The return journey was smooth.
Of course, no bandits appeared, and magical beasts or monsters were only rarely seen.
A migrating group of fairies trailed behind Enkrid and his companions on the same path.
The two groups traveled with half a day's distance between them, and after passing a few hills, they could no longer see each other.
Though it was only a vanguard and just a portion of the whole, it was still the migration of an entire city. Even as a part, the scale was large, so naturally distance would widen even if Enkrid's party walked slowly. That was inevitable, for whenever people gathered, their pace always slowed.
It was on the second day.
When the time came to camp, Luagarne once again witnessed Enkrid's true ability—during his spar with Pel.
"Bride kidnapper!"
Pel tried to provoke awkwardly.
Of course, it didn't work on Enkrid.
Instead, Enkrid used the very moment Pel opened his mouth to taunt him as an opening to attack, tripping him up further against an opponent he couldn't win against even in a straight fight.
His tactics have become sharper.
It was as though someone had trained and polished him for years in confinement—sometimes, such moments were truly baffling.
Apart from talent, his skill would suddenly leap forward in great strides.
But this time, there was something even more shocking.
Hm.
The sparring was fast and fierce. Pel couldn't even find a chance to speak anymore.
Naturally, the fight was fought with only hands and feet moving wordlessly.
Enkrid didn't even use intimidation.
From the middle, the duel became a pure contest of strength and technique. That was entirely Enkrid's intent.
No, from the middle onward there wasn't even technique.
Only sheer strength and speed. That alone was enough to overwhelm his opponent.
If one possesses monstrous strength, clumsy techniques have no place to slip in.
They say softness can deflect hardness?
That a heavy, stubborn sword is easy to be guided off course by a flowing one?
But what if the force is so overwhelming it simply ignores the flow?
Enkrid was showing the result now.
Pel had just felt the blade graze his neck, yet couldn't even speak.
One wrong breath and he'd be dead.
The sense of peril wasn't like the feigned threat of a fake strike—this crawled down his spine.
It was like a lizard licking his skin with an icy tongue.
Pel threw his all into a single slash. He had no other choice.
Every one of Enkrid's seemingly careless swings came with fatal trajectories and crushing force.
It was a series of crises, like a predator about to bite into his throat.
He consciously clung to his Will, pouring it into his blade.
A single misstep meant falling off a cliff. He clung with the tips of his fingers on the ledge—let go, and he was dead.
From time to time, fierce gusts blew past. He had to tighten his core.
Even if his balance broke slightly, he'd die.
The sunlight stabbed at his eyes. Even a blink at the wrong time would break his concentration and kill him.
I'll die.
Pel realized it instinctively—just as Enkrid swung indifferently again.
Bang!
Pel didn't drop his sword.
His arm was only knocked aside by Enkrid's parry.
Enkrid stepped in, using his free hand to lightly push Pel's chest.
"I win."
Enkrid declared.
It was, of course, only natural.
"...Haa."
Only then did Pel exhale.
He had been crushed by raw power, without even technique.
That his provocation had failed was one thing—but this was beyond that.
This monster bastard.
Whatever Enkrid had done, even his use of Will and the way he swung his blade had changed since they arrived here.
That was why—he was a monster. A monster brimming with talent.
It was clear even without being told—he had crossed another wall in a short span of time.
Pel exhaled again, steadying his shaken pride.
If it had been fragile enough to shatter here, he wouldn't have endured this long.
I'll follow, no matter what.
This time, there was a new ferocity in him.
His eyes blazed.
Luagarne, recalling what Enkrid had just shown, sank into thought.
He matched Pel deliberately.
Meaning, Enkrid had spare capacity.
What was different now?
The Frogs' way of reading talent was through body language and posture—literally perceiving talent through intuition.
That intuition sparked several times in Luagarne's mind like bursts of flame.
Based on those sparks, she could see what Enkrid now possessed.
He swung a heavy and fast blade with ease.
Not once or twice, but consistently, adjusting to Pel as they fought, modulating intensity.
In simpler terms—it was like a woodcutter swinging an axe with every technique he had ever learned, in an unbroken chain of strikes.
