Chapter 732

Chapter 732

The Sword of Chance remains the optimal choice when facing an unknown adversary. It is a style that weaves every lingering possibility into the user’s direct intent.

His awareness, sharpened by both innate sensory prowess and grueling experience, analyzed the atmosphere.

“In the swordsmanship of the Empire, giving a physical manifestation to Oppression is the foundational step.”

His intellect dissected the essence of Valphir’s statement.

Imperial style. Foundation. Oppression. Manifestation.

These concepts materialized before him, and remarkably, they lacked any sense of complexity.

“The pressure Tempest Zaun exerted felt like a force of nature.”

He had reached that epiphany during his solitary drills with the blade.

However, the man standing across from him was of a different breed. When Valphir labeled it the “foundation,” it implied that Imperial knights underwent specific training to give their killing intent a tangible shape.

What was the purpose of such a curriculum?

“First—to exert a definitive, crushing weight upon the foe.”

Second—by projecting only a specific facet of their style through that form, they could effectively mask their true techniques.

Gelt’s current maneuver was an attempt to vanish behind the profile of his steel.

It bore the appearance of a purely defensive posture…

“But I cannot take that at face value.”

The process of dismantling and reconstructing a combat form occurred in a heartbeat.

Just as he seemed to be retreating behind his guard, Gelt closed the gap instantly.

“Silent movement.”

It was a fusion of high-level knightly arts, including the principle of Assimilation.

The scent of iron filled his nostrils. A bitter, metallic tang touched his tongue.

His tactile nerves screamed—the hair on his arms stood on end.

There was no audible cue; visually, it was a flawless strike—but there was more beneath the surface.

Enkrid pivoted his torso, driving force through his left foot and swinging Three Iron along the most efficient trajectory possible.

The steel dipped in a fluid curve before snapping into a horizontal line, aiming for Gelt’s vitals.

The precision of the movement was nearly supernatural.

Clang!

A vibration traveled from the center of Three Iron into his palms.

Gelt had produced a secondary blade, roughly two spans shorter than his primary weapon, striking from the shadow of his right hand.

It collided heavily with Three Iron.

Despite parrying the concealed ambush, Enkrid’s battle nerves remained taut.

“The exchange continues.”

Before the thought fully crystallized, his body reacted.

Releasing his left-hand grip on Three Iron, he unsheathed Penna and drove it upward.

It met Gelt’s descending follow-up—a second hidden trajectory.

Ching!

Penna glided past Three Iron with surgical grace, deflecting the falling steel.

With his dual-layered assault neutralized, Gelt retreated using those same ethereal strides.

Shff, shff, shff.

His boots barely grazed the dirt, yet he had already transitioned to a distance beyond the reach of a blade.

Could he be permitted such a luxury?

Hardly.

Enkrid lowered his center of gravity and exploded forward.

Boom.

The ground shook as he lunged. This was a movement refined from the wisdom of Lua Gharne.

A head-on acceleration—basic and lethal. Had Gelt simply held his point out, Enkrid might have run himself through.

Gelt acted accordingly.

He ceased his retreat, planted his weight, and lunged with the longer of his twin swords.

The blade pierced the wind—transformed into a lethal needle by Enkrid’s own speed. It moved faster than any projectile he had ever encountered.

Yet Enkrid’s sword was already in position.

The point of the thrust met the flat surface of Three Iron. At the moment of contact, his wrist flicked by pure reflex.

Ting!

A mixture of raw instinct and calculated anticipation.

“The Sword of Chance is built on more than just gut feeling.”

True insight was the child of experience.

The Sword of Chance functioned on two primary drivers: sensory perception and accumulated knowledge.

He brushed the attack aside, maintained his forward flow, and executed a counter-thrust.

A lesser warrior would have buckled—but Gelt discarded the lunging sword and threw a heavy fist.

Enkrid disregarded the punch, let go of Penna, and gripped Three Iron with a double-handed hold.

Every preceding second had been a calculation for this specific window.

A blade fueled by intent. A single strike carrying the velocity of a storm.

His mind reached a state of absolute focus and arrived at a single resolution—carried out in the same breath.

Slice! Splatter!

“You damn—!”

Gelt aborted his punch and threw himself to the side—but his left arm remained behind.

Had his reflexes been a fraction slower, his skull would have been cleaved in two.

