Chapter 846

Chapter 846

The technique the Ferryman had previously utilized to decapitate the titan appeared distinct on the surface, yet its fundamental essence was identical to Vortex.

“Concentrate every ounce of physical power and Will, channeling it into a solitary strike.”

Naturally, a closer inspection revealed nuances. While Vortex relied on rotational force, the Ferryman’s display was centered on the drop.

“Leveraging the total weight and elasticity of the frame.”

The original practitioner of this style likely wore heavy plate armor crafted from black gold, or perhaps utilized some other means of augmentation.

“It is a method that only carries weight if the user increases their own mass.”

The image of the warrior soaring high before plunging downward remained sharp in his mind. That single movement had claimed the titan’s head.

“Is it possible to simulate body weight through Will?”

That seemed daunting. However, if he condensed his Will at the precise second of contact, the blow would gain a crushing density, mimicking a change in physical weight.

Several lines of thought merged into a solution. Enkrid applied his intellect to the problem as a matter of course. In the eyes of Temares, Enkrid’s natural aptitude for physical coordination was surprisingly unremarkable. Having attained the rank of knight, he had certainly surpassed the capabilities of a commoner, but he possessed no innate flash of genius. Instead, Enkrid relied on deep meditation, strategy, and relentless investigation.

This was his inherent nature, sharpened further by the endless cycle of the repeating day. He habitually dissected every sensation and experience, prying them apart to understand their mechanics.

“The Sword of Drop.”

Such movements were inherently large, which meant they would naturally create openings. If he were the creator of such a style, would he simply leave those vulnerabilities exposed?

“Certainly not.”

A knight had forged this art; there had to be a countermeasure. But what? He had possessed plenty of time to reflect. Developing a fresh combat style required a broadening of one’s perspective and conceptual reach.

Enkrid opened his eyes wide—not physically, but within his consciousness. He remained a student, ever attentive. Everything he had drilled, felt, and mastered was being synthesized into a final theory.

“Applying pressure through Will.”

The foundation of the Sword of Drop was an overwhelming aura intended to paralyze the foe. In some respects, it mirrored Aisia’s approach to combat. She used her presence to bind an opponent, restricting their mobility before delivering a lethal strike.

It was a method known as the Sword of Detention. Though Aisia did not wield a massive blade, the underlying logic of the technique was the same.

“I should suggest Aisia practice with a heavier blade later; it would benefit her.”

A sudden epiphany surfaced during his reflections. Perfection is an illusion, and the person one is today differs from who they will be tomorrow. A man dedicated to daily growth must remain in a state of constant flux. Had he understood this then, he would have offered Aisia more guidance.

Pushing aside the thoughts of Aisia that had momentarily distracted him, he plunged back into his martial study.

“The Killing Strike operates on a separate principle.”

Yet, was the origin truly different? It was not. Enkrid began to weave the Killing Strike—the downward momentum the Ferryman had demonstrated—into the mechanics of Vortex. Having finalized the theory in his mind, he moved to manifest it physically. He swung the edge of his hand as if it were a blade, despite being unarmed.

“What are you attempting?” the Ferryman inquired.

Lately, the moment Enkrid entered the dreamscape—this realm of mental imagery—he began training immediately without a word. The vessel creaked as it drifted, but Enkrid remained focused.

“What do you think?”

He answered the Ferryman’s question with one of his own. The glow of the lantern held by the Ferryman ebbed and flowed in a rhythmic cycle, resembling a slow blink.

“It shows promise,” the Ferryman replied, humoring him. Enkrid nodded, showing no sign of awkwardness.

“And what of this?”

He then displayed several forms derived from the dragonkin. At their core, these were five specific arts: Wavebreaker, traditional swordsmanship, Flash, Chance, and Vortex. He integrated his recent insights into these foundations. For Enkrid, this synthesis was a source of genuine joy. Even in the presence of the Ferryman, he could not bring himself to stop.

“Observe,” the Ferryman commanded. With a gesture, the Ferryman prompted Enkrid to draw a weapon that had materialized in his grip.

“When Detention constricts,” the Ferryman continued.

Following the instruction, Enkrid instinctively projected the Sword of Detention. Technically, this was the opening phase of the heavy-sword style known as Vortex. As he gathered his power, he projected a crushing pressure meant to subdue his foe.

