Chapter 257

Krys did as Encrid instructed.

‘How to deal with the Black Blade Bandits.’

Wasn’t that what he was told to figure out?

Krys pondered and worked his mind.

It was already certain that the Black Blade Bandits were scheming something.

Then, what would they do?

Or rather—how did he know they had such intentions?

Simple. Because they told him.

So they were kind.

‘Or just idiots.’

He leaned toward the idiot side, but that wasn’t the important part.

“When you think about it, isn’t that right?”

“What is?”

“These bastards. They very kindly said they wouldn’t leave you alone, and after you slit the throat of the one who said it, they, huh? Sent another guy.”

Krys said this as he stepped into the sunlight.

Pulling his coat tighter against the chilly morning air, he continued.

Encrid, meanwhile, was swinging his sword back and forth.

To Krys, it looked like he was stirring stew with a ladle. Literally just swishing it around.

“And this time, they kindly sent someone who’s not even one of theirs, asking not to kill him. Honestly, I’m starting to think they’re actually gentle people.”

“Bandits who steal from others?”

“Or just idiots.”

Their opponents were idiots—kind ones, even.

Still, Krys kept having ominous thoughts.

It was due to the environment he’d grown up in and his innate disposition.

‘What if they send a knight?’

If an actual knight came, could they hold out?

He saw Encrid training. Behind him, the lodge door remained closed.

Stone walls made of gravel and plaster, and a dull brown door in between.

Inside were: a barbarian bundled up in heated stones and fur because it was cold; a bear of a man who beat up a priest just yesterday; a troublesome man with no sense of direction who wandered wherever he pleased; a moody brute who vanished at will; a half-giant former cultist; and a former bandit beastman.

‘Would we manage against a knight?’

As dread crept in, a sliver of hope snuck into his dark thoughts.

Absurd. A knight is a knight. They are monsters—catastrophes.

Krys shook his head.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Encrid was trying out some footwork while swinging his sword side to side.

To Krys, it looked like dancing. Dancing while stirring stew.

Staring blankly at his captain, Krys kept entertaining grim thoughts and then said,

“We do everything we can.”

He meant it literally.

The enemy had kindly warned them of an ambush.

‘If I were a bandit…’

If I were the leader of the Black Blade Bandits, and I wanted these people dead…

‘The captain is a Junior Knight who’s awakened [Will].’

On top of that, every member under his command was a monster.

The dwarf likened people to metals using insight.

The elf compared opponents to plants or animals with her sensitivity.

And Krys himself saw his comrades as gold coins.

‘How many coins?’

Impossible to measure. He still didn’t have the sense to estimate their worth.

Some might see them as troublemakers, but from another perspective—

‘An unmatched force.’

From an external viewpoint, they’d definitely be seen as a bloated military force.

So Krys’s mind spun, evaluating what their enemies might do, could do, or were likely to try.

“Assassination, surprise attack, poison, persuasion.”

Those were the four big ones.

Encrid wasn’t a fool either. He paused mid-swing. His next move didn’t flow as cleanly.

He had been trying to mimic the [Snake Step] and failed.

“Chances are, the trouble starts on the way back.”

“What’s the plan?”

Encrid asked the same question again, and Krys gave a single request.

“Captain Torres—or is it Battalion Commander now?—if we ask him for reinforcements, would he lend troops?”

“Probably.”

There was no reason he wouldn’t.

The issue was duration. He couldn’t afford to leave the territory unguarded for too long.

Krys already knew that, so Encrid didn’t need to point it out.

Martai was short on hands.

That’s why they were planning to hire and privatize mercenaries.

This time, they were going all-in.

They were pouring in all their earned Krong to sweep away the magical beasts and monsters around the Grateful Forest.

While Martai handled that, and during the battles with the colony, and in his own time spent training, Encrid thought.

What could the Border Guards do to ensure the safety of the trade route?

‘What if we expanded our patrol range?’

It was a vague thought. He’d need to think deeper.

“Once the dwarf delivers your weapon, you’re leaving, right?”

