The journey back was smooth.
As expected, there were no signs of bandits, and monsters or beasts were rarely seen.
Trailing far behind Encrid and the group was a migrating group of fairies.
The two groups maintained a half-day's distance, and after crossing several knolls, they were out of each other's sight.
Even though they were the vanguard and only a fraction of the whole, it was still the migration of a city. Even a portion of the city was so large that, despite Encrid's group walking slowly, the distance naturally widened. After all, when people gather, their pace slows.
It was on the second day that something noteworthy happened.
As they were preparing to camp, Luagarne witnessed Encrid's strength once again. It was during a sparring session with Pel.
“Bride thief!”
Pel awkwardly attempted to provoke him, but naturally, it had no effect on Encrid.
Instead, Encrid took advantage of the moment Pel opened his mouth to provoke him, attacking in a way that threw his opponent off balance—even though he was someone he could already defeat effortlessly.
‘His tactics have become sharper.’
It was as if someone had taken hold of him for years and refined him through rigorous training. Moments like these felt remarkable, even uncanny.
Regardless of talent, his skills seemed to leap forward suddenly.
But this time, something even more surprising occurred.
‘Hmm.’
The sparring was fast-paced, with blows being exchanged rapidly. Pel couldn’t even find the time to speak. Naturally, it became a silent battle of hands and feet. Encrid didn’t use intimidation, either.
Without words, the match turned into a pure contest of strength and technique. All of this was, of course, by Encrid’s design.
‘No, from the middle of the fight, there wasn’t even technique anymore.’
It was purely about strength and speed. That alone overwhelmed his opponent. When immense strength is in play, there’s no room for clumsy technique.
They say you can flow around strength with softness.
But a weighty, heavy sword is easy to deflect along a flow and, conversely, easy to catch.
What happens, though, when the strength is so superior it ignores the flow entirely?
Encrid was demonstrating the answer right now.
Even when Pel felt the blade graze his neck, he didn’t have the chance to say anything. A single misplaced breath could mean his death.
The sense of crisis coursing down his spine from a deceptive slash was entirely different.
It felt like a cold lizard licking his skin with an icy tongue.
Pel poured all his energy into a single strike, as he had no other choice.
Encrid’s seemingly random swings carried deadly trajectories and devastating power, coming at him like a predator about to rip into his throat.
Consciously, Pel channeled his Will into his sword. One misstep, and it would be like falling off a cliff. He was teetering at the edge, with only the tips of his fingers keeping him from plummeting. Losing grip meant certain death.
Strong winds occasionally blew, forcing him to brace his core. Losing his balance even slightly would mean death.
The sunlight stabbed at his eyes. A single distracted blink might shatter his focus and spell his doom.
‘I’ll die.’
Pel knew this instinctively, and Encrid swung his sword indifferently.
Bang!
Pel didn’t let go of his sword, but his arm was pushed away in the direction of Encrid’s strike.
In that brief moment, Encrid stepped forward and lightly pushed Pel’s chest with his free hand.
“I win.”
Encrid said.
It was a foregone conclusion, after all.
“...Phew.”
Only then did Pel let out a breath. Without using any technique, Encrid had overpowered him with sheer strength. The failed provocation? That was expected.
‘This monstrous bastard.’
Whatever he had done, his use of willpower and swordsmanship was unrecognizable from when they first arrived here. Truly monstrous. A talent forged to perfection.
No one needed to tell him, Pel could sense it. In such a short time, Encrid had once again shattered the limits he previously faced.
Pel exhaled deeply, reflecting on his wounded pride. If his spirit were weak enough to crumble at this, he wouldn’t have endured this long.
‘I’ll catch up somehow.’
Now, he had a newfound determination he didn’t have before. Pel’s eyes burned with resolve.
Luagarne, meanwhile, reflected on what she had just witnessed from Encrid.
‘He matched his pace to Pel.’
In other words, Encrid had plenty of room to spare.
What had changed?
Frog’s ability to discern talent allowed him to intuitively grasp someone’s ability through their movements and posture.
That intuition sparked like embers in Luagarne’s mind, showing her what Encrid had developed.
‘He wielded a heavy and fast sword with ease.’
Not just once or twice; he adjusted his intensity to match Pel, calibrating his strength mid-fight.
To put it simply, it was like a seasoned woodcutter swinging his axe tirelessly, employing every technique he’d ever learned without pause.
All of this happened in an instant, without a moment of hesitation or preparation.
‘It’s because he entered a state of hyper-focus.’
By heightening his concentration, he could channel all his energy into every swing. He must have drawn on what he learned while fighting the Walking Flame.
