Despite hearing the Emperor's name, the refusal was blatant—without any reasonable justification, just a simple "no". Yet, the recruitment officer only let out a groan instead of pressing further.
"You stubborn old man."
That was all he muttered.
It was clearly audible, but the head of the family ignored even that, turning his gaze away. Judging by his tone, their acquaintance wasn't a shallow one.
"Everyone must have their own reasons for coming this far. Ragna has stated his wish."
Following his firm rejection, his gaze landed on Ann, who had long since finished her meal.
'Is this consideration?'
The head of the family had waited until Ann had eaten her fill. His words didn't convey any emotions or care, but the fact that he only asked now suggested otherwise.
'Does he always speak through actions rather than words?'
Instead of revealing emotions?
That thought crossed Encrid's mind.
The others seemed accustomed to it and remained silent. Alexandra Zaun only smiled quietly.
Her gaze seemed to be observing Ann’s face, gestures, and demeanor, but there was no malice in it.
Ann swallowed and spoke.
"I heard you've been suffering from a long illness. I might be able to cure it."
It wasn’t a definitive statement, but her tone carried a firm resolve. Looking at her like this, she had a formidable spirit.
'Knowing her life was at risk, she still took the medicine and entrusted her life to Ragna. That kind of courage isn't something just anyone possesses.'
That was Encrid's assessment.
"You’re referring to the divine punishment placed upon us."
Grida added an explanation. The Zaun family suffered from an inherited illness, which had worsened significantly over the past few years.
Even at Ann’s words, the head of the family remained indifferent. His gaze didn't waver in the slightest.
'Would his expression ever change?'
Even if an arm were severed, he'd probably just stare blankly.
'No, he wouldn’t just watch.'
If the battle had ended, he would at least stop the bleeding. And if it hadn't, he'd claim his opponent’s head in exchange for the lost arm.
The subtle aura he exuded was still astonishing.
At any moment, it felt like he could draw his sword. Yet, at the same time, if someone launched a sudden attack, it seemed just as likely that he’d simply watch.
In short, he was unpredictable.
"A son who seeks the Sunrise."
The head of the family spoke, pausing before sweeping his gaze around the room.
"And a reckless young lady who claims she can cure an illness."
"And there's Schmidt, too."
His wife added, gesturing toward the recruitment officer.
It seemed the officer’s name was Schmidt. He was clearly someone who had known the head of the family and his wife for a long time.
"Tempe, this is a proposal for both you and your family."
Schmidt's tone changed. Earlier, he had spoken as a recruitment officer of the Empire. Now, his tone was more familiar.
"Still not interested."
The head of the family responded firmly once again. Though devoid of emotion, his determination was unmistakable.
Schmidt groaned once more.
"What’s your name?"
Alexandra set down her fork and knife, neatly stacking her dishes, before turning to Ann.
Ann, similarly tidying up her utensils, answered.
"I'm Ann. I'm an alchemist, but I also heal the sick. Don't you have someone here that people go to when they fall ill? I do something similar."
In any community, there had to be someone to treat the sick or injured.
"When we get sick or when the signs of that illness appear, we go to Millestia. She is also the godmother of these children."
Alexandra gestured toward Ragna and Grida before gazing at Ann intently. Was it scrutiny? Or doubt?
Grida had called this a divine punishment.
'A curse from the heavens.'
It was essentially the same as calling it a curse.
Magrun, on the other hand, hadn’t reacted when Ann referred to it as an illness rather than a curse and claimed she could heal it.
He hadn’t shown the slightest inclination to entrust his body to her or even consider the possibility.
'He has no expectations.'
He must have met other healers and tried various treatments before.
'Or perhaps, Millestia is an extraordinary healer, and if she couldn’t cure it, he believes no one else can either.'
The place Magrun had gone to visit immediately upon arriving here was likely where Millestia resided.
His condition hadn’t been normal throughout the journey here.
Alchemy is a field where age often reflects skill.
No matter how talented or capable one is, without time and experience, it’s difficult to achieve results.
On the surface, Ann looked barely twenty. That alone made it difficult for anyone to place high expectations on her.
In other words—
'The head of the family will reject her.'
It was a logical prediction. After a brief pause, the head of the family spoke.
"If you need anything, let me know, Ann. And although it’s been a while since you've returned, it seems best to have a familiar face assisting you. Grida."
