Chapter 735

Chapter 735

A canopy woven from interlaced branches, withered foliage, and fragments of hide shielded the shallow pit that served as a dwelling. Light from the sun struggled to penetrate the interior, illuminating only half the space. Enkrid mused that in areas where the covering was more substantial, it likely remained as dark as midnight even during the noon hour. It was a clear sign that the inhabitants didn’t spend their entire lives hunkered down inside, for humanity requires light to thrive.

The architecture was peculiar, featuring interior chambers hollowed out like the winding galleries of an ant colony—recesses designed for concealment. Harkventyo had offered no commentary on the layout, but Enkrid absorbed these details through silent observation. His mastery of Lua Gharne-style tactical swordsmanship made him instinctively sensitive to his surroundings. He knew that if hostilities erupted between him and the man standing there, a single swift movement of his wrist would conclude the matter instantly. Nevertheless, he did not permit himself to overlook the layout of the room. He recalled a seasoned proverb: “The blade that truly slays a knight is the one forged from his own carelessness.”

This was a sanctuary for hiding, not a fortification for war. Within a sunken alcove, bundles of medicinal plants were spread across the floor to dry, though they appeared shriveled from being left unattended. Hand-molded earthenware, coated in a fine layer of dust, sat in an orderly fashion along one wall. A crude wooden table occupied a corner, and a bed sat nearby; Enkrid was certain it wasn’t stuffed with high-grade bedding, wagering Kraiss’s entire day’s pay on the fact.

“We have very little to give. This is a life of poverty,” Harkventyo remarked. Enkrid caught the flash of distrust and anxiety in the man’s gaze, yet he wasn’t asked to leave. Harkventyo filled a clay vessel with water and set it upon the table. The liquid was transparent and refreshing to the taste.

From the very bones of the place, Enkrid could tell they had been here for a significant duration. This was no fleeting camp; they had likely occupied this spot for several years. Evidence of hard-won survival skills was visible everywhere—the strategic use of Nightmare Berries and the various half-finished traps scattered about. The air was a thick mixture of cured leather, dried flora, and a sharp, unfamiliar musk. To endure, one needs the basics: food, clothing, and a roof.

“They hunt and gather for their meals,” Enkrid noted. Despite seeing no looms or spinning wheels, their garments were in decent repair. This suggested the presence of a specific type of itinerant merchant—traders who specialized in secretive dealings with secluded villages for a hefty profit.

Harkventyo let out a heavy sigh, the weight of his responsibilities evident in the sound. His features remained tight with stress. Folding a hand into a tight fist, he finally spoke: “Are you a traveler from the South?”

Enkrid sensed the underlying meaning but chose a neutral path. “I am merely passing through.”

Though the season was summer, the mountain air turned sharp once the sun dipped. Even now, in the peak of the day, the subterranean home felt stifling. Beads of perspiration stood out on Harkventyo’s brow, born from a combination of the heat and the grinding pressure of the encounter. He let out another long breath, though this one carried a hint of relief.

“I suspected as much. If you were an agent of the South, this conversation wouldn’t be happening.”

It was plain to see: these people were refugees from the southern territories. Harkventyo acted as their leader—essentially the head of the community. Such hidden settlements were typically founded by those fleeing the law or the cruelty of a tyrannical noble. Moving to a different city offered no real safety from a determined pursuer, and not everyone possessed the wit to vanish into a crowded urban sprawl. Some preferred the company of predators and monsters over the treachery of men.

Harkventyo began stroking his golden beard, a gesture that seemed deeply ingrained. “We managed well enough, until the wildlife turned so vicious.”

Exhaustion was etched into his skin. Of the roughly fifty people in the village, half were non-combatants—children, women, and the elderly. They hadn’t made it this far through raw strength alone. “It was the traps and the herbs,” the man explained. Their strategy had been to bait the beasts and lead them into pitfalls. It was a primitive method.

“That might work on standard predators,” Enkrid agreed in his mind. But the creatures he had encountered recently were different; they used distraction and coordination. Even if lured toward these burrowed homes, would they truly walk into their own graves? Most wouldn’t be so foolish as to follow a target inside to be buried. They had their toxins and their snares, but it wasn’t enough.

“If left to their own devices, they will all perish,” Enkrid realized. He didn’t need a warrior’s intuition to see it; the memory of the leopard-like beast watching him from the shadows made the outcome certain. They were living on the precarious edge between the territories of monsters and beasts, but the balance had shifted.

“The beast pack must have eradicated the local monsters,” Enkrid surmised. It was a rare ecological shift, but the evidence pointed toward it. “You should tell your men with the clubs outside to stand down,” he said aloud. “Even if you collapse this entire structure on me, I won’t die.”

