Chapter 398

The adjutant who’d thrown the spear eventually lost his nerve and retreated. The opponent didn’t chase. It was as if he were saying that only those who dared should come.

Encrid silently wiped the blood from his sword, returned, and stood in his original spot.

The horse beside him whinnied once.

It had an unusual build—and unusual eyes.

The adjutant saw all of it and retreated, returning to his unit.

Watching him go, Lierbart brought his sword down as he spoke.

“You should have fought to the end and died.”

Crack!

The skull split in half. Lierbart drew back the sword he’d swung.

Blood trailed along the blade as it came free with a popping sound.

“Stupid Zalban.”

A clear voice cursed the dead man from the side.

It was the elf warrior Banat. Her blond hair was cut as short as a man’s, and her tone held no emotion—only coldness. That was simply how she spoke: venomous words, empty of feeling.

“He was the weakest among us. I’ll go.”

Banat stepped forward, but Lierbart shook his head.

“I’ll go.”

Was he trying to raise morale by sending out someone like her? Then he’d crush him.

Lierbart was second-in-command and the highest-ranking person present, excluding Count Molsen.

He didn’t need anyone’s permission.

Banat nodded with the same unreadable expression. She was an elf whose emotions couldn’t be read from her face.

Malten couldn’t speak in the first place, and Benukt didn’t seem to care.

“Just let me fight.”

Giant blood flowed in Benukt. He didn’t bother restraining his hunger for slaughter.

“If I kill that guy, charge all at once.”

That was exactly what would happen.

Lierbart moved his horse forward. He held the reins and set the horse into a trot.

He dismounted where the two corpses lay and glanced at Zalban’s body.

Then he began readying his gear.

He adjusted his sword belt, took a short sword, and set a machete with a thick, single-edged blade behind his waist. It was even a magical weapon.

He fixed a plain kite shield to his left arm.

It was slightly reduced in size, fastened to the gauntlet rather than held by a handle.

Even so, it looked like a weapon no one would use unless they were confident in their strength, simply because of its weight.

Every time Lierbart moved, metal clattered. Plate armor over gambeson.

He finished preparing and stepped forward.

Even then, the opponent only stared at him blankly.

Lierbart didn’t like those eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Encrid.”

“Lierbart.”

It was the first time Encrid had heard that name.

The Count’s five weapons were somewhat famous within the territory, but they weren’t active outside.

Their names weren’t widely known.

It was safe to say Encrid was several times more famous than them.

“I think I’ve already won.”

After thinking that, Lierbart spoke again.

“…It hasn’t even started yet?”

“I only said that because I think my name is more well-known.”

What the hell was this guy?

Of course, Encrid wasn’t actually crazy.

It was a simple provocation meant to crack the opponent’s composure. He felt it was necessary.

The way he walked, the way he geared up, the way he came out and spoke—wasn’t it all meant to make him look like a formidable opponent?

“The Madman Company, they say.”

“Aren’t you jealous?”

Lierbart went momentarily speechless.

Jealous?

To be honest, who wouldn’t like to build fame and have their name spread wide?

Even without burning ambition.

And Lierbart was greedy. He also had experience.

He realized he’d been toyed with by those words.

“You’re a bastard I’m going to chew up.”

“I’m tough.”

Is he saying he’s too tough to chew?

Lierbart was good with words himself, so he understood the intent immediately. That only made him angrier.

“Fine. I’ll kill you.”

Lierbart strode in and swung his sword in a diagonal slash.

To Encrid, the blade was neither fast nor subtle. He saw the opening and moved.

Encrid put force into his first strike.

With [Will of the Moment], he thrust his gladius.

The awl became a ray of light, aimed at the forearm holding the sword.

Lierbart cut his swing short and pulled up his left arm, bringing the kite shield to meet it.

Clang!

His gladius was blocked. The shield wasn’t pierced—because the material wasn’t ordinary, and the one wielding it wasn’t ordinary either.

While Encrid was recovering his gladius from the thrust—

Whoosh.

Lierbart’s sword flew.

A simple stab.

Not [Will of the Moment], not [Vein Severing Sword].

Calm. Accurate.

Encrid bent backward, like the blade would graze his neck if he stayed upright.

He expected the sword to drop straight down, and prepared to take Silver—

But Lierbart pulled the thrust back, reset his stance, and once again covered his front with the shield.

