Chapter 365
One of the reasons Encrid came to the capital was this.
“I might get to fight the Masked Royal Guard, right?”
The threat of monsters and Demon beasts hadn’t only pushed cooking and construction forward.
It also forced those with true martial power to gather behind city walls.
Survival demanded it. Defense demanded it.
And among those who gathered, the best were knights. The capital’s royal guard became a symbol of martial might.
When people started dividing strength into city-level, country-level, and continent-level, where did it begin?
Where did the term “Junior Knight level” come from?
The royal guard was the yardstick for everything.
And she was one of them.
The Marquess of Okto had investigated Encrid. He understood Encrid’s tastes well enough.
What mattered more to Encrid than Krong, women, status, or power?
If you dug into his past, traced the path he’d walked, and understood the purpose behind his actions, you could understand the man.
The Marquess had done exactly that.
“They say I can be considered a gift. What does that mean?”
Aisia asked as she entered the mansion, and Encrid could almost see the Marquess’s smiling face behind her.
Standing at the edge of the training ground, Aisia wore a sword and carried only light gear.
‘Sly old fox.’
Andrew had called him a man who’d swallowed dozens of sly old foxes—and had the guts of a hydra.
It fit perfectly.
A man whose true intentions couldn’t be read.
Was he on the Queen’s side? Krang’s? Count Molsen’s? Viscount Mernes’? Or would he become a new power altogether?
No one knew.
He was simply the Marquess of Okto—present in the capital.
With the influence he held, even the Queen couldn’t treat him carelessly.
There was no Grand Duke in the kingdom, and no one held the title of Duke. That made him a man who shared national power with Marquis Vaisar.
Would someone like that side with Krang?
The emergence of a Grand Duke—something the kingdom had never had—would shake the balance of power.
That was why even Marquis Vaisar didn’t welcome Krang, Encrid had heard.
Marcus had said it himself.
And yet, even though the Marquess of Okto was clearly seen as “Krang’s side” in everyone’s eyes, he had come directly to Encrid, spoken to him, and told him to handle things.
His thoughts and actions were unpredictable.
Well, putting all of that aside.
“It’s not something you need to worry about.”
Encrid was delighted. One of the opponents he’d wanted to meet—someone he’d wanted to provoke—was standing right in front of him.
“Speak comfortably.”
Aisia nodded. She was the same as before—gentle face, short hair.
Brushing her orange hair back with one hand, she stared hard at Encrid.
It felt absurd.
Just having him in front of her was unbelievable.
Back at the Border Guards, she’d given him something like a skill test at Marcus’s request.
She still remembered Encrid fainting under her pressure.
‘Ruagarne said he was a bit different, but still…’
Aisia trusted her instincts more.
Experience mattered more than someone else’s words. That was only natural.
She was someone who had to believe in the path she walked—someone who wanted to become a knight. That made it even more so.
In her eyes, Encrid had the kind of talent that would be fortunate to reach squire level.
No—calling it “fortunate” was already generous. From what she’d seen then, he didn’t look like someone who could develop any further.
But now Encrid stood here, meeting her gaze without flinching, making a name for himself through achievement after achievement.
‘How did he do it?’
What had he done to reach this?
A competitive spark rose inside her. She wanted to measure him.
She’d come for work, but the moment she saw him, she knew.
You didn’t become a Junior Knight in the royal guard by accident.
To reach Junior Knight, you had to be obsessed—obsessed with your weapon, with combat, with fighting.
Talent had to be fused with desire.
Encrid stopped what he was doing and faced her.
“Do that again.”
Since she’d told him to speak comfortably, he did. Direct and cool.
Aisia liked that.
“What?”
“Pressure.”
“You’ll foam at the mouth. You.”
“Do it.”
This time, Encrid didn’t feel anything behind him either. Back then, when she had exerted pressure, hadn’t there been underlings gathered, glaring at him?
Andrew Gardner didn’t matter. What had bothered him then were the subordinates behind this woman—but they weren’t here now.
Aisia exerted pressure.
She turned her feet slightly, her hand hovering near the hilt as if she might draw.
Pressure was a technique that broke an opponent’s will through force of will.
‘Kneel. Or you’ll die.’
Encrid felt it—pressure mixed with murderous intent.
A blade that wasn’t real flew at him.
Encrid knew it wasn’t real.
The Encrid who used to close his eyes at the sight of a sword was gone. The Encrid who crumpled under pressure was gone.