"Yes, I will."
Prediction failed.
"Ragna, are you ready?"
The head of the family’s gaze landed on Ragna’s forehead, where his torn hair and bruises were evident.
"Not today."
Ragna replied, and the head of the family prepared to leave. He was about to clear the table and bid everyone to rest.
Encrid seized the moment to ask.
"Why haven't you asked what I want?"
Alexandra answered in his stead.
"Because it’s too obvious."
Obvious? Encrid knew he wasn’t a simple person. Being steadfast didn’t mean being simple.
His purpose in coming here was to protect Ann, uncover the truth about what happened along the way, and support Ragna as a friend.
Furthermore, what was happening in Zaun was far from simple. Encrid was even willing to intervene if things got too complicated.
His business here wasn’t something that could be summarized in just a few words.
So, calling it "obvious" had a flaw. It was an error.
'Or even a contradiction.'
Encrid made up his mind. Regardless of what was said, he would point out that contradiction. As he steeled himself, the head of the family spoke.
"Tomorrow morning, you’ll have a match—one against me, and one against my wife."
Without hesitation, Encrid responded.
"Yes, let’s do it."
A duel.
That meant other matters could be set aside for now.
Odinkar’s disappearance? He had left of his own will. That made it less of a disappearance and more of an escape or departure.
Ragna had left when he was young, saying he’d return one day, and now, as an adult, he had returned.
If Ragna could do it, so could Odinkar. Even if that wasn’t the case, sometimes a man just needed a cave to be alone.
The attack on the way here? Would telling the head of the family now change anything?
Someone had tried to kill Ann and obstruct their journey here. That was all.
And wouldn’t Grida or Magrun report it anyway?
'It's not my place to step in.'
So, all that was left was the duel. No need to complicate things.
Even if the situation was complex, Encrid knew how to view it simply.
'That’s just who I am.'
He reached a conclusion in his mind.
"Then I'll see you tomorrow. You may go now. Show them to their rooms."
Everyone left without protest, except Schmidt, the Imperial recruitment officer, who remained seated.
As Encrid stepped out of the reception hall that doubled as a dining room, his gaze briefly landed on Schmidt.
"This way, please."
A well-dressed attendant led Encrid away.
Creak—
The dining hall doors closed behind them, and Schmidt’s voice could be heard.
"Are you really going to go through with this?"
It wasn’t a plea filled with deep resentment, but there was a certain degree of reproach.
The doors, once wide open, had shut, creating a thin line between one world and another.
Through that divide, for a brief moment, the eyes of the head of the family and Encrid met.
'Would you call it amber?'
The master's eyes, reflecting the lamp’s light, glowed orange.
Thud.
The door shut with a heavy sound, as if it carried weight, followed by Schmidt’s urging voice.
“Say something. It’s not as if you’re doing this for my sake.”
His tone wasn’t indifferent—anyone could hear the underlying concern in his words.
‘If not for himself… then for whom?’
The question crossed Encrid’s mind, but it wasn’t something he needed to interfere in. Right now, preparing for tomorrow was the priority.
With his back to the closed door, Encrid walked away.
A Knight’s duties didn’t change just because of their title. Wielding a sword alone wouldn’t rid a fairy-folk undershirt of the sweat-stained stench of dust.
The same went for brushing off the layers of dirt on his cloak, which he used to block the wind, or scraping off the pebbles and black clumps of earth stuck to the soles of his boots.
Just swinging a sword wouldn’t solve everything.
He recalled the words of a man who had once mastered the mercenary trade. A man who had eaten "sword rice"—fought for a living—even well into his fifties. If one survived long enough to earn respect, they might as well be called a ‘mercenary king’.
Most didn’t make it that far. They either retired or died before then. To survive was proof of his humanity, or perhaps a sign that he had been chosen by the goddess of luck.
That man once said:
"Seven out of ten parts of battle is preparation. It’s only natural that the guy who sharpens his blade and takes care of his gear will have the advantage."
Encrid agreed. He had taken those words as gems of wisdom and carved them into memory.
‘The soles of my boots—I could probably use a knife to clean them.’
Standing in front of his assigned quarters, Encrid scraped and cleaned the bottoms of his boots with the tip of his short sword.
They were boots reinforced with troll hide from Pen-Hanil Mountain and iron plates. Though worn from long use, they remained sturdy.
