Ragna was surprised, but he didn’t feel jealous or envious. He had seen Encrid’s beginnings and had been with him until now, what was there to be jealous of?
“You’ve drawn out formless power into form.”
Ragna gave a concise explanation of what he had seen. Encrid understood, but if someone asked him to do it again right now, he wasn’t confident he could.
‘I don’t get it.’
To be honest, he didn’t even know how he did it just moments ago. It felt like a dream. Was it just luck?
A stroke of fortune after swinging his sword tens of thousands of times?
They say the goddess of luck always rides the wind and cannot be caught. According to a proverb on the continent, luck always brushes past but never stays.
Though it felt like luck, Encrid immediately denied the thought.
‘There was no such luck. This wasn’t luck.’
All the time he’d accumulated until now, every day spent swinging his sword, was telling him otherwise.
So what he had to do now was reflect and recall. Like he said earlier—today wouldn't be the only day like this.
As he replayed the exchange just now in his head, he realized Alexandra had accelerated once more in the middle.
‘She sped up midway, adding variation to the tempo.’
That wasn’t something he had accounted for. The Wave Blocking Sword is a technique that perceives and calculates based on what the opponent shows.
To add speed on top of an already extremely fast strike, it was truly an unexpected blow.
‘I never imagined someone could swing a sword at that speed.’
If there had been even the slightest wasted movement...
If the blade’s angle had been even slightly off...
If his judgment had been just a bit slower...
If his body’s reaction had been even slightly duller...
‘I’d be dead.’
The Reaper had brushed past him.
And he realized that all of this—the opponent’s every move—had been intentional. Within that intention was both consideration and gratitude.
‘It was like a forced motion.’
Alexandra had a specialty of overwhelming opponents with speed. Now he saw, it wasn’t just about forcing movement.
‘Even talking to me before the strike was part of it.’
She spoke to him to draw out his concentration. When Encrid answered with desperate resolve, she responded with killing intent, enhancing his focus even more.
With just a few words, she gauged his mental state.
“Look at this bastard, ignoring me, huh?”
She had said.
Even the first thrust that grazed his cheek was part of it. She was seeing how his body reacted in a crisis.
It was Alexandra who told him—if you move clumsily, you die. She warned him not to act foolishly while being slower than her.
That one, refined strike—built up by accumulated desperation—was guided and led by her. Of course, even within such consideration, his life had still hung by a thread.
‘If I couldn’t keep up, I’d be dead.’
That was an unchanging truth.
“How many people has she killed in spars?”
“My mother?”
Ragna asked back, then shook his head.
“None, as far as I know.”
Ragna had left home from a young age. Encrid’s gaze sought Grida, she would know.
But among the spectators, Grida was nowhere to be seen. Only the people walking with the head of the house were visible.
Encrid’s gaze lingered briefly on Ann’s back, then dropped. He saw the head of the house and Ann passing behind the training ground’s brick wall and heading inside.
Alexandra glanced over her shoulder but said nothing in particular.
“Ragna, follow Ann.”
“Sure.”
Encrid said it, and Ragna followed her without much thought. This wasn’t their homeland. Whatever she wanted, having at least one familiar face beside her would be for the better.
Well, there were other reasons too, but that was just if you considered every possibility.
As he followed that train of thought, a sound of footsteps—tap tap—approached.
“Hey, you there, guest.”
It was a man clearly excited, with six swords hanging off him. His hands were wrapped in worn cloth, and a thick cloth was tied around his forehead.
The same material—a deep crimson—was used to wrap his waist and shins. The fabric was old but clean.
With six swords, one might expect him to look ragged, but somehow he didn’t. He held himself upright, and his posture suggested he could draw any of the six swords at any time. There was a subtle neatness about him.
‘He probably favors clean, precise movements.’
That was the impression Encrid got from observing him as the man approached and spoke.
“You’re the one. I can see it all.”
The man said abruptly.
Behind him, a man who looked at least ten years older than Encrid shook his head with a sigh.
“Take it with a grain of salt. His instincts are almost never right.”
A deep, composed voice. The first thing Encrid noticed was the ornate pattern engraved on his sword’s sheath. Then, the calluses firmly embedded in his palm, the poised stance ready to move at any moment, and the nearly inaudible breathing.
‘Neither of them is a pushover.’
That was Encrid’s immediate judgment. Of course, actual battle results couldn’t be predicted lightly.
