Chapter 744

Chapter 744

“It is simply my time to depart. Death eventually claims everyone.” Enkrid watched Jaxon, who met his end with a serene acceptance. Following Jaxon, it was Audin’s turn. “The Apostle of War shall be your pilot.” Audin summoned his final strength to utter a prayer of sanctification. “I believe… these moments were the most joyous of my existence.” Teresa, the giantess of mixed blood, hummed a soft melody as her life ebbed away. “My intended, the time has come for you to take a malevolent phantom as your spouse.” Shinar maintained his wit until his very last breath. It was perfectly characteristic of him. Grrrrng. ‘Why has Esther returned to the shape of a leopard?’ The solitary witch Enkrid had ever befriended perished in feline form. Countless others fell beside her. The interior of this tome of terrors was overflowing with bereavement. He could not perceive the precise mechanics of their passing, yet the visceral weight of death—its looming shadow—clutched at him with agonizing realism. “Savor the performance. This is merely the overture.” The Ferryman took pleasure in gnawing at Enkrid’s psyche. Like a rodent chipping away at the casing of a nut, he meticulously hammered shards of mental toxin into his mind. When Enkrid finally surfaced from sleep, he cast the vision aside. The cast of this nightmare had been even more lavish than the night prior. Dwelling on the memory would alter nothing, and even challenging the Ferryman was pointless; it wasn’t as if the nightly persecution would cease. Beyond that—though it was merely an intuition— ‘He is pursuing a specific goal.’ The Ferryman acted with intent. The logic was elusive, so Enkrid refrained from engaging. He merely centered himself on his requirements. Pell had collapsed only the previous evening, having remained upright for three consecutive days. “For what purpose have you summoned us, brother?” Audin questioned as Enkrid stepped into the center of the training grounds. “Can’t you see I am occupied?” That retort came from Rem, who appeared to have no actual tasks at hand. “What is the meaning of this, at such an early hour…” Despite the sun being high in the sky, the slothful man maintained it was still “daybreak.” Jaxon stood with his arms folded, maintaining a stoic silence. Shinar offered a subtle smirk—one that occasionally put Enkrid in mind of the images of Dorothea—but today his expression remained as neutral as ever. Esther had adopted her leopard form and watched the scene with her chin resting upon her paws. Teresa sat quietly at her side. Enkrid surveyed the group while he began his physical preparations. He started with his hands, meticulously priming every fiber of his being. “Truly, though—what is our objective?” “Position yourself before me, Rem.” Enkrid locked eyes with the combative barbarian. The mood shifted instantly. The solitary motion was Enkrid sliding his left foot a fraction forward. Lua Gharne, observing from the periphery, immediately identified the stance as a foundational element of his tactical swordplay. ‘That lead foot could signal the onset of a strike—or the hook of a deception.’ Tactical swordplay is the art of seizing every conceivable benefit during a struggle. Rem began to speak, then clamped his jaw shut. His fingers were already tightening around the shaft of his axe. They stood at the exact threshold of engagement. Naturally, both were skilled enough to wage war from nearly any distance—but if either chose to strike now, the blow would connect. The clamor of the world faded. Enkrid’s focus contracted until Rem was the only thing in existence. ‘The spacing suits me.’ He had entrusted Three Iron to Aitri, leaving only Penna hanging at his belt. Nevertheless, it possessed more reach than Rem’s axe. That provided him a slight advantage in distance. As for the terrain? Rem held the upper hand. Optimizing space was his forte—he moved by raw gut feeling, turning every inch of the environment to his favor. Regardless, Enkrid kept his gaze fixed, calculating every variable: the ground, the footing, the cadence. And Rem mirrored him. Neither man dared to blink. Even as the wind whipped dust between them. The sun of early summer baked the grass emerging between the cobblestones of the yard. The heat was too oppressive for mere idle standing. And then, they erupted. Enkrid and Rem lunged at one another simultaneously. It was impossible to discern the initiator. Such was their velocity. Such was their ability to interpret each other’s pulse. ‘You have progressed once more.’ Rem believed his swing was every bit as rapid as Enkrid’s blade. CLANG! Metal bit into metal, throwing off sparks. Scores of phantom lines of attack sought out their targets—but every single one was parried or evaded. Enkrid moved with cold logic. Rem relied on pure reflex, heaving his axe and pivoting his frame. He held nothing back. He triggered Descent, saturating his anatomy with magic and spinning with feral intensity. The exertion would surely leave his body battered. Enkrid met the challenge in kind. With a surge of focus, he saturated his frame with Will. Their clash was like a heavy wagon gaining momentum on a cliffside. To halt it would require an individual capable of absorbing that entire force. Aiding one in slaying the other would actually be the simpler task. But arresting both without drawing blood? Even Anu, the Mercenary King, could not achieve that with ease. Could Ragna and Audin manage it together without a single scratch? It was doubtful. Enkrid’s blade whistled—and he retreated into the depths of his own consciousness. ‘Quicker.’ He erased the gap between thought and execution. He sought to match Rem’s primal intuition. His steel accelerated. It wasn’t just a streak—it was a sequence of thunderbolts. As the pale curve of his sword carved through the atmosphere, Rem’s axe surged to block it. He transformed into a cyclone intended to snuff out that lightning. His axe followed the flawless trajectory to intercept. Enkrid pushed further—compressing his entire reservoir of intent into a singular point. At the climax of that trade, Penna rotated on his lead foot and traced a pristine arc through the air. Rem’s limb was caught in that path. Skeghk. Enkrid severed Rem’s right arm. The crisp, wet sound echoed in his ear. Simultaneously, the axe descended. It collided with Enkrid’s shoulder—but it failed to cleave through. It inflicted a deep gash, but it was not a killing blow. Thus, Rem realized: if the struggle continued, his demise was certain. ‘I have been defeated.’ It was his candid assessment. In a prolonged fight, the man who loses a limb will eventually fall. And it wasn’t merely the loss of the arm. Without it, he would suffer a collapse of his physical senses. Recalibrating to a shifted center of gravity would take moments he didn’t have. In a duel against a knight, those moments were fatal. ‘Yet, I will not go down without a fight.’ Enkrid acknowledged this silently—his eyes narrowing. Even down an arm, Rem was a formidable predator. He could easily envision the man swinging the axe with one hand in a berserk fury. In a true battle of life and death, where one allows their skin to be flayed to crush an opponent, or bones to be cracked to shatter the enemy— Stability was irrelevant. Only ferocity mattered. It was all present in that moment. However, there was no requirement to push that far. The engagement concluded there. “…What in the world was that?” Perspiration fell from Rem’s chin to the earth. “It was entertaining, was it not?” Enkrid countered. Rem rotated his right shoulder. The injury was a phantom. Specifically, it was a simulated battle born from their mutual martial understanding. They had conducted their war within the psychological plane. “It was indeed entertaining.” “I have heard that the Empire instructs in this—projecting killing intent into a tangible form. I thought we might experiment with it.” When he had first encountered the patriarch of House Zaun, the massive blade on the man’s back seemed as though it might strike at any second. That was the manifestation of pressure. Controlled with more precision, it allowed for a duel held entirely within a mental construct. It meant they could engage in brutal combat—without actually drawing blood. It was a method to train at peak lethality without the risk of permanent mutilation. Enkrid had little patience for “choreographed forms” of instruction. He didn’t object to conditioning, but— ‘Nothing replaces the reality of combat.’ This was a lesson carved into him while training those fighting for their lives in desolate hamlets. Ultimately, what Enkrid and Rem had performed was little more than subtle shifts in stance and the tensing of fingers—dueling solely with the aura they emitted from their positions. It demanded profound perception and a total awareness of one’s own state. “The servant of the Lord is prepared for the next bout.” “You have devised something truly intriguing.” Audin and Ragna spoke up. Shinar’s presence surged—he was prepared to step into the ring as well. Jaxon uncrossed his arms. “If this is the nature of the challenge… I believe I can offer something compelling as well.” Engaging in a mental duel, followed by the crossing of actual steel— If this wasn’t pleasure, then what was? The movement of the body is a delight. The swinging of a blade is a transcendental experience. Each time Enkrid encountered a technique that defied logic, he was washed in a wave of bliss. By this point, the terror of the previous night had dissolved into total shadow. Shinar presented a summer gale, a departure from his usual wintry chill. Audin utilized his musculature like wound springs, detonating them to demonstrate that Will was not his only threat—his very anatomy was a siege engine. Once trapped in those palms, there was no path to freedom. His strength could pulverize anything. Ragna presented his blade with a casual air. “It is called Sunrise. The Ascending Sun. Its touch is a brand.” It was an ancestral relic, saturated with his Will. It wasn’t a fresh forging, yet it felt as though it were an extension of his soul. The blade emitted a palpable heat. Even a passing graze could ignite one’s attire. In a physical spar, its attributes were even more terrifying than in the mental realm. ‘A mere brush sets the fabric on fire.’ He could generate temperatures high enough to turn sweat to steam. Sunrise lived up to its title. Truly, nothing burns brighter than the sun. With Jaxon, the duel became a matter of a single, decisive strike. His previous Lethal Thrust had been an execution without malice. This time, he struck with total disregard for his own safety. He was prepared to sacrifice a limb if it guaranteed the death of his foe. “Try to parry this.” Jaxon smirked. It was the smile of a man satisfied. Enkrid wasn’t the only one experiencing this euphoria. These were the Mad Knights, after all—a gathering of such fanatics. “This truly is fun.” Rem’s declaration echoed the sentiment of the group. They returned to their duties at Border Guard and fell back into the rhythm of life. The physical labor had purged the nightmares—yet that night, and the one that followed, the Ferryman reappeared. “My infant is now without a father.” It was Owl—Rem’s spouse. A newborn child was cradled against her chest. Likely, the child of her and Rem. “Is this truly the correct path?” She questioned. As if to ask—was Rem’s passing the only way? Was this the finest conclusion possible? The Ferryman’s visions were a progression. After the agony of loss came the poison of bitterness. “My boy is gone.” Then the tattered saint manifested, staring hollowly at Enkrid. Leonar, collapsed on the earth after the destruction of her caravan, whispered that this was never her desire. “The end is not yet reached.” The Ferryman declared. Following bereavement and resentment, he unveiled the third terror. Its subject was hopelessness. Enkrid experienced a vision that spanned an age. He lived an additional twelve years. Border Guard remained a bastion, and with the assistance of Crang, Naurillia flourished into a land of plenty. But one day, an impenetrable gloom fell upon Border Guard. Fiends and predators swarmed the walls. Every link to the world beyond was severed. The inescapable fate of a demonic territory. “Captain!” Kraiss shouted to him. The sentiment in his gaze was easily deciphered. “You intend to struggle until the conclusion, do you not?” He asked. Enkrid’s resolve had been etched into Kraiss. He was not paralyzed by dread. Yet he understood the finality of their situation. “We shall fight until our final breath, correct?” Every soul present accepted that this was their graveyard. As Kraiss finished, the group assembled. Enkrid and his companions battled the abyss for a full year. Rations vanished. Even the wails of the dying grew silent. You could survive if you simply departed. You are aware of this, are you not? Exit. Leave. Seek tranquility. Walk toward a life of silence. Was it a vision within a vision? The Ferryman’s voice drifted through the hopelessness. Enkrid ignored him. The foes persisted. He could not halt their advance. Trapped in that terminal hour, still clashing with fiends and beasts, the Ferryman inquired— “Is this truly the destiny you desired?” Loss. Resentment. Despair. Three blades were ground into his chest—yet none could find his heart. He had delivered his response to the Ferryman a lifetime ago. ‘Relying on a savior is the path of the weak.’ And yet—no man can achieve anything in isolation. Enkrid had long ago internalized that reality. When he finally broke free of the vision, the Ferryman’s final words still vibrated in the air. “You are not fracturing.” To Enkrid, it was a sign that the Ferryman had exerted himself greatly this time. But in the end, he had been unsuccessful. When Enkrid stepped out into the air, the sun had not yet crested the horizon. However, a figure was already waiting. Pell stood in the training square, the point of the Idol Slayer resting on the stones. His gaze was steady. Unyielding. Like a mirror-still pond. “Commander.” “Yes.” “If I emerge victorious… do I inherit the command?” Enkrid recognized it instantly. A fanatic intoxicated by the feeling of absolute power had drawn his weapon. “Then I suppose today is the day I claim your rank.” Pell had descended further into madness than when Enkrid first encountered him. Likely spurred on by Rem’s presence. Within the Mad Knights, a sane man was a rare find. Enkrid gripped a training blade. No sharpened edge. Merely a sturdy piece of wood. The duel began.