And this was done instantly, without needing to steady his breathing or mindset.
Possible only because he was in a state of hyperfocus.
He had raised his concentration, pouring full power into his slashes—no doubt referencing what he had realized when he grasped the Walking Flame.
So then, what could Enkrid achieve if he unleashed everything he had now?
A prolonged, high-speed battle.
When facing the One-Kill Demon, Enkrid had said he rebuilt swordsmanship itself through understanding.
And that wasn't the end.
To create a sword style meant fully grasping its meaning and execution.
Naturally, this influenced its wielder as well.
Beginner, intermediate, advanced, wasn't it?
By his own framework, Enkrid had now climbed beyond intermediate. His individuality had crystallized.
Urke.
A sword style built on the foundation of inexhaustible Will.
Luagarne's judgment was precise—Enkrid clearly knew what he could do since the Fairy City.
His forte was endurance-based, prolonged high-speed combat.
Why? His past experiences had shaped his present.
Both Rearbart and the knight Jamal specialized in battles of endurance.
He was influenced.
Enkrid admitted it readily. Nothing wrong with that.
He also felt something inside him had finally come together.
It gave him a sense of omnipotence—as if no one alive could defeat him now.
At the same time, it felt like he had reached a wall—an end.
Above and ahead lay nothing visible.
A limit.
Yet, another voice within him insisted this wasn't the end.
Talent always spoke of limits, but the will housed in the heart knew none. That was why.
Truly.
As he defeated Pel, Enkrid organized his thoughts.
By revisiting and consolidating what he had, he realized even more—knowledge that came naturally, without being taught.
For instance:
A knight's skills and mindset are the sum of his life lived.
Thus, will itself is Will.
That was why that paladin he'd once met had such pitiful Will.
One can become a knight through "talent" alone—but the blade forged from such a hollow will would be no better than hole-riddled cheese.
A knight without vows does not exist.
That was why vows and convictions mattered—they were the foundation sustaining Will.
It was also why Oara's Will shone so brightly.
The dream need not be grand—for moving forward in pursuit of what one believes in is what truly matters.
Just as there is no such thing as a trivial dream, all vows must be respected.
This theory aligned perfectly with Enkrid's own view.
He had grasped the essence of knighthood in his own way—and thus, it fit him all the more.
As he organized his thoughts while walking, the surroundings brightened.
The twin moons shone brilliantly overhead.
Such nights passed twice more. Then the moonlight began to dim, even with no clouds in the sky.
The light hinted at a change in hue. The Twin Moons, the Red Moon, was approaching.
No one in the party paid it much mind—they were all busy.
Pel and Zero were absorbed in digesting and reflecting on what they had learned after being beaten by Enkrid.
Luagarne was much the same, though she also had to share the talent-classification framework she had made with Enkrid.
"Frogs see no point in dividing talent into stages, for we can already see their limits. In true life-and-death battles, it hardly matters."
What matters in mortal combat?
Would greater mastery of Will necessarily make one fight better? Possibly, but not always.
Luagarne's point was this—
Even those who trained Will could be stabbed to death in their sleep.
Unless one was a Frog, a human with his neck cut had no means of survival.
Even Frogs die when their hearts are pierced.
Skill influences victory—but it is never absolute.
Were there other factors? Of course.
"Are talents the same color? No. All different. We Frogs see their limits, but not their colors. That's why we had to experience it firsthand. That was the real joy."
Of course, not as thrilling as seeing someone like Enkrid break through limits themselves.
Luagarne was particularly faithful to such curiosity among Frogs. Naturally, she accumulated great knowledge.
The desire to know what one does not—that was what made study enjoyable.
"Some channel talent into single decisive strikes, like that one. Others, like fairies, have unique swordplay shaped by their race."
Right then, Pel and Zero were practicing swings into the air.
Their swords traced arcs.
The results were the same—slashes and thrusts. But the processes were starkly different.
Pel cut a foe down in a single imagined blow, while Zero struck six times.
Enkrid mulled over Luagarne's words, and recalled the conversation he had with Pel a few days earlier.
