Chapter 736

Chapter 736

What movement should the feet make when executing a thrust with a spear held at a wide grip? Brunhilt already grasped the solution instinctively. “Why did you change your footing?” Enkrid posed that question incessantly. Every time he did, Brunhilt would rest the butt of her spear on the ground like a traveler’s staff and sink into deep contemplation. It was likely a comical sight to any observer—one figure swinging a weapon with abandon while the other interrogated every single twitch of her muscles. Could this truly be defined as training? Regardless of the label, it was effective. Her progress was startling. Beyond that, she possessed no streak of laziness. If such dedication isn’t the definition of talent, it is its twin sister. She held a different variety of endowment—not merely an innate physical gift, but the psychological capacity to find pleasure even in the midst of exhaustion. Even as she cycled through the most rudimentary strikes, Brunhilt’s gaze remained vibrant and sharp. “How many more repetitions?” “One hundred per day.” When instructed to perform nothing but basic lunges and staff rotations, she beamed as if she had been handed a gift. Though Enkrid was primarily a master of the blade, he was no stranger to the polearm. He offered guidance rooted in his own grasp of martial fundamentals, leading her through a dialogue of inquiry and response, slowly transplanting the techniques he had mastered into her own body. The core of the matter was the management of force. The specific tool held in the grip mattered very little. She would eventually find the mechanical basics on her own. What Brunhilt required was the refinement of technique. In essence, Enkrid was placing markers along a trail that Brunhilt was destined to blaze herself. Enkrid snapped a sturdy limb from a tree, cleared away the smaller twigs, and brandished it like a training sword. In response, Brunhilt threw herself into her spear work with renewed fervor. He spent half the sunlight hours in this manner. Yet, a sense of incompleteness lingered. Brunhilt was undeniably gifted, but she had a tendency to leap over the intermediate stages of mastery. While it didn’t pose a problem in the immediate moment— It is always superior to attain total comprehension before advancing. That was a detail that required more thought. He wasn’t in a position to compose a comprehensive martial manual on a whim. That implied he would need to remain in this settlement for at least six months. Such a stay was impossible. His initial intent was merely to neutralize the local danger. No matter the ferocity of the predators, as long as they showed themselves, he could handle it. He was simply waiting for them to break cover. I only need to cull their population. That was the duty of a man of his station. If any abominations appeared, he would hunt them for forty-eight hours straight if necessary—hewing, piercing, and putting them to rest. Currently, there were no tracks to follow, but if he applied himself, it wouldn’t take long to locate their den. Enkrid didn’t claim to be a world-class tracker, but he wasn’t incompetent either. Navigating the mountains was treacherous, but provided one kept a permanent camp and stayed within a reasonable radius, losing one’s way was unlikely. I am not Ragna, after all. The beast crisis terrorizing Harkventyo didn’t feel like an insurmountable task to Enkrid. Soon, the sun began its descent. In these high altitudes, the day ends abruptly. Unless one resided on an elevated plateau like the Zaun, this was the way of things. The towering ridges soon intercepted the light, casting long shadows and pulling Brunhilt’s silhouette across the dirt. “Heh.” The girl continued to swing her weapon, a smile never leaving her face. Behind her, the dusk set the sky ablaze. An amber glow touched her frame, touched Enkrid’s, and bathed the entire village in gold. A poetic soul might describe it as a tender, welcoming light. Like a hand reaching out to cradle those who had struggled through the day just to survive. And within that radiance, he glimpsed ghosts. The visages of those he had failed to shield, the fallen he couldn’t pull back from the brink, manifested clearly in his mind’s eye. No matter how many times he relived this day, those phantoms refused to dissipate. Certain marks can never be scrubbed away. Some wounds heal into scars that, while faded, never lose their shape. “Please, help us.” He had gambled his existence on those pleas—and he had lost. Enkrid had rescued no one. “Someone. Anyone. A person has to step in. It shouldn’t end like this. This isn’t justice.” They had labeled this a colony of the lost. A grieving father who had failed to strike down the nobleman who kidnapped his child, now a man on the run. Others had been stripped of their humanity simply because they couldn’t afford a city’s entry tolls. Amidst the orange twilight, jagged memories cut through his consciousness. He had played it out a thousand times in a thousand dreams. Would the outcome have shifted if a savior had arrived back then? That savior… There was no surge of arrogance in his heart, but the hair on his arms stood up, and a shiver traced the length of his spine. Enkrid had become that very savior—the figure he had yearned for during his darkest imaginings. Through the haze of his memories, a woman wearing an apron with her hair in tidy braids appeared and spoke: “Do you truly think we harbor bitterness? If it wasn’t for you, no one would have lifted a finger. That is why… you must put down your heavy heart. You have done more than enough.” The dull ache in his chest sharpened into a rhythmic throb that climbed to his throat. He saw no reason to suppress it. Enkrid allowed his tears to fall freely. It wasn’t a gesture of grand significance. He was merely letting a long-held emotion pass through him. “Yah!” Right next to him, the prodigy girl lunged with her spear. She, too, might grow up to eventually become someone’s “savior.” The thought flickered through his mind.