He took a guard.

If he’d simply surged forward, he would have held the advantage.

Encrid had already prepared several answers for that.

But even after seeing this, Lierbart didn’t rush in.

Encrid rose from the backward-dodging posture and looked at the opponent’s helmet.

Through the visor, he could see Lierbart’s eyes.

‘Deception?’

Is he relaxed?

No. The opponent was serious.

Even if you gathered ten men who’d become knights, all ten would have walked different paths.

That was why a knight’s path was difficult.

You couldn’t get the same results by following someone else’s footsteps.

The same was true even among Junior Knights.

Everyone had their own path.

And among them, Lierbart’s path was twice as solid and strong as most.

Thick plate mail. A shield.

He stabbed and cut, but he didn’t commit unless the opportunity was perfect.

No recklessness.

He was the type who would go around even if there were a stone bridge built atop a steel pillar.

On that solid foundation, he completed the shape of his swordsmanship—using his tongue as a weapon as well.

After the initial provocation, Encrid fell silent.

The opponent’s defense was solid.

His gladius couldn’t pierce it. Silver couldn’t cut. Even the Whistle Dagger he slipped through a gap was blocked by the helmet.

It wasn’t just that he was wearing armor—he was using it skillfully, as if it were part of his body.

That was what made it impressive.

Meanwhile, Lierbart kept talking.

“I heard you dream of becoming a knight?”

Encrid recovered Blazeblade and took Silver in both hands.

[Pressing Blade].

Press down. Suppress with pressure.

Lierbart raised his shield and received the descending sword.

Clang—

It was a sound strangely lacking in weight for a full collision.

Silver struck Lierbart’s shield. At the moment of impact, Encrid pressed down with [Pressing Blade].

Lierbart twisted the shield’s angle.

Silver slid sideways along the angle the shield created.

Lierbart blocked like that and retreated.

He endured without being driven down. Posture and skill as solid as armor.

“So, are you satisfied with the path you’ve walked so far?”

Lierbart’s words cut through, but Encrid was already moving to chain the next attack.

If pressing down didn’t work, then [Capturing Sword].

It became a battle of wits.

The problem was that no matter how clever the technique, the opponent buried it under armor and shield.

A subtle light flowed across both the shield and the armor.

They weren’t ordinary objects.

Magical items, enchanted with spells.

‘If I cut, will it split?’

If he couldn’t win in finesse, then he’d put everything into one strike again.

If he couldn’t pour in [Will], he could still imitate it.

He couldn’t fully embed the [Will], but he could strike with the Heart of Monstrous Strength.

Encrid moved as he decided.

A slash based on Ragna’s technique.

He mixed in the Heavy Sword-style rotating slash.

He drove strength into the foot planted on the ground, twisted his waist, and sent the power through the sword.

He was about to swing with everything he had—

But Lierbart, despite the armor, rushed in quickly and slammed his body forward.

If Encrid followed through like that, at best he’d catch Lierbart’s forearm with the ricasso.

Encrid had to step back.

His posture broke for a moment, but Lierbart still didn’t rush in.

He reclaimed his guard behind the shield.

Knees lowered to keep his center of gravity down.

Eyes locked on the opponent, sword ready to stab or cut at any moment.

A troublesome enemy.

“What will you do if the path you’ve chosen is wrong?”

Lierbart asked.

Encrid watched him and thought.

His fundamentals were no worse than Encrid’s, but he was pouring everything into defense.

He understood the tactic.

“The path to becoming a knight is rough. It’s thorns all the way. It’s like hugging a thornbush and jumping off a cliff. Even so, if you go wrong even once, the ideal becomes unreachable. That means the path of hugging thorns and leaping off a cliff has to be right every single time.”

Even while talking, Lierbart’s breathing stayed steady.

He was fighting with a long battle in mind.

Armor and shield swallowed the opponent’s attacks, and while doing so, he spoke—without letting his breath falter.

A tactic built entirely on stability, unbefitting a man called a weapon.

But still threatening.

Lierbart’s shield and armor were like an unbreakable wall of steel.

That had to be the point.

More than anything, he was trying to shake Encrid’s mind by never letting his tongue rest.

He searched for weakness and squeezed—stabbing and cutting with both words and sword.

“Every time you take the wrong path, your talent is wasted, and you lose the strength to move forward. That’s why talent alone can’t make you a knight. So how far do you think you can go with that great talent and luck?”

