Chapter 748

Chapter 748

A superhuman’s perception reaches into dimensions that common eyes cannot grasp. At this stage, Enkrid had truly earned that title. ‘The talent-detecting gaze of Frokk.’ While his method differed in theory, Enkrid achieved a comparable result through pure observation. The alignment of muscles, ingrained physical habits, the focus within a stare—all of it served as data for his assessment. Naturally, Enkrid did not go as far as Frokk in definitively pronouncing whether a person possessed the spark of a future knight. ‘I can see it.’ Utilizing his vast experience, sharpened instincts, and raw intuition, Enkrid could perceive the gaps in Clemence’s ability. ‘Her preparation is perfectly balanced, which means nothing is exceptional.’ Against a lesser opponent, she would dominate through sheer consistency, but she would falter when facing a superior force. By analyzing the outcome, he could trace the origin. By measuring the depth of her discipline, he could map out Clemence’s combat philosophy. Kraiss had once remarked that such high-level deduction was reserved for those with the specific mental capacity for it; it wasn’t a universal cognitive trait. Regardless, the path forward was unmistakable. She needed to maintain her structural integrity—but the layer she needed to build next was specialized technique. The quality of her foundation was undeniably clear, especially when looking at her stance. ‘The core of physical mastery begins with the strength of the legs.’ Clemence’s lower body seemed forged of stone. He approved. It was the undeniable result of relentless effort. “Shall we test your skill?” Enkrid’s invitation made Clemence’s eyes glow. To be mentored by a knight was a rare privilege. Furthermore, the man standing there was no ordinary warrior—he was a legend, a vanquisher of monsters, the Ironclad Knight, the commander of the Mad Order, the mentor who had forged knights, the one who stole the hearts of noble ladies, and the Enchanted Knight. The latter descriptions were merely reputations that followed his name—but they served as a testament to his standing. “It would be my honor.” Clemence gave a disciplined, soldierly response and unsheathed her blade. Shing. It was a slender, elongated rapier. It exceeded the length of a standard longsword but possessed a much narrower profile. It was clearly a bespoke creation. “Who is the creator?” Enkrid inquired, driven by genuine interest. Masters who could balance such a weapon were few. “A dwarven craftsman attached to the regular forces.” “We have such a person?” “Yes. He was a fugitive fleeing creditors, ended up in a cell, and is currently serving a ten-year term managing the army’s smithy.” The story sparked a faint recognition. It wasn’t a significant memory, so it remained blurred. However, after retracing his steps, Enkrid remembered. ‘The dwarf present during my initial encounter with Aitri.’ Based on Clemence’s account, it appeared Kraiss had stepped in to organize the logistics and social ties. The quality of the metal reflected that intervention. Evidently, the dwarf had found his focus—this rapier was an excellent piece of work. “Commissioned officers are permitted one personal weapon beyond standard gear. This was my choice. I imagine you wouldn’t be aware, as knights typically source their own equipment.” Clemence cut her explanation short and instinctively leaped backward in alarm. The explosive speed of her retreat was commendable. Enkrid noted with satisfaction how she maintained her guard while moving and shifted her weight onto her toes for a counter-attack. “Pressure.” He whispered. This was a teaching moment, nothing more. In response, Clemence unleashed a flurry of thrusts, extensions, cuts, and rotations, driving her blade forward with everything she had. Enkrid raised a practice sword to parry the assault. ‘She is incredibly rigid.’ Despite the mocking title of ‘Fallen Clemence’, every movement revealed her desperate struggle to remain upright. ‘She prioritizes safety, seeks out the best odds, and only moves when she has a mathematical advantage.’ Yet, what did Clemence look like in the heat of battle? She didn’t look like she enjoyed the dance. He wondered if she practiced with this same joyless intensity. Her spirit was resolute and her frame was sturdy—but her bladework looked like a person struggling against a current. She was staying afloat, certainly, but her internal tension acted like an anchor. She possessed the potential for speed, yet she moved with a sluggish caution. ‘She is suppressing her own potential.’ He found the root cause through the physical symptoms, accounting for the weight on her mind. ‘She is surrounded by titans.’ Individuals who were too close to be viewed as distant inspirations. Rophod was the nearest, then Pell, and further still was the entire Mad Order—Enkrid included. That proximity fueled her drive, but it also bruised her confidence. Clinging to her dignity while fighting the ‘Fallen’ label had exacted a price. Essentially— ‘She has never truly been pushed to the edge of the cliff.’ She had likely steered clear of such desperate confrontations. Her history was one of total victory or total defeat. Why did the words of the Imperial Knight Valphir resurface now? The concept of the “flowerbed knight”—if Clemence ascended to knighthood in her current state, would she merely be a specimen raised in a controlled environment? Thud, ting. Amidst their controlled exchange, Enkrid’s presence underwent a terrifying transformation. Clemence’s pupils contracted to the size of needles. Her primal survival drive took over, sharpening every nerve. ‘I am going to die.’ If she didn’t act, it was over. In a heartbeat, a lifetime of memories and rapid calculations flashed through her mind. ‘Fallen Clemence.’ Ever since that name took hold, she had fought tooth and nail against failure. As she grew stronger, her philosophy narrowed to a single point: ‘Avoid any conflict where victory is not guaranteed.’ Rophod’s influence had shaped this, and the doctrine of Lua Gharne had been woven into it. One could argue that the tactical swordplay of Frokk had been diluted in her hands. Clemence simply refused to play a losing game. Consequently: unless the window of opportunity was absolute, she never committed her blade. Even now, she held back, waiting for a perfect opening. But she was facing a knight. Such an opening would never manifest. Thus, she did nothing but probe and hesitate. Perhaps that was the catalyst? Clemence felt the cold touch of death. Her head was taken. The horizon spun wildly. Then, total darkness.

‘Her physical capability is top-tier.’ Her musculature was both supple and tough, conditioned through varied discipline rather than raw power. The root was clearly the training system of Audin. The protocols Audin used for his legion had become the benchmark for the standing forces of the Border Guard. ‘She has filtered that foundation to keep only what benefits her specific frame.’ Her perception and quickness were remarkable. She took in information and translated it into motion instantly. Her stamina was equally impressive. Her body was a map of long-term dedication. ‘Psychologically, she is grounded.’ Setting aside her aversion to risk, she remained calm and made logical choices. Enkrid even caught a glimpse of her latent Will. He didn’t see it with his eyes, but in a metaphysical sense, he felt its presence. Whether it would ever ignite was her burden to carry. ‘That is not my decision.’ He could clear the brush from the path, but the journey belonged to her. One can guide a creature to the stream, but the choice to drink remains personal. Still, faint as the feeling was, Enkrid believed Clemence would take that step. His gut feelings were rarely wrong. ‘What she lacks is imagination and the hunger to seize victory.’ To fight not just to survive, but to master the art of winning—that was the missing piece for Clemence. The moment she had flinched from his killing intent, Enkrid’s analysis was already complete. His complex reasoning, his superhuman intuition, and his library of experience converged. As he dismantled Clemence’s needs, he also reinforced his own identity. This was a cycle intended to be performed forever—provided one didn’t perish first. ‘The horizon of the sword is infinite.’ And that infinity was where the joy lay. Whatever he achieved today was not the destination. This moment was merely the distillation of an old truth—but through that process, a new form of combat was born. The Wavebreaker Sword Style governed the traditional path. The martial arts of Balafian were tuned for medium-weight steel. Refined perception gave birth to the lightning-quick strike known as Flash. The fluid style merged Jaxon’s sensory depth with combat experience, becoming The Accidental Sword. The final piece was the blade of misdirection. ‘An evolution of the mercenary techniques of the Valen-style.’ The deceptive blade existed for one purpose: winning. To endure and prevail, any method was valid. That was the Illusory Blade. ‘Incorporating the tactical genius of Lua Gharne.’ Tactical combat was the pursuit of superior positioning. Enkrid took the finest threads of both and wove them into a new tapestry. “Is this the afterlife?” Clemence whispered as she regained consciousness, having collapsed from the psychological weight and a glancing blow. “Not quite.” “Oh.” She blinked, the reality of her surroundings returning to her. She wasn’t dead. She breathed. She had simply fainted in a humiliating display. Seeing her scramble to her feet, Enkrid realized: instead of trying to spark her creativity through lectures, it was far more effective to communicate through steel. And from his mouth came the title of the martial system he had just finalized. “This art shall be known as Enkrid-Style Orthodox Swordsmanship.” Clemence took several ragged breaths before asking, “I’m sorry?” “You will study it.” The core of the style was deception, pure and simple. The training required the creative invention of tricks and feints. Its use: any action designed to grab a tactical edge. It was the desperate struggle of the underdog against the giant. That was why the name itself was a lie. The moves were rooted in dishonesty, yet the name claimed to be Orthodox. “The theory is straightforward. The execution is for you to discover. I will demonstrate the opening forms.” Given her solid stance and lower body strength, anyone would expect Clemence to play a defensive game. Her basics were that dependable. “This is the Illusory Step.” Enkrid introduced her to movements adapted from the Valen-style mercenary arts. Clemence watched with total focus, then spoke again. “Do you truly fight in this manner?” She wasn’t dim-witted. She knew why Enkrid was teaching through action instead of theory. “I do.” Enkrid’s message was clear: survive by any means and win by any means. Clemence bowed her head in acceptance. Next, Enkrid took charge of the royal guard—his personal battalion. ‘Isn’t their baseline physical fitness a bit underwhelming?’ His expectations were skewed by his own power, making him a harsh judge. Regardless, he was there to lead. “We are going for a run.” With that single command, the guard began a full-speed sprint to Martai and back without a second of rest. It was a trek usually reserved for horses, not something one did on foot for exercise. The result? The sentry at Martai nearly suffered a stroke from the sight, and Odd-Eye, seemingly amused, decided to pace them. Following the run, they were drilled in ‘Feigning Defeat’, ‘The Hidden Kick Draw’, ‘Double Blade Kick’, and the ‘Illusory Step’. Yet, through it all, Enkrid hammered home the importance of the basics. “To effectively lie to your enemy, you must first know how to tell the truth with your blade.” That was why the foundation was king. No matter the direction one traveled, the trajectory must be upward. Action was always superior to stagnation or doubt. To act, one had to stay alive. For only the living can see the dawn. Enkrid-Style Orthodox Swordsmanship was soon adopted as the standard for the royal guard. Clemence grasped the heart of the style, and Rophod assisted in the instruction. “Martial skill is only relevant when supported by a strong foundation. Even the sharpest sword is useless in the hands of a child.” Rophod, having mastered the concepts, began passing them down in turn. Enkrid eventually shared his progress with Aitri. “Do all five paths lead to the rank of knight?” Enkrid’s five fundamental styles. Aitri, perceiving the depth of the work, asked. Even while his hammer never stopped, he kept the conversation alive during Enkrid’s visits. Their dialogue sharpened his own focus. “That is my hope.” Enkrid’s response was quiet. His gaze shifted to the metal Aitri was working. The form was evolving. A long, straight bar. Aitri folded the metal, hammered it thin, and folded it again—a cycle he had repeated for three days straight. His eyes burned with an intense light, but his skin was pale and his frame was wasting away. It looked as if he were breathing his own life force into the steel. “Return tomorrow.” Aitri commanded. Aside from his duties with the guard, this was Enkrid’s only destination. Fifteen days had passed since Aitri first took up the hammer. Not even Rem questioned their delay in leaving. The entire Order understood the gravity of the moment: Enkrid was waiting for his engraved blade. And every wait eventually reaches its conclusion—the time had finally come.