Chapter 827

Chapter 827

His frame stiffened for merely a heartbeat, yet the clumsiness of the moment remained. In a genuine life-or-death struggle, that single lapse would have resulted in his throat being opened.

As Enkrid regained his rhythm, the adversary across from him—the pale-skinned creature with the vertical pupils of a predator—parted his lips once more.

“This place. You… shall not… move. Your foot.”

The syntax was fractured and alien, yet the command carried a tangible weight of suppression.

*‘Reject it.’*

Enkrid chanted the word internally, casting aside the stranger’s decree. His Will erupted, solidifying into an impenetrable barrier—a bulwark forged from the sheer determination to permit nothing to pass.

He lunged off the dirt, his blade leveled in a low line. Within that microsecond, his mind accelerated, dissecting the phenomenon.

*‘Whenever he speaks, a physical compulsion seizes my limbs.’*
*‘It resembles pressure, yet the nature is distinct.’*
*‘The best comparison—it acts like water.’*

A boulder might crash against a stone wall and be halted, but water finds the microscopic fissures, seeping through to saturate the earth beneath.

*‘Can mere speech truly manifest such a force?’*

There was no leisure for contemplation. Enkrid plunged into the fray with total immersion, his focus narrowing to a razor’s edge.

Just as the man’s mouth began to move again, Enkrid’s left hand blurred across his torso—reaching not for Dawn Tempering in his right, but for another tool.

The ram-horn dagger, refined to a lethal thinness by the skill of Aitri, sliced through the atmosphere. It moved in a vacuum of silence—the sound itself trailing behind the projectile. The bone-white tip was destined to find the man’s skull before any warning could reach his ears.

However, the target blurred to the side. The transition was fluid, possessing a velocity that defied human optics—an escape achievable only by a non-human entity.

*Bwoo!*

The delayed sonic boom of the throw finally arrived. The specialized throwing knife, a tool that Jaxon held in such high contempt, bit into the empty air, successfully robbing the man of the chance to complete his incantation.

In that fleeting window, Enkrid erased the gap between them. His Will flared, triggering a Point Explosion that surged his speed. He drove a thrust toward the man’s ribs—aiming for the vital organs housed within.

Suddenly, as if wading into a thick mire, a heavy burden settled onto his shoulders. Forcing his way through the resistance, he slipped into a world of absolute quiet.

A sensory void. His ears hummed, and his skull felt compressed as if caught in a titan’s grasp.

The man’s amber gaze locked onto Enkrid’s. He, too, existed within this pocket of silence. His expression seemed to imply a question: *Is this truly the extent of your struggle?*

*Boom!*

A violent burst of kinetic energy tore through the air. The sounds of the dagger hitting a distant mark and the screech of steel on steel finally caught up to the present.

The stranger’s blade parried Enkrid’s thrust, meeting it with the flat of the metal. Enkrid pivoted, attempting to redirect the point back toward the target, but he met a strange resistance. The enemy’s weapon undulated like a serpent, catching his strike and bleeding the momentum into the void.

*Ting, shiiing.*

High-pitched vibrations echoed as the two metals ground against one another.

“It has been… a long time… since I used this… correctly.”

The speech remained staggered. Then, his mouth opened with a speed that bypassed any interference. A solitary command emerged.

“Halt.”

The word alone manifested a shackle that bound Enkrid’s entire anatomy. It felt as though a subconscious voice was ordering his muscles to betray him, as if invisible manacles had clamped onto his wrists and ankles. Had a deity descended to the mortal plane, the weight of their decree would have felt just like this.

Enkrid felt the spectral pressure tightening. In response, he pushed back with the one constant that had never buckled under weight or command: his Will.

Whether the gods of destiny were real or myths, Enkrid had lived his life as a defiance of them. Lacking natural brilliance, he had carved his path through the world with bloody fingernails. The world’s laws, the weight of fate, the silent gods—everything had commanded him to fail. Yet, he had persisted, survived, and constructed his current self upon the foundation of those brutal years.

“No.”

With that single response, the supernatural tether frayed and dissolved. The man registered a flicker of shock, though he did not lose his composure. He spoke again.

“Halt.”

Enkrid’s retort was unwavering.

“No.”

Even if a divine being had come to the earth to test the limits of human resolve, Enkrid’s defiance would have given them pause. Thus, no matter the sorcery behind the words, Enkrid possessed the means to discard them.

His Will crested. A lifetime of conviction and pig-headed persistence formed a spiritual aegis that deflected the man’s vocal magic.

What defines a knight? It is a set of laws, a moral compass. And the most potent force within that code is—

*‘To be the master of one’s own word.’*

While not every man of the cloth or sword lived by this, Enkrid did. He did so with a stubbornness that bordered on the absurd. He never begged for the world’s validation; he simply walked forward. This had been his way long before the title of knight was ever bestowed upon him.

With every command the stranger uttered, a portion of Enkrid’s Will was eroded. It mattered little. Enkrid’s Will was Uske—a fountain without end, a reservoir that could never be drained dry.

“Halt.”
“No.”
“Halt.”
“No.”
“Halt.”
“No.”

Their combat had devolved into a rhythmic duel of spirits and syllables.

It was then that Rem—having ditched his unit to track down Enkrid—stumbled upon the pair and stopped dead. He stared at Enkrid’s back and the bizarre figure standing before him. Seeing the two of them locked in a stalemate of clashing steel and repetitive shouting, he couldn’t help but interject.

“Uh, what kind of ridiculous game are you two playing?”

To a casual observer, the scene certainly bordered on the farcical.