Enkrid gave his blade a sharp flick, sending droplets of crimson onto the earth.

A fine mist hit his skin. The severed limb spasmed on the ground like a landed fish.

The duel required no further theatrics. The conclusion was written.

Was the Imperial style truly so unique?

Certain movements were foreign, but the heart of the matter remained unchanged.

Slaughter the foe. Remain untouched.

Precisely the philosophy Enkrid had just applied.

“What kind of person created this freak…?”

Gelt hissed, gripping his raw shoulder. He used advanced muscle control to pinch the arteries and halt the hemorrhage—a high-level technique.

He performed it effortlessly.

Enkrid noted the feat, filing it away for later study.

Gelt, clutching his remaining weapon, stared him down with venom.

Observing his opponent, Enkrid felt he finally understood the essence of the Imperial way.

A flawless, unbroken circle.

A synchronized mastery of every possible martial discipline.

This likely wasn’t the full picture, but from what he had witnessed—it seemed the truth.

They took the absolute basics and polished them until they gleamed.

However, their definition of “basics” far exceeded that of the rest of the world.

It was a level of refinement that even masters like Ragna, Rem, Audin, Jaxon, or Shinar might fail to fully grasp.

Was it simple luck that led him to this encounter?

No. It was the natural destination of the path he had chosen while forging his own path.

He had studied under the Zaun family as well.

And not as a casual observer. He had dived into their depths.

Zaun was a place that embraced all who sought the joy of the blade.

“What then of the Empire?”

Masters taught students. Thousands of tenets must have coalesced over generations.

Among them, the Imperial school seemed to strive for—

“Standardizing the extraordinary.”

Giving physical form to Oppression was a feat few in Zaun could manage.

On the mainland, even manifesting the pressure itself was beyond the reach of most mid-tier knights.

“But the Empire operates on a different scale.”

The sensation against his skin verified it. It wasn’t a guess or a theory—his intuition burned the truth into his mind.

You couldn’t grasp Imperial swordsmanship merely by looking.

You had to endure the methodology—that relentless conditioning that turned the impossible into the mundane.

And those who rose above even that standard…

They would wield a power that mainland knights couldn’t even fathom.

Should one feel hopelessness? Should the vast gap in starting positions cause one to waver?

Perhaps for others. But not for Enkrid.

To him, it was a beacon. It was far better than wandering a wilderness without signs.

He would take the Empire’s solution and fuse it with his own.

In that moment, a fresh epiphany took root. Enkrid gave a small smile.

“…Does this lunatic really grin after taking a man’s arm?”

Gelt growled in frustration.

It was a false impression—but Enkrid felt no urge to offer an explanation.

*** Valphir had counted at least six moments of genuine shock during that engagement.

The first realization was blunt—

“He is anything but ordinary.”

The sheer magnitude of Enkrid’s capability was staggering.

At this stage… could he stand his ground against Tempest Zaun?

Admittedly, Tempest Zaun possessed his signature One Strike.

Even Valphir wouldn’t dare try to intercept that.

One would have to navigate entirely around the reach of that move just to survive.

But putting that aside…

“The boy might actually take him.”

That was the caliber of his combat logic.

Gelt always relied on deception for his opening gambit.

Valphir had seen many warriors who didn’t bite—

“But never one who punished him for the attempt.”

Enkrid had introduced a second blade, shattered Gelt’s pacing, seized control—and then committed to a terminal charge.

It wasn’t merely raw power, reaction time, or speed.

He possessed the soul of a combatant.

Valphir, drawing on his history as a mercenary, recognized it instantly.

One does not reach that level without crawling through the valley of the shadow of death a hundred times over.

“A man devoid of natural gifts, scaling a mountain through sheer, bloody-mindedness.”

A resilient weed growing in the middle of a storm.

That was the mental image.

Valphir enjoyed painting in his spare time. When he returned home, he decided he would try to capture that scene.

A jagged cliff and a solitary weed—a pairing that shouldn’t work, yet he wanted to find the harmony in it.

And there was a secondary point of amazement.

“Throughout that entire clash, a portion of his mind was fixed on me.”

The reason?

Because Enkrid had never placed his full trust in Valphir.

That had been a constant throughout their shared travels.

Even during their talks, their meals, or their sparring sessions.