[Will of Rejection] rose up and pushed the pressure back.
Encrid took a step toward Aisia.
Her pupils widened.
She’d heard rumors, but she only believed them once she saw it.
This guy was real.
Ruagarne had been right. Her judgment—built on her own experience—had missed the mark.
He hadn’t overcome it by forcing his body through it like before.
He countered it with [Will].
“Spar?” Encrid asked.
“Good!”
Aisia answered brightly.
Clang!
Her thin, straight rapier slid free.
Holding the blade vertical in front of her face, she said, “You don’t think my only specialty is pressure, do you?”
“If losing isn’t your hobby, you’d better do it right.”
Encrid replied with a subtle provocation.
Aisia smiled, like she was thinking, ‘I need to fix this bastard’s habits.’
Encrid was satisfied to see that expression.
As she raised her sword, Encrid adjusted his sword belt, narrowed his grip for a smooth draw, shifted his left foot, and let his arms hang naturally.
Preparation—right before a fight.
They had just met, and they were already sparring.
Work and everything else could wait.
Aisia started properly.
No awkward probing. No halfhearted testing.
They were both Junior Knights. They carried that kind of force.
Just from how he’d broken her pressure, she knew.
“I don’t know how many [Will]s you can use, but look forward to it. It’ll be fun.”
Aisia lowered the vertical blade forward and aimed.
Encrid measured the distance reflexively.
Five steps.
But with her rapier extended, it felt like the tip hovered right in front of his nose.
Encrid stepped sideways, repositioning so the sun was at his back.
Aisia didn’t advance. She pivoted on her left foot, turned with him, and adjusted only the sword tip.
The tip still blocked Encrid’s view.
At first, Encrid watched Aisia herself.
Then his gaze shifted to her shoulder—the center of her body.
A point of concentration activated on its own.
She was a real Junior Knight of the royal guard.
He didn’t think he could overwhelm her just because he’d received a knight’s strike.
With the Heart of the Beast, he had boldness.
With a point of concentration, he captured the opponent inside his eyes.
He urged his Sensory Art awake.
He was ready to attack first at any moment.
Encrid’s vision, fixed on her shoulder, began to narrow.
From her full body to the shoulder and sword hand.
From there to the rapier and the hand holding it.
Then only the blade.
Then, finally, the tip.
In the end, he saw only a dot.
But the dot was so large it swallowed everything in front of him.
He understood it rationally. The opponent was simply holding a sword and pointing it forward.
But—
‘I can’t grasp the distance.’
It should have been five steps.
Yet the distance had vanished.
Only the tip remained—a dot.
Only the dot.
There was no pressure. No oppression.
Of course, [Will of Rejection] didn’t activate.
It was just the tip of the sword.
Encrid couldn’t even start searching for a weakness.
How could he do anything when his entire world was only a dot?
As his focus sharpened, the dot grew larger.
‘What are you doing?’
Andrew, watching from the side, was dumbfounded.
Encrid had told her to try something, stepped forward, suggested sparring, and now—
They had drawn weapons, aimed, and stopped.
Encrid had shifted a few steps like he was measuring distance and finding position, but now both of them stood still.
‘Aren’t they going to fight?’
He’d expected a high-level spar, but time kept passing.
‘Should I say something?’
“Leave it.”
Just as Andrew was about to speak, Rem slipped up behind him, hooked an arm around his shoulder, and pulled him back.
Andrew froze as Rem caught his neck and shoulder.
“If you screw it up now, that blade will fly at you.”
Rem said, dragging him a step away. Andrew obeyed.
It wasn’t just Rem.
Ragna, Jaxson, and Dunbakel came out as well.
All three fixed their eyes on the center of the training ground.
Sweat began to bead on Encrid’s forehead.
Aisia wasn’t calm either.
Encrid’s momentum was fierce—rough, like a volcano ready to erupt the moment she showed the slightest gap.
If it erupted, she wouldn’t be able to hold the advantage she’d built.
Lionesis divided swordsmanship into five categories: Proper Sword Style, Illusion Sword, Heavy Sword, Flowing Sword, and Swift Sword.
It established an intertwined structure of strengths and weaknesses.
Proper Sword Style was weak against Illusion Sword.
Because it was correct and straight—because it confined the opponent within expected lines—it was vulnerable to deception.
Illusion Sword was weak against Heavy Sword.