“…My apologies. Everyone is incredibly tense,” Harkventyo replied. The home where Enkrid had been “guested” showed signs of use, but the dust suggested it was being kept as a contingency—a trap. Enkrid didn’t hold it against them. A community living in shadows could hardly be expected to welcome a stranger with open arms.

During their talk, Enkrid posed a few casual questions. When he asked why they chose such a perilous location, Harkventyo mentioned a valuable, rare herb that grew nearby. It confirmed Enkrid’s theory about the merchant. These people harbored a bold ambition: to accumulate enough wealth to hire a private army and eventually found a legitimate settlement on the frontier. It was a dream worth respecting.

“Do you intend to stay for a time?” Harkventyo asked. He was a man for whom asking for help felt foreign. Born into slavery in the South, he had fled after the death of his parents. Many in the village shared similar scars—refugees whose lands had been stolen, narrowly escaping the shackles. Their survival was a testament to their grit. Enkrid didn’t need a detailed history to recognize the weight of their struggle. Even after he had fended off the beasts, there were no celebrations, only quiet sighs of relief masked by suspicion. They were used to fighting for every inch of their lives; they didn’t know how to lean on others.

“I’ll stay,” Enkrid answered simply.

“It isn’t a grand offer,” Harkventyo said, a touch of shame in his voice.

But Enkrid understood. The atmosphere of this hidden place and the character of its people mirrored his own past. This was the kind of environment that had shaped him. It felt like coming home.

The very chamber intended to be his prison became Enkrid’s quarters. Perhaps because of his display of martial skill against the beasts, a few children began to linger nearby, their eyes wide with curiosity. A young girl, her face smeared with soot, eventually worked up the courage to speak to him.

“Just how strong are you, mister?” she asked. Her name was Brunhilt. Beneath the grime, she had fair skin, large expressive eyes, and long limbs that suggested she would one day be a striking woman. Enkrid was resting on a makeshift stool near the village perimeter, basking in the sun. To a casual observer, he was merely resting; in reality, he was mentally refining his sword forms. He found her presence more refreshing than intrusive.

“Extremely,” he replied. Vague questions often required vague answers.

“Could you beat my father?” she pressed. She referred to Harkventyo as her father, though he seemed to have many “children” and no visible wife, suggesting he had adopted the village’s orphans as his own. Harkventyo was a formidable man. In the civilized world, he could have easily earned a living as a mercenary. Yet Enkrid knew he could defeat a thousand men like him without breaking a sweat.

“Yes,” Enkrid said.

“Wow, you must be a legend then.” To a child in a village of thirty huts, the world was a small place. Enkrid looked at her, expecting nothing and promising nothing. He was acting on a whim, perhaps as a way to soothe his own restless thoughts.

“Do you practice with the spear?” he asked, noting the crude branch she held, bound with animal tendon and tipped with a jagged piece of scrap metal.

“I do!” she chirped, her face brightening as she grew more comfortable. Enkrid had intended to hunt down the rest of the beast pack that morning, but since none had appeared, he decided to stay close. A brief diversion wouldn’t hurt.

“Has someone been training you?”

“No one really has the time. I just figured it out myself.” That kind of boast usually earned a condescending smile from adults, but in a place this grim, few had the energy to smile back at a child. She was at the age where she craved validation. Enkrid wondered if a moment of kindness would change anything for her.

“Look at this!” Brunhilt shouted, gripping her weapon. Her stance was unconventional; rather than spacing her hands for balance, she bunched them together at the very end of the shaft, letting the tip scrape the earth. “Can you stop this?”

“Show me.”

Brunhilt pivoted her body, swinging the spear like a heavy whip. Enkrid’s eyes sharpened. She used the rotation of her hips to coil energy into the wooden shaft, launching the point directly toward his midsection with surprising accuracy. It was a clever maneuver. She was using centrifugal force to compensate for her lack of physical strength. Even the slight tremor in the spear—caused by her meager diet—was being utilized in the movement.

Tap.

Enkrid caught the weapon just behind the head with one hand. Even if she possessed ten times her current strength, she could never have touched him.

“Whoa! You caught it just like that!” Her eyes shone with hero worship. She had watched Harkventyo train, but in terms of raw mechanical intuition, she was already beyond him.

“You have a natural gift,” Enkrid said, realizing she had decoded the mechanics of the spear entirely on her own. Without a teacher or an opponent, she had mastered distance and body torque. “Brunhilt, you are a genius.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them—echoes of what someone had once told him. Remembering the burden that such praise often brought, he quickly added, “But… don’t let it go to your head.”

“Really? No one ever told me that before,” she whispered.

“No?”

“Never.”

It wasn’t surprising. In a village constantly on the brink of starvation, who had the luxury of nurturing a child’s talent? Then, a thought took root in Enkrid’s mind. Mastery of a weapon is ultimately about the person wielding it. Even if he wasn’t a spearman, the principles of combat remained the same.

Perhaps he would show her a few things. Just a little.