The clouds once again veiled the sky above. The sunlight that had been subtly shining disappeared without a trace.
The outskirts of Zaun were a cliffside, and behind it stood a sheer rock wall like a barrier.
If the weather had been good, it would’ve been a breathtaking view—but under the dim and blurry sky, it looked like a fragment of someone’s nightmare.
With that nightmare as his backdrop, Encrid gripped his sword and faced Hescal.
Hescal stood in a somewhat unusual stance: he held a gauntlet with a small shield in front of him, and hid the sword in his right hand behind that shield.
Coincidences were not mere coincidences.
Why did that thought cross his mind?
It began with a question that arose while listening to the ferryman. The man always spoke of what was to come.
‘Does the ferryman know the future?’
Some things he had shown manifested in reality, and others didn’t. No one can define the future. When you speak of what’s to come, the present changes. That’s the dilemma of a prophet.
If you say nothing, it cannot be proven. But if you write it down and look back after it happens, it’s no longer a prophecy—it’s just a record.
So then, if one speaks it aloud, does that make it a prophecy? Those who hear it won’t act in accordance with it—because they know it.
Therefore, the future changes, and the prophecy becomes inaccurate. That is the prophet’s dilemma, and the ferryman is no exception.
‘The ferryman doesn’t actually know the future.’
Yet he speaks as if he does. How can that be? A mask can hide a face and impersonate another.
A masquerade is only fun because no one knows who’s behind the mask. That’s why masquerade balls are full of people dressed to the nines, appearing in forms unimaginable in their daily lives.
The ferryman wasn’t seeing the future, he was simply presenting it that way. He must have changed masks to suit each situation.
‘What if he’s just adjusting to the moment?’
That’s what Encrid had come to believe, he doesn't leave coincidence as coincidence.
But a narrow perspective wouldn’t allow for such manipulation. A broad view was essential.
‘You must understand what’s going on to turn coincidence into intent.’
That line of thought branched freely and connected to the sword technique he was now using. His tangled thoughts, like a spiderweb, hurtled toward a single conclusion.
‘Why did I fixate on instinctive swordsmanship as a form of counterattack?
Because it felt natural. There was no other path. That’s why.
‘But why?’
A clearer path was needed. He had to examine the process more meticulously. He asked and pondered repeatedly. He had to find the reason.
A genius might do it instinctively, but Encrid was no genius. So he had to understand each step.
Doing something with awareness and doing it without are as far apart as heaven and earth—at least, for Encrid.
The answer hadn’t been that difficult. After all, he had spent days pondering it.
He already knew it.
Because one must first accept the situation and respond. That’s why it became a counterattack. That was the very reason behind it. A sword that turns coincidence into purpose.
This would be his third technique, following Wave Blocking and Flash.
As before, once the meaning, the method of execution, and the training process were established, it became a sword technique in its own right.
Was it easier the third time, having done it twice already?
Not a chance. Creating swordsmanship was like opening a new world. And yet, today, the goddess of luck had visited him again. So was this merely luck? No—it was intent.
‘Even luck, I embrace it as part of my intent.’
That was the meaning contained within this technique. To define it:
‘To make it appear that all luck flows toward me.’
The method was to utilize everything born of coincidence. The training: fight hundreds, thousands of battles, experience every kind of situation, and learn how to respond to all of them.
But is experience alone the only answer?
A small doubt crept in. That could be the future path of development for this swordsmanship, but not something to consider right now.
Learning through experience—that was what Encrid had done countless times.
The training process was already ingrained in him. So it was just a matter of formalizing the method and execution.
Encrid did exactly that—by utilizing the coincidence that was Hescal.
Without warning, Hescal suddenly thrust out the shield in his left hand, obscuring Encrid’s vision. At the same time, he feinted movement to the left.
Encrid instinctively lashed out with his sword. The blade of Three Iron traced a short arc and struck the shield—shield and all.
Pushing it back was no easy task. Hescal was as strong as a giant, and his skill with technique was exceptional.
Bang!
The moment the sword struck the shield, Encrid felt the force flow off to one side.
Hescal had redirected the power of his strike.
Having feinted left, he now appeared from the right.
He had used the shield to block vision, pretended to move left, then stabbed from the right.
The move was simple, and the tactic even more so, but it was executed with such brilliance and skill that it became deadly.
Three Iron, from Hescal’s point of view, deflected to the left. From Encrid’s, it had gone right, meaning it took too long to recover.