He even lifted them up to check for any foul odor, but there was none.
As Grida passed by, her experience as a guide evident, she tossed Encrid a small leather pouch.
“Put that in there, it’ll help with the smell.”
Encrid caught it with a thwack and peered inside. White stones—upon closer inspection, they were dried soap. If he placed them in his boots overnight, they would absorb any lingering odor.
“Where are you going?”
“Just looking around. It’s been a while since I’ve been back.”
As Grida stepped forward, the setting sun cast a long shadow. That shadow swiftly shrank and disappeared.
Her pace was efficient—fast enough to serve a purpose. Either she had many places to visit, or there was much she needed to investigate.
‘I should do some laundry.’
With that thought, Encrid made his way to the well within the fortress, drawing water and washing his undershirt and cloak.
Swinging a sword wouldn’t clean a cloak, but there was no doubt that a Knight’s superior strength was excellent for wringing out laundry.
Crack!
The sturdy fabric twisted, forcing the water it held to spill back onto the ground.
At some point, Ragna and Ann joined him, doing the same task.
A few maids approached, handing them small wooden sticks—tools for beating the laundry. Their faces looked pale, with dark circles under their eyes, and they seemed unwell.
“Are you sick?”
Ann asked, noticing their condition.
“I’m fine.”
A maid answered.
Encrid’s gaze briefly swept over her waist—she, too, carried a sword.
“Alright then.”
After checking his equipment, tending to his overdue laundry, and inspecting his short sword and horn-hilted dagger, night had already fallen.
They had arrived at sunrise, but after washing, eating, and tidying up, time had flown by.
As he lay on the feather-and-wool-filled bed, drowsiness quickly overtook him.
Just as a Knight couldn’t do laundry with a sword, stamina wasn’t infinite. Rest was necessary. And Encrid judged that now was the time.
To his left was Ragna’s room. Next to that, Ann’s.
For a brief moment, his thoughts lingered—before he fell asleep. And as he drifted into unconsciousness, he glimpsed a ferryman in passing.
The owner of the lamp spoke, voice tinged with amusement.
“Protect.”
A word without an object. Which made its meaning all the more ambiguous.
* * *
“Schmidt, the conversation is over.”
Alexandra shook her head.
As maids and attendants cleared the table, the three moved to a small adjacent drawing room.
Schmidt took a sip of tea brewed from dried flower petals. His throat was parched—because he couldn’t understand their stubbornness.
“Alex, you need help.”
Schmidt was anxious, but he knew that nothing would proceed without their permission.
“But not by becoming a duke of the Empire under the name of a shield.”
Tempest Zaun, head of the family, leaned his chin on his interlocked fingers as he answered.
“Tempe.”
“Enough, Schmidt. I won’t accept a title from the Empire.”
For a long time, the Empire had been asking Zaun to come under its jurisdiction.
They had offered him the title of duke in exchange for becoming "The Shield of the East". That was why they called him the Shield Craftsman.
But Tempest Zaun, or "Tempe" as he was affectionately called, had refused again and again.
“To cure the illness, you need the Empire’s resources.”
Schmidt argued.
The Empire was not an altruistic organization. It was driven by profit and gain.
Schmidt wanted to help them, but for that to happen, Zaun had to extend a hand first.
“We don’t need it.”
The head of the family shook his head.
“That is not a curse.”
Schmidt repeated, insistent.
The family head remained silent.
Once he shut his mouth, it was as if a clam had closed, he wouldn’t open it easily. Schmidt knew this well.
He turned his gaze toward Alex—his former stepsister—who shook her head.
“Let it go, Schmidt.”
“Why?”
“We’ve said it countless times. The head of the family won’t wield a sword for the sake of others just to save his own life.”
In Zaun, people fought with swords for their own desires. They filled their voids with the blade. And they pursued freedom through it.
For that reason, Zaun would never become the Empire’s shield.
If the head of the family accepted that role, then Zaun would cease to exist as it was.
It would become part of the Empire, its swords wielded to strike down whatever enemy the Emperor pointed to.
Zaun rejected that life. So it could never happen.
“If you die, what does any of this matter?”
Schmidt’s frustration was clear, but he knew he wouldn’t get his way this time, either.
There were things in this world more valuable than life. Some called them dreams. Others called them arrogance or stubbornness.
The head of the family had something similar.
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