Chapter 261

“How was the recruitment? Did you find anyone decent?”

To his longtime friend’s question, the rapier swordsman nodded.

“There was someone.”

“…Really?”

He wasn’t one to say that lightly.

The last time this friend had said someone was decent, the person turned out to be an exceptional talent even among the elite.

Even within the empire, where all the geniuses gathered, the number of people this man acknowledged could be counted on one hand.

And now he was saying that so casually? It was impossible not to be intrigued.

Hadn’t he just returned from roaming the kingdom side of the continent?

To the man before him, this recruiting assignment was more like a vacation.

He was nearly a workaholic, so this was meant to be a break.

Which made it all the more surprising that he would say such a thing while supposedly on vacation.

That wasn’t the kind of answer you gave to a half-joking question.

Inside the inner citadel of the imperial border territory, in a small room with only a round table and a few wool-cushioned chairs, the two of them sat.

One was the lord of the territory, the other a training officer returning from leave.

The rapier swordsman calmly conveyed what he had seen and felt.

He spoke only the facts, yet there was heat in his eyes.

To the lord, it sounded like a quiet speech.

“So you’re saying he deflected [Pressure] even though he couldn’t perceive it?”

The rapier swordsman relayed only the facts—except for how shocked he was and how he stood in the rain all afternoon mumbling “huh?” over and over.

“That’s one curious bastard.”

The commander of the territory stroked his chin and downed the whiskey in front of him.

It was a strong spirit known as “Farmer’s Tears.”

It burned his throat sharply and warmed his stomach, asserting its presence all the way down.

“Was he at least a capable Frok?”

“Capable Frok” was slang for a Frok hired by the empire—someone competent enough to survive alone while wandering the continent.

It was a way to gauge his skill.

“A Frok, huh.”

The rapier swordsman swirled the glass in his hand and answered without a moment’s thought.

“Not even close.”

Was he saying the man wasn’t even at Frok level? Or that being a Frok wasn’t enough?

Of course it was the latter.

The lord could tell as much.

Was grasping [Will] special? Absolutely.

But more than that, something strange had occurred—something that couldn’t be conveyed through a calm retelling.

‘Even his swordsmanship.’

It had advanced at a ridiculous pace. It changed. It grew and evolved.

And all in a single day—something the rapier swordsman saw with his own eyes.

If someone else had said it, he would’ve never believed them, no matter what.

‘I’d rather believe I was duped by a spell.’

A capable Frok from some backwater?

‘How many exchanges would they last?’

They wouldn’t stand a chance. Encrid was at that level now.

The rapier swordsman lifted his glass and held it up to the lamp.

The brown liquid within had been crafted through long years and arduous processes.

Hence the name, Farmer’s Tears.

It was said the liquor was made through hardship that could bring someone to tears.

For common soldiers, squires, and Junior Knights, such a process was necessary.

‘Time. Effort. Tempering.’

As a training officer, he could easily see that path.

He was a man recognized even among Froks as a talent evaluator.

And from his perspective, while Encrid’s effort was visible—it simply didn’t add up.

Time was supposed to be fair for everyone.

Which was why talent mattered.

If two people trained equally, the one with superior talent should be the one to nurture.

So then, what was this Encrid?

Something beyond his understanding. A being of explosive, incomprehensible talent.

That was his conclusion.

‘Unless he somehow entered another world, repeated the same day for years, and came back after training endlessly.’

He snorted.

A truly ridiculous thought.

It’s easy to say: repeat a day, train endlessly. Saying it is easy.

But who could endure it?

He had seen and raised many talents.

None could endure something like that.

But what if someone did?

‘If such a man existed…’

Empire or not, he wanted to help nurture that man’s will with his own hands.

It was a talent worth desiring.

He once wrote in an academic paper in the empire: “What is the greatest talent?”

The liquor continued to reflect the lamplight as it swirled in his glass.

He downed it as he organized his thoughts.

‘The greatest talent is one that never breaks, always looks forward, no matter what.’

To know no despair.

That was his answer.

Of course, without physical talent, such a man would simply fade away.

How many of those had he tried to cultivate?

He had tried shoving talent into those with the right disposition and attitude. Countless times.

And every single one had failed.

For such talent to explode, some kind of divine intervention—be it a cursed demon or a lucky goddess—had to play a role.

If it did? If someone truly existed who could overcome something akin to torture and, whether by nature or nurture, rise above the level of a knight?

‘A monster would be born.’

Thinking so, the rapier swordsman let the image of the black-haired, blue-eyed young man flicker through his mind.

A rare look—one not easily forgotten.

—

“Someone’s looking for me.”

Encrid answered while glancing at the Elf Commander.

Next to him, Gilpin stood drenched in sweat, nervously glancing between the two.

Still, he seemed smart enough not to interrupt, only flicking glances their way.

“I see.”

The Elf Commander nodded and stood her ground.

She seemed ready to follow him anywhere.

Should he reject her? There was no need. So he let her be.

Encrid turned to Gilpin.

The man wore a fur coif, and sweat poured down his face.

He had clearly run over. His face was flushed, and his thick fur coat heaved at the chest.

“Huff… please help.”

Gilpin spoke, and—completely out of nowhere—Encrid remembered the name of the Frok who had visited the Border Guards.

He hadn’t forgotten it. The man had said he’d return—and Froks keep their word.

