The next day.
Encrid had deliberately woken up late, taking his time stretching and loosening his body. Any lingering fatigue had already faded.
The bruises from Ragna’s blows must have dissipated as well—he didn’t even need a mirror to know.
A Knight’s trained body far exceeded an ordinary person’s recovery speed.
‘Legend.’
A title that always preceded any mention of Zaun.
It was a name rarely heard, even in the songs of bards—only those who had surpassed a certain threshold could grasp its meaning. The people of Zaun were those to whom the word legend fit more perfectly than any other.
‘And among them, the head of the house.’
A tingling sensation shot up from the tips of his toes, traveling through his entire body to the top of his head, sending his fine hairs on end.
'How thrilling.'
His anticipation soared.
“The weather’s nice.”
Encrid remarked, gazing at the sky.
Ann, emerging while rubbing the sleep from her eyes, looked up as well.
“…Nice?”
The sky was overcast, heavy with thick clouds. What kind of standard did he have for good weather?
“Yeah, very nice.”
Encrid answered, and behind Ann, Ragna spoke.
“You won’t be able to hear him. He gets like that sometimes.”
Ann had never seen this side of him before. Not that it was shocking, she just filed it away under madness.
'I’ll have a busy day too.'
Ann was here to find the source of the illness, not to lounge around Ragna’s family home.
Before long, a Squire arrived, sword at his waist, announcing that the head had summoned them.
Though the sun had barely begun to rise, Encrid was already fully prepared. And so, he followed the summons.
At the center of the vast training grounds, the head of the house and his wife awaited him.
Was there any need for greetings such as “Did you sleep well?”.
The moment Encrid stepped forward, roughly ten paces away, he already knew who his first opponent would be.
'The head.'
The one who represented Zaun. Ragna’s father.
This was an intimidation unlike any he had ever felt.
It wasn’t merely a crushing pressure pressing down on his entire body, it had form.
A colossal sword stood before him. An illusion, yet not an illusion. It felt real because the presence before him was undeniably alive.
'It feels like it truly exists.'
That was presence.
An overwhelming aura that took on the shape of a sword—one massive enough to make a human body seem insignificant.
The blade was at least three times the size of the head’s body. Yet, it wasn’t filled with bloodlust.
Why?
The answer came quickly, aided by instinct and experience.
'This isn't directed at me.'
It was simply a declaration that the battle was about to begin.
Most likely, the bare minimum requirement for fighting the head of Zaun was enduring this pressure.
It was an almost certain instinct. And it was correct.
Ragna had not seen his father’s manifested pressure in a long time.
'It’s gotten even bigger.'
Beyond just swinging his sword, his father’s specialty was crushing his opponent before the battle even began.
Before him, Encrid looked like a reed swaying in the wind or a fragile branch on the verge of snapping.
The difference in aura was that great.
Before an opponent of overwhelming presence, most people felt themselves shrinking infinitely.
And if their opponent continued to grow larger in their minds, soon, that very presence would suffocate them. A battle lost in the mind before the first strike.
The moment that giant sword moved, the pressure of being crushed was enough to shake one’s spirit to the core.
That was the power of this overwhelming aura.
But then—
Something changed in Encrid’s stance. Ragna, standing behind him, couldn’t see his face. But he didn’t need to.
'He’s grinning, isn’t he?'
That was the kind of man he was. And just as expected, Encrid felt excitement and exhilaration coursing through him, his lips twitching uncontrollably.
This aura was entirely different from any he had encountered before. And that made it fun.
A name suddenly surfaced in his mind. King of the East, Anu.
He was likely of a similar caliber.
'When I fought in the Border Guard, he was just playing with me.'
Back then, Encrid hadn’t been able to bring out the true strength of the Mercenary King.
But now?
His lips twisted, his fangs showing. A clear, unrestrained grin. Alexandra’s right eyebrow twitched.
'He’s smiling?'
Her expression seemed to ask that very question.
But Encrid didn’t notice. His eyes were locked on the head of Zaun.
* * *
During training, Teresa suddenly voiced a thought.
“Brother Audin, Sister Sinar.”
Both of them turned toward her simultaneously.
Sinar withdrew the daggers she had been levitating with her energy. Audin removed his broken steel gauntlet from training.
“What’s the most troublesome thing about fighting Captain Encrid?”
It wasn’t a deeply thought-out question, just something that had popped into her head.
A good topic to discuss while taking a break.
Both Audin and Sinar answered at the same time.
“Stubbornness.”
“Refusal.”
Their answers were different, yet the same.
Sinar had said stubbornness, while Audin had said refusal.
