The man with six swords watched Encrid smiling throughout the entire fight and nodded inwardly.
‘He’s got a remarkable temperament.’
Charging in with a smile like that—it was the kind of reaction even Odinkar or the other children of Zaun rarely showed. He genuinely seemed to enjoy the pressure of facing the head of house.
It was rare, unusual, attention-grabbing. Still, it wasn’t completely unheard of within House Zaun, so he was about to write it off as simply “one of those cases”.
“One more round?”
But then Encrid spoke right after his defeat. Those words weren’t ordinary. The emotion behind them pierced straight through the heart.
The man with six swords didn’t even know who Encrid truly was, but he found himself hoping the head would accept that request.
Look at the desperation in those blue eyes, framed by black hair.
‘Head, isn’t that what you always preached?’
Hadn’t he just said it moments ago?
That desperation always comes a step too late—and only the effort piled up beforehand can respond to it.
And yet, that black-haired man was pouring out his desperate yearning even as he was being praised.
He was saying he wanted to swing his sword more. That it wasn’t over yet. That he wanted to go on just a little longer.
He cried it out, emotion overflowing.
‘Admitting defeat is commendable. Enjoying the art of the sword is commendable.’
But possessing true desperation, that’s even more admirable.
It’s one of the teachings of House Zaun. The head’s personal creed, even.
They had once expelled Ragna from the household because a genius without desperation was no genius at all. But now, the man who had arrived with Ragna was showing something that struck deep in the heart. Something blazing hot.
“...That’s a rare temperament.”
Zaun cared about temperament. It was the blonde middle-aged man beside him who spoke.
The man with six swords didn’t even turn to look as he shot back.
“Rare? It’s a precious temperament. Train your eyes better, Hescal.”
His long years of wielding the sword told him that this man was something special. Maybe it was because he specialized in the concept of waves, but that’s what his instincts told him.
Hescal didn’t seem to see it quite the same way. His eyes betrayed a bit of surprise, but his overall attitude remained indifferent.
“As always, hearing a lecture about perception from you is unbearable.”
The man called Hescal shot back, but the man with six swords didn’t reply.
Was any of that important right now? Not at all.
There were other eyes watching. One of them belonged to Ann. She, too, had been stirred by Encrid’s desperation, had her gaze stolen by it, and found herself hoping that the man who had killed her master would rise again.
And naturally, her gaze drifted toward the one who would answer Encrid’s request.
That’s when she thought she saw a faint trail of black smoke dissipating from the head’s mouth. It was so brief, it could have been a hallucination—and then it vanished.
She had also been too shocked to realize it at first, but a peculiar scent filled the air. One that only an alchemist with years of experience in herbs and potions would notice.
Ann snapped out of the emotional aftermath Encrid had stirred. Her alchemist instincts merged with her intentions and brought clarity back to her mind.
‘Yes.’
She realized something and tried to speak, but the head’s wife beat her to it.
“I’ll take over from here.”
She stepped forward without asking the head’s permission—but no one objected.
Everyone knew that Alexandra was nearly equal to the head in skill.
Even Encrid, now kneeling on one knee and exhaling his intensity through burning eyes, could feel it in the air and pressure around her.
Some in the crowd knew, others didn’t—but the one known as Schmidt, a recruiter from the Empire, had been trained in swordsmanship by none other than Alexandra.
Schmidt’s style emphasized speed. Naturally. Even before she bore the Zaun name, Alexandra’s sword had always been fast.
Back when the so-called Knight of Gale Winds was storming the continent on foot, Alexandra had a similar title.
Blitzklinge—in the continental tongue, Lightning Blade.
Her signature weapons were a pair of swords slightly longer than short swords. Even on a gloomy day like today, it felt as if a cold light lingered around her blades.
‘Tempest is heavy.’
His wife is fast.
Ragna had grown up watching both his parents’ swords. It was only natural he would wield one that was both heavy and fast.
As soon as Alexandra finished speaking and seemed to offer him a breath to gather himself, one of her twin swords became a flash and thrust straight at Encrid’s forehead.
Zzzziiiik—
A sound like drawing in lightning chased the sword-point as it shot forward. Encrid, more focused than ever, turned his head to the side.
Pik!
The blade grazed his cheek, and blood scattered into the air. Before a single drop hit the ground, at least fifteen strikes had been exchanged.
Tatatatatatata-tang!
By then, Encrid was already back on his feet, holding his sword at a diagonal angle, hiding his body behind the blade like a shield.
Alexandra stood four and a half steps away, twin swords gripped in each hand.
Ruuuuuummmble.
Dark clouds gathered in the sky. Thunder echoed in the distance. Rain felt imminent.
