Chapter 435
Having experienced countless standstills in his life, Encrid had long since forgotten what impatience felt like. He simply acted.
He ran, leaped, and climbed mountains.
Ruagarne left no tool unused.
She used everything and everyone without distinction. Encrid was one of those things.
Just yesterday, Encrid had fought Dunbakel, Teresa, and Roford all at once.
He had thought their pride would make them refuse to fight three against one, but the three accepted without hesitation.
Ruagarne taught them a formation that let them fight together without getting in each other’s way.
Even that alone was enough to keep Encrid from gaining the upper hand easily against the three of them. Their tactics were extremely troublesome.
Dunbakel used her trademark footwork and body movements to circle around and search for openings to stab into, while Teresa kept pressing forward from the front with her shield.
The techniques she used to obscure vision had become more refined, and her overall mastery had clearly grown compared to before, making her an already troublesome opponent.
Beside them, Roford swung his sword with stubborn persistence.
It wasn’t the heavy sword style. It was a method of swinging calculated through all sorts of feints and setups.
For example, there were times when Roford deliberately swung not at Encrid, but into empty space, and when Encrid had nowhere else to evade, he was forced to intentionally deflect that sword.
Naturally, that created an opening, and into that opening flew Dunbakel’s curved blade.
Encrid saw Roford’s talent anew.
‘He’s calculating moves while the three of them fight together?’
With talent like that, he would shine when leading a small force.
Roford was indeed awakening to his own talent.
A sense for reading the flow of battle as if looking down on it from above.
That applied not only to small-scale tactics like this, but could also be used in one-on-one combat.
It could be called the essence of the Proper Sword Style. Ruagarne spoke of suggestion and restraint, and Roford faithfully swung his sword in a way that pressured the opponent.
‘Outstanding.’
Encrid acknowledged Roford’s talent.
Ruagarne had recognized it long ago and awakened it with only a few words of advice.
It really made the difference in talent feel stark all over again.
But Encrid paid it no mind.
He was too busy pouring his breath into his daily training. What else could he do?
Dunbakel’s skill had also grown remarkably, doing who knew what.
She displayed slaughter techniques that used her entire body, utilizing her two curved blades, nails, and claws.
Swordplay born from the domain of instinct.
In the midst of that chaos, nails shot out.
It was messy, which only made it harder to block.
Anyway, yesterday had been spent barely holding his own against those three.
And today, an even more unusual proposal came.
“Have you ever fought a mage?”
Before he could answer Ruagarne’s question, a woman with long straight hair, dressed in only a thin robe, stepped out from behind the Frok.
Naturally, it was Esther.
“Will that help improve swordsmanship?”
She asked instead.
Encrid thought for a moment before answering.
“It might.”
Honestly, he had no idea.
But he could gain something from anything.
Making everything in the world, everything he could see, into a teacher was Encrid’s greatest specialty.
Esther also voiced no refusal.
She blinked her large eyes a few times, combed back her hair with one hand, raised the other, and said,
“Then let’s do that. The Scythe of Drémuler.”
As she spoke, she extended her thumb, index finger, and middle finger in what seemed like a meaningless gesture.
At the same instant, Encrid drew Aker and swung it.
Clang!
A compressed blade of air flying through the sky collided with Encrid’s sword and shattered.
Encrid felt a faint recoil run through both arms.
It was like blocking the full-force swing of a warrior whose forearms were as thick as his own.
He should have been bewildered, but the moment he blocked the attack, Encrid reversed direction and surged forward.
He kicked off the ground, his body trailing afterimages.
Unless one was a Knight, it was a speed difficult to follow with the eyes.
“Beware the snake.”
Esther’s voice pierced the gap and stabbed into his ears.
No, it was a voice that resonated through his entire head.
It felt as though he had to listen to her words.
It was strange.
Even though he was focused only on charging forward, a human voice rang vividly in his ears?
At the same time, Encrid saw the illusion of Aker in his hand turning into a snake coiling around his arm, but the illusion vanished in an instant.
That was thanks to his [Will of Rejection] activating on its own.
Clang!
Encrid’s sword was blocked above Esther’s outstretched palm.
A mage’s barrier.
How was he supposed to break this?
He had experienced it once before.
When he took the Count’s head.
Raise the sword vertically and strike down with [Northern Middle Swordsmanship – Downward Slash].
Pour the will to cut into it.
Ragna’s sword was not lightning, yet it was a strike akin to lightning.
“It will be blocked.”
Esther said it while continuously moving both hands and changing their shapes.
