Aspen and the Holy Nation also attempted to train Knights, but they learned only too well the limitations of shortcuts. While such soldiers might be disasters to ordinary troops, they could never match true Knights.
Enkrid, unaware of all these circumstances, chose the proper path. He may have guessed some of it through intuition, but he didn't concern himself with it. He acted according to the theory he had built through experience.
Lawford and Pel stood in front of him, lips pressed tight, gazing at him.
"Even if I ask again, I assume your answer won't change?"
Enkrid asked once more. It was always good to reaffirm one's resolve.
"Yes. I want to become one."
"Even if you ask a third time, the answer will be the same. If you're worried about talent, then yes, maybe to you it seems like we lack it. But I won't stop here."
Lawford answered plainly, while Pel couldn't help but sound a bit fiery. Enkrid nodded, unfazed.
Lawford clenched his teeth. Even if he had lost in provoking techniques, he wouldn't yield here. If there was a path to Knighthood, he would take it—no matter the training required.
His determination shone like a star. Pel was no different.
I've got talent too. Maybe not like the Captain's, but still.
They say the Idol-Killer is the sword that ultimately devours its master. Even so, he chose to wield it because he believed he could overcome it. And so he would. A Shepherd of the Wasteland wouldn't stop here. Perseverance and discipline were a Shepherd's natural virtues. His resolve was unshakable.
Anyone could see that. Enkrid calmly gathered his thoughts and said:
"Drop your weapons."
"...What?"
Lawford, still tense, responded to the strange command.
"Disarm."
Enkrid repeated himself. At those words, the two felt a vague sense of dread.
They exchanged glances. Was this bare-body training? Sensory isolation? They'd done both plenty of times before.
Meanwhile, Anne had entered the training yard that morning.
"Why are you calling a busy person here?"
"Because you've got work to do."
"What kind of nonsense are you planning now?"
Right behind her, Seiki arrived, practically bouncing with light steps. And beside her was the Ragged Saint.
"With my guidance, their skills will improve faster."
The Saint said. Guiding what, exactly?
"I'll try it first."
Seiki added. Try what?
Lawford and Pel both had the same question flash through their minds.
Then came Audin, holding an iron club. It looked small in his hands, but it was thicker than most adult men's forearms.
He wasn't the only one holding one—Rem had one too.
"I was against this."
Came Luagarne's voice.
"I've chosen a different path."
Teresa added her comment as well.
Lawford had the same gut feeling he had when his mother found the bedsheet he'd peed on as a child.
This was bad.
Pel felt the same. It reminded him of when he got caught stealing cheese aged by the village elder.
Really bad.
Their instincts were on full alert.
"Since you both said your resolve is firm, if you run away, we'll just beat you and drag you back. Ragna, Jaxen."
"Understood."
"I won't cut their legs off."
Ragna and Jaxen's voices came from behind. The retreat was blocked.
Lawford turned to look and locked eyes with Ragna.
He knew better than anyone how uncompromising Ragna was in training. And now, Ragna looked at him with something like sympathy.
"Sir Ragna?"
"Just accept it."
Ragna brushed off Lawford's question. Pel saw his window and took it.
"Run for it!"
But it was too late. What could they possibly do surrounded by the Madmen Unit's core members?
Soon enough, they were standing in front of Enkrid—disarmed, stripped to thin clothing, even boots off.
Rem, club in hand, chuckled.
"Man, I really hate this. Hate it so much, I could die. But can't help it."
"For the sake of our two brothers."
Audin added solemnly.
"We'll start with full-body striking."
Enkrid said.
"...What are you talking about?"
Pel tried to deny reality.
"Audin."
"Yes, Brother. I'm ready."
Everything began with drawing Will from the unconscious. Being beaten thoroughly—head to toe—was bound to make it happen. Enkrid believed that.
Maybe beating them to the brink of death might even yield better results.
"What the hell, you're all crazy!"
Pel resisted one last time. Lawford bowed his head in resignation. In that moment, Enkrid clearly saw the difference between the two.
Lawford had already calculated that escape was impossible. Pel knew it too—he was just denying it.
Whack!
"Ack!"