So, if Encrid poured everything he had into a fight right now, what would he be capable of?
‘Prolonged, high-speed combat.’
When he faced the Demon One-Killer, Encrid had reconstructed his understanding of swordsmanship.
‘But that wasn’t the end.’
Creating a new form of swordsmanship meant fully understanding its meaning and execution.
Naturally, this understanding influenced the one wielding it.
‘Beginner, intermediate, advanced—wasn’t that the system he built?’
According to the framework Encrid devised, he had now reached a level beyond intermediate. His individuality had crystallized.
‘Urke.’
A swordsmanship built upon an endless reservoir of willpower.
Luagarne’s sharp insight was on point. Since leaving the fairy city, Encrid had gained a clear understanding of what he could achieve.
Sustained high-speed combat.
And why had this happened? It was the culmination of all his experiences until now.
Both Learbart and Knight Jamal had specialized in prolonged battles.
‘He was influenced by them.’
Encrid acknowledged this without hesitation. There was nothing wrong with it.
At the same time, he felt like something within him had finally been completed. It was a feeling of omnipotence, as though he could defeat anyone at this moment.
Yet, there was also a sense of finality, as though he had hit a wall. The peak was in sight, but there was nowhere else to climb.
But another part of him refused to believe this was the end.
Talent always acknowledges limits, but the will within one’s heart knows none.
‘Suddenly.’
As Encrid defeated Pel, he organized his thoughts.
Reflecting on his abilities, he found himself gaining even more clarity. It was an intuitive understanding, the kind of knowledge no one needed to teach him.
For example:The techniques and mindset of a Knight are the culmination of their life. Willpower is the same.
This explained why the willpower of that paladin they met was so pitiful.
‘Talent alone can make someone a Knight, but a sword forged without Will is as full of holes as Swiss cheese.’
‘There is no Knight without an oath.’
This is why oaths and convictions are essential to Knights, they form the foundation of their willpower. Perhaps this is why Oara’s resolve shines so brightly.
Even if it isn’t a grand dream, pursuing what one believes in is what truly matters.
‘There’s no such thing as a humble dream, just as every oath deserves respect.’
This theory aligned perfectly with Encrid’s own beliefs.
Understanding the essence of Knighthood in a way that resonated with him personally, he felt it was only natural for it to make sense.
As he walked, deep in thought, the surroundings brightened. It was a night illuminated by two moons, casting brilliant light. Two more such nights passed, and the moonlight began to dim. Even with no clouds in the sky, the light seemed to fade.
The moons hinted at a change in color. It was the season of the Twin Moons, the Red Moons.
No one in the group paid much attention, though. They were all preoccupied.
Pel and Zero were busy processing and reflecting on what they had learned after being defeated by Encrid, while Luagarne focused on sharing her talent-analyzing framework with him.
“Frog believed that dividing people into stages of talent was meaningless because talent has its limits. It doesn’t necessarily affect life-and-death battles.”
What mattered in a fight to the death?
Would better mastery of willpower improve your fighting? Perhaps, but not in a way that immediately translated to combat effectiveness. Luagarne’s point was this:
Even someone trained in willpower can die if stabbed in their sleep. No human, not even Frog, can survive with their throat cut.
Frog would die if his heart were pierced. Skill influences outcomes, but it’s never absolute. So, are there other factors that affect the fight? There are.
“Does everyone’s talent have the same color? Of course not. Each is different. We see the limits of talent, but we cannot see its color. That’s why we had to experience it firsthand, and it was a great joy.”
Of course, it wasn’t as entertaining as watching someone like Encrid shatter his limits.
The desire to explore and seek the unknown burned brightly. Among the Frogs, Luagarne was especially faithful to this desire. Naturally, this meant she accumulated a wealth of knowledge—after all, the desire to understand the unknown makes learning an enjoyable pursuit.
“Depending on the color of their talent, some, like him, put everything into a single strike, while others, like the fairies, perform peculiar sword techniques influenced by their racial traits.”
At that moment, Pel and Zero were training nearby, swinging their swords at the empty air with unwavering focus.
The trajectories of their swords were visible. The results were the same: slashing and thrusting. But the process was entirely different.
Pel executed a single decisive strike at an imaginary opponent, whereas Zero performed six in the same span.
Encrid mulled over Luagarne’s words, turning them over in his mind several times.
This train of thought brought him back to a conversation he had with Pel a few days ago, when they’d been joking about “bride thief”.
‘Pel’s moves are easy to read.’
It wasn’t that he didn’t care to hide his techniques, it was simply his nature.
Why? Because that was the kind of person Pel was.
The events in the fairy city also crossed his mind.
‘Ermen perfects deception through silence.’