It would be hard to pull back the blade in time to block, it looked like an opening.
The blade came flying. But Encrid, as if he had been waiting for that exact moment, pulled his sword back and countered—not with the blade, but with the pommel, striking the tip of Hescal’s attacking sword.
If the blade can’t block in time, block with another part.
Clang!
It was so precise that it didn’t miss, and the clash rang out like thunder.
“Trying to ruin the tip of my sword?”
Hescal said, stepping back.
Encrid, feeling the tremble in his grip, clenched and unclenched his fist before answering.
“A branded weapon’s edge wouldn’t dull that easily.”
“Did you mean to do that?”
Encrid nodded.
A question fired in without pause, and Encrid simply nodded.
Even all coincidences fall within his intent. Of course, he hadn’t truly intended it. He had been caught off guard.
‘This is the fang.’
Hescal’s hidden fang was lethal.
‘A deceptive sword.’
That was his hidden blade. He cornered his opponent with calculated moves and finished them off with a single deception.
The winner lives; the loser dies. That’s the world of sword-bearers. Hescal was strong. That much was clear.
And though Encrid hadn’t planned it, the Sword of Coincidence he had just shown was the perfect counter to Hescal’s style.
Hescal exploited openings through deception, yet this technique turned even those openings into intent.
Of course, not just anyone could pull it off.
‘At the very least, you'd need the experience of a few thousand battles to even attempt such a thing.’
Hescal had sharp eyes, and he had grasped and understood Encrid’s brilliance just now.
Hence the thought.
To turn coincidence into intent? Easy to say.
But without countless real battles—being stabbed, slashed, surviving—no one could pull that off.
You’d probably need a hundred years, relentlessly seeking out worthy opponents for constant combat.
“A remarkable talent, perhaps.”
Hescal murmured.
Encrid let his sword hang low, caught his breath, and half-closed his eyes.
While contemplating swordsmanship and sparring, a different thought suddenly struck him, it was like pieces clicking into place.
His newly conceived swordsmanship overlapped with the current situation, untying a knot in his mind.
He looked back at everything that had happened so far.
By simplifying the tangled situation, he could view it more clearly. From an external perspective, things often made more sense.
‘If this was intent disguised as coincidence…’
A new hypothesis formed.
‘What if targeting Ann wasn’t intentional?’
Why target Ann? Why stall for time? Was Ann really a threat? How would they know Ann to target her?
What if the one who stalled for time and the one who attacked Ann were different people?
He didn’t have all the answers. But a few—he could now guess.
‘They saw Ann by chance. Recognized her face. Thought she might interfere. Tried to kill her, and failed.’
The malice was real, but it hadn’t been especially persistent.
‘It was just a shot in the dark.’
That’s the answer he had come to.
“Were you watching?”
At that moment, Hescal spoke, not to Encrid.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone wield a sword with such seriousness.”
It was the head of house. He stood beside Anahera, speaking solemnly.
“Is that so? Then I’ve enjoyed myself, Encrid of the Border Guard.”
Hescal said.
Hescal, after exchanging a few words with the head of house, gave a nod toward Encrid.
He had learned much from him. Encrid returned the nod—his way of expressing gratitude.
There was a lot to learn here.
“How’s your body?”
Hescal asked the head of the house again.
“Don’t worry about me. I know how to manage my own body.”
Hescal had been concerned about the man’s condition, but the head remained emotionally detached as always.
That was the end of it. The head departed, and Anahera stepped forward, declaring it was her turn.
Though she was only at the level of a Junior-Knight, her strength rivaled that of a full-fledged Knight.
Giants were, by nature, beings who could beat hundreds of humans to death with ease.
She hadn’t earned the nickname Red Blood Beast for nothing.
Originally, her overflowing fighting spirit would have led to incident after incident—likely brawling with people, or even killing them.
But she had adapted to Zaun. When asked why—
“Because it’s fun.”
She said.
Not all humans are the same. Nor are fairies, or frogs. The same applies to giants.
It must have been curiosity and a desire to improve that allowed her to overcome the violent instincts running through her blood.
“I’m going to become a Knight.”
Anahera declared.
“It’s not going to be easy.”
Encrid said as he gave her a solid bump on the head, with the flat of his sword.
Had he used true silver or black gold, Zaun would’ve lost its giant beauty today.
“That’s what makes it fun. I want to fight better. I want to fight stronger opponents too.”
A fusion of fighting spirit and the will to improve.