Audin elaborated.
“He accepts everything when it comes to learning. But once a fight begins, no pressure works on him. I’ve heard it called the Will of Refusal. I think that’s the essence of who he is. No matter what anyone says, he pushes forward.”
Sinar added,
“He doesn’t stop when he should. His stubbornness makes him unpredictable.”
If Encrid had been present, Sinar’s remarks would have been even more frequent.
Had he been there, she would have likely added—
'A stubbornness and foolishness that even a fairy of my caliber can’t easily sway.'
Their words differed, but their conclusion was the same.
“I think so too. So, it’s my turn to show the temperament I’ve learned from the captain.”
Teresa nodded and stood up with a limp. One of her legs was broken. But that didn’t mean she would stop.
Encrid had ignited something in all of them, which was why they had chosen to remain in the Border Guard—except for Ragna.
Because they wanted to absorb and embody what he had sparked in them.
“Let’s go.”
Teresa shouted.
She was in the process of surpassing her own limits.
* * *
He’s smiling?
Alexandra knew the kind of presence her husband exuded.
Simply witnessing someone withstand that pressure was already a measure of their potential.
The worst ones were those who had already decided they could never win before the fight even began. Such people could never be pioneers.
'No, they won’t even rise to the rank of Knight.'
In Zaun, Knights were classified into three types:
Pioneers, Researchers, and Observers.
Pioneers were often called Seekers.
Researchers were called Technicians.
Observers were Guardians.
This system not only defined the Knights of Zaun but also reflected how their swordsmanship was structured.
'Regardless.'
If one assumed defeat before stepping forward, the best they could hope to be was a Researcher.
The second-worst were those who ignored their own weaknesses.
'That’s arrogance.'
Even if they knew they would lose, they refused to acknowledge it—lacking the ability to self-reflect.
Some with raw talent might still become Pioneers.
But in all her years, Alexandra had never seen an exceptional Pioneer who had this flaw.
'And they could never be Researchers.'
One needed self-awareness to analyze and refine techniques. The third group were those who acknowledged their weaknesses. These were the ones who advanced.
They admitted their limitations and sought ways to improve.
Her husband disliked this type, but Alexandra considered it an excellent trait.
They wouldn’t fight just to lose—they would do anything to win.
'They make good Researchers and Observers.'
And then—there was the last type.
'The kind my husband loves most.'
Those who enjoy pressure. Not just swordsmanship, but even the very weight of intimidation itself. That was the quality of a true Pioneer.
And among those who thrived in that pressure, she had never seen one like him.
A wide grin.
One look was enough to see how ecstatic he was.
Encrid charged forward with a face so full of exhilaration it seemed like he might die from sheer joy.
He stepped through the oppressive aura. Even if a meteor were to fall in front of him or a mountain were to collapse, he would charge forward with nothing but his sword.
‘A temperament that is displayed through his entire being.’
Her husband, Tempest, drew his sword.
Alexandra did not look away.
Even though this wasn’t a battle to the death, the intensity between them was high—as if they were merely one step away from a real fight.
Boom!
Her husband’s greatsword came down in a vertical strike. A technique known as the sword that crushes like a mountain.
It was that heavy.
Though it might look slow, the moment before the strike, an invisible force—his Will—would already be gripping the opponent’s entire body.
Just as Alexandra had predicted, Encrid felt the pressure binding his feet and torso, and immediately rejected it.
'Interesting.'
Odinkar was strong and interesting, but not as much as the head of the house. When still, he was a towering mountain. When he moved, he became a storm.
His presence alone ignited the Will that surrounded his entire body.
Encrid reached out with Three Iron, gripping it tightly.
Was he planning to block that massive sword head-on?
It seemed that way.
However, the edge of Three Iron, reinforced with Black Gold, twisted ever so slightly, diverting the force of the head's blade.
Boom!
Even so, the impact of their clash created a shockwave.
Ragna stepped in front of Ann to shield her, while Alexandra merely folded her arms and watched.
“What is happening?”
Ann couldn't see anything clearly.
“We need to move back.”
Ragna said, guarding her.
If they remained where they were, a stray rock could easily split her forehead open.
Swish.
The moment their swords met, Encrid let go of Three Iron and rushed in.
A madman’s tactic. One the opponent wouldn’t expect.
It was a technique derived from Valen Mercenary Swordsmanship—a maneuver calculated through pure instinct.
The battle had started with absolute ferocity.
Encrid clenched his fist and threw a punch straight at the head’s face.
A strike to the jaw would make any Knight momentarily lose their balance and composure.