Even with someone like Alexandra or the head of the house, once it came to real combat, the story could change.
Fights where lives are on the line are always like that.
Of course, for the same reason, you couldn’t claim Encrid had a high chance of winning either.
“I’m Hescal, and this guy—”
The man who had been shaking his head started to speak.
“I’ll introduce myself! You frigid bastard.”
The one with six swords cut in.
“My name’s Lynox. Looking for the best fighter in the Zaun Family? That’s not me. But I am the most romantic.”
Calling himself romantic with such flair didn’t exactly seem normal, but Encrid wasn’t particularly fazed.
After all, hadn’t he maintained his sanity all these years among a bunch of madmen?
“Encrid of the Border Guard.”
At that, the one named Hescal reached out a hand. Encrid took it.
“Pardon the late greeting. Welcome to Zaun.”
Lynox added with a grin.
“Forget the welcome—get yourself together. You still wanna keep going, right? Alex likes to push hard from the start, but I’m not like that.”
“It won’t be a bad experience.”
Listening to them talk, Encrid could tell that these two held positions not far from the head of the house himself.
Neither asked for permission, nor did they seem to care about anyone watching. The number of spectators had grown since before, yet neither Grida nor Magrun was in sight.
Instead—
“Let me join too.”
A young woman, hard to gauge in skill just by her face, stepped up behind the two.
“If you want, I’d lend a hand too, but I’ll have to postpone until tomorrow. I’ve got something to do.”
Hescal glanced up at the darkening sky, clearly busy, then pulled a pocket watch from his coat to check the time.
Information about one’s surroundings serves as an anchor to the present. Encrid understood that well—and applied it constantly.
A Knight possesses exceptional insight in combat, particularly in controlled situations, where comparing what they know with the present allows them to uncover hidden facts.
In short, they can analyze cause and effect from what comes before and after.
Put simply, they become extremely perceptive. Of course, some of this is inborn.
Even if he wasn’t a natural at swordplay, Encrid had been born with this—keen awareness, perception. Because of that, there were things he could see without trying.
‘They’re not exactly poor.’
Though not flashy in wealth, Zaun wasn’t a lacking household either.
A pocket watch like that typically bore a craftsman’s name and was as expensive as a magical artifact.
‘In fact, it wouldn't even function without magical components.’
Yet no one reacted when he pulled it out. It was a familiar part of daily life here. Of course, the more important part of their daily life was something else entirely.
“Tired?”
Lynox asked. There was a hint of consideration in his tone, as if he was willing to go easy, but Encrid didn’t hear it that way.
“I’m always at my best in the moment.”
He meant it. His belief was that his current self was always his best self. As he said it, one thought crossed his mind—he really liked this place. Truly.
“Next is me!”
“Can I join too?”
Among the dozen or so people who had gathered, not a single one backed down.
It wasn’t because they were confident in their skills. It was simply that a fun opponent had appeared, and they couldn’t resist jumping in.
They had stayed back and observed from a distance when the head of the house stepped up. But now, they were moving forward.
Before Lynox could say anything, Encrid spoke first.
“As many as you'd like.”
Lynox replied with a grin.
“Hey, you’ll be worn out after fighting me.”
“I doubt it.”
“…What, you’ve got unlimited Will or something?”
Even if you save physical strength, Will usually runs out first. That was common sense.
“I’ve got plenty.”
Since the other spoke so directly, Encrid responded in kind. Lynox opened and closed his mouth a few times before speaking again.
“You’re good at provoking, aren’t you?”
It wasn’t meant as a provocation, but if that’s how it sounded—so be it.
“Alright then, let’s have some fun.”
Though Lynox didn’t look over fifty, he was likely older than he appeared. Those who had awakened their Will aged more slowly. And this was Zaun.
‘If he's called a legend…’
Then it was because he had the power to back it up.
The head of the house and his wife likely held that kind of power, and the man before him must be one of the pillars upholding it.
That fact alone made Encrid genuinely happy.
“You’re smiling?”
Lynox said, smiling himself. Both of them wore faces full of excitement, like they were having the time of their lives.
So did the spectators.
* * *
"It’s serious, isn’t it? How long has it been?"
Inside, where gray and brown stones interlocked in the walls, forming a patterned interior. Two swords hung side by side on one wall, and on the opposite side, a beast’s hide—its origin difficult to guess—was mounted.
At Ann’s question, the head of the house turned around.
