Chapter 314
“You!”
Esther grabbed her opponent’s forearm and snapped it.
Galaf panicked as his defensive barrier shattered—
Then pain struck his brain like a hammer.
“Khk.”
That was the end.
A battle between mages might take place within the realm of [World of Spells], but the body still existed—and injury to the body interfered with the mind.
Simply put, pain ruined concentration.
And even with an overwhelming difference in the amount of mana one could draw from their World of Spell, the battle had been surprisingly even.
That meant her opponent knew how to cast and use spells far more efficiently than he did.
Cold sweat ran down Galaf’s face as he endured the pain.
The method of attack had been utterly absurd.
He had cast a defensive spell, but that accursed witch, Esther, had conjured flames in her hands and simply ‘ripped’ his barrier apart.
He had felt the sheer, monstrous strength in that movement.
Fwoosh!
Steam flooded his vision—born from the collision of his [Blue Lake Spell] with her heat-infused grip.
Though startled, Galaf had tried to cast several spells in retaliation—until she grabbed his arm and broke it.
‘Why is this witch so strong?’
His mind filled with disbelief.
Had she always fought this well?
Was her title, ‘the Witch of Strife,’ not about her temper but because she truly fought like a demon?
Few mages in the world bore as many nicknames as the witch standing before him.
Galaf had thought it was a trick—spreading multiple aliases so that others could not identify her true self.
Whether trick or not, one thing was clear.
The nickname ‘Witch of Strife’ was no rumor.
“You won’t die prettily.”
The witch, with hair as black as silk, spoke without a hint of expression.
Her two apprentices had fallen to her summoned creature, and that summon now stood motionless nearby.
It was a golem sewn together with flesh—astonishing craftsmanship.
The stitch marks across one cheek and the vacant eyes told its story: a golem made by hands that had poured a lifetime into it.
“Eek!”
Galaf resisted.
Of course, he had considered escape—but the difference in power was too great.
Esther’s title as the ‘Witch of Strife’ was never self-proclaimed.
It had spread because she fought like a beast.
Galaf was her opposite—his days spent building a haven and training disciples.
The difference was enormous.
Esther sensed it immediately.
This wasn’t even a real fight.
In terms of the density and rigidity of their World of Spells, Galaf was superior.
But spells only mattered when used in the right place, at the right time.
Especially in battle.
Esther had done that. Galaf hadn’t.
This was the result.
“Farewell.”
A farewell that almost sounded refreshing.
Stab.
Rather than a spell, Esther drew a knife and plunged it into the mage’s heart, then pulled it out.
Galaf wheezed blood through his mouth, staggering before collapsing to his knees.
“S-son of a—”
Galaf turned his head and mumbled through trembling lips.
Esther pressed her foot on his mouth.
A mage’s mouth should never be left free.
Then she crouched and drove the knife into the back of his hand.
Thud!
The blade pierced through flesh and pinned his hand to the ground.
A mage’s mouth—and hands—should never be left intact.
“Mmmph!”
Galaf’s body jerked once.
That was the end.
A formidable mage was dead.
In other words, one of Avnaier’s most trusted cards had been cut down unexpectedly.
Esther briefly checked the corpse for any trickery.
No mana reaction.
Then she brushed back her long hair, gathering the strands with her hand.
‘Would’ve been nice if I had a hair tie.’
Blood had splattered across her black velvet coat—and beneath it, down her pale skin.
Drops rolled down her chest.
It was unpleasant, and washing should’ve been her priority—
But another thought crossed her mind first.
“I wonder what my nest is doing.”
The words slipped out softly.
She wondered what Encrid was doing.
Probably getting beaten somewhere.
Galaf, the mage who controlled the rivers.
Even she had heard of his name.
If a mage of that level was here, there must be more elsewhere.
Esther rifled through Galaf’s robes, taking whatever seemed useful, then dispelled her summon, sending it back into her World of Spell before walking away.