Beneath the shadow of his hood, the Ferryman’s lips curled slightly. Small bits of grey scale flaked away from his cheek. Simultaneously, he lunged forward with a thin, needle-like blade. The thrust was so precise it punctured the field of Detention.

“And simultaneously, the Flowing Sword.”

The Ferryman did not merely thrust; he pivoted his wrist at the moment of impact, altering the path of the steel. The Will Enkrid had exerted for his Detention was diverted along the slanted edge. it was reminiscent of the flowing style utilized by the dragonkin. It went beyond parrying a physical strike; it involved redirecting the very Will infused within the attack.

“A slender needle can penetrate thick hide.”

The Ferryman’s metaphor resonated in Enkrid’s mind. He contemplated the words deeply.

“Needle and leather.”

To prevent the puncture, one must be denser than the needle. To pierce the hide, one must be as sharp and resilient as the needle.

“The one wielding the steel is a human—you understand that, don’t you?”

The Ferryman tossed out this next thought, and Enkrid nodded. The guardian of the boat upon the river of steel had highlighted several core truths of the blade. Having finished his instruction, the Ferryman revealed his true intent.

“This is endurance.”
“This is sorrow.”
“This is mercy.”

The Ferryman’s voice seemed to layer upon itself, each tone representing a different facet of his being.

“You will come to regret that you weren’t already confined within this single day,” the Ferryman remarked. He claimed he only spoke of swordsmanship now out of a sense of pity.

Enkrid grasped the meaning behind the words and paused.

“If I act as though I am suffering, will he provide more lessons?”

It was a thought born of obsession. The Ferryman perceived Enkrid’s internal monologue, not through some dragonkin telepathy, but because Enkrid’s face was an open book. However, Enkrid had no experience in acting pathetic. He furrowed his brow, lost in thought. To be honest, Enkrid failed to see why he deserved pity.

Because six lords of the Demon Realm were hunting him? That was exactly what he wanted; he was hunting them in return. It was a mutual arrangement. What else was there? As he deliberated, the Ferryman spoke again.

“Surely you sense the approach of conflict? Can you actually safeguard all you hold dear? Will the pain of loss leave you unchanged?”

The Ferryman felt a sudden urge to share a fragment of his own soul, to show Enkrid his own memories. He wanted the man to understand the agony of being the sole survivor. If everything is stripped away, what value does the present hold?

Behind the Ferryman, Enkrid caught a fleeting image of a woman with braided hair clutching a spear. Regardless of the vision, he simply crossed his muscular arms and asked, “Do I truly look like a figure of pity?”

Ignoring the weight of the Ferryman’s warnings, he remained focused only on the problem of how to appear miserable enough to gain more knowledge.

“…You are truly out of your mind,” the Ferryman muttered, unable to suppress an oath.

—

Enkrid thought back to his encounter with the Ferryman the night before. Though he had been unceremoniously dismissed, the lessons he had gleaned were invaluable.

“An engraved weapon is a vessel for its master’s Will. The edge is unlikely to chip easily, but diligent care is always rewarded.”

The rhythmic *clack-clack* of a hammer echoed as Aitri’s apprentice worked. Aitri himself, whom Enkrid hadn’t visited in some time, appeared gaunt. He looked more exhausted than he had during the forging of Dawn.

“Is everything all right?” Enkrid inquired. The blacksmith looked like a man burdened by something.

“Everything is fine.”

Enkrid searched Aitri’s gaze. These were not the eyes of a man without worries.

“Sir Jaxon and several others have placed orders recently. Sir Kraiss has also provided me with enough krona to last several lifetimes.”

Had Aitri cared for wealth, he would have lived differently. He had possessed a singular ambition and achieved it. Was that the cause of the emptiness in his eyes? Had his spirit withered now that his goal was met? No. His eyes still burned with intensity.

*Thud!*

As the apprentice’s hammering continued in the background, Aitri’s eyes caught the glow of the furnace. The man who had spent his life in the heat of the forge ran his rough fingers over the edge of Dawn Tempering.

“It is a magnificent blade, isn’t it?” he asked. The answer was obvious.

“It is.”

Aitri bowed and meticulously oiled the metal, inspecting every hinge and connection of Dawn before returning it. The scorching air of the forge fought back the autumn chill. Aitri’s passion remained just as hot.

“If there is anything you require, just ask,” Enkrid stated. This man had given him an engraved weapon, and Enkrid was prepared to return the favor.

