Chapter 323
The realization struck like lightning, yet to act on it—his body would have to follow.
When Encrid shot up at dawn, Krys flinched and asked,
“What’s wrong? Nightmare?”
Encrid said nothing, only staring into empty air. Krys, rambling on, added,
“That’s from overworking yourself. A good rest fixes it.”
“Is that so?”
Encrid replied absently, recalling his revelation.
Would it work?
It felt like it might.
That intuition—his entire body tingled with anticipation.
“Why does it look like your condition gets worse by the day?”
Krys muttered beside him.
Encrid ignored him.
He spent ten days and two more mastering the sword technique he had realized within the endless repetition of today.
“…What is this?”
Ragna, who had been helping him train, looked uncharacteristically startled.
“What?”
“When did you come up with this?”
“It just came to me.”
“So this is what talent looks like,” Ragna muttered to himself, seemingly uninterested in hearing the answer.
Encrid refined his swordsmanship, discussed with Ragna, and sparred lightly with Sinar using hand strikes.
The Elf’s movements were exceptional, especially her ability to read intent—it went beyond human comprehension.
When he asked her about it, she said,
“It’s an Elf’s gift.”
That alone was worth learning.
Encrid realized he was already using parts of that talent unknowingly.
Then came the remaining step: training.
That was what he did best.
So he trained—sharpening his swordsmanship and, without hesitation, observing and imitating the Elf’s art.
It wasn’t really theft; Sinar shared freely.
“If you twist the skill of reading emotions a bit, it can mimic mind-reading. Channel that into battle.”
Sinar, at least, explained well.
Compared to Rem, Ragna, Jaxson, or Audin, she was a saint—no, an archangel.
Audin gave explanations too, but his idea of teaching was physical. He believed the body learned faster than the mind—which wasn’t always pleasant for the student.
Still, with Sinar’s explanations, Encrid practiced until the Elf’s gift became part of him.
Even the chains of foreboding helped.
His [Perception of Evasion]—it was about confronting instinct.
Where did instinct come from?
From the world right before your eyes.
It was the sum of every signal brushing past your senses—a warning wrapped in intuition.
That was what the sixth sense truly was.
[Perception of Evasion] was an evasion art that sharpened that sense.
Then what of the Elf’s art?
He couldn’t replicate her ability to read emotion, so Encrid found another way.
He began with the eyes.
After learning the [Isolation Technique] from Audin, he had honed his sight to gauge an opponent’s skill.
Now, he added focus.
He saw his opponent as a single point, channeling all his attention there—
While keeping his body ready to move at any moment, forged by isolation’s discipline.
Focus on one point.
Sharpen every sensory art to its edge.
See with the eyes. Feel with the senses.
That was the foundation of mimicking an Elf’s gift.
“You… just now, that was—”
When he demonstrated before her, Sinar blinked in surprise.
Her expression remained calm, but her pupils dilated—barely perceptible unless one focused completely.
Encrid found it remarkable as well.
He had to sink deeper than ever before—into focus so intense it felt physical.
He had learned how to expand a single point of concentration, then collapse it back into a piercing gaze.
“I copied you.”
“If it were that easy to copy, it wouldn’t be a racial secret.”
“Is that so?”
“When you meet my kin someday, you can show them that trick.”
“Meet your kin?”
“You have to show your face before you have a child.”
Elven society was structured around clans—communal child-rearing, shared kinship. Their homeland was both parent and family.
“Wouldn’t a human–Elf child be doomed to misfortune?”
“It’s fine. Love can make up for it.”
Encrid almost replied with a joke but ended up laughing instead.
“You laugh easily.”
Sinar commented, sounding almost pleased.
He let it pass without reaction—it was time to focus again.
The Elves’ secret art allowed them to detect the faintest shifts in breath, movement, emotion.
Knights were still human.
Even they had minute flaws, the thinnest cracks.
Encrid intended to strike at those.
‘My body will never fully recover.’
Then he would fight as he was—
With the [Heart of Monstrous Strength].
That heart would be the fuel that drove his broken body beyond its limit.
The backlash didn’t matter.
Such concerns had no place in survival.
When all was prepared, Encrid realized—
There was no need to drag this day out.
No reason to prolong it.
Was that arrogance?
Overconfidence?
Delusion?
He didn’t know.
He’d find out only by facing it.
So he moved forward.
After countless repeated days, morning came again.
It was today.
A day he would have to make into tomorrow.
As Encrid rose and washed his face dry, Krys asked,
“What’s wrong? You feeling sick?”
“Moderately.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I’m hurting just enough to move.”
“Ah, right.”
Krys tilted his head. His commander’s eyes looked deranged.
Drugs? No… surely not.
“I’m going to tomorrow.”
Encrid muttered to himself, burning with resolve unlike ever before.
“Ah, for real—there’s no priest here? You hit your head, didn’t you? Fell off a cliff on the way back?”
Krys exclaimed.
“Falling headfirst off a cliff kills people.”
Sinar noted dryly, but Krys didn’t back down.
Encrid, instead of arguing, stretched a little—then lay back down again.
Utterly bizarre.
The oddities continued.
The man who claimed he could move didn’t move at all.
He just ordered others around.
“What the hell…”
He said he could move—and yet the Elf captain was spoon-feeding him porridge.
Dunbakel had tried, but she lacked finesse, so Sinar took over.
And when Krys protested at being bossed around, Encrid only said,
“I’m resting.”
“Yeah, sure. It ‘looks’ like you’re resting for your life. Did you get a death notice? You’re supposed to survive and win, not act like this!”