The flesh golem, Bonehead, could still function—but prolonged use wasn’t possible in her current condition.
The mana channels in her body weren’t intact; sustaining the summon drained her too quickly.
It might’ve looked like an easy fight, but maintaining human form had nearly emptied the mana reserves she stored within her World of Spell.
‘I’ll have to live as a panther for a while.’
Without hesitation, Esther shifted into the body of a panther.
—
The Azpen troops in formation spotted a lunatic charging straight into their ranks alone.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘Is he insane?’
‘Should we stab him?’
The man tore through the front lines and appeared at the rear in moments.
A few soldiers slowly turned their spears backward.
Formation or not, anyone behind them was dangerous.
Three soldiers met eyes.
They agreed silently to kill him quickly and return. Their squad leader gave a small nod of approval.
Just as they were about to move—
“Hold.”
A nearby platoon leader had seen the man’s face.
Or rather, a certain ‘feature’ of it.
‘Blond hair, white skin, red eyes.’
One of the descriptions Avnaier had personally given to all his commanders.
“Leave him.”
The three soldiers stopped immediately.
An order from above.
The platoon leader’s eyes stayed fixed on the intruder.
The man, bareheaded, walked forward without hesitation—
Not running, but fast.
With sword in hand, he moved swiftly, his stride covering twice that of a normal man.
Ahead stood an Azpen soldier with a short sword—though his gear was different: hardened leather armor instead of standard uniform.
He scratched his head through his helmet and said,
“You really followed me this far.”
Ragna didn’t answer—he simply took another step.
Whizz!
The leather-armored man threw a dagger.
Ragna tilted his head aside.
The dagger buried itself in the ground.
He didn’t even slow down.
‘You started this. I’ll see it through.’
He kept his eyes on the man’s back.
He wouldn’t lose track—never had.
The man didn’t seem to be getting farther or closer.
Piercing through enemy lines meant nothing to Ragna.
Encrid had once said that the Madman Squad could out-crazy Rem himself when the situation called for it.
Ragna was the kind who once killed hundreds of enemy soldiers just because he got lost.
This was nothing.
No one ever demanded strategy or tactics from him anyway.
“Just fight,” Krys had said.
And Encrid too.
“Fight as you see fit.”
So he did.
He fought as he pleased.
He’d fought ‘just enough’—until now.
But this time was different.
Something more burned atop that “just enough.”
A single word: ‘Drive.’
“Hey, are you gonna keep following me?”
The soldier scratched his head again, though his pace didn’t slow.
Not an ordinary soldier—Ragna could tell.
‘Catch him.’
Why did he want to?
He couldn’t say exactly.
He just knew that chasing this man would show him something he’d been craving.
That alone was enough reason.
His red eyes burned with a singular purpose.
The soldier deliberately moved farther from both Naurilia’s and Azpen’s sightlines.
He’d been running hard enough to be short of breath.
‘Still following, huh?’
The soldier thought.
He prided himself on his speed, but this was ridiculous.
The man kept coming—steady, unbroken breathing.
‘Damn, that hurts my pride.’
He was a squire of the Royal Knights.
Among his peers, he was the fastest.
Even if his pursuer were of [Junior Knight] level, this was humiliating.
The man chasing him looked less winded.
“What the hell are you?”
The squire asked in disbelief.
Ragna stared and replied,
“You’re not alone.”
The squire didn’t nod.
What difference would it make?
Ragna felt his will flare higher.
Drive. Desire.
Whatever it was, the urge to fight pounded in his chest—but not because of the man before him.
Not only him.
Ragna raised his sword.
The enemy squire stepped aside.
From the tall grass ahead, the one who had ignited his fighting spirit appeared.
“I warned you enough times, yet you’re still surprised?”
The newcomer spoke to the squire.
Her skin was dusky, her frame tall.
Long hair tied back, a custom-forged helm shaped to fit her perfectly—its front visor raised, the back open to let her hair flow, and two pointed ridges jutting like beast ears.