“The moment I receive it.”

That was the plan, assuming nothing went wrong.

“Understood.”

With that, Krys vanished for the rest of the morning.

Encrid resumed his own time—time with his sword.

At dawn, he had practiced the [Isolation Technique] with Audin.

Audin’s words lingered in his heart.

“If you’ve found your reason to train, then next is ‘how.’ And I believe I’ve already shown you that, haven’t I?”

Audin was a good teacher.

What he meant was: think for yourself.

He claimed to have already laid the groundwork.

Encrid was neither dull nor stupid.

His only problem had always been his body not moving as he intended.

But now?

‘To move forward.’

He could face tomorrow. He could welcome it.

His mindset hadn’t changed.

What had changed was that he now felt twice as joyful as before.

Encrid swung his sword. Even if it felt meaningless—it didn’t matter.

That was how he thought.

That was Encrid’s way of meditating.

That’s what he did.

He entered his world. Sank. Observed. Reflected. Understood.

He layered thought upon realization.

‘No one tells me what swordsmanship to learn.’

Even Ragna, who had taught him the Middle Sword Style, didn’t care if he used other forms.

That Ragna now stood beside him, swinging the ridiculously heavy sword they’d forged back at the Border Guard smithy.

No fancy moves. A straight, heavy downward slash.

The sunlight looked like it was being cleaved by his blunt blade.

‘Slash, and slash again.’

No matter what tried to stop him, he slashed. That was Ragna’s sword. That was his swordsmanship. That was the essence of the Middle Sword Style.

Encrid reviewed what he’d learned.

The [Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship] was Illusory Sword.

The [Nameless Sword Style] was Straight Sword.

From Ragna, he learned the Middle Sword.

Later, Ragna taught him the basics of the Fluid Sword, which he had partially grasped on his own.

Watching enemies, adapting, learning how to flow and feint.

‘Wait, I learned this from Audin too.’

The [Valaf Style] martial arts.

Martial arts were about turning one’s hands, feet, and body into weapons.

The shortest weapons a human could wield.

So what was the foundation of martial arts?

Flow, speed, weight, lightness.

Everything combined.

You couldn’t separate it into ‘correct, heavy, swift, light, fluid’.

The Valaf Style was a comprehensive technique. A complete ideal.

But it wasn’t swordsmanship. Still, parts of it could be grafted onto his own sword style.

As he immersed and swung, Encrid looked inward and focused on the [Fluid Sword Technique].

Even during physical training, he emphasized flexibility.

He lifted heavy stones and iron, but also took time to stretch and release every muscle fiber.

It was all for flexibility.

Why the Fluid Sword?

Because he had fully opened his sixth sense.

‘The Fluid Sword is a defensive style.’

To wield it, the most important thing was vision.

In other words—sensation.

He had to see and understand, to twist and redirect the point of force.

Sight, hearing, taste, smell, touch—

All the five senses blended into one.

What was once just an extension of the five senses had now become a true new sense.

No wonder people called it “opening the third eye.”

At some point, Jaxson sat on a rounded stone chair nearby.

It was just a big rock stuck in the ground, roughly carved.

Sitting on it in winter would be freezing, but Jaxson didn’t seem to mind.

Why would he?

His training had been harsher and more brutal. This kind of cold barely registered.

Through his eyes, Encrid’s form entered.

‘What is it…’

…that makes him move like that?

It was still a mystery. But just as puzzling was the fact that he now had a reason to stay.

‘Entangled.’

That captain had become someone necessary for his own goal.

“Yaaaawn… hey cat, what are you staring at so hard?”

The barbarian Rem came out with a massive yawn.

Pointless provocation. Jaxson ignored him like always.

Rem’s gaze turned toward his captain.

“…Well, would you look at that?”

Rarely, the barbarian looked genuinely surprised.

Ragna and Audin were the same.

He was immersed, swinging in his own world. They had all experienced that state at least once.

So they understood Encrid’s current state.

He had fallen in, locked inside his own world.