Pel's legs gave out with a single precise strike. Rem, fueled by the drive to beat Enkrid, had perfect control.
Audin, a veteran of beating Enkrid's body, was beyond skilled.
The swinging club crashed into Lawford's shoulder.
Smack!
"Argh!"
Lawford cried out, and the club continued its rhythmic pounding across their bodies. After a while, Rem muttered:
"Feels less like establishing a training system and more like institutionalizing punishment."
Spoken like someone who only talks after beating you senseless. Damn savage.
Lawford and Pel shared a brief mental connection—but neither voiced it.
The next day, and the one after that, nothing changed.
"If you want, there's always a spot."
Enkrid offered kindness even to Teresa, who stood off to the side.
"I'm fine."
She rejected the offer without a pause. It wasn't for lack of resolve.
She had already found her own path. One very different from theirs.
And if the point was just enhancing personal senses, then a club beating wasn't necessary.
Later, Enkrid even guided the two down the path.
It wasn't just "swing with force"—he spoke like one who had walked from the mountain's base to its peak.
Who had carved paths and set milestones.
"You plan to block Pel's sudden strike with the same method? Use your own."
Enkrid told Lawford, and then addressed Pel as well.
"Same goes for you. Don't try to predict Lawford's calculations and read one step ahead. Don't predict—flip the board. Whether it's physical agility or an unexpected tactic, whatever the means, do it that way."
The point was simple:
"No need to hand a bow to someone already good with a sword."
Rem, listening in, nodded.
"Makes sense. That's why I gave everyone in my unit an axe. Axes suit them."
A bit of a stretch, but not wrong. On the surface, Rem's team all seemed like they thrived on brute-force breakthroughs.
Even Ragna, Audin, and Jaxen listened carefully to Enkrid.
Finisher, Sustainer, Versatile—they split broadly into three types, then into Technique-oriented or Training-oriented.
Though right now, maybe it makes more sense to categorize by Instinct and Calculation.
Or even fold Instinct and Calculation into the framework.
No theory is perfect. But if you fix it piece by piece, it can become a path.
"Are you sure this works?"
Pel, bruised all over, asked.
Enkrid, untainted by Fairy magic, was always honest—especially when there was no reason to lie.
"No."
"Then?"
"I believe it will."
Pel gritted his teeth. The sound of grinding echoed.
"Just wait till I'm stronger than you."
That curse carried a grudge potent enough to rival any evil spirit. If Pel were to die right now, he might just return as a specter capable of devouring demons.
Revenge-Type?
No, that's not it.
Enkrid shook his head at the thought. Lawford, deeply resigned, rekindled his determination.
To Enkrid's eye, Lawford, though stoic on the surface, had a fiercely competitive streak.
You could probably divide them by temperament.
Which was, essentially, what his categories of Training-type and Technique-type were.
Pel spent his time learning techniques. Lawford spent it conditioning his body.
Neither was better. Lawford disliked showing off and leaned into diligence. Pel, who boasted of talent and was open about everything, immersed himself in the technical.
Their swordsmanship could be described as Instinct and Calculation.
They were ideal test subjects. By chance, they had opposite temperaments—and were conscious of each other.
Even if this training didn't lead to Knighthood, they would still gain something.
At the very least, they'll learn Iron Armor.
It was something Knights usually gained after rising higher in rank.
But they'll need it even as Juniors.
Precognition, Iron Armor, Hardened Flesh—all of it.
You need to know them to use Will unconsciously.
That was the path to Knighthood. Or rather, the prerequisite. It could be called the fundamentals.
Enkrid was still learning as he taught. And the two of them were already close to qualifying.
Except for Iron Armor.
So he'd help fill that in.
Precognition could be learned depending on temperament, but everyone needed at least a basic grasp.
And they needed Hardened Flesh and Iron Armor on top of that.
Hardened Flesh was the technique that left the strongest impression on Enkrid. He could never forget the moment, on the battlefield, when a Junior Knight burst forth using it. Lawford and Pel both knew the technique. They weren't proficient, so training focused on it too. They kept at it until their thigh muscles nearly burst.
Then, Lawford made a request.
"I'd like to pass this special training method to my subordinates."
