Hescal’s gaze shifted to Ragna’s eyes.
The eyes, which had been cast down, slowly rose like the sun on the horizon and locked onto Hescal. Light flowed along the crimson irises, scattering the darkness.
Golden hair and red eyes—his appearance resembled that of a woman once hailed as one of the greatest swordswomen ever born in the House of Zaun.
“You.”
Before Hescal could finish his sentence, Ragna spoke in an unnervingly calm tone.
“When I hold a sword, the path reveals itself. Walking that path is really easy, you said that once.”
It was something Ragna had said as a child. As Hescal recalled, those were the words he had spoken when he was first teaching him the basics of the Correct Sword Technique. He had learned for only a day before refusing to train with him again.
Ever since, Hescal had concluded that something essential was missing in Ragna.
Someone without the desire to improve could never survive in Zaun.
Ragna Zaun perfectly embodied that principle. Eventually, he left Zaun.
He was a flower that would wither before ever reaching its full potential, showing off his talents among the mediocre, but never blooming fully.
But what happens when that flower chooses to risk everything and live fiercely?
The answer was right here.
When Ragna held a sword, he saw the path. And that made it easy to drive his opponent to a dead end.
That’s exactly what had happened to Hescal.
Distance, positioning, stance—everything had become a wall, while also creating a path. Since it looked like a path he himself had opened, Hescal stepped into it without hesitation, only to find himself trapped in a maze.
Now the choice belonged to Ragna, not Hescal.
You could say he was caught in a spiderweb too delicate to escape.
It wasn’t that he lacked physical capability or was caught in a psychological game. He had clearly fought enough life-or-death battles to know how to take risks.
Ragna’s sword was already poised to strike at any moment.
‘Was I wrong about him?’
Ragna had cornered Hescal. At this point, there was no room for deception—his only option was to strike directly.
‘No matter how I move, I’ll be cut.’
Dodging would be the worst possible choice. Not that standing still was any better.
If he blocked head-on, Camouflage’s hidden blade would slice through the air. But there was no time left to resort to tricks.
All that remained for Hescal was to overpower him with brute strength. Thus, instead of a phantom blade, he had to put all his force into basic techniques.
Ragna slightly shifted the direction of his toes. With that, even the brief chance to catch his breath or exchange words vanished.
Although the thought process following “clumsy” may seem long, in reality, it took only a fraction of a second.
In the time it took for Ragna to say “clumsy”, for Hescal to respond, and for a few more words to be exchanged, Ragna’s foot had already shifted and hisgreatsword scraped against the ground. The blade followed the exact trajectory Ragna had envisioned. The rain-soaked ground split open silently in its path.
It was a wide and open path—flat and solid, not a single pebble in sight.
That’s how the path appeared in Ragna’s eyes.
Zzziiit—
The moment the air tore apart, Ragna’s sword was right in front of Hescal.
He responded, giving his all as he swung down his blade.
In that final instant, he made his best choice—pouring all his Will into Camouflage to execute a Weapon Severing strike.
His weapon was engraved, while Ragna’s was not. Using that advantage, he aimed to break his sword and then split him from chin to forehead. It was the optimal decision.
But in that moment, Hescal saw Ragna’s blade emit a soft, milky glow—and instantly, he knew it was the end.
‘Ah…’
A Knight’s insight allows one to perceive their own death. To be more precise, it's the ability to recognize one’s end through high-speed cognition.
At that point, only one final choice remained for either of them. That last choice would define the Knight’s life.
If one wished to survive, they would struggle desperately to fend off death.
If one was fighting a mortal enemy, they might sacrifice themselves to ensure mutual destruction.
And rarely, some would make unique decisions based on their will and convictions.
When Ragna’s greatsword struck Hescal’s, his arm was knocked back. His blade plowed forward, slicing through his left thigh and grazing his insides. The moment Hescal realized he was going to die, he twisted his body using the last of his strength. This happened just after their swords had clashed.
In other words, he reacted before his body could be cleaved in two.
Not the heart.
CRACK—!
BWOOM.
The swing had been so fast that the sound came after the fact, slamming the air where the blade had just passed.
Flesh tore and blood sprayed to the side.
Though Hescal never let go of his sword, his arm was lifted into the air, and he collapsed backward. His position made it look as though he was still bracing himself with his weapon.