“I will,” Aitri replied curtly, maintaining his usual stoic demeanor.

Temares, the dragonkin, observed the human craftsman closely. It was rare for the dragonkin to find something truly intriguing; his long life had made such moments scarce.

“There is another,” he noted.

He saw here another human who commanded respect—a man who had poured his very existence into his craft. His hair was silvering, and his eyes showed the strain of years spent staring into the fire. Yet, the clarity of the Will within those clouded eyes was remarkable. The dragonkin peered into the man’s soul. This blacksmith didn’t even know what he wanted; he was simply a vessel for a boiling, undirected fervor. What would happen if that energy found a purpose?

To a dragonkin, such pure Will was a rarity to be admired.

“It all traces back to this man.”

Temares knew this was no accident. The catalyst for all of this was Enkrid.

“Well then.”

As Enkrid prepared to depart, Aitri spoke up. “There must be a reason you chose the name Dawn, isn’t there?”

Dawn Tempering—a sword that looked as though it were fashioned from the first light of day.

“Why? Do you find it unfitting?”

“No. It remains a fine name.”

Enkrid sensed Aitri was withholding something. His intuition had sharpened significantly since becoming a knight, but he chose not to pry. If Aitri wanted to speak, he would.

Nearby, the apprentice paused his work to watch, as did Prok, who was busy with some jewelry.

“What’s going on?”

A dwarf entered the shop. Enkrid recognized him after a moment.

“Rotten Eyes.”

The name was a bit fuzzy, but the memory was there.

“The name is Argan,” the dwarf corrected.

Though dwarves were known for being prickly, Argan had lived among humans long enough to develop a certain level of social grace. He wasn’t about to start a fight with Enkrid; their first encounter hadn’t been particularly pleasant, and there was nothing to be gained by provoking him now.

“Have you settled your accounts with Martai?” Enkrid asked. Kraiss never forgot a debt, and he had managed Argan quite effectively. The dwarf’s involvement had begun with a debt to Martai, a story Kraiss had repeated many times.

“That was settled long ago. Why even ask?”

The dwarf looked over Enkrid’s companions: Prok, a fairy, and the dragonkin. Jaxon had already departed on his own business.

“Are you off to hunt a demon lord?” Argan joked, though the caliber of the group made the comment feel plausible.

“Just a walk,” Enkrid replied casually as they headed out. He believed that seeing the world was just as vital as training. He was well aware of what Esther had realized.

“If it weren’t for these two, this would be a date,” Shinar remarked.

“Ignore me. I am merely an observer,” Temares said.

“’Observer’ is a bit of a creepy way to put it, Temares,” Prok chimed in. He was currently helping the dragonkin adjust to human society.

Argan, having become quite perceptive, read the tension on Aitri’s face and the atmosphere surrounding Enkrid, choosing to stay quiet.

Once the group had vanished from sight, Argan turned to Aitri. “You didn’t give it to him?”

Argan had spent enough time working alongside Aitri to know about the sword he had recently finished.

“I did not,” Aitri said.

In the months since finishing Dawn, he had been working on a companion piece.

“The sword’s name is Dusk.”

Shortly after completing Enkrid’s weapon, Aitri had been struck by a sense of dissatisfaction. He wanted to be better than he was the day before. So, he began a second blade. Since Enkrid favored two swords, Aitri thought a pair would be perfect. Even without the witch’s magic or the fairy’s essence, he had crafted a masterpiece. He called it Dusk, the twin to Dawn.

But it wasn’t enough. The sword felt like a compromise. It looked like Dawn’s equal, but it lacked the same soul.

“Destroy it. Melt it down.”

“Master?” the apprentice cried out in shock. Argan was equally stunned.

“Wait, that’s—”

Even Prok, watching from the side, tried to intervene. They all knew how much of himself Aitri had poured into that steel.

“This is not the one.”

Aitri didn’t want a sword that merely resembled Dawn. He wanted something better. And so, he shattered the blade he had worked so hard to create.

—

“A word from the King.”

In Enkrid’s absence, Kraiss met with the envoy sent by Crang.

“The forces of the south have mobilized,” the messenger reported.

Kraiss received the news with a stoic expression. He was no longer the anxious man he had once been. Kraiss had evolved.

“Then the campaign begins,” Kraiss replied.