Unlike Krais’s concerns, there was no fierce battle.
Both sides had fought once and understood, they were people whose victory or defeat was hard to determine unless they fought with their lives on the line.
"Do you think the advantage you have now will last forever?"
A friend who had barely survived an encounter with Rem spoke. He had a plain appearance, but his eyes shone with intelligence. His name was Magrun Zaun, or so he had heard.
Though his hair color was different from a man named Odinkar, they bore a subtle resemblance. If Odinkar gave off a languid impression, Magrun felt fiercely determined. Of course, this was just a feeling, it might not align perfectly with their personalities, but it was likely close.
These people did not particularly try to hide their thoughts. He knew this from observing fairy society.
For them, lies were unnecessary, so much so that the word "lie" did not exist in their language. Naturally, they had lived their lives without the need to conceal their true intentions.
"Zaun has always lived in competition. We are not like you, who idly sacrifice the weak for your convenience."
Magrun continued speaking. With everyone watching, he scanned the surroundings with his eyes—eyes and a demeanor that showed he was not one to back down.
Even after being beaten by Rem, he seemed to be saying that it wasn’t over.
His words hit the mark to some extent. It was a critique of how Knights were typically treated on the continent.
Knights did not spar against other Knights. They were too valuable to risk injury or death in training. The kingdoms of the continent treated Knights with respect and honored their wishes. If they were wounded or killed in training, the losses would be immeasurable. Naturally, they avoided such conflicts.
But Magrun’s words conveyed the exact opposite belief. He was criticizing the complacency of Knights who stopped striving after attaining their status. He was fervent.
Yet Rem paid no attention to him.
‘What’s he even talking about?’
Magrun’s words did not align with the beliefs of the Madmen of the Border Guard.
The people gathered here were warriors, often called the flowers of the battlefield, those who stood firm in places where blood spilled, who embraced death at their side, who whispered with their blades instead of their tongues, and who met tomorrow with their swords.
Encrid, in particular, was a miracle to still be standing and speaking.
At least, that was how Rem saw it. And Audin and Jaxon would likely agree.
Perhaps it was a coincidence.
Magrun snorted, then raised his finger and pointed at Encrid.
"I heard everyone gathered to teach him. Did he have extraordinary talent? Did he savor the gifts given to him? Did he simply follow the path set before him? Is that how he arrived at this point?"
His words carried a fervor. His tone exuded confidence, spoken by someone with unshakable conviction.
Encrid emerged from his thoughts and looked at Magrun—no, at the finger pointing at him.
It was a conclusion. Magrun’s words had the same weight as the swing of a sword imbued with his Will.
"Did Ragna lead you? Did luck bring you here? Just wait. I’ll catch up to you soon. It won’t take more than two months."
Pel had fought alongside Encrid in the fairy city, slain demons, battled cultists, and witnessed everything that had transpired upon their return.
"What the hell is that idiot talking about?"
Pel muttered.
"You, who lack the qualifications, should stay out of this."
Magrun said without even sparing Pel a glance.
Pel bristled, but Lawford grabbed his arm.
Lawford’s expression was as composed as always, but the way his lips were firmly shut without the slightest tremor made it clear that he wasn’t in a pleasant mood.
"He’s not wrong, is he?"
Lawford said, as if posing a rhetorical question. It wasn’t meant to provoke Pel, and Pel knew that.
Instead, both clenched their teeth, silently resolving to increase the intensity of their training under Audin by two levels starting tomorrow.
Was Encrid’s chosen method the fastest path? Perhaps not. It might not even be the right one.
But for now, there was no other way. So they would do it.
Hadn’t they learned from watching that man?
When in doubt, move forward. When there’s no time to sit, crawl if necessary, but always look ahead.
That was the way. They would do as they had been taught.
At the very least, Pel and Lawford shared the same thoughts.
You idiot. The people here caught up to their leader in just two weeks. And what, you think they’ve just been sitting around for the past two months?
Magrun stood up straight. He was not arrogant. This confidence was built upon experience.
"Those who have grown up being spoon-fed without fierce competition..."