A single word left Ragna’s mouth.
“Why?”
He had cut him from his left thigh up to his shoulder, he wouldn’t survive. Ragna asked "Why?" because of Hescal’s final act.
There had been a clear opening for him to land a strike, yet in that moment, he had twisted his body away.
“Khak!”
With a cough, blood sprayed from his mouth, far less than what poured from his body.
Rain was no longer enough to dilute the blood flooding from him, and his intestines had spilled out for the first time in his life.
“Get away from me.”
Hescal used his final Will to force air into his lungs and speak. Ragna instinctively obeyed.
They were right next to a reserve force of monsters.
It wasn’t clear whether the monsters had been watching or waiting for an opportunity, but there were hundreds gathered nearby. Ragna yanked back his greatsword and leapt away.
He moved more than twenty paces back. That distance should have been enough—and as he glanced back, he saw Hescal’s body explode.
Poof—
It wasn’t even a loud sound.
But the aftermath, regardless of the sound, had a devastating impact on everything nearby.
SSSAAA—!
The Scalors wailed in unison.
As Hescal died, blood sprayed from his body in all directions, and every monster touched by that blood rolled its eyes back and died.
It was as if his body had contained poison, waiting to be released upon death.
Why he had given him the chance to escape remained a mystery. But that was something to ponder later.
Ragna turned away. He had killed Hescal. Was the mission complete?
No. He had never lost sight of his goal. Hescal had been the one who misunderstood.
How could someone lose their way when their target was clearly visible in the distance?
From the start, Ragna’s objective had been the monster adorned with serpents for hair. He had merely stayed the course.
Hescal had been an obstacle along the way, nothing more. Ragna continued walking.
* * *
SWWWAAAA—
The wind died down, but the rain remained constant.
The downpour washed away the intestines and brain matter of the monsters Encrid had slain, diluting the black blood into the soil.
Right after Panito’s death, several Scalors with psychic abilities pulled a bold move. They extended their hands, using telekinesis while launching their fingernails like arrows.
The nails, dipped in what looked like black ink, weren’t actually coated in ink, but they might as well have been.
There were three of them. Each fired between four and six nail-arrows, and each one was like a venomous snake.
Accelerated with telekinesis, the nails curved and weaved through the rain and wind like serpents, moving freely toward their target.
Encrid didn’t rely on sight, but instead sensed everything with his hearing. He twisted his head at the last moment to dodge the ones in front, and then smashed the delayed shots coming from behind with the Three Iron.
One nail that hadn’t shattered looped around and targeted the back of his head.
Seizing the brief moment when the nail reversed, Encrid lunged forward and split open the monsters’ heads vertically, one by one.
The nails lost their power and dropped to the ground. And there were more monsters pulling strange stunts.
Hand-picked elite monsters, worthy of the title.
Those that launched nails and controlled them telekinetically, and even those that burst their own skin to scatter blood, all of them were beheaded and their skulls split.
Evading or breaking arrows, retreating before blood droplets exploded—none of it was too difficult.
His firm stance and hardened legs gave him speed. His trained body and sense of balance allowed him to move in any direction.
If one moved unpredictably, at a speed too confusing for a Scalor’s eyes to follow, telekinesis would be useless.
As he sliced through the monsters, stray thoughts crept in.
‘Are they hard to deal with? Sure. But they’re not really threatening.’
The Ghoul Jerix came to mind. Was the name really Jerix? Or was it Jeris?
Either way, the ghoul he had met in the City of Oara had also been a unique specimen, one who had survived long enough to be given a name.
But compared to these creatures, the difference in quality was clear.
It wasn’t just that the ghoul had survived for a long time. Ghoul Jerix had known how to fight.
Compared to him, these monsters were far easier to handle.
‘All I have to do is deal with their psychic abilities.’
Even if he accidentally got caught in their telekinesis, he could shake it off with brute force, and the poison-coated claws just had to be avoided.
Looking at them now, Encrid could more or less guess the true nature of this monster horde.
Rather than ‘true nature’, perhaps it was more accurate to say their purpose was clear.
‘Chimeras designed to wear us down.’
They weren’t unique individuals, they were artificially created through personal research.
As he organized his thoughts while standing over the corpse of a slain monster, Encrid swung his arms to shake them out.
A Knight is said to be able to cut down a thousand enemies.