As her hands traced several forms over and over, barriers overlapped above her head and held back Encrid’s sword.
“Loyta’s Sticky Spiderweb.”
If any mage had happened to pass by and see it, they would have been astonished.
Just now, Esther had manifested the magic first and spoken the incantation afterward.
It was a technique called post-incantation, something most mages would not even dare attempt.
In the end, Encrid was helplessly driven back by Esther.
The old saying that a mage who had time to prepare was more fearsome than a Knight did not exist for nothing.
She proved it.
The magic the Count had shown was large-scale and overwhelming.
Having pierced through ten thousand Wraiths, Encrid had judged that in direct combat, he held the advantage against a mage.
He had been wrong.
Of course, Encrid did not know just how great a mage Esther was.
Especially in one-on-one combat, Esther was already a genius few other mages could match.
If Esther had been in her prime, the mage of Galafran who had once grasped the river on the battlefield prepared by Azpen would have fled the moment he saw her.
Esther felt threatened three times while facing Encrid.
Pushing such a mage that far was astonishing, but Encrid did not realize it.
“One more time?”
Encrid simply did what he always did.
“As many times as you want.”
Esther nodded readily.
If the other side wanted it, then she would simply humor him.
She did not back down, and that day, Encrid ended up with his left arm broken, and his hair burned enough that it had to be cut short.
“That suits you too.”
Ruagarne, with her definite sense of beauty, liked Encrid’s short hair as well.
Through this entire process, Encrid did not undergo any dramatic leap in growth.
But the shift in perspective alone brought no small gain.
“When dealing with a mage, engaging them in conversation itself gives the initiative to the other side.”
Esther offered him advice on how to deal with mages.
Encrid engraved everything into himself. Receiving teachings from others and repeatedly digesting them was what he did better than anything else.
So he did exactly that.
Esther smiled.
Seeing that, Encrid said,
“You shouldn’t smile carelessly at other people.”
People like her rarely smiled, just like Sinar.
“Why?”
Esther asked back.
“If you look in a mirror, you’ll know. Looking at you in that thin robe right now is enough to make someone’s eyes pop out, don’t you know?”
“No, I know. This too is a weapon. The ones who lose their senses looking at my face naturally forget for a moment that I’m a mage.”
Where did tactics begin?
Encrid gained a small new realization.
If grooming one’s appearance alone could shake the opponent’s gaze?
It connected with the principles spoken of in the Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship.
“Impressive.”
“My face is always impressive.”
Esther accepted Encrid’s words without wiping the smile from her face.
He had meant the tactics, not her face, but Encrid did not bother correcting her.
If anyone had listened to their conversation from the side, they might have called it bleak beyond belief, but the two of them thought they were having an unprecedentedly friendly exchange.
Esther acknowledged that somehow, she had blended into this group.
“That soldier?”
At the end of the spar, Encrid asked.
Esther had brought along a soldier she said she would teach, and Encrid had occasionally seen her call him over to do things.
“He has talent.”
Esther answered briefly.
That was all.
Encrid did not ask further.
Esther was not trying to raise a disciple.
The main reason was to re-establish her own understanding through the act of teaching.
The second was that if she left him alone, he would obviously learn clumsy magic and cause an accident.
Wasn’t it better to guide him in a direction that might actually be useful?
It was an open-minded line of thought, born of steadily watching what Encrid did.
Did a mage have to be narrow-minded?
‘Not anymore.’
Esther acknowledged it.
Though her life had been one of being shut away alone, researching and struggling, observing the people around her and learning from them had helped her no little amount.
No, it had helped her even more than that.
“Well, don’t kill him.”
Since rumors often spread that Esther used soldiers as sacrifices, Encrid said that.
“If he dies because of bad luck while doing this, then there’s nothing to be done.”
Esther said it knowing full well how dangerous the path of magic was.
Encrid read no malice in her words and nodded.
She probably had no intention of using him as an actual sacrifice.
Of course, a few soldiers saw strange characters carved into the body of the friend Esther had dragged away, and fear spread on its own.
If their minds could shatter over rumors like that, then they would break meaninglessly on the battlefield too.
Encrid wanted to raise strong soldiers.
Then they had to be able to get over such trivial rumors with ease.
And so, sparring with a mage also became part of Encrid’s daily life.
“What will you do if your opponent uses suggestion and restraint?”
Throughout it all, Ruagarne began sharing her experience.
The experience of the Frok who had spent over a hundred years exploring battle and combat, seeking the unknown within them.