His tone was—no, it was outright aggravating.
Before he even finished speaking, everyone’s gaze turned to Encrid.
He stared at Magrun in silence. They all waited for him to respond.
Now was the time for him to speak, whether by beating down that foolish loudmouth or by humiliating him with words.
"Two months? That’s all you need?"
Encrid asked nonchalantly. There was no sign of irritation. Rather than being offended...
‘Why does he look so pleased?’
Rem tilted his head, and Jaxon’s eyebrows twitched.
"Brother?"
Audin called out, but Encrid raised his palm, signaling him to stop.
Pel, Lawford, and Teresa all watched in confusion.
But Luagarne figured it out first.
‘He’s excited.’
That was correct. And it wasn’t hard to guess why. Because they fight well.
"I’ll give you two months. Prove yourself."
Encrid said once more.
Magrun was different from Grida. He knew his weaknesses. He had a habit of pissing people off whenever he spoke.
Grida refused to acknowledge her inability to recognize faces, but he was not like her.
Yet, this reaction was new. Why isn’t he angry?
Normally, people would react by defending their efforts, claiming that they were being insulted, demanding that their achievements not be belittled.
That was the expected response.
"Hmm... two months should be enough."
Some of the fire in Magrun’s voice died down.
"Anyway, Krais? Where’s Big Eyes?"
Encrid asked out of nowhere.
"He quietly slipped away earlier."
Luagarne answered.
"Then Lawford."
"Yes?"
"Find a place for these three to stay."
"Understood."
Lawford bowed his head and walked off. Magrun’s gaze never left Encrid.
Grida and Odinkar also looked at him with curiosity.
"Alright. Your name was Odinkar, right? Let’s have a match."
Without a care for anyone else’s reactions, Encrid spoke.
Odinkar shared similarities with Encrid but at least had some level of awareness.
"Right now?"
Odinkar asked. He did want to fight. The battle instinct in his chest was pounding.
But isn’t this the moment when you should be mad? Why do you look thrilled instead? Why are you gripping your sword like you’re excited?
"I’m not drawing this sword yet because it’s still unfamiliar. I’ll be ready to use it tomorrow. For now, I’ll use this one."
Encrid was already past the point of listening to others.
Grida Zaun’s specialty was analyzing weaknesses through observation.
Encrid had figured out Grida’s talent. She probably had more hidden skills, but from what he had seen, this was the most apparent.
Magrun Zaun’s skill intrigued him too, but Magrun was injured.
"Pel, go fetch Ann to heal him."
Encrid said, keeping his eyes on Odinkar.
Knights had healing abilities far beyond ordinary people. With just a bit of medicine, even wounds like those could heal quickly.
A Knight’s broken bones could mend in a day. Their surging Will replenished their vitality, making such rapid recovery possible.
For non-Knights, achieving something similar required an absurd amount of effort and brutal training.
That was what Audin and Encrid had done in the past.
"Are you excited because you have a strong opponent, or because you’re looking forward to beating them up?"
Rem asked, sensing Encrid’s mood.
"Probably both."
Jaxon answered for him.
"Lord, are you the Apostle of the God of War instead of me?"
Encrid heard everything but, as usual, let it pass through one ear and out the other, merely tilting his sword.
Odinkar, sensing the flow of the situation, drew his sword once more.
Ching!
The silver blade revealed itself with a clear hum.
He was aware of the gazes around him, but he wasn’t the type to hold back.
No, if anything, he was the kind who couldn’t hold back.
Odinkar carefully chose his words, rehearsing them in his mind a few times before speaking.
"I have the advantage. This sword was taken from my family and trained to my hand. And just so you know, I don’t really know how to stop. I have little patience, so… do your best to stay alive, even if just a little."
If Grida had the flaw of being unable to recognize faces, and Magrun had the unfortunate talent of ruining conversations with his words, then Odinkar’s flaw was a lack of restraint.
The reason he usually seemed relaxed was because, once he started something, he simply couldn’t stop.
For example, if he happened to eat a dish that suited his tastes perfectly, he would continue eating only that dish for an entire year.