But to achieve that, several conditions had to be met. First and foremost: time. He also needed the proper equipment to conserve stamina and avoid wasting Willpower on unnecessary actions.
No one was just going to die because he swung his sword once.
A Knight’s inhuman combat strength was always bound by time.
Of course, someone with excellent control over stamina and Will could fight for much longer.
‘That’s where the difference between Knights begins.’
Some Knights might sweep through enemies in a short burst and then rest between waves, while others might extend their stamina steadily to reduce enemy numbers over time.
Either way, Encrid knew his condition wasn’t perfect. His muscles felt like they had impurities jammed in them.
He was fighting while drenched to the underwear from the pouring rain. The battle was still ongoing, and he had done his fair share.
In other words, this state of fatigue was only natural.
Sensing a presence behind him, Encrid opened his eyes. For a moment, the rain lightened.
Judging from the thickness of the clouds—ones Alexandra had called Black Storm Clouds—this was a temporary lull.
Opening his eyes activated Medusa’s curse, costing him Will, but this kind of welcome seemed worth it. With that thought, Encrid looked at the approaching person and spoke.
“You're late, Ragna.”
“You expected me to come?”
“I hoped you would.”
To be honest, Encrid had predicted that either he’d join the main group once the fight with the head of house was over, or that Ragna would come to him.
There were still too many enemies left for him to feel satisfied just standing his ground and fending off waves alone.
Moreover, Ragna was someone who’d start moving just to find someone to vent his anger on.
As Ragna came closer, he added,
“Hescal blocked me along the way.”
“He blocked you?”
“I cut him down.”
“That so?”
Not even the head of the house, Alexandra, or Lynox—much less Hescal—truly understood the full extent of Ragna’s strength.
But Encrid had a pretty good idea.
A few monsters or even someone like Hescal would never be enough to stop Ragna.
“Hescal wasn’t a pushover though, was he?”
“He put a hole in my shoulder.”
“And the medicine Ann gave you?”
“He didn’t coat his blade with poison, it seems.”
Despite the conversation’s content, their tone was so casual that it almost seemed like ordinary small talk.
A few monsters nearby observed them warily, forming a formation around them.
Encrid’s senses picked up a few new presences as well.
These were people skilled in hiding their presence and bodies. He’d heard there were many like that in the Hunter’s Village.
If he recalled correctly, the Hunter’s Village was founded by those who had clung to the legends of Zaun and lingered nearby—former bounty hunters, mercenaries, and others who had lived their lives by the sword. They survived off the scraps of Zaun, bound together as outcasts.
It wouldn’t be a surprise if betrayal was common among them.
Ching.
Encrid sheathed the Three Iron.
“Let’s suffer a little more together, Three Iron.”
Honestly, he sometimes wondered if Eitri had tricked him into thinking it wasn’t an engraved weapon.
Maybe it actually was, and Eitri had just told him otherwise to avoid raising his hopes.
The blade of True Iron felt like it could cut anything, and the blade of Black Gold felt like it could shatter anything.
The feeling that the sword spoke to him whenever he gripped it wasn’t just madness, it was real.
“Let’s go.”
Encrid said, his tone light.
It would’ve been perfect if the rain had stopped and sunlight had broken through the clouds just then, but of course, that wasn’t going to happen.
The storm wouldn’t end for at least three more days.
Sure, there might be moments when it got worse or less intense, but this storm wasn’t finished yet.
From Encrid’s words, Ragna realized the captain was seeing the same goal he was.
He couldn’t help but admire him aloud.
“You saw the same thing I did, didn’t you? As expected, you’ve got the talent of a true Guide. I guarantee it.”
“Being compared to someone like Rem is about as insulting as it gets.”
“Huh?”
Ragna tilted his head, genuinely confused.
“Shut up and follow me. It’s time we showed them what two mere sword-wielders can do.”
Anyone overhearing that might have called it petty.
“What difference can two measly swordsmen and a little girl make?”
The words of Drmule, a false god, still lingered in his mind.
But Ragna couldn’t criticize Encrid for being petty, not when he felt the same way.
He hadn’t forgotten the insult either.
“Let’s do it.”
Ragna and Encrid walked side by side.
Their goal lay ahead: a stunning beauty from the Demon Realm with serpents for hair, waiting for them at the end of the battlefield.
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