But the head lowered his chin and caught the punch with his forehead.
Boom!
Simultaneously, the head of Zaun struck Encrid in the face with the fist gripping his greatsword.
Encrid swiftly ducked, dodging the punch, and crossed his arms in front of his chest to block the blow.
The Wave Blocking Sword could defend against any attack.
It was an instantaneous judgment made through high-speed calculation.
Thud!
In the next instant, the head’s knee struck the center of Encrid’s forearms.
Encrid allowed himself to be thrown back, making his body light so he could control his landing.
As he retreated, his left hand reached for Three Iron.
The sword, which had been embedded in the ground, naturally dislodged and returned to its master’s grip.
Seeing this, the head of Zaun used the momentum of withdrawing his knee to thrust his greatsword forward.
'Skillful.'
Both in battle and in duels.
Encrid felt the tingling in his right hand from the previous knee strike.
The head had aimed for the muscle fibers.
He had blocked Encrid’s punch with his forehead and then temporarily disabled his right hand with a well-placed knee.
Beyond swordplay, he was a natural-born fighter.
But Encrid was ambidextrous—switching hands didn’t lessen his strength.
If anything, he used his momentarily weakened right hand as a support, seamlessly swapping their positions.
A technique ingrained into him through practice.
The Valen Mercenary Sword Style: Hand Swap.
He raised his left hand to the top of the grip and used his right to brace the bottom, attempting a Blade Breaker against the head’s thrust.
'Eitri.'
A sword forged by that legendary smith.
It wouldn’t break so easily.
Tempest did not stop his thrust.
Clang!
The tip of Three Iron traced a curve through the air, striking the middle of the head of Zaun’s blade.
The trajectory of the greatsword changed, Encrid had forced it off course through sheer force.
His Will surged.
From within, his excitement and fervor boiled over like an erupting volcano.
“Hah!”
Encrid shouted as he planted his right foot and twisted his waist, extending his left leg.
He kicked Tempest’s sword.
Bang!
Using his sword to alter the strike’s trajectory, then disrupting it further with his foot—nullifying the attack entirely.
In response, the head let go of his sword and clenched his fist, swinging at Encrid.
His indifferent amber eyes left behind a comet-like trail of light as he closed in.
'Did I unconsciously assume that just because he wields a greatsword, his movements would be slow?'
Yes.
His sword wasn’t particularly fast. But his legs were.
The calculations from Wave Blocking and Flash Calculation overlapped, producing an answer.
'I can’t dodge this.'
Encrid bit down and kept smiling as he released Three Iron and extended his left fingers to gouge at the head’s eyes.
Every action came naturally. So there was no hesitation.
If he couldn't avoid it, he would counter with an attack. That was the conclusion of Wave Blocking.
The head closed his eyes and struck Encrid in the stomach.
Boom!
A burst of air exploded, and Encrid felt weightless for the first time in a long while.
He was sent flying backward.
As he crashed onto the ground with a dull thud, he quickly rolled like a cat and regained his stance.
But he had been hit, nonetheless.
Had Tempest followed up with his sword, Encrid would have sustained critical damage.
Yet, Tempest stood still, blood trickling from the corner of his eye.
His eyeball was unharmed, but the strike had torn a part of his eyelid.
Though Encrid had absorbed the landing impact through his back, his breath hitched painfully.
Still, he was already gripping his Horn-Hilted Dagger.
He was in a sitting position, but poised—ready to throw the dagger and charge again at any moment.
“Impressive.”
The head of Zaun spoke.
The duel was over.
Someone let out a breath—huff—and the head spoke again.
"Desperation always lags one step behind."
He added a few more words.
"Only prior effort can answer present desperation. That is why you are impressive."
He was never one to speak much, neither during nor after a duel.
Encrid wouldn’t have realized, but those gathered to watch did. They knew exactly how excited Tempest was.
Normally, after a duel, he wouldn’t even say a single word. But now, he had begun with praise. That was shocking enough.
“A rare guest indeed.”
A middle-aged man with thick golden hair muttered.
“He doesn’t seem particularly talented, though.”
Another man, with light brown hair and six swords strapped across his back and waist, commented dryly.
As everyone remained astonished, Encrid spoke.
“One more round?”
That was exactly the kind of thing he would say. But this time, his expression was different.
The smile remained, yet within it, a new kind of emotion could be felt. It was as if he had put everything into that request.
The scent of his emotions spread, like spilled perfume—so strong that even those who didn’t wield Will could sense it.
A feeling that was now unmistakable to all.
Desperation.
No comments yet. Be the first to leave a review!