“Maelrun?”

The thought slipped out before passing through his mind.

Gilpin’s eyes widened. His pupils dilated in shock.

“…How did you know? The guildmaster’s been caught. Again.”

The emphasis on “again” was clear.

Officially, Gilpin was the guildmaster. But within the organization, they all viewed Krys as their superior.

The Gilpin Guild had started as a band of illiterate thugs.

Even now, despite a shift in tone, their original instincts remained.

To them, the real boss was Krys. Which meant the boss above him was Encrid.

“If it’s dangerous, just go and shout his name. Say you’re here on Captain Encrid’s orders. Don’t forget the name. If you’re in the market and see him, look down. And if you see that gray-haired barbarian next to him—run. If your eyes meet, flee immediately.”

Krys had repeated those warnings so often that everyone in the guild knew Encrid’s name and face.

Same with Rem and the others.

He’d even warned them not to mess with him accidentally.

And Gilpin had seen Encrid fight.

So when trouble came, this was the first place he ran.

“Let’s go.”

Encrid turned and began walking.

‘Wearing armor and carrying weapons on your person is part of your training.’

That was advice he’d heard when he first became a mercenary.

Encrid had followed it.

Since he wasn’t good with weapons yet, he followed that advice faithfully.

That habit remained.

He wore inner bandages made of monster hide, the [Tutor Blade] at his left hip, and a gladius from the dwarves at his right.

Five throwing knives were strapped to his chest.

He couldn’t find another [Whistle Dagger], so its special sheath was left in his room.

With a gambeson, chainmail, and helmet, he’d be in full gear.

So this was good enough to go out.

“Uh, heading out?”

A soldier guarding the barracks asked. Encrid answered while walking at a steady pace.

“Just a quick stroll.”

“Me too.”

The Elf Commander joined at his side and added a joke—her kind of joke, anyway.

“Don’t you know? Bonds are formed through time spent together.”

“Is that so?”

“A woman filling the bathwater told me. I thought it was wise advice. So I think we should spend more time together.”

A joke, in this situation.

Encrid responded casually.

“If you’re suggesting training together, I’m in.”

Any normal woman would’ve kicked him in the shins.

Spend time together and he offers to train? Instead of sharing a nice meal and whispering sweet nothings at sunset?

But Sinar wasn’t a normal woman—nor a human.

As they walked, the Elf Commander spoke again.

“That wouldn’t be bad. But how about browsing the market? The Border Guard market’s gotten some interesting stuff lately. Though it also means more problems.”

It had only been about a month since she’d been away.

How many problems could have popped up in that time?

As they walked, Gilpin followed behind, wondering what nonsense the two were talking about.

What about the Frok?

And why were they walking so fast? He had to half-run just to keep up.

They didn’t seem to be hurrying, so why were they so fast?

As Gilpin rushed after them—

“You said a Frok showed up, right?”

Encrid asked.

“Huff—yes, that guy from last time. Huff, huff. The one with the white scar on his neck.”

Gilpin panted as he spoke, rubbing the right side of his neck.

The same guy who’d come to collect from the Gilpin Guild.

He hadn’t forgotten the name.

Back then, just driving him off had been a feat.

And now?

“There!”

Honestly, it was a little funny.

Same place, same setup.

Should he call Krys an idiot?

He knew immediately.

Stepping into the mansion, passing the hallway, facing a door—

Had the previous fight taught him anything?

The door was wide open.

Last time, he’d kicked the door open and thrown a [Whistle Dagger].

Pushing aside the overlapping memories, Encrid raised his left hand, palm out.

“Been well?”

A greeting.

Inside the hall, next to Krys, sat the Frok in a chair.

“Fuck off. You think we’re friends or something? Happy to see me again?”

Maelrun greeted him back—not quite as cheerfully.

But Encrid was just excited to make their difference in ability clear.

And he saw no need to waste time.

The moment he asked “been well?” and the reply came, he leapt forward.

Thud! The sound of the floor being crushed echoed behind him.

Even at that terrifying speed, Maelrun wasn’t fazed.

That bastard was good at twisting fights to his advantage.

He’d experienced it before.

Before his sentence was even finished, Maelrun drew his [Loop Sword].

Hooking his fingers through the ring, he brought down the thick blade.

Fueled by Frok strength, it was a crushing blow.

Encrid drew his blade from the left.

The gleam of steel rose to meet the silver of the Loop Sword.

Clangclangclangclang!

A strange noise followed.

Maelrun intended to close the gap and smash his opponent’s head with a punch after pressing the blade down.

But he never got the chance.

His sword veered off to the side—like someone had pulled it away.

‘What the fuck?’

The curse came out on its own.

Then the sword transformed, like a snake, and stabbed toward his face.

The capable Frok saw a blue steel blade pierce his vision—

To be precise, it grazed his eyeball.

“Argh!”

The Frok screamed.

Encrid looked at the man rolling back, clutching his face, and flicked his blade in the air.

The Frok’s blood splattered to the floor.

With just one strike, he’d shown the gap in skill.

More importantly, it was his first time using his new sword technique in real combat.

‘It works.’

Joy and thrill surged together.

Encrid raised his blade again.

He had created the [Fluid Sword Technique] with this in mind:

‘Just because you strike gently doesn’t mean a blade turns into cotton.’

And so, this became the first technique of the [Fluid Sword Technique].