same.’

He was forced to battle all three simultaneously. But this challenge meant nothing to him. Those looking to quit seek out justifications for failure. Those who believe in their success find a path forward. That was Ragna’s essence. He fought with a relentless, stubborn conviction.

While the consensus was that the trial would take a fortnight, Ragna regained consciousness in a mere three days.

“He has already left?”

Upon hearing that Enkrid had started his journey without him, Ragna wasn’t shocked. To the world, Enkrid appeared as a man of cold calculation. But Ragna, having stood at his shoulder, understood a core part of his spirit. He acted on his impulses.

Therefore, it wasn’t surprising to him. The only ones bewildered were the people who didn’t know him as well as Ragna did.

He stepped out into the light with a massive greatsword in his grip—and his mind perfectly intact.

“Was the Sunrise not supposed to be a one-handed sword?”

Odinkar tilted his head in confusion. Most lore described it as such.

“If the blade accepts its bearer, it can alter its dimensions.”

The patriarch provided the answer. He was so stunned that his eyes had widened slightly—a detail only Alexandra, who knew him most intimately, would ever perceive.

“Ultimately, everything functions in cycles. It’s all about the rhythm.”

The mood had been sour when it was revealed Enkrid was traveling with Valphir Valmung, the knight of the Empire. Yet, the trek proved to be unexpectedly pleasant.

“Cycles. A trainee pours their Will into an intention and polishes it into a physical art. Once a knight attains a specific mastery, they exert Will as a reflex. To truly master it, however, one must once again fuse that Will with conscious intent.”

The theory was nebulous and high-minded, but Enkrid grasped the concept immediately, having felt it within his own frame. The surge of Will, the sudden braking—it was the intuitive act of allowing intent to saturate the Will.

‘The transformation of the essence of Will.’

That had been the hurdle Enkrid was facing—and he had already cleared it. This was why he had informed Tempest that he had received his due. Zaun had provided him with profound growth, and he was content.

‘I gained much here.’

That remained his core belief. Rescuing them didn’t give him the right to make demands. Furthermore, if Zaun were to lose its unique, isolated identity, it would cease to be Zaun.

‘The people of Zaun can focus entirely on their craft because they are secluded.’

That isolation was their lifeblood. It allowed for perpetual refinement. They were a community that existed for the sole purpose of mastering the blade. Their distance from the world kept them free of political webs. The three peripheral villages served as the shield for Zaun. The outsiders dealt with the world; Zaun practiced. It was efficient.

‘They are likely the most potent small-scale military force on the continent.’

In a conflict where specialized, elite squads determine the outcome, the power of Zaun was formidable. Valphir was a wellspring of knowledge and continued to offer these insights. They had been moving at a rapid pace for hours, maintaining a steady sweat. They had resolved to travel without pause as long as the sun remained in the sky.

They navigated narrow woodland trails, scaled steep ridges, and cleared rushing brooks. The two men, possessing physical capabilities far beyond the average person, leaped across wide gaps with ease. After one such jump onto a soft slope, Valphir posed a question.

“Do you understand why the likes of Tempest Zaun and Lynox despise me?”

“I don’t.”

“It’s simple. I will use any means necessary to secure a victory.”

The methods and ethics of combat vary by the individual. For instance, Enkrid’s habit of using the terrain or psychological warfare was also a form of using “any means.” However, the people of Zaun wouldn’t judge someone for tactical brilliance. They valued strategy. Therefore, what Valphir hinted at must have been something more ruthless.

“I see no fault in targeting an opponent’s vulnerabilities.”

Enkrid’s perspective was expansive. He felt no urge to judge Valphir. Even if the man’s tactics were abrasive or unpleasant, they were valid in his eyes. They pushed through dense undergrowth and traversed muddy slopes where the earth clung to their boots before finally reaching level terrain. They encountered a few predatory beasts, but none were foolish enough to slow the progress of two such warriors.

Throughout the trek, Enkrid studied Valphir’s movements intently. The knight didn’t even draw his sword; he simply obliterated monsters using the heavy metal guards on his forearms. When a tusked beast larger than an ogre charged on all fours, Valphir merely pivoted and shattered its skull with a casual backhand. The creature stumbled blindly for a few paces before hitting the ground.

Later, they dispatched a group of waterlogged ghouls that had been unearthed by the storms—again, without unsheathing steel. Not out of a sense of rivalry, but because Enkrid was currently preoccupied with developing his own style of combat, he also opted to strike them down with his bare hands.

“I heard the monsters were fighting in disciplined units?” Valphir asked after the skirmish.

“It certainly raised questions about who was directing them.”

“That isn’t as uncommon as you might think. Near the Demon Realm, it’s a frequent occurrence. It’s been happening with increasing regularity lately.”

The mention of the Demon Realm caught Enkrid’s attention. Seeing his interest, Valphir elaborated.

“Just as humans adapt the traits of monsters for their own techniques, the monsters are now adopting human structures. It was only a matter of time, really.”

Enkrid found the journey enjoyable for several reasons. One was the sharp, subtle tension of traveling alone with a powerful stranger. The second was the nature of Valphir’s stories—the kind of information rarely found in books. Enkrid was the sort of man who would spend his last coin on a traveler’s tale. He had a profound appreciation for lore.

“What exactly are they adopting?”

“You weren’t aware? The concepts of Pressure and Intimidation were originally the domain of monsters. In fact, the entire theory of Will? We actually derived that from observing beasts.”

To Enkrid, Valphir Valmung, the knight of the Empire, was proving to be a captivating narrator. Even now, he was spinning a narrative that kept Enkrid hanging on every word.