Despite Rem’s intrusion, the stranger remained fixated on Enkrid. He asked a question, his voice gaining a bit more stability:

“You… can resist the Word-Command?”

The clarity improved. It seemed the shorter the phrase, the more potent and precise the effect.

Word-Command—the art of infusing speech with raw authority. While the coercion of Will was a blunt force of presence, Word-Command was surgical. It used resonance to strike at the core of the soul. It wasn’t just a display of power; it was a structured law.

The man had attempted two variations. The first was *Overwriting Will*—the attempt to place his own desires over Enkrid’s. The second was *Overwhelm*—the intent to simply crush the target’s spirit under the weight of his own.

That was the goal. Yet, the man before him had repelled both. Was this a frequent occurrence? No. Never in his entire existence had he encountered such a thing.

“So, were Salamanders actually human-shaped all this time? Though those eyes… yeah, those are definitely lizard eyes,” Rem noted, his perception sharp.

Based on the man’s posture and aura, Rem doubted his humanity. He perched himself on a high branch, crouching low. While it might have looked like he was merely spectating, Enkrid knew Rem was coiled like a spring. The tension in his feet against the wood gave him away. Furthermore, Rem was a master of throwing weapons. Enkrid adjusted his stance, shielding Rem from the stranger’s view as he responded.

“I haven’t a clue.”

Rem scowled, annoyed that Enkrid’s positioning was obstructing his line of sight. This shift in stance was a silent claim. It is human nature to guard what one considers their own prize. Enkrid was no different.

The adversary wielded an array of unnatural talents. But what truly ignited Enkrid’s spirit was—

*‘I cannot see the ceiling of his power.’*

That realization made his pulse quicken. It wasn’t just the mindless bloodlust of a warrior. Was a Salamander truly as lethal as a Balrog? Why had such an entity surfaced now?

Ignoring these secondary mysteries, Enkrid focused on his fundamental oath. He understood his role and his burden. No matter what obstacle stood in his path, he would cleave through it to safeguard those he protected.

Behind him lay the Border Guard. Within that community was the woman who peddled marmalade and the tavern keeper who pinched every coin to stock his shelves with books. The marmalade seller was on the verge of her wedding. Venzance’s kin lived within those walls as well; his devotion had finally found its reward. He was a man who found joy in his wife and the child in his arms, much like so many others in the city.

And then there was—

*‘Vanessa’s Library.’*

That was the title of the public house of learning being erected in Lockfried.

“Since my youth, I’ve dreamed of establishing a place like this,” Vanessa had told him once. Enkrid had countered with a question: “Even if it costs you every bit of your savings?”

Vanessa, the proprietor of the crossroads’ largest inn, had become the heartbeat of the Border Guard. Her pumpkin soup was the stuff of local legend. Enkrid had known Allen, her competitor across the way, and through that rivalry, he had come to know Vanessa as well. In truth, she had noticed him long before he noticed her.

With her weathered skin, age-spotted hands, and sturdy frame, she carried a perpetual, comforting smile. She was a formidable matriarch who had navigated the hardships of widowhood to raise four children. Only one was hers by birth, yet all four had become honorable, hardworking adults. It was evidence enough that her internal Will was as formidable as any knight’s.

There is a common sentiment that the labor of raising children is as grueling as toppling a kingdom. Though Enkrid had no children of his own, he held a deep reverence for a woman who had mastered that role.

Vanessa represented an old, unbreakable tie. Enkrid had always found it easy to bond with such people. She had once reminisced about his early days after he earned his spurs.

“A library isn’t going to make me a pauper, soldier.”

The memory of the first bowl of pumpkin soup he’d eaten in the city remained vivid.

“If you didn’t come to the military just to find a grave, then lift your chin up.”

She had said that to him on his very first day in the city. Had his face been so transparently miserable back then? His life had been a relentless march through hopelessness, a refusal to break despite the odds. He had swung his blade until his skin peeled away; he had ground his teeth until his mouth tasted of copper—and yet, his technique had remained stagnant for so long.

Those were the years when the world felt heavy on his shoulders. Perhaps he had hidden it well, but Mother Vanessa had seen right through the youth.

Even if his circumstances changed, certain memories were indelible.

*‘Coming to the Border Guard.’*

The struggle to enlist, the eventual command of the Mad Platoon—he could not discard that journey.

Conviction and purpose. Belief and code.

Woven between those threads were small strands of hope and joy. The exhilaration of the duel was a part of his soul as well. So long as he remained the master of that thrill, it was a tool rather than a curse. It was a passion far more potent than the base instincts of a demon, rendering the combat reflexes of the Balrog’s armor irrelevant.

The steel of Dawn Tempering shivered with a blue light. The runes on the blade vibrated in harmony with his Will.

The opponent mirrored the movement, lifting his own weapon. The long, rod-like implement glowed with a sterile white light. He canted it to the side, waiting. It wasn’t a standard guard; the tip was aimed toward the left side of Enkrid’s head in a strange, non-traditional angle.

Enkrid was well aware of how to concede or find a middle ground. Even if he didn’t practice it, he had watched others survive by doing so. Enkrid knew the mechanics of a retreat. His mind was sharp enough to calculate the tactical benefits of backing down without even trying.

And yet, he didn’t budge. Some might call it insanity, but the fire in his chest demanded a different path.

Facing a foe whose true limits were a mystery, Enkrid allowed a familiar smile to touch his lips. With that expression, he threw himself forward—a crashing tide that would not break even if the sky collapsed. He was the storm that refused to dissipate, the wind that would never be stilled.