Krys’s nerves were twitching.
Who even rested with such determination?
Something was wrong.
“Training how to rest properly.”
Encrid’s deadpan quip shut him up.
The art of saying the right thing at the right time—that was eloquence.
And Encrid was a master.
“He’s hit his head ‘and’ taken something. Definitely.”
Krys decided for himself.
Until sunset, Encrid did exactly as Krys said—he rested as if his life depended on it.
It was the process of reaching his best physical state.
“The sun’s setting?”
“Huh?”
“Go check.”
“Yeah, it’s almost down.”
Once Krys confirmed, Encrid rose.
He began to heat his body—testing joints, tensing and relaxing each muscle.
He adjusted his gear, checked his sword belt.
As he readied himself physically, he also steadied his mind.
He pictured a single blade within his heart.
The others watched him silently.
No matter how you looked at him, he seemed deranged.
He’d never been normal—but today, he was something else entirely.
“Commander, are you really sick?”
Krys finally asked seriously.
Encrid answered with sincerity.
“No. I will be.”
Even if he succeeded, he wouldn’t come out unscathed.
Riiip—
Before Krys could say more, the tent tore open.
A man with brown hair and an unassuming face stepped in.
“My apologies.”
The same opening line as always.
“Just once. That is the least I can do to keep my honor.”
The same words.
He sought no understanding—only said them for himself.
This was the moment Encrid had awaited.
He moved first.
The knight’s attention locked on him.
It was time to show what he had prepared.
—
“Sir Jamal, please.”
“You realize this will tarnish my honor?”
Avnaier faltered for an answer.
“You also know why it shouldn’t be done? No, of course you do. And yet you still ask.”
Knight Jamal’s tone was edged—his words sharp as blades.
Avnaier clenched his jaw.
Even if the words cut deep, he had no choice.
“Please.”
“Then this will be the last favor you’ll ever ask of me.”
“I understand.”
Jamal neither scowled nor cursed.
There was no need.
What was done couldn’t be undone.
Still, he couldn’t say he liked it.
“Just once. I’ll swing my sword once. You know that’s all I’ll do.”
“Yes, I know.”
Avnaier bowed his head.
Knights were bound by honor.
Their vows and oaths ‘were’ their honor.
Why?
Not out of pure moral virtue.
There was a practical reason.
If [Will] was the power of resolve, how was it strengthened?
How did one forge it?
A female knight named Luper had sworn to live with one eye closed—and in return, her vision became unmatched.
[Will] was unseen.
The moment one doubted it, it weakened.
So to solidify belief in the unseen, knights forged chains—restrictions, vows, oaths.
They were the anchors of their [Will].
Vows strengthened resolve.
And honor—honor was what preserved it.
Without honor, a knight’s name faded.
Could one who abandoned honor still keep their vow?
Honor was the root of their [Will].
It was self-forged, self-guarded power.
Knights fought knights.
That was their law.
And Jamal was about to break it.
True, not every battlefield allowed such idealism.
In chaos, knights sometimes struck through ordinary soldiers.
But that was rare, reserved for extreme necessity.
This was not that.
“To call me an assassin knight wouldn’t be wrong,” Jamal thought bitterly.
That was why he detested this assignment.
That was why he promised only one strike.
Still, he wouldn’t hold back.
He would strike only once—but precisely enough that his foe could not defend.
Distasteful or not, it was still a matter of vow.
“At least one forced promise will end after this.”
He took solace in that.
It was, after all, for Azpen’s sake.
Jamal approached the enemy’s camp, scanning for openings.
No matter how many guards were posted, not every spot could be covered.
Avoiding ordinary sentries was child’s play for him.
He spread his [Will], sensing positions.
Then came the next step—[Assimilation].
It let him dissolve his presence, blending with his surroundings.
Too much movement would break it, and it didn’t fool other knights—but here, it was perfect.
He couldn’t use his engraved sword for this task, so he grabbed a short sword from an empty tent.
Poorly maintained, dull, but adequate.
He surveyed his surroundings.
Finding his target was easy.
‘Once. Just once.’
He would swing with full sincerity.
His foe would not survive.
Jamal knew this.
It wasn’t a warning—it was a ritual, a way to ease his own conscience.
Without it, his heart would waver, and wavering hindered the growth of [Will].
“There are no wrong choices,” he reminded himself.
He steadied his mind.
Sharpened his resolve.
Now it was time.
Not all knights were the same.
As a Junior Knight, Jamal had sacrificed much for power.
Including the vow he had forged—a contract, almost.
He granted others what they wanted, in exchange for what he needed.
This was one such moment.
Riiip.
He tore through the tent and stepped inside.
His eyes swept the faces until they stopped—on one.
Unkempt hair, a beard, a face that somehow still shone.
A man utterly unlike him.
“My apologies.”
Jamal spoke.
The target, Encrid, didn’t even blink.
He didn’t speak.
He simply moved his foot.
Not quite stealth, not quite aggression—just enough to be noticed.
It bothered Jamal.
He sensed killing intent.
He stopped thinking.
He was a knight. He had a vow.
Even if it was a contract, it was still his duty.
He had said he would strike once.
It meant he’d leave if even one resisted.
A vow of a knight.
And then—
Jamal chose to split the heart of the man before him.
The heart only.
Leaving the face untouched—for the sake of those who would mourn him.
Resolve surged.
[Will] flared.
And his body moved.
From his hand came the unrefined short sword.
Tling—tidik!
The sound of steel unsheathing—rough, ungraceful.
But it didn’t matter.
Jamal thought so too.