Encrid had been struck by the sophistication of it. Why? Though many fairies shared similar temperaments, Ermen stood out as exceptional.
It reminded him of Krais in some ways.
On the other hand, Pel preferred spontaneous maneuvers. Rem was similar. Ragna, despite appearances, also enjoyed strategic battles, but unlike the others, he knew how to end a fight with raw power when necessary.
Each had their own unique disposition.
Encrid had been reorganizing and reconstructing everything he had seen, felt, and experienced so far. He wasn’t just refining his understanding of Knights, he was organizing insights beyond that scope.
‘Their fighting forms vary depending on their dispositions.’
This was just like how Frog perceived the “colors” of talent.
“There was once a Frog who whimsically named the different types of talent: mole cricket, mayfly, pupa, caterpillar, and so on.”
Luagarne’s words made sense to him now. Encrid had just added a few more concepts to his understanding.
The way one uses their weapon and absorbs knowledge depends on their disposition.
If that’s the case, the teaching and learning methods would also need to vary.
If individuals understood their own dispositions, it would make learning and training even more effective.
‘Fatal Strike, Sustained, and Versatile.’
Three broad categories would suffice. As he had learned before, completion was more important than perfection.
Pel fit the Fatal Strike category. Lawford was Sustained.
The two were polar opposites.
There were also those who began with a balance of both—Versatile types.
‘Although having both might seem advantageous, it’s actually less efficient.’
Versatility isn’t inherently good. Chasing two rabbits requires double the time and effort. And as Frog had pointed out, talent is finite. It’s like drawing water from a single well to fill two buckets—the total volume doesn’t increase, just divides.
Dividing one’s focus would leave them at a disadvantage against someone specializing in one area.
Even here, there were those obsessed with physical training—Refinement types—and those who delved into technique—Artistry types.
‘Refinement types are better suited to heavy or quick swords.’
Artistry types align with fluid and illusionary swords.
By synthesizing and categorizing swordsmanship, Encrid had added his own methods and honed his craft. He also understood the importance of knowing oneself and had verified that for himself.
‘I’m a Sustained type.’
At present, this was true.
With Urkeora, he could excel in prolonged battles. Coincidentally, both Learbart and the Knight of Aspen specialized in endurance combat, which gave him opportunities to observe and learn.
‘Ultimately, shouldn’t one aim to blend Fatal Strike and Sustained styles?’
Though it wasn’t clear yet, he could faintly perceive what lay “ahead” and “above”.
Among the Knights, one figure stood out in this context: Jaxon. He was both a Fatal Strike and an Artistry type—a rare combination, a “Fatal Artistry” type.
It was unusual. Fatal Strike styles typically complemented Refinement types.
‘No, there’s no definitive answer.’
Setting rigid answers only creates “fakes”. This was likely how the Holy Nation produced its counterfeits—forcing individuals to run along predetermined paths.
“Ah.”
Encrid felt a wave of exhilaration as he delved into not just learning and mastering but creating. A thrill coursed through him, from his toes to the top of his head.
As he lifted his gaze to the sky, he noticed the two moons had turned crimson. The Twin Moons were now red. Night had fallen before he realized it.
He had been so lost in thought while walking that he forgot he was even walking. While his body instinctively avoided obstacles, it was only now that he became aware of his surroundings.
And when he lifted his head, he saw unwelcome guests.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Encrid of the Border Guard.”
Under the crimson moonlight, a voice spoke without any accompanying presence. Encrid saw a dark veil form before him and then vanish.
‘A cognitive disruption spell.’
It was a spell designed to conceal the presence of the veil until it disappeared.
Having encountered it before, Encrid had sensed its subtle incongruity. That was why his thoughts had halted, allowing him to recognize his surroundings.
A group emerged from behind the veil.
One wore black armor.
Two others wore cloth garments instead of armor.
At the center stood someone holding a long staff.
The staff had a round metal ring at its tip, adorned with sharp, protruding spikes, as if symbolizing something.
“We come from the Rebirth Cult of the Sacred Demon Realm.”
Under the crimson moonlight, the group exuded a dangerous aura.
“We’ve brought the remaining apostles.”
As soon as the man finished speaking, Encrid’s sixth sense flared.
From beneath his feet, the ground erupted.
Sharp, jagged spikes of iron shot upward, aiming for Encrid’s stomach, Luagarne’s heart, Zero’s head, and Pel’s neck.
Encrid’s mind accelerated. For a moment, everything around him seemed to freeze.
Like being submerged in a thick, solid mass of clay, the pressure slowed time. Within that oppressive stillness, Encrid knew exactly what he had to do.
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