There were traces of a fire recently lit in the fireplace at the center of the parlor, but the flames had died out, and the air was chilly.
The head of the house was easily twice Ann’s size. That kind of stature might’ve been intimidating up close, but Ann’s gaze didn’t reflect any of that.
Perhaps he had deliberately stepped back to avoid exuding pressure, for he turned only after putting some distance between them.
“Is that your instinct as a healer?”
“No. It’s certainty.”
Alexandra, who had followed her in, asked the question. Ann responded immediately, never taking her eyes off the head of the house.
Alexandra wasn’t particularly good at making jokes, so she didn’t add anything. But Ann stared at the head of the house so intently that she might’ve joked, had Encrid been here, that it looked like she had fallen for him.
“Please tell me. Do you know the cause?”
She faltered slightly on the word cause, but her tone remained steady.
The head of the house didn’t say much.
Ann knew that this illness manifested in many forms.
‘I need to identify the cause to treat it.’
That was step one. The head’s demeanor wasn’t what anyone would call gentle, but without exerting any pressure, he answered.
“Not right now.”
Though it wasn’t intimidating, it wasn’t the answer Ann had hoped for.
“…Sorry?”
“My husband said everything that needed to be said.”
Alexandra answered in his place. Then Ragna, who had entered without notice, spoke from behind Ann.
“Let’s go.”
Ragna could tell from his father’s expression that he had no intention of offering any further explanation.
If there was something to say, he would’ve said it fluently. But if not, his lips would remain sealed. So Ragna knew that pressing him here would do no good.
Ann was flustered.
‘He knows how serious this is.’
If he had brought up curses, she had eighty-nine counterarguments ready. If he asked whether she could heal it, she had fifty ways to say “Yes, I dare to try.”
But none of the words she expected came. Instead, just one line: “Not right now.”
Ann couldn’t understand it.
* * *
After the duel with the head of the house, Encrid stayed three more days. The sky, which looked ready to pour at any moment, only grew heavier with clouds.
And yet, those who came to see him all wore bright, joyful expressions. Though the sun didn’t shine in the sky, it shone on their faces.
“Can I join in too?”
Even a servant running errands asked this. Here, everyone wore a sword and talked about swords. That alone seemed to bring genuine joy to them all.
“Of course.”
Encrid answered, then punched the servant in the face and kicked him aside.
Thud, thwack!
Anyone watching might think he had killed the boy, but the servant had drawn a sword and used both hands and feet in the attack. This was the best way to shut that down.
“Ail Caraz?”
Encrid recognized something familiar in the servant’s movements and spoke.
Encrid was like Grida in that way—he might forget people’s names, but never the names of sword or martial arts techniques.
Ail Caraz, also known as the King of Dirt, was a style of martial arts.
The name came from a notorious prison on the continent—Ail Caraz—where the prison warden had developed this martial style.
The servant had just combined swordplay with that technique, swinging his blade while locking joints.
Someone nearby had said he walked his own path, even though no one had taught him.
Anyway, this too could be considered one of the fun moments.
Through such exchanges, Encrid came to feel the essence of Zaun—just as Odinkar, Magrun, and Grida had described.
‘They compete, teach, pull each other up, and learn without hesitation.’
Though the more skilled among them showed a bit of stubborn pride.
‘But that kind of grit and tenacity…’
It’s better to have it than not. That’s why everyone here seemed to genuinely enjoy themselves.
Another day was about to end that way.
As he was about to fall asleep, he heard the soft patter of rain outside. Even in a drowsy state, Encrid heard another sound mixed with the rainfall.
By the time he opened his eyes and reached for his Three Iron Sword, the window in the room creaked open.
Creaaak.
It was the first floor, and the window hadn’t been locked—anyone could’ve opened it.
Beyond the window, a familiar face appeared. For three days straight, everyone’s faces had been like sunlight, but one person wore an expression as gloomy as the current weather.
“I need to talk. Enki.”
Said the gloomy face.
“Grida?”
It was so dark outside that not even night-adjusted eyes could make out her face well. Encrid barely recognized her. Once he did, he confirmed it aloud.
“What do you need to talk about?”
Grida bit her lip before answering.
“The head of the house… something’s wrong.”
A sudden statement—but one that Encrid agreed with. If you had to pick the strangest person in Zaun, it would be the head of the house.
“Come in first.”
Encrid let the woman inside.
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