Gelt was a knight of the Empire. On the continent, he could have dispatched several decorated knights simultaneously.

“And yet while dealing with him, Enkrid never looked away from me.”

Even during that high-risk lunge.

It was enough to leave anyone stunned.

“He’s a damn monster.”

Valphir rubbed his cheek—a nervous twitch he’d had for years.

Whenever he did, the old wound there would tingle.

What would occur if they fought for real?

“Would the result be my defeat?”

It was impossible to tell.

Just as Valphir kept his cards close, Enkrid was clearly a man of many layers.

He didn’t adhere to any of the five major sword houses. That meant he could produce a variable Valphir hadn’t even imagined.

Schmidt’s assessment had been an understatement.

“He is boiling blood and freezing logic at the same time.”

He was a creature of instinct, yet perfectly analytical.

Their journey together had likely been a simple impulse.

But even within that impulse, he had never ceased his scrutiny.

He acted on a whim, yet he harvested every piece of data in his environment.

A person like that isn’t forged in a day.

“What kind of life has he led?”

The question genuinely fascinated him.

A student…?

A part of him felt the urge to pass on his knowledge.

But even without relying on his gut, he knew—

“He isn’t the type to follow anyone’s lead.”

Unrelenting to the core. Perhaps a little insane.

Valphir unfastened the lock on his weapon.

Click.

The angular grip fit perfectly into his toughened hand.

“Hey.”

He projected his voice and his presence.

Enkrid shifted his stance. He now had Gelt to his flank and Valphir directly ahead.

Valphir moved forward, a light spring in his step.

Enkrid adjusted to face him head-on.

It was a gesture of recognition.

“His reaction is instantaneous.”

The kid’s intuition was formidable.

Valphir’s grin sharpened with genuine pleasure.

Enkrid leveled his sword.

At Valphir.

It wasn’t a provocation—it was a synchronization of timing. No words were exchanged, but their intent was aligned.

Gelt, detecting the change in the air, attempted to flee.

In that instant, Valphir launched his weapon.

BOOM!

It whistled through the air and collided with Gelt’s head like a siege engine’s stone.

CRACK!

The impact was absolute—bone and matter erupted in a violent spray.

The heavy weapon that had ended him hung in the air for a fleeting second… then fell heavily, embedding itself upright in the ground.

“Did you think I’d let you leave?”

Valphir remarked as he strolled over to reclaim his steel.

He had cast a flicker of murderous intent toward Enkrid—just enough to bait Gelt.

That was why Enkrid had split his focus.

Valphir exploited that distraction. The second Gelt flinched to run, he ended the matter in a single strike.

It was the path of least resistance.

And Enkrid had recognized the play and facilitated it.

The more time he spent with the boy, the more Valphir respected him.

“Come back with me to the Empire.”

The offer was entirely sincere.

*** “No.”

Enkrid’s refusal was immediate.

“You mentioned you wanted to wipe the Demon Realm off the map, didn’t you?”

Valphir questioned. Enkrid gave a firm nod.

“Whether that’s a pipe dream or not—if that is your goal, the Empire is your only destination.”

It was a statement of fact. Enkrid remained silent—his gaze alone conveying his disagreement.

“Fine. I didn’t expect you to agree. You’re the most bull-headed person I’ve met.”

He had heard similar things before.

In the days of his weakness, and again in his strength.

All those experiences had now forged his Will.

“Stubbornness. Oaths. Conviction. Will.”

He finally grasped the wellspring of his own Will.

“Will is the parent of will.”

Esther’s theory about it being a sibling to mana made sense now. It was likely a different branch of the same tree.

He’d have to document that thought eventually.

“Gelt is dead, so my business here is concluded. Enkrid of the Border Guard.”

“A pleasure, Valphir of the Empire.”

“Until our paths cross again.”

“As rivals?”

“I’d prefer allies. Don’t go picking a fight with the Empire. It won’t end well for you.”

Was it a threat? A piece of wisdom? A final warning?

“I’ll handle my own affairs.”

“Arrogant kid.”

Valphir scavenged Gelt’s remains for identification, took what he needed, and vanished. Their partnership reached its end.

And Enkrid… would make his way back as well.

The path had reached its conclusion.

And once more, he stood alone.

Though, looking back—even with Valphir by his side, he had always been walking his own solitary road.