Because of the relentless raids by the feral beastmen, Harkventyo had known no rest. The skin beneath his eyes had bruised into dark circles from exhaustion. Trepidation and dread gnawed at his resolve. If we attempt to reach the city in this state… They would be relegated to the gutters and slums. Was that a better fate? Perhaps it was preferable to a mass grave. What was the correct path? Harkventyo was well aware that life rarely offered correct answers. That was a bitter truth he had garnered over four decades of existence. But was this truly a life worth living? Should they endure as property for half a century? Or exist as free men for five years? If they perished protecting their homes, they would die clutching hope. But if they descended to the city to beg for life… They would survive in a state of permanent misery. Ultimately, it wouldn’t differ much from being a slave once more. Even traversing the mountain pass was a Herculean labor. Could I even ensure the survival of half the village? “Urgh…” The weight of the responsibility crushed his spirit, manifesting in his body until he gagged. Having consumed nothing, he only coughed up bitter bile. His throat felt raw. His eyes stung. Even his senses felt inflamed. He felt like a piece of offal trapped inside a pressure cooker. “Hah…” He inhaled deeply, forced his pulse to slow, and looked up—the sun had nearly vanished. And the sight of the coming night brought back the image of a black-haired man with a face he could never forget. That man had dispatched the predator in a heartbeat. Was that warrior their delivery? But what if he wasn’t? What if he demanded a price they couldn’t pay? What if he wants my daughter? Should he surrender her? If the loss of one saved the many, was it a fair trade? It was agonizing. He knew the logical choice—but his heart revolted. No. That wasn’t how the world worked. Harkventyo understood a fundamental reality: Redemption must be claimed. No one can truly be rescued by another. “Don’t take this burden solely upon yourself, Harben.” A man in his sixties walked over. His posture was bent, and his eyes were milky with cataracts. “Every person here will choose their own fate. That is how they have always survived.” “…I am aware.” “If that swordsman asks for the impossible, we will resist until our final breath.” The old man had perceived Harkventyo’s inner turmoil. “We must survive the beasts first.” That was the natural progression of things. The twilight faded into an obsidian black. Perhaps agitated by the darkness, the twin moons and a sea of stars glowed with a competitive intensity. But Harkventyo had no mental space for beauty. His mind was occupied by the terror brought by an imminent threat. And that terror struck like a heavy bell being hammered. It wasn’t a melodic sound. Boom! Crack! Harkventyo’s settlement sat in a small natural bowl shielded by ancient timber. From the sky, it would look like a perfect circle, masterfully concealed within the range. The deafening snap of one of those living walls breaking apart rumbled like a lightning strike. “Bear!” A voice cried out. Harkventyo knew it belonged to Jerry. A man of keen sight and hearing, and a master fletcher. He had been on edge lately, placing traps around the perimeter after noticing suspicious signs. He wasn’t the only one suffering from insomnia. Harkventyo seized the spear resting against his partially subterranean home and sprinted. “If it’s a bear beast, it will slaughter us all! Get to cover!” A withered old man shrieked with a volume that defied his age. But hiding was a death sentence. Harkventyo knew this by instinct. He sprinted toward the chaos and discovered the source of the destruction. It stood on two hind legs—a mountain of meat. People often used the phrase “as large as a cottage.” This creature was exactly that. And that massive monstrosity was geysering black fluid everywhere. To be precise, what he witnessed was a beastman whose throat was half-ripped open, still lashing out with its talons. And standing before it, a man parried the bear’s massive limb—using nothing but his bare hands. Should he blink? Was his mind playing tricks on him? The confusion was natural. Harkventyo had never laid eyes on a knight. Most commoners lived their entire lives without ever encountering one. It was only because the shifting geopolitical tides of the land had mobilized the long-hidden military orders that the presence of knights became a recognizable sight to those born on the frontier. But this village was isolated. Its inhabitants were oblivious to the politics of the continent. Consequently, they had never envisioned such a spectacle. Even the victory over the wild dogs had been breathtaking. Their strikes had moved faster than the eye could follow. But this—this was a different category of power. They had, at the very least, been able to resist the wild dogs. But a bear beast? A monster the size of a residence?

