"A gift, you said?"
Rem muttered.
He said it because she had drawn her blades and stood like she was about to lunge at anyone. Shinar answered as if in response.
"If it's a gift for a madman, of course it would be a duel, wouldn't it?"
Ah, then that fits.
If one were to put a melody to Shinar's words, they could be sung as a song. Her voice was that clear and beautiful—like the sound of a drop falling into a tranquil lake.
Since their last sparring had broken it, the training hall had been moved some distance away from the barracks. They could always repair what was broken, but Krais wouldn't allow such waste of Chrona to keep repeating.
Now, sunlight streamed down like scattered light into the training ground set apart in a corner of the encampment.
"Don't underestimate her, Sister."
Audin spoke.
It was a warm late afternoon, with golden sunbeams spilling down. Wildflower pollen danced in the breeze across the training ground, and a fragrant wind of grass and blossoms carried in.
The sort of weather that would make one drowsy if they lay down, and lift one's spirits just by walking.
And indeed, the two who stood in the center of the ground were lifted. Enkrid, because he was excited at the word "gift." Shinar, because she had finally returned.
The Shinar who now stood at the center of the training ground was clearly different from before. First was her smile. The faint curve at her lips.
That smile alone could make men swear to become her devoted guards.
Thankfully, at least here, no one was foolish enough to declare themselves her knight simply from seeing it.
"She's smiling?"
"She's smiling?"
Rem and Ragna blinked at her.
"You've learned to smile, Sister."
Audin met her with a smile of his own.
"That's… good to see."
Teresa said in astonishment.
"Eh?"
Lawford nearly lost his wits, though he quickly regained himself.
"Has an evil spirit possessed her?"
Fel muttered, resisting the enchantment that tugged at his mind. Even without magic, such a smile might as well have been a spell.
There had been many such tales across the Continent.
Most famous was the story of Pelloran the painter and Jelloran the alchemist. The brothers both fell in love with a country girl whose beauty was said to rival that of a queen.
When even the king and nobles laid eyes on her, chaos ensued—wars, betrayal, and death.
In the end, Jelloran brewed a potion of love that killed her, and Pelloran, stricken with grief, painted without eating or sleeping until he died.
That masterpiece became known as the Dorothea Beauty Portrait—a painting said to make men lose themselves, consumed with desire.
"The Golden Witch has not lost yet."
So said the fairy before them. If Pelloran or Jelloran had seen her now, they would surely have staked their lives for her.
And indeed, she seemed to have heard the rumors.
Her people had long since learned to close their mouths and open their ears—so they knew much. Especially of the one who had saved their kin, their idol.
When Enkrid appeared in the city, fairies would sneak out to watch him. Even Jaxen had caught some more than once.
Some had even attempted infiltration before their queen's arrival, but all failed. To pass Jaxen's senses and Esther's magical barriers was no small feat.
So instead, they listened. Every fairy sharpened their ears, gathering every rumor.
"They say the Black Flower won."
Naturally, Shinar, hearing that upon arrival, had charged straight here.
Enkrid steadied himself, excitement giving way to focus as he faced her blade.
He remembered Shinar as she had been—when she entrusted him the Sword of the Seasons, when she had been seized by a demon.
Now, she lifted her swords, shaking them. With each motion, the air swirled, scattering the fragrance.
Then she kicked off the ground. The fairy's steps were always swift.
In Enkrid's sight, her figure suddenly seemed larger, and he instinctively invoked accelerated thought to extend the moment. His sword swung.
Her blade descended for his head. Enkrid twisted his body, his neck snapping to the side. His reflexes took over—feet rooted, muscles straining with superhuman force.
His body slid sideways, stretched like a whip.
A feat that would earn any onlooker's admiration. Yet still, he didn't completely evade. Not a fatal wound, but he felt the weight of her blade scrape his shoulder.
How?
There was another edge hidden between her strikes—like a fusion of Ragna's heavy blows and Jaxen's killing thrusts.
"Winter Breeze."
Shinar spoke and halted.
Their gazes met.
Enkrid felt the faint heat radiating from her body.
She had ground herself down to prepare this gift. She would not have stepped forth otherwise. She had seen him face a One-Killer—so she had trained, carved herself raw.
Carelessness.