Enkrid still wasn't sure if this regimen would truly produce Knights. But he did believe it would help anyone improve.
At the very least...
Even for Enkrid, this was just the beginning tier of his training intensity.
Sharing it would help build structure and raise everyone's level. And by coincidence, the Border Guard Reserve's path mirrored that.
Not that they were a Reserve anymore—they were now called the Madmen Unit.
"With structure, you can find the path. Even if you can't surpass talent, you can still chase after it."
Enkrid spoke, reaffirming the meaning himself. Ultimately, it was a matter of time. For some, a painfully boring process.
But Enkrid simply repeated each day, as always.
It was his greatest strength.
One dawn, Esther appeared in human form to train with him. Sparring against a Magician had a different cadence, but that didn't make it any less interesting. Enkrid had no reason to refuse. He nodded, and Esther immediately urged him along.
"Audin, I leave today's training to you.""As you wish, Brother."
Enkrid entrusted Lawford and Pel to Audin. Esther wore the same robe as always, but now carried a long staff. It was the first time he had seen her with one—because he had gifted it to her himself, having taken it from an Apostle.
Some of the staff's metal he kept for himself, while another part Esther had given to Eitri.
"I received it well. So what we do now… is the price."
As they left the city, Esther spoke. Enkrid thought she looked oddly embarrassed, but dismissed it; such a look didn't suit a Witch. Reading the emotions of Fairies or Witches was never easy anyway.
They made for the mountains. A soldier at a tower outpost recognized them and saluted.
"Carry on."
Enkrid returned the greeting. Esther didn't so much as glance.
"Do you remember how to fight a Magician?""Yeah. If I see one, I cut them down.""Then from now on, you'll learn how to fight a prepared Magician."
Enkrid suddenly felt his senses disjoint, as though she were no longer at his side but far away. At the same time, a mud giant's arms burst from the ground, seizing his ankle. Its head and shoulders followed, anchoring him in place. A simple tactic—confuse the senses, bind the feet—but effective.
Enkrid reacted at once, slashing down. Penna glowed pale blue, severing the wrist. Mud should have scattered—but instead it clung together in the air, weaving into a net.
Didn't expect that.
No Precognition triggered. Of course—it was a Magician, one who sought constant change.
"Magic always craves change. If the change is read, you might as well throw away your staff. Ah, but making it unreadable—that's the real fun."
Her voice echoed from nowhere. Enkrid didn't answer, only swung Penna.
His feet stayed planted. The net rushed at him. He called up the sensation he had felt when cutting the Walking Flame.
Dodge? No. Hold your ground.
If Esther demanded the unexpected, then the surest answer was to maintain the expected and cut straight through.
Spells had texture. Like an unfamiliar scent: unseen, intangible, but undeniably present. Hard to describe—but perceptible.
Enkrid had endured and cut countless spells across countless todays. This was the fruit.
He didn't move rashly. His blade traced lines—up, then down—slicing the spell apart.
The net, turned to sticky strands, split neatly. Penna's sharpness didn't falter, even against magic.
Esther cast again and again.
I see it now.
She realized—ever since cutting the Walking Flame, Enkrid could perceive the grain of spells.
He instinctively pierced their gaps and unraveled them. Most magic no longer touched him.
Spell Severance.
A little more progress, and he could reach Spell Suppression.
A non-magician suppressing magic?
That was where this duel was leading. Dangerous knowledge to grant an enemy—but Esther wasn't bothered.
If other Witches or Magicians saw this, they'd faint. Esther, though, would only scorn them.
If a Spell-Severing technique exists, then research a spell that surpasses it. Why fear knowledge spreading? Only fools would.
Others had fought wars over less for centuries. Esther considered it none of her concern.
Once a week, Enkrid sparred with Esther. Around that time, rumors began to spread through the camp—that the Black Flower had prevailed.
"The Golden Witch has returned."
By the time spring came, Shinar had returned.
"I have brought you a gift, fiancé."
Her title—the Golden Witch—was unchanged. Blonde hair, green eyes—her gaze locked on Enkrid.
Without hesitation, she spoke of her gift, and began to select Knights.