Chapter 262
“When walking like a snake, it’s important to widen the range of joint motion.”
Encrid had learned the [Snake Step] from Audin, layered it with Swallow Blade’s swordsmanship, added what he learned from Ragna’s [Fluid Sword Technique], and blended in everything else he had seen, learned, experienced, and felt until now.
The concept was simple.
‘[Fluid Sword Technique] blocks, deflects, and disperses.’
It’s a sword style that prioritizes wearing down the opponent with their own momentum.
Rionesis Oniac, who first synthesized five sword styles, defined it that way, and those who later mastered [Fluid Sword Technique] followed the same principle.
‘Does it have to be that way?’
He wasn’t the first to ask that question, but he might be the first to give the thought a form and forge it into a sword style.
That’s how he built it.
Deflect while creating an opening—and strike at the same time.
Redirect the opponent’s blow and thrust your own sword forward.
It was a simple idea, but in practice, it required sharp senses and years of sparring experience to pull off.
And Encrid had them.
But if you deflect and swing at the same time, you can’t put full strength into cutting or thrusting.
You can’t even deliver half your force properly.
So, was that a problem? If force was lacking, he’d make up for it with something else.
A sharper blade would do the trick.
If a weapon could cut with just a graze, then it didn’t need brute force.
Encrid sharpened his sword.
The [Tutor Blade], now reborn as a masterwork blade, was sharp enough to make up for any lack of power.
That’s what he relied on. His weapon.
He rode along the opponent’s sword, gave a light strike, and drew back.
And the result was this—
“Lost an eye, did you.”
Encrid said calmly, standing still, while Maelrun blinked his one remaining eye, the other covered by his palm.
He had fallen onto his rear trying to dodge the blade.
What the hell is with this guy?
What the hell ‘was’ that just now?
Thoughts crowded Maelrun’s head.
But instead of thinking it through, he lunged from the ground.
It looked like he pushed off with his butt, but in reality, he used the spring of his knees to launch forward from his fallen position.
One eye missing meant nothing.
His years of battle experience guided his Frok instincts, allowing him to pinpoint his opponent’s location.
‘He deflected it.’
He also understood the trick the opponent’s blade had pulled. So the solution was to strike in a way that ‘couldn’t’ be deflected.
He needed just one step to close the gap.
In that moment, Maelrun’s forearm swelled to twice its size—
Or so it seemed.
It even looked like it bent unnaturally.
The thick [Loop Sword] in his hand blurred like a mirage as he slammed it downward.
Encrid sensed the incoming blade. He opened all five senses, and his newly awakened [Eye of the Sixth Sense] traced the path of the strike.
He brought his own blade to meet it.
To normal eyes, it was a blur of movements—but to Encrid, it was a perfectly readable exchange.
The power behind the [Loop Sword] felt weaker than before.
A trick.
He’d swelled his muscles on purpose.
As Encrid moved to deflect it with his sword face, the trajectory of the [Loop Sword] changed.
Encrid twisted at the waist, pivoting from his ankle, and applied what he learned from [Valaf-style Martial Arts] to his blade.
A moment of instinct.
Adding spin to his sword, he struck the Frok’s sword edge-on.
Clang!
Steel striking steel always made noise.
A booming crash erupted. A formless shockwave pulsed through the room, but both endured it with trained bodies.
Maelrun wasn’t shaken. He didn’t underestimate his opponent.
He used the rebound to spin half a turn and swung horizontally.
Encrid, like a dancer, traced a curve through the air with his blade, meeting the opponent’s sword once more.
Chiiiiiiiiing!
Friction screeched between them, sparks flying.
Splat!
Mixed into the friction came the sound of flesh tearing.
Encrid stepped back and shook the blood from his sword with a downward flick.
“…You.”
Maelrun blinked his eye.
What the hell ‘was’ that?
After their last fight, Maelrun had trained harder than ever before.
He’d sliced up several cultists—nearly died.
He’d cut down monsters, beastkin, and wandered near the Demon Realm.
All of it was to prepare for this day.
To crush the man who had interfered in his business and fulfill his desires.
The desires of a Frok were often terrifying in their obsessiveness.
Maelrun’s desire was simple and clear: to savor the satisfaction of defeating a worthy opponent.
The man before him was a perfect target.
Weaker, but defiant.
But now all that effort had gone to waste.
No—that effort had paid off. The opponent had simply changed.
‘No way.’
Facing someone vastly stronger had nothing to do with his desire. That’s why he came here.
His experience, his talent-detecting instincts—none of it made sense.
Even now, his combat intuition told him he ‘shouldn’t’ be losing.
So what the hell was this?
His current strength far exceeded his past self.
Yet the guy he had barely matched last time had just taken his eye with one strike.
And now—
“Where’s my arm?”
The ridiculous question slipped from his lips.
It was just here. Now it wasn’t.
Two exchanges. The first cost him an eye, the second—an arm.
His entire forearm, still gripping the sword, lay off to the side.
His Frok regeneration was astounding—new flesh already squirmed at the stump—but for now, he had lost both his weapon and arm.
Stunned and betrayed by his own desire, Maelrun snapped.
His eye spun, his jaw dropped, and a long tongue lolled out.
“Want to keep going?”
Encrid saw that Krys was unharmed—huddled in the corner, not even tied up.
Meaning the Frok hadn’t killed anyone yet.
There were questions he wanted to ask.
Like—who sent this debt collector?
Would more guys like him show up later? Was this the work of the Black Blade? Or had the count been scheming behind the scenes from the start?
Plenty of suspicions.
The answer would be simple—just ask the Frok.
So he watched.