It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't hubris. Simply underestimation.
If I can change, then so can others.
He had already learned this through Rem. How had he forgotten? Thus, this was carelessness. Enkrid realized anew.
The fairy before him was also a genius born of her people—a child of both mother's and father's gifts.
Fairies lost their passion with age, trading it for longevity. Only rarely did sparks ignite. Igniculus.
Her spark was now aflame.
"How did you do it?"
He asked, the one who had given her the spark.
"If I told you everything, where would the fun be?"
She answered with sly grace. And still, her beauty made even slyness look noble.
Enkrid replayed the moment and drew his conclusion.
An extreme, lethal form—that was Shinar's sword. The fruit of her own talent and relentless honing.
A counter designed specifically for the Wave-Blocking Sword. Likely why her return had been delayed.
"A little later, and you would have fallen like a blossom torn from its branch."
"Do you mean swordsmanship?" Enkrid asked curiously.
"It is like an unripe fruit, cut down before ripening."
He tilted his head. Was there a deeper meaning?
She clarified in more direct words.
"You'd have become a widow before your first night."
A high-class fairy jest—rarely heard anymore.
"You've returned, crazy fairy."
Rem breathed in awe. To come back and immediately jest like that—remarkable.
"Let's go again."
As always, Enkrid ignored the joke and answered firmly.
"If I win, will you wed me?"
Fairy that she was, Shinar knew no surrender in jest.
"Are you serious?"
"No, I wouldn't force it. Then the night wouldn't be fun, would it?"
Her jests had grown bolder, her sword sharper.
But her lesson was true—before seeking the next step, polish what you have.
Carelessness shatters. Perspective shifts. Was that suffering? No—delight. Each step forward, each bead of sweat, each moment spent in deep debate with peers—all joy.
That day, Shinar struck thrice more with the same technique, then shook her head.
"Any more, and I'll collapse, little cub."
"What kind of title is that?"
Enkrid gaped.
"It means I admit I'm the elder. And it's me who will collapse, not you. Ah, will you catch me if I do? Your arms were so warm before."
She was alight with mischief, her tongue sharper than her sword. Enkrid wisely did not duel her in words.
A true tactician knew when not to fight. And in wordplay, Enkrid was as seasoned as any old general.
He made a tactical retreat, sealing his lips.
That evening, everyone gathered. Since they were all together, they roasted an entire pig over the fire. The preparation was Krais's doing.
"Feels like a banquet. Roasting a whole pig does the trick."
Knights ate like no ordinary men. Even a whole pig would barely suffice.Even Jaxen, who seemed the quiet type, ate plenty.
They simply burned far more energy than ordinary folk.
At the long stone table placed before their new quarters, Enkrid felt Krais's thoughtfulness.
So he's saying: if training makes you too lazy to move, just eat here.
Though they had a mess hall, Krais had also set tables outside—simple slabs of stone. Not for beauty, but practicality. Even if cracked or broken, they'd do.
It said much about Krais's sense of detail—that even damaged furnishings were taken into account.
"If I told you not to start sword fights in the middle of meals, would you listen? No. That's why I've made sure you can eat apart from the regular soldiers."
He hadn't actually said that aloud, but with Krais's arrangements, it was as if he had.
Krais was busy these days, after all.He'd asked the Fairies to dig another spring.He was negotiating new contracts with trade cities.Even talks with the Holy Kingdom were underway.
Enkrid knew the gist of his plans, though he didn't care much for such things. He had stamped his seal on a few documents, but in truth, he wanted to shove all such matters onto Lord Graham.
Not that Lord Graham wanted them.
Still, someone would handle it. If not, Krais would suffer for it, so he'd surely find someone.
As they ate and drank, naturally the talk turned to techniques and swordsmanship.
And the hottest topic, of course, was Enkrid's recent formalization of the knightly system.
It was the first time all of them had spoken of it together. Until now, they'd only discussed it one-on-one with him.
Then came the question of higher-level knights—whether skill or specialty mattered less than learning to wield the sword naturally.
"What does it mean to strike naturally? What way of cutting is that?"
Rem spoke first.
"As I've said before—you just cut. Simply cut."
Listening to them, Enkrid realized more clearly than ever the unique traits each of them held.