Even before the alarm was raised—even before the tree splintered— Enkrid had bolted awake from a premonition and cleared his bed. Other than his basic attire, his only equipment was a set of fabric hand-wraps. There was no time to secure them. He merely grabbed Three Iron and moved. He struck the leather flap of the doorway, creating a sharp crack, and stepped out into an atmosphere thick with the iron scent of blood. With a scent that heavy, finding the target was trivial. As he sharpened his focus, he caught the rhythmic snapping of heavy timber. Something massive was approaching. Its aura was undeniable. As Enkrid closed the distance, someone illuminated by the moon spotted the threat and shrieked—”Bear!” A colossal shadow exploded out of the darkness, the kind of sight that turned a man’s legs to water. That is, it affected ordinary men. Enkrid lunged forward and seized the man standing paralyzed before the beast by the scruff of his neck. The man’s shout died in his throat. Apex predators—monsters in particular—can freeze a human through sheer presence. That is the core mechanism of a monster’s aura of terror. The target’s own fear welds their joints shut. The primary step of the Will of Rejection… Was the casting off of that fear. The thought drifted through Enkrid’s mind as he sprinted. He had room for stray thoughts—he had moved with urgency, but now that he was in the thick of it, he possessed the mental clarity to think. That clarity was the reward for moving first. He tossed the man behind him. The man’s feet left the earth. “U-uh, whuh—” He couldn’t even form a coherent cry. He landed hard on his backside. The bear monster lunged, swiping with claws like scythes. Despite its immense mass, it moved with terrifying speed. The way it adjusted its arc in mid-swing to target Enkrid instead of the previous victim—it possessed a tactical mind. Enkrid angled his blade. The steel of Three Iron might have looked like a twig compared to the giant’s hammer—but that twig deflected the titan’s strike with effortless grace. CLANG. Its talons are dense. The moon was luminous. It wasn’t full daylight, but it was sufficient to map the monster’s features. It is blind in one eye. The scar across the socket was ancient. There was also a crescent-shaped tuft of fur on its breast. Upon its transformation into a monster, it had gained supernatural power and claws with the durability of forged iron. Several other observations flickered in his mind, but he cast them aside. He was still refining his use of the Lua Gharne-style tactical sword arts. He processed all incoming information—but it was equally vital to discard the irrelevant. Otherwise, his mind would seize. So, he filtered it out. He ignored everything that didn’t lead to a kill. He parried the falling claw with the flat of Three Iron—and transitioned immediately into a throat-cut. The sword drew two glowing arcs in the night. One to parry, one to butcher. THWACK! Vile black ichor geysered, and the creature emitted a wet roar—no, a shriek of agony. Even with its windpipe shredded, it lunged with its secondary limb. Now that is useful data. The monster’s transformation had gifted it a tenacious will to live. Even as its throat was mangled, its vessels began to knit together and attempt reconstruction. And despite the trauma—it refused to stop. The bear’s other paw descended. Enkrid caught the strike with his bare palm. That left his sword-hand unobstructed. The bear monster fought to its final breath. It unhinged its jaws, attempting to crush Enkrid’s skull even as its head hung by a thread. A level of ferocity that defied common logic. Now that is a surprise. Enkrid processed the move—and activated Blade of Coincidence. He adjusted his momentum as if he had anticipated the lunge from the start. Three Iron shifted from a straight thrust into a sweeping arc—and slammed into the bear’s jaw, halting its momentum. THUNK! CRUNCH! The beast clamped its teeth onto Three Iron. Enkrid withdrew his grip and stepped forward with his right leg. In that heartbeat, he transitioned to a left-oriented stance. His right hand pulled the blade back—his left fist hammered forward. The creature’s skull—still locked onto the steel—was positioned perfectly. Enkrid’s ankle and hips pivoted in a single, fluid motion. His punching left hand delivered a strike that fused Balraf-style combat with a mid-blade technique he had memorized by observing Ragna. His Will flooded into the impact— BOOM! The bear’s head detonated, spraying brain matter and bone to the side. Enkrid shook the gore from his hand with a sharp snap. Without his protective wraps, the black fluid stained his skin. Yet, he didn’t lower his guard. Even with the primary bear dead, the scent of carnage remained. In the shadows, a pair of panther monsters were tracking his movements. If he sprinted—he could reach them. The intent formed—the body reacted. BOOM—Enkrid’s heel kicked off the dirt like a triggered explosive. The steel of Three Iron, catching the moonlight, cut through the dark like a silver streak—bearing down on the panther monsters.