He especially loved to talk.

It was the same foundation that let him instantly read and counter the initial provocation.

This man was also someone who used his tongue as a weapon.

“A knight? It’s a hope that only gets farther away. Grapes in a painting. A star you can see but never touch. Can you hold a star in the sky just because you wish for it? You’ve stepped into a vain dream. Fairy tales don’t happen in reality.”

Words became spears and swords.

Instead of answering, Encrid repeated what he’d done earlier.

Blazeblade thrust—blocked by the shield, because Lierbart responded to [Will of the Moment].

[Pressing Blade]—endured.

[Capturing Sword]—dismissed.

Lierbart didn’t engage in the battle of wits. He cut it off, forcing the shield in and shutting down the path of the sword.

While doing so, he continued talking.

“If you walk barefoot on thorns and the wound festers, bursts, and rots, you’ll lose your feet. You don’t have to take that path. So why are you doing it?”

Lierbart was relentless. He spoke and spoke, even with no answer.

Encrid answered that persistence.

“It’s damn noisy.”

He could answer precisely because he wasn’t shaken.

“Noisy? Look back at yourself. If these words hurt, it means you already acknowledge it deep down.”

“You’re going to slap a sage in the face.”

Encrid took two steps back, spoke, and reset his stance.

Left foot forward, right foot back—back to the basics.

He raised the tip of his sword, like he was piercing the sky.

“What if the path you’ve chosen is wrong? Haven’t I said it again and again? What will you do if your talent is wasted and you lose your way?”

His concern sounded sincere.

“I’ll just do it again.”

Lierbart blinked.

Hadn’t he been saying all along that it couldn’t be done?

Similar words went back and forth a few more times.

Thorns. Wasted talent. The foolishness of dreaming of becoming a knight.

“I can just do it again.”

They often say a battle between attack and defense is a contest between spear and shield.

Up to now, their swords had been like that.

Now their tongues were, too.

Only the roles had shifted.

With swords, Encrid attacked and Lierbart defended.

With words, Lierbart attacked and Encrid blocked.

And Encrid kept answering, calm and unchanging.

“I can just do it again.”

“I’ll just do it again.”

“Losing your way is just everyday life.”

“I don’t need shortcuts.”

“I can just do it again.”

Because something here was more solid than Lierbart’s armor and shield.

A manifestation of [Will], naturally giving rise to [Will of Rejection].

Of course, Encrid’s ‘again’ wasn’t about the repetition of today.

He would move forward even without that.

Because that was how he lived today, tomorrow, and every day, even when none of that existed.

When he swung his sword until his palms split, did he believe his path was right?

There was no such conviction.

He just repeated, and walked, and walked—every day.

There was a dream, where dawn touched and left a trace.

If he’d had three more days, he would have surpassed the Junior Knight that almost killed them back at the Royal Palace.

The days he repeated while surpassing Aisia had also been a doorway into a new world.

After that came a month.

Encrid swung his sword from the sky-piercing stance.

He captured and pressed.

He mixed [Capturing Sword] into [Pressing Blade].

A feat he performed with only the sword in his right hand.

[Flowing Sword-style] was difficult to use.

The opponent poured everything into enduring and blocking, rather than attacking.

So Encrid struck.

With everything he had.

Because his left hand was for speed, he drove [Will of the Moment] with the left arm alone.

A feat of splitting thought and acting simultaneously.

He brought the sword down while loading the muscles of his right arm.

Clang!

Before the reverberation faded, he thrust Blazeblade.

Clang!

Blazeblade struck shoulder armor and failed to pierce.

Silver hit the shield and failed to break or cut.

It was fine.

Because he could do it again.

Encrid repeated.

If the opponent was using a long battle, it meant he trusted his stamina.

Encrid was the same.

He stopped breathing.

After dragging the opponent into a world of held breath, he repeated.

Strike and stab.

Strike and stab.

Strike and stab.

For Lierbart, it became block and endure.

Block and endure.

Block and endure.

Before long, their swordsmanship became a contest of persistence.

And the words stopped.

In the middle of the battlefield, only the metallic clang! clang! echoed.

With horns and drums fallen silent, that metal rang out as the battlefield’s only voice.

(T/N : Hahahaha. This guy is really challenging Enki with trashtalks? HAHAHAH. Good luck)