Because it relied on tricks and misdirection, it faltered against steadfast weight. Heavy Sword was the strength of a grounded strike.
Heavy Sword was caught by Flowing Sword.
Because it was steadfast, it could be led by the current and made to miss.
Flowing Sword, in turn, struggled against Swift Sword.
Speed struck before the flow could form, denying the technique.
And Swift Sword was vulnerable to Proper Sword Style.
If speed was trapped inside expectation, its power was halved—naturally making it easier for Proper Sword Style to seize.
A correct sword to a deceiving sword.
A deceiving sword to a heavy sword.
A heavy sword to a flowing sword.
A flowing sword to a swift sword.
A swift sword back to a correct sword.
Of course, being Swift Sword didn’t mean you always caught Proper Sword Style.
And Proper Sword Style wasn’t guaranteed to fall to Illusion Sword.
Everything depended on training.
Victory and defeat were never simple.
You could die even against an opponent far less skilled than you.
An old saying.
Swords had no eyes. A blind sword killed anyone it struck.
Death was fair.
To escape that fairness, humans tried to surpass their limits.
That was [Will].
Willpower.
And the culmination of willpower was the knight.
Aisia’s sword was Illusion Sword.
A technique that used the opponent’s concentration and returned it as a counterstrike.
The moment they recognized it, Rem, Jaxson, and Ragna each began forming ways to break it.
They were geniuses. It was only natural.
Of course, in a real fight, Aisia would adjust, vary, and twist, so the true direction of the battle could only be known once blades clashed.
Dunbakel didn’t grasp the technique instantly, but she knew what she would do.
‘Strike before drawing.’
Encrid didn’t grasp it at a glance either.
But he had built something—stacked it, reinforced it—and walked a path until it became his own.
That was his sword.
What did it matter if he saw a dot or a line?
If he couldn’t break through, he’d break through right here.
The moment he judged time wasn’t on his side, Encrid moved.
Shik!
The draw sounded strange—too fast, too straight. A quick draw that minimized friction.
The result of repeated training.
It was the [Will of the Moment].
What he drew was Blazeblade.
Blazeblade became a white ray and struck the dot.
Clang!
Metal met metal with a sharp ring.
The moment something touched her tip, Aisia detonated the coiled muscles throughout her body.
Whoosh!
Her sword rebounded faster than it had been knocked aside, then slashed toward Encrid’s neck.
It looked like blood would spray immediately.
But it didn’t.
Encrid barely avoided it, tilting his head back.
Aisia stopped.
If she went further, it would turn into a fight to the death.
For a first spar, it was already vicious.
It was questionable whether it could even be called sparring.
Even within the royal guard, they’d be furious if someone competed like this with real blades.
They’d ask if the pair were trying to kill each other.
But—
“One more time?”
Encrid’s eyes shone. A faint smile touched his face.
He looked happy enough to die.
He’d just slipped past a near-death strike, and that was his expression?
No matter how bold someone was, surviving something like that usually left something behind—resentment, irritation, fear.
Encrid showed none of it.
No resentment. No complaint. No dissatisfaction.
“Huh?”
Aisia had never seen someone like this.
“If you’re tired, you can rest.”
From behind, reactions came immediately.
“He started again.”
“It’s a disease.”
“Hm.”
Rem, then Ragna, then Jaxson.
Dunbakel stayed silent. She wasn’t confident she could block the sword Aisia had shown.
It wasn’t the speed that terrified her.
If it was simple speed, Encrid’s sword was fiercer.
What scared her was how Aisia stole timing.
‘It cuts your breathing.’
She understood because she’d been watching without blinking.
Aisia’s sword slipped into the space between unavoidable breaths.
If that had been Dunbakel, her neck would’ve been taken.
Of course, she wouldn’t have fought like Encrid in the first place if someone held a sword out like that.
She would’ve retreated, created distance, started again.
‘Could I win then?’
It still felt unlikely.
Dunbakel grew irritated and snorted.
“You’re a strange person,” Aisia finally said.
“Well, you’re smiling too,” Encrid replied.
He was right.
Aisia was smiling as well.
She felt rare joy—so rare she couldn’t remember how many years it had been.
“So, is there no breakfast? I came without eating anything.”
Aisia said.
“Andrew?” Encrid called.
Andrew nodded.
They were the type to never skip meals, so the kitchen would be ready.
(T/N: As always, the dynamics between the characters are top-tier.)