Drip.
The gash on his cheek had cut deeper than it seemed. A trail of blood ran down his face and clung to his chin.
“I’ll finish this before the rain starts.”
Alexandra said.
“Is that so?”
Encrid replied through breathless excitement. How did I block that strike just now? he asked himself, searching for an answer.
But none came.
Maybe he was just lucky?
Alexandra, giving him another brief moment to recover, spoke again.
“Strange weather. A storm’s coming earlier than usual, but I’ve never seen one of this scale. I don’t know which god is playing tricks today, but it’s not the God of Swords. He wouldn’t care for anything outside of the blade.”
“Is that so?”
Alexandra’s lips curled into a smile.
“This little bastard. Not listening to a word I say?”
No one is perfect. Ragna knew his mother’s weakness. Though gentle by nature, the moment someone crossed a certain line, she dropped formal speech. It was a warning sign.
‘What is this...?’
Encrid focused on the sensation—something was just out of reach within him.
It was like seeing a mirage in the desert. He felt like if he concentrated hard enough, he might just grasp it. That’s why, without realizing it, he let his desperation slip out.
The yearning he usually kept buried deep inside rose to the surface. It surpassed mere joy—it was an overwhelming desire to have it, right now.
He wanted to swing his sword violently. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know the way. He just wanted to swing.
And he added one more desire to the mix:
‘As long as possible.’
To keep swinging. Again and again. While maintaining this state.
So what would it take?
‘Endure.’
His Will wouldn’t be lacking. For now, he brought Three Iron forward and hid his body behind it.
With his right foot leading, he used the big toe as a reference point and drew a vertical line upward—then blocked it with his blade.
That placed the sword between him and his opponent. He made sure that the enemy would see nothing but the blade.
‘What’s next?’
From the previous clash, he’d sensed something—his opponent’s style had similarities to the One-Killer.
It danced between instinct and calculation, yet what lay at its core was reason. What if he twisted that just a little?
He had once used this against the demon One-Killer himself—attempting to shatter that very calculation.
‘No pointless movements. The goal is disruption.’
Wave-Blocking Sword was active. His tactical instincts told him what needed to be done.
Encrid let his left hand fall and moved slightly toward Penna. But he didn’t draw it. No, he wouldn’t even grip it.
Still, that small action alone would insert an error into the opponent’s mental calculations.
Snap!
Encrid suddenly saw two crescent moons falling toward him—no, two swords shaped like crescents.
He lifted Three Iron diagonally to meet them while shifting his left foot back and tensing every muscle in his body.
Suddenly, everything slowed down. It had to, or he wouldn’t be able to block it.
The moons were falling. And a sword, if mishandled, would turn against its wielder.
If he lost against those crescent slashes, he might just end up slicing himself with his own blade.
Claaang! Kaaaaaang!
The twin moons struck Three Iron. Encrid judged it too late to deflect them with his sword, so he used Valaf-Style Martial Arts to redirect the force with his body.
Crkk, crkk.
As a result, both of his feet slid sideways.
Alexandra, who had delivered the twin crescent slashes, stepped back once more.
“Are you kidding me? I’m faster than you, and you pull a stunt like that? What kind of idiot does that?”
Your daughter.
Encrid swallowed the provocation. Now wasn’t the time. Alexandra was clearly holding back on him.
He’d already been beaten up by the head. There was no way he was in peak condition.
Was she going easy on him because of that? Actually, no. That wasn’t it.
Ragna recognized his mother’s bad habit kicking in.
A cornered rat might bite a cat—but what happens if the cat is a tiger?
Alexandra Zaun enjoyed driving her opponents into a corner—at least in duels.
The twist of her lips was unmistakable, she was thoroughly enjoying herself.
“Hey, you keep that up, you’re gonna die.”
Encrid felt the weight of those words. The killing intent radiating from her wasn’t a joke.
Her pressure had taken shape, just as his had.
Earlier, her presence was like a greatsword. Now, it was like an arrowhead pulled taut on a drawn bowstring, hovering just inches from his face. The moment she released it, that arrow would fly.
The tension seared his brain and fired up his mind. His Will surged through him, igniting every nerve. His thoughts spun faster and faster.
‘To keep throwing off her calculations, I’ll have to keep exposing my openings.’
Which meant, in front of someone with her speed, it was suicide.
‘That was a stupid move.’
He admitted it.
Encrid finished the review of his own actions in a heartbeat.
Thump!
Alexandra’s foot struck the ground again. The instant she launched forward from the dirt, her figure blurred with speed.
‘React.’
Encrid commanded his body.