And now, Encrid understood why she could be this way. After spending time in Zaun, sparring and training, he realized he had learned more here than from Grida, Magrun, or Odinkar in the Border Guard.
Part of it was that they weren’t trying to hide anything. But also, Encrid was opening up a whole new world of his own now, his perspective was expanding.
Zaun was built on a particular premise: That not everything fits into a single category.
It respected individuality and helped people achieve what they desired. They taught, sparred, trained, and even shared techniques.
A system for geniuses. That was the kind of swordsmanship Zaun envisioned.
Meanwhile, Encrid was establishing a system for the average.
‘We walk different paths.’
If he were to sum up Zaun’s system, Encrid could say he had already learned all there was to learn from it.
Whether technique or training methods, they were all built around those who had talent. That was the core.
And once you understood the core, the rest—minor techniques or training methods—could be figured out through logic.
‘It’s not the path that suits me.’
Of course, talent would always be the foundation.
But even those with less must be able to rise. That, in Encrid’s view, was the direction swordsmanship should evolve.
Though he didn’t shout it aloud, claiming he had defeated Zaun by besting Anahera, it was quietly acknowledged by everyone that Encrid’s skill was real.
Hescal, who had been watching from the side, approached and asked,
“How is Zaun?”
“It’s a good place.”
Encrid replied.
Hescal was older, though it wasn’t obvious since he wielded his Will at the level of a high-ranking Knight. Still, it was the age where physical strength and reflexes would normally begin to wane.
Even Knights couldn’t hold back the passage of time. Slowly, but surely, they age.
Everyone has a peak, and while Knights remain in their prime longer, they are not eternal.
Hescal seemed older than expected. Yet he still traveled between villages with tireless energy. Everyone said he was a man who would do anything for Zaun.
“Yes, it’s a good place. But didn’t you find the head’s attitude a bit disappointing?”
“Are you talking about how he doesn’t spar often?”
“No, not that.”
Encrid couldn’t quite read Hescal’s intentions in saying this. Was he complaining about the head behind his back the moment they’d gotten friendly? Or something else?
“Zaun has a system for honing technique, but no structure for resisting outside pressure. That’s something the head should be handling—but he’s not.”
“Do we really need that?”
Encrid asked in return.
“Didn’t you come from the Border Guard? Don’t you know better than anyone—you can’t stay in one place just because you want to. Zaun has strength. You must know why Schmidt keeps trying to convince us to join the Empire.”
They had crossed blades and shared words. Hescal knew the man before him wasn’t a fool.
In fact, what Hescal said echoed things that had once been said within the Kingdom of Naurillia, right after the Mad Knights was founded.
People claimed the Border Guard had become too powerful. So, they argued, either scatter the Mad Knights or send them to the front lines.
There was also talk of absorbing them into the kingdom’s army, just like the Red Cape Knights.
Encrid had only heard about it later.
Every time those discussions arose, Krang had shut them down with a single sentence:
"Did Sir Encrid ever even wipe the sweat from his brow during training? And yet you want to force him to swear loyalty to the royal family?"
That’s what he supposedly told the nobles. There was a time when some nobles thought the Mad Knights wasn’t quite “mad” enough.
Of course, anyone who faced them directly stopped saying that pretty quickly.
At any rate, Hescal’s position was this: Zaun needs to change, somehow—before the bigger waves crash in.
When it rains, don’t you need a roof to shelter under? That was his point.
Not everyone thought the same way as Hescal.
“Zaun has strength. Yes, strength. So we should establish our own system of defense. If it’s a bit aggressive, all the better. Bring in talented individuals from outside. The Empire saw us taking in talented kids and teaching them—and copied us. So why can’t we copy what they do?”
The Empire pulled in talent from all over the continent and spared no effort in building its army. Wouldn’t it be better if they were just a bit more proactive too?
This was Lynox’s opinion.
A bit messy in expression—but that was because he was a man who let his sword speak more than his mouth.
Certainly, Hescal was the more articulate of the two.
Even after hearing both perspectives, the head of the house remained silent.
He only nodded, as always.
No one knew what he truly thought.
Alexandra, watching the two of them, simply said,
“You both love Zaun. And so do I.”
Encrid looked up at the sky, heavy with dark clouds. He thought the current situation resembled that sky—ominous, weighted.
“A storm’s coming.”
Just like Alexandra had said once before: Zaun was now shrouded in the silence that comes just before the storm.
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