“Suggestion and restraint are not everything, but if used well, there is no sword style more outstanding than the Illusion Sword.”
“It breaks easily against a stubborn, heavy sword.”
“If even that stubborn, heavy sword is anticipated within your expectations, brother. Better yet, if you can deflect it, catch it, and break it.”
“Suggestion and restraint can be done even through the eyes. If the opponent is sensitive, you can do it with [Will] alone.”
Into Ruagarne’s teachings, Ragna’s opinions somehow slipped in, Audin also chimed in, and even Jaxson, though busy, left behind notes.
Unexpectedly, Rem did not step in that often.
Encrid received experience from Ruagarne.
From the words of others, he also received methods for breaking through the experience she spoke of.
And beyond that, he enacted those methods over and over with his own body.
“If it were before, it would’ve been boring, but now it’s gotten somewhat better.”
Amidst all that, there was even Ragna’s praise, which did not sound like praise.
The Encrid of the past, who could not properly implement something even after being taught, was no more.
As if proving that forging his body through the [Isolation Technique] had not been for nothing, his body had become harder and sturdier than ever.
Just from the way he straightened himself from the feet up and stood with the weight distributed across both feet, his improved sense of balance was obvious.
In the end, he had somehow become a Junior Knight capable of enduring even lightning strikes.
Ruagarne had not intended all of it, but the time, experience, and training she provided truly helped Encrid greatly.
His skills did not suddenly leap forward in any dramatic way, but by learning, his perspective widened. The scope of his thinking changed as well.
That naturally influenced the others too.
Roford in particular, under Ruagarne’s teaching, broke through a certain wall.
Roford had originally been born with that kind of talent.
He could not see one step ahead, but he possessed the skill to drive his opponent into a trap with his own sword.
There was an old saying passed down across the continent.
Is it best to predict one move ahead?
Or is it best to make even that one move act within your own intention?
It was a saying about the two directions of the Proper Sword Style.
Roford possessed the talent to faithfully follow the latter.
“Not bad.”
When Encrid said that during a spar, Roford nodded with a satisfied expression.
He had heard recognition from the one whose acknowledgment he wanted most.
How could he not be pleased?
And yet, satisfaction came over Roford before joy or ecstasy did.
Frok enjoyed observing humans, loved beautiful humans, and because they liked charming humans, they were also very good at reading human expressions.
Ruagarne saw satisfaction on Roford’s face.
Pure, faithful satisfaction.
Once again, she realized that this was the greatest difference between that fellow Encrid and everyone else.
He never knew satisfaction, at any moment.
‘One more time.’
Wasn’t that the phrase he said most often during training?
He might immerse himself in the joy of the moment, and might be carried away by ecstasy, but he was never satisfied.
‘If he becomes a Knight, will he stop, content?’
Of course not.
Ruagarne knew the world of Knights. Even within that world, there were deviations. One only had to look at Ragna.
‘Among Knights, he’s still only at the starting line.’
Of course, that was still better than a broken Knight.
As for excellence of talent?
By the time someone became a Knight, talent was no longer something worth discussing.
And by the time someone rose to the level above Knight, comparing talent became laughable.
They were all people for whom even the word genius was too small.
From that point on, what mattered more than talent were effort, direction, enlightenment, and will of a higher quality.
The world of Knights was vast as well.
Ruagarne knew that.
One only had to look at the Knights of Naurilia.
‘And what about that Knight from the western country?’
What about Mercenary King of the East, Anu?
They were all disasters.
Ragna had risen to a similar level, and that Elf seemed the same way too, but—
they still had shortcomings left to overcome.
Knight was not the end. It was the beginning.
At least half of the Junior Knights who failed to cross the wall of a Knight did not understand that.
At least, that was what the explorer Ruagarne judged.
The power of a Knight was a mirage that could never be reached if one ran toward it as a final destination.
In that regard, she did not worry about Encrid.
That man, crammed full of greed and avarice, did not look like someone who had even the slightest intention of stopping.
‘What a shame about his talent.’
The thought arose on its own.
What if that man had been blessed with outstanding talent?
If he had just had above-average, extraordinary talent?
He did not even need to be called a genius.
Just that much.
‘Or if not that, if only he had been given more time than others.’
For example, if one day for everyone else became a week for him?
It was a futile fantasy.
Lingering on things that would never happen, things that had never happened, was foolish.
And doing that while looking at Encrid was even more foolish.
Because right before her eyes stood a man who would rather swing his sword one more time than waste time worrying.
Ruagarne believed that man would become a Knight.
It was a conviction without reason.