The initial pinpoint thrust, followed by rapid strikes, then that last slash. He hadn’t blocked them by thinking. His body had reacted on its own.
Bang!
Encrid’s Three Iron blocked Alexandra’s diagonal downward strike, but she wielded two swords.
The blade in her other hand slipped in with a piercing snap, stabbing toward the gap at the joint above Encrid’s right thigh, a spot his armor didn’t protect.
Using the momentum from deflecting the first strike, Encrid spun half a turn.
Because of that, Alexandra’s second blade only grazed his thigh instead of landing a critical blow.
Blood trickled from the torn fabric, but it was just a scratch.
“You swing with your whole body, idiot! Start by building some abs. Make ’em harder!”
When was that again?
Back when he was making money as a mercenary, a guide, a bodyguard—or even a noblewoman’s ornament.
One of the instructors had taught him the fundamentals of swordsmanship back then.
“You don’t swing with just your arms. Use your whole body.”
So, he’d trained. Without missing a single day—like a madman.
Later, Audin taught him how to make his muscles tougher, more resilient, and more flexible. So he followed him. Shaped his body accordingly.
His body now responded with precision. And on top of that, he’d learned a way where no path was the wrong one.
Ragna had taught him that. So, there was no hesitation.
‘Instinct and intuition rise.’
Alexandra’s sword came from outside the bounds of perception and calculation.
That’s why his senses led the way and reacted first.
A cold wind brushed past his ear. All his nerves were on edge, even his body hair seemed to read her every move.
Alexandra’s figure now shimmered faintly, a light cloaking her body and her swords held the same glow.
She hid her left hand behind her and came down with a slanted slash from the right.
‘React.’
Encrid told his body again.
Something vague finally took shape in his grasp.
His senses acted first—moving before his mind could register what was happening. And in that process, his Will was naturally invoked.
He’d done this motion hundreds, maybe thousands of times before, but this time it felt like someone else had woven threads into his body and moved it instead.
Boom!
A deafening sound rang out, and Encrid was sent flying again like a puppet with its strings cut. But this time, he didn’t roll across the ground.
Thud—
Someone caught his back mid-air and stopped his momentum.
Thanks to that, instead of crashing clumsily, Encrid landed in a slanted seated position, once again, with one knee down.
Ironically, the exact same posture he’d ended in after the duel with the head.
“What did you just do?”
It was Ragna. His eyes wide with shock—a rare expression.
“I don’t know.”
Encrid replied.
“Alex, were you trying to kill someone in a duel?”
Someone called out to Alexandra, Encrid’s opponent—the man with six swords on his belt.
“Ah, seriously, I nearly did. Are you alright?”
Alexandra had calmed down by then and returned to her usual self as she asked.
“But I think you’re okay. You blocked it pretty well, didn’t you?”
She added with a smile.
Encrid nodded and said,
“Yes. I blocked it. And it was fun, too.”
He spoke with complete sincerity.
Ragna looked at Encrid, replaying the scene he’d just witnessed in his mind. It was almost unbelievable.
‘He wrapped Will around his sword.’
Only for a moment—but he was sure he’d seen it.
Will was an intangible force. Ragna personally believed that the next stage was to give form to that intangible power.
If he had to name it, he would call it materialization.
Encrid had shown something similar when he broke through the Wave-Blocking Sword.
To add to that, the foundation of that technique came from his father's sword.
He’d modeled the concept of manifestation on his father’s pressure. Hence, the greatsword.
Now, the next step was to compress it—emit a denser, more refined Will.
‘The Captain just did it.’
In that moment—when Encrid blocked his mother’s sword—he had taken a step further than Ragna.
“Let’s try again.”
“Huh? Mm... I don’t think I can.”
Encrid shook his head at Ragna’s suggestion. Then added:
“It’s not like today’s the only day.”
Talent was cruel. For some, a single stroke of luck was enough to manifest it. For others, it might take dozens of lucky breaks to do the same.
Yet even in the face of such cruelty—
“That was fun.”
He laughed.
People like that were truly rare.
Ragna had been the one to catch his Captain’s back with his palm.
“Since when?”
It was Ann, who had stayed outside all this until now, who stepped up close to the head and asked.
The head stared at her silently.
Ann’s expression showed she was deadly serious.
“Speak.”
She spoke to the head like she was giving a command—but to her, it was only natural.
Whoever the person was—if they were a gravely ill patient destined to die, Ann would do anything to save them. That was the conviction of someone who called themselves a healer.
“Inside. We’ll talk there.”
The head finally spoke, and Alexandra motioned for everyone around to leave.
“Show’s over, folks. If you enjoyed it, go train harder.”
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