Something about "bride kidnapper."
Pel's moves are easy to read.
Because he never thought to hide his own nature. Why? Because that was his temperament.
The events in the Fairy City also came to mind.
Ermen completes lies by not speaking.
Enkrid sensed refinement there. Why?
Though all fairies had that tendency, Ermen was particularly outstanding.
He gave off a feeling similar to Krais.
Pel, on the other hand, loved improvisation.
So did Rem.
Ragna, contrary to appearances, enjoyed stratagems too—though he also knew how to end fights with sheer strength.
Each had their nature.
Enkrid, reorganizing all he had seen, felt, and experienced, went beyond knightly theory—categorizing even temperaments.
Forms are divided according to temperament.
That was what the Frogs meant by the colors of talent.
"Long ago, some Frog arbitrarily named types of talent: mole cricket, mayfly, pupa, caterpillar."
Enkrid understood what Luagarne meant. He had just added several new concepts in his mind.
Forms of weapon use and temperament changed how one adopted frameworks.
Thus, both teaching and learning must differ.
And if each person understood their own temperament, they could train more effectively.
Finisher, Sustainer, Versatile.
Broadly, three categories sufficed.
As he'd learned before—completion mattered more than perfection.
Pel was a Finisher. Lawford was a Sustainer.
Completely different.
Some held both forms from the start. Those were Versatile types.
It may seem better to hold both, but in truth it's less efficient.
Being versatile wasn't purely good.
To chase two rabbits required time and effort, and as the Frogs said, talent was a finite well.
Drawing water for both sides only meant dividing the total.
The quantity stayed the same—so against specialists, a generalist would lose.
Even here, some fixated on physical tempering, while others pursued technical mastery.
The tempered type suits greatswords or fast blades.
The artistic type suits slim swords and illusionary styles.
To build swordsmanship into a system, then add one's own—Enkrid had done just that.
He also realized knowing oneself was equally vital.
I am a Sustainer.
At present.
With Urke, he could make prolonged battles his forte.
Coincidentally, both Rearbart and Aspen's knight specialized in endurance fights, letting him observe and learn.
Ultimately, shouldn't Finisher and Sustainer merge?
That vague sense of "above" and "ahead" lingered.
And by this framework, one knight stood out clearly—Jaxen.
He was a Finisher and an Artist. A Finisher-Artist.
Rare indeed—for Finishers usually suited the tempered type.
No, there is no answer.
Fixing an answer only creates "fakes."
That was what the Holy Nation's artificial creations must have been—forcing knights down predetermined paths.
"Ah."
Enkrid felt euphoria—beyond learning and practicing, he was now creating.
Pleasure surged from head to toe.
He glanced upward. The twin moons were stained crimson.
The Twin Red Moons. Night had already fallen.
So lost in thought, he had forgotten he was walking at all—though his body had still avoided stones and obstacles unconsciously.
And then he lifted his gaze and saw the uninvited guests.
"We have awaited you, Enkrid of the Border Guard."
Under the red moonlight, a voice rang without warning.
Enkrid saw a black veil appear before his eyes, then vanish.
A cognitive impairment spell.
Until it disappeared, one couldn't perceive the veil at all.
But having encountered it more than once, he faintly sensed the wrongness this time.
His thoughts halted, letting him recognize his surroundings.
Once the veil dropped, a group emerged.
One clad in pitch-black armor.
Two others in robes instead of armor.
At the center stood a man gripping a long staff.
Its tip bore a round iron ring, with jagged spikes jutting upward—a symbol of some kind.
"We are from the Holy Demonic See, the Church of Advent."
Beneath the red moonlight, they stood—all formidable in presence.
"We have brought the remaining Apostles."
No sooner had he spoken than Enkrid's instincts flared.
From beneath—the earth burst, and iron spikes shot toward Enkrid's stomach, Luagarne's heart, Zero's head, and Pel's throat.
Enkrid's mind accelerated.
The world slowed, as if submerged in thick clay under crushing pressure.
And within that frozen moment, Enkrid did what he had to.