Was it dangerous?

No, this was an opportunity. A rare chance in life for training.

A moment to break through one’s limits and advance several steps.

“Hey, cat. Control the area. You too, lost boy. Hey, bear?”

“I understand, brother. Sister Teresa and Sister Dunbakel will also assist.”

Audin replied, and they moved quietly.

That random winter morning, Encrid’s group drew a circle around the lodge.

What they did was simple.

“Stay back. No loud noises.”

Control. They kept everyone away.

“Hey, I heard someone punched a priest. I came to talk about that.”

Even the lord came by.

“That man isn’t worthy of being called a priest, Lord Brother. Regardless, not now.”

Some couldn’t understand.

A few soldiers frowned, wondering what was going on.

Those who understood Encrid’s state simply backed away.

Over half the soldiers in Martai’s barracks were Easterners.

And Easterners were tough, stubborn, and loud—

“Make a noise, and I split your head.”

“Silence is golden. The Lord said, ‘Shout on the battlefield, but treat others gently at home.’ So please sew up that mouth and remain quiet.”

“Quiet. Or I cut you.”

“Don’t cross this line.”

The four acted true to form.

Dunbakel silently watched Encrid and began moving her body too.

Restlessness gnawed at her.

So she needed to train—no matter how.

Teresa found the man strangely fascinating again.

‘I am Teresa the Wanderer.’

With her usual mantra, she steeled herself and saw—one man, swinging a sword alone, smiling like a madman.

‘He enjoys not just battle but training too?’

Born and raised in a cult, Teresa had known little of the world.

Her worldview had been narrow. Even now, she didn’t know if her choices were right or wrong.

But one thing was certain.

‘I want to fight.’

She wanted to swing her sword at the man occupying the small sparring ground outside their lodging.

Hard enough to split his skull.

She wanted to charge at his body with a shield.

To punch him. To kick him.

She wanted to fight.

With a desire so overwhelming it gave her chills, right and wrong no longer mattered.

“Steady yourself. Calm your heart, Sister.”

Audin spoke, always at her side. Teresa adjusted her mask and replied,

“I am Teresa the Wanderer. I endure well.”

Patience was a virtue.

She hadn’t been born with it, but now she wanted to uphold and learn it.

Only then could she fight him and savor the moment of ecstasy.

—

Within his world, Encrid sometimes wandered, sometimes ran, sometimes crawled.

It didn’t matter what he did.

He thought of swordsmanship.

At some point, a ghostly boatman appeared and spoke to him.

He could see the face now, so some affection had likely formed.

It happened after seeing him so often.

“You madman, this isn’t a wall I created.”

What was that supposed to mean?

A vision. A hallucination.

So he ignored it. What mattered wasn’t the boatman. Nor was it the repeated today.

[Correct, Heavy, Swift, Light, Fluid].

Among the five styles of swordsmanship, Encrid had properly learned the first two.

Even so, they didn’t feel right. Aside from the difficulty, they never quite fit.

Why?

‘Like a suit that doesn’t fit.’

Swordsmanship built on talent, atop the soil of talent, shaped by talent.

Not the path of the untalented.

He hadn’t realized all this just now.

But through his sixth sense and intuition, he moved toward the next step.

He kept walking, crawling, running.

Just—

‘Where does my path lead?’

Through that small question, he chose a direction.

And so, Encrid went beyond the basics of the [Fluid Sword Technique] and began forging a new path.

It was the process of creating a new swordsmanship.

Nothing could be done in one go. When he emerged from his immersion, he understood what he had done.

And also knew that from now on, he would refine and ingrain what he had achieved today.

‘Swordsmanship.’

Whether striving to become a knight or creating a new style of swordsmanship, it was all madness—nonsense in the ears of others.

But so what?

Since when did others’ opinions matter?

As he awakened from his trance, the sun was still high.

‘That was brief.’

Encrid thought and looked up—only to find a dwarf girl pouting at him.

“Hey, I’m busy too, you know.”

The dwarf said.