“Enki.”
Behind him, the Elf Commander called him by his nickname. Maybe that suited better than “fiancé.”
He understood why she called out as he watched the Frok.
Maelrun had reached into his chestplate and pulled something out.
A small leather pouch—flat and perfectly shaped to fit inside armor.
He lifted it and shook it into his mouth. Powder flowed from the pouch.
“Be careful.”
The elf warned, and Maelrun’s eye turned blood-red.
Blinded by the desire for victory, he had made a decision he’d regret.
He’d taken the drug. And now it took effect.
“GRAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
The Frok charged with a roar, even faster than before.
Encrid had already stepped back with his right foot and assumed a stance.
As the Frok charged, Krys’s eyes widened in shock. Behind, the Elf Commander shifted her footing.
Outside the door, Gilpin shrieked and fell on his butt.
Encrid’s [Sixth Sense] flared more keenly than ever—he felt everything.
Everything slowed around him.
It felt like thick, heavy air wrapped his body.
The powder Maelrun had thrown scattered and shimmered midair.
Through that, the Frok suddenly loomed—already at point-blank range.
Encrid held his blade diagonally.
Maelrun lunged, leading with his foot.
‘Even if I cut him…’
The incoming body would crash down like a boulder.
A Frok tactic—trade flesh for bone.
BOOM! CRASH!
One of them slammed into the wall.
“Captain!”
Krys finally shouted. He hadn’t seen the fight clearly, but he definitely saw the Frok raging on drugs.
When they clashed, the floor shattered, and dust rose—blocking Krys’s view.
Beyond the dust, a silhouette waved a hand.
“Why’re you yelling?”
‘Shit. Thought he got hit.’
Krys sighed in relief.
The Elf Commander had been so shocked she spoke without thinking. One foot lifted, her hand on her sword.
“What was that just now?”
She replayed what she had seen.
A kick came flying—Encrid met the Frok’s shin with the flat of his sword and deflected.
Frok skin was slippery.
He had used that trait to slide the strike.
It wasn’t easy—off by even a bit and his skull or shoulder would’ve been crushed.
So deflecting alone was impressive.
But it didn’t stop there.
Encrid then drew a short blade with his left hand and struck the Frok’s chestplate like a club.
He aimed straight for the heart—shattering the armor and delivering a jarring blow inside.
Was this surprising? Absolutely. His reflexes and reaction were incredible.
“You’ve improved tremendously.”
Sinar realized she couldn’t claim a win easily anymore.
Maybe in a full-power fight—but not a simple spar.
‘More annoying than the barbarian, probably.’
As she stared, Encrid simply shrugged.
“You looked like you knew what that powder was.”
He had heard her shout when the powder appeared. It sounded like she recognized it.
“Something I saw recently.”
“Let’s clean this up first.”
Krys, now composed, approached.
Encrid nodded.
He looked toward the Frok embedded between broken bricks in the wall.
The heart hadn’t exploded, but the shock had knocked him out.
Even if the drug raged on, a Frok’s weakness was the heart. Encrid had struck it precisely.
So the skill gap was undeniable.
“You really are strong, Captain.”
Even knowing that, it was still shocking.
Krys said it, and Gilpin, who had watched it all, was still slack-jawed, frozen on his butt.
Weren’t these monsters?
He hadn’t even properly seen much of the fight.
Would anyone believe it if he told them?
‘Yeah, right.’
Was that guy even a real knight?
Wasn’t he just a regular company commander?
Yet he fought like something out of legend.
“We’re heading back.”
Encrid had captured the Frok alive. He’d regenerate as long as he wasn’t dead, so capturing him was the right move.
There were still questions and curiosities to solve.
Encrid slung the Frok over his shoulder, and the Elf Commander and Krys followed.
Outside, a chill breeze brushed their cheeks.
It hadn’t been a long fight, but sweat had poured.
The wind felt cool as it ran across his face.
As sweat dripped down his temple, the Elf Commander reached out and wiped it.
Then she said,
“Are you an onion?”
Encrid blinked.
“What does that mean?”
“You reveal a new charm every time—like peeling back an onion, there’s always another layer beneath.”
Encrid became seriously curious.
What kind of jokes do elves tell?
Is this normal for elves?
Or had the Elf Commander been exiled from the elf world for jokes like that?
He glanced at Krys to see if he heard.
But the man pretended not to.
“Oh, he’s got a lot of stuff on him.”
Krys was digging through the Frok’s bag as they walked.
“You didn’t hear that?”
Encrid asked. Krys lifted his head.
“Sorry?”
Didn’t hear, huh. Heard it, but pretended not to. Classic Krys.
Encrid imitated him.
“What was that powder?”
He changed the subject entirely.
“Something annoying. My onion fiancé.”
The Elf Commander ignored everything and coined a new nickname for him.
Should he curse?
Encrid shut his mouth and considered it.
He could ask Krys to look into the drug later.
“Onion fiancé, your eyes just said something. Like you were staring at a rotten swamp apple.”
“…Swamp apple?”
“All swamp apples are rotten and diseased.”
Yeah, that was an insult.
Encrid felt like the Elf Commander was unusually chipper.
He didn’t ask why.
He just acted like Krys—
Heard it, but didn’t hear it.
“Hey, fiancé. I can tell you don’t want to answer me.”
“Esther’s here to meet us.”
Encrid smiled as he spotted the panther waiting in front of the barracks.
Just like he said, Esther looked like she had come to greet him.
His steps felt light.
Last time, he’d barely survived against Maelrun.
But now—it was nothing more than a light stroll.
That’s how much he had changed.
Encrid looked at Esther and thought so.