And the worst of it all was during sparring. Odinkar didn’t know how to stop.
In real combat, his recklessness could sometimes turn into a brilliant, decisive move, elevating it into an advantage. But in a spar? It was nothing but a problem.
Yet Encrid found nothing wrong with any of this. Or rather, nothing that was worth worrying about.
Not being able to recognize faces?
That wasn’t so bad. It was certainly better than constantly getting lost and disappearing.
A harsh way of speaking?
That was nothing. Compared to that, sometimes when Rem spoke, Encrid would wonder if he should hold a moment of silence for Rem’s enemies.
Rem’s words were sharp enough to be considered a weapon. That barbarian’s tongue was growing sharper by the day.
And restraint?
Why should he hold back? He had people around him who could take his strikes.
There were those ahead of him, whom he had yet to surpass, who would tell him it wasn’t enough.
So why should he hold back?
"Come at me. Two months."
Encrid said, not bothering to recall his opponent’s name.
"Two months is me."
Magrun mumbled in confusion.
Grida, standing beside him, let out a small laugh. By now, everyone understood what that lunatic wanted.
"You get told you're weird a lot, don’t you?"
Odinkar asked, lowering his sword slightly.
When a member of the Zaun family stepped onto the continent, the most common thing they heard was that they were different.
That was the polite way to put it.
Behind their backs, people didn’t hesitate to call them lunatics. And here stood someone who was an even bigger lunatic.
"No, never."
Not only that, he didn’t even acknowledge it.
"No, you’re definitely weird."
Odinkar laughed as he spoke. This time, he didn’t carefully choose his words. He just said exactly what was on his mind.
And that raised a question, was it really okay not to hold back?
Everyone took a step back, giving them space to spar.
Luagarne, as she stepped away, suddenly realized something.
Encrid wasn’t just excited because his opponent was strong. There was something else mixed in.
Curiosity.
Encrid had dreams and passion. And recently, that passion had been paired with an increasing thirst for knowledge.
It was the word that best described Frog—curiosity, the desire to know more.
About what?
The Zaun family trained Knights through an established system. They had a proper method for knightly development.
And Encrid wanted to learn about that too. That must have been why he told them to stay.
Ragna’s absence was just a convenient excuse.
Magrun’s thoughtless talk of two months was another excuse.
All of it—excuses.
Even if they hadn’t come up, he would have made them stay. Luagarne was certain of it.
Meanwhile, the corners of Encrid’s lips curled up. A smile of satisfaction appeared on his face. He had spotted a weakness in Odinkar.
One that had been freely given to him. After all, Odinkar had said it himself. He had no patience.
"Do you have a lover?"
"What?"
"If so, I offer her my condolences."
"Why? You’re planning to kill me?"
Odinkar smiled, treating it as a clumsy provocation.
But Encrid was not someone who did clumsy provocations.
"No, you said you have no patience, didn’t you? Then how miserable must your lover be? Nights with you must be long indeed, most of them ending in dissatisfaction."
The way he phrased it forced everyone to take a moment to process the words. Odinkar was no exception.
And when he finally understood, a deep red flush spread across his face. With an angry glare, Odinkar snapped.
"I’m not like that at night!"
At the same time, his body shot forward—fast. Dangerously fast.
If there was a way to break his opponent’s composure, Encrid would take it.
With that slight edge, he gently pushed Penna forward.
It was Body Slipping, a technique from Valaf-Style Martial Arts, but he executed it using a blade instead.
Strength flowed from his wrist, absorbed by his body, and redirected through his sword.
A weapon was merely an extension of the hand.
For now, he casually named the move Feather Flick.
At this point, he was still fighting based on technique, a stage Encrid classified as intermediate.
But victory wasn’t determined solely by one’s level. Especially not in a spar.
The Wave Blocking Sword shone best in duels, giving him an additional advantage.
Clang!
The two swords clashed.
Blades had no voices, yet they cried out through their steel, ringing again and again.
Clang! Bang! Clang!
Like that, the two swords began to compose a marching tune of their own.
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