Her accent marked her as not from this continent.
Her skin tone and features confirmed it—an Easterner.
And a woman.
“You really have no fear.”
She stretched out her long arm—almost matching Ragna’s reach.
Ragna steadied his breathing, sword in hand.
His breath evened quickly.
The squire scowled again.
‘What is with this guy’s stamina?’
It was inevitable.
Ragna was always getting lost—
Wandering had become his lifestyle.
A journey that took others a month could take him a year.
Maps were expensive, and he never hired guides.
After all, a man with no destination could never be “lost.”
So Ragna never thought of himself as lost.
There were times he wandered for months without finding a single village.
Running and walking had become second nature.
“If he’s of Junior Knight level, he should be about my equal, shouldn’t he?”
The squire rested a hand on his sword’s hilt.
“He’s above you,” the brown-skinned woman replied flatly, her gaze never leaving Ragna.
“Are you sure?”
“You questioning my eyes, or just your pride? Neither will end well.”
“…My mistake. I just didn’t want to lose in stamina, but he’s… irritatingly composed.”
“Not just Junior Knight level—he might as well ‘be’ one.”
Ragna listened while studying her for openings.
Not deliberate—just instinct.
Four imagined attacks played out in his mind.
A wide horizontal slash from left to right.
A downward strike in [Heavy Sword Style].
A thrust to push her back.
A rising half-moon cut from the lower right.
In his mind, she parried all four easily.
Then her sword touched his shoulder—or his gut.
‘Can I dodge?’
He could, if he moved his legs quickly enough—but then he’d fall into defense.
And once cornered, it’d be hard to regain momentum.
Either way, no real chance of victory.
His gifted instincts traced the flow of battle in advance.
Maybe it was all fantasy.
After all, before a fight begins, no one truly knows the outcome.
Expression unchanged, Ragna rubbed his palm against his thigh.
Sweat.
“You’re not a full knight, are you? You’ve got some [Will], though. Hmph, they said to kill you outright, but…”
The female knight stepped forward a few paces, then spoke again.
“I’m Ayada of the Azpen Royal Knights. Ever think of switching sides?”
A Junior Knight of the Royal Knights—
With a squire beside her.
Ayada brimmed with confidence.
She was in her fourth year as a Junior Knight.
And she knew better than anyone: not all Junior Knights were equal.
Those in the Royal Knights were forged through countless duels.
The difference between them and wandering knights was clear—
The density of experience, the refinement of skill.
Ayada offered the proposal because she didn’t expect to lose.
Ragna wiped sweat from both hands, then lifted his sword with both.
He raised it before his face.
The chill winter breeze split across the sharpened edge.
So did the sunlight.
It was a fine day.
His heart pounded.
The same drive he’d felt watching Encrid surged through him again.
Why?
Why was he burning like this?
Because he wanted to cut her down?
Was it bloodlust?
No.
Because she was strong.
One glance told him her movements were far beyond ordinary—and her affiliation confirmed it.
The Azpen Royal Knights.
Even with Naurilia’s Red Cloak Knights, Azpen had still chosen to go to war—because of forces like hers.
A symbol of power.
And now, one stood before him.
Of course, that wasn’t all.
His drive had been simmering for a long time.
Through Encrid, he’d learned desire.
That desire had turned to thirst.
Sometimes it made him train harder.
But thirst never vanished—it only deepened.
No one walking a set path could know everything that lay along it.
Then Ragna understood.
‘Ah.’
A quiet realization.
He needed a trigger.
A chance to push himself further.
Something that willpower alone couldn’t reach.
He couldn’t kill Encrid or any of those half-wits around him—so he could never go all out.
But this woman?
He could give her his all.
An opponent worthy of risking his life—his chance.
Her talk of “defection” didn’t even register.
He only wanted to fight.
So provoking her would help.
Ragna had learned that from Encrid.
And he did exactly as he’d learned.
“What are you babbling about, you brown pile of shit?”