Enkrid's gaze shifted to Esther. Her pupils burned with a heated glow, her black hair swaying though there was no wind.
What's with her now?
"And for the record, I've never cut in line. Four-Eyes, pour me another."
From Esther's breath came not only the fragrance of night air but another aroma—a sweet yet heavy smokiness.
"Yes, yes."
Krais, already holding a fragrant bottle, poured into the cup she held out. The scent was soft, but the liquor was strong.
"It's the gift from the Fairy city, remember?"
Krais explained as he poured. Shinar added:
"It's a drink made by brewing five kinds of fruit and capturing the dawn's dew. Its name is Tintillus Wir. In the Continental tongue, it means 'Seeping Poison,' or 'The Silent Mist.'"
So—poison in the shape of liquor.
"I don't get drunk. Don't worry. A Glint spell is a Mage's deepest secret. One doesn't reveal one's vision to just anyone. Shinar—it is good to have you back."
She's drunk. Enkrid was certain.
"Wine? I don't get drunk. Why look at me like that? The heavens are spinning. Or perhaps today is the world's end? Stars falling to crush the earth? Then we cannot linger here, Enki. Come with me—we must prepare a refuge."
Definitely drunk.
"Do I not get a seat?"
Krais laughed, as if finding her antics cute.
"You thieving wretch."
Esther's fist came out of nowhere. Krais, not untrained himself, reflexively bent back to dodge. Her fist cut through the air with a sharp whump. A clean hit would've broken bones at the least.
Though her frame looked slender, that hand carried the strength of a panther. She herself had once said it was the gift of taking the form of a Lake Panther.
"Not the face."
But Krais muttered this as he dodged. As if other parts of his body were fair game.
"Why not the face?"
Rem swallowed the meat he'd been chewing, clean around the lips despite the greasy food, and asked. Rem—always full of surprises. Sharp-minded, cunning in how he set his traps, tormenting others with careful calculation.
So even when he killed Nobles, he didn't do it at random.
He had chosen only those beyond saving, cultivating infamy deliberately, ensuring only those with malice bore grudges against him. Even the way he ate now was… tidy. Likely something he only showed within this unit.
"Well, unlike Rem, I've cultivated this face."
Krais edged away from Esther as he spoke, though his tone made it doubtful whether he realized what he was saying. Normally so calculating, but in moments like this, his foolishness showed. He had to know how Rem would react.
"And me?"
Rem asked, lips curling into a smile so cold it could snuff out firelight.
"…The West's most handsome man, of course."
Krais scrambled to cover.
"Too late, bastard. Tonight I'll make that face of yours truly manly."
Rem drew a dagger of bone. Wherever he had gotten it, the thing reeked of gloom.
"H-hey, let's not. Ragna, Audin, Captain! Captain!"
Krais darted behind the campfire. The flames leapt, flickering like grasping hands.
Shinar, watching the fire's dance, murmured to herself with a distant expression:
"It's all right now. All right."
The Demon's fire was gone—she knew this. But once burned in, a brand did not fade easily.
"What about Bran?"
Enkrid asked, glancing at the commotion. Shinar answered quickly:
"He won't give up smoking. Amusing, isn't it? That the mighty Woodguard needs tobacco?"
Not amusing at all—not when one knew why Bran smoked.
"I'll step out for some night air. Big-Eyes—don't worry, a few scars on the face won't kill you."
Ragna rose, speaking.
"You don't have any scars yourself!" Krais snapped.
"Because no one strong enough ever put them there."
Ragna usually spoke little, moving as though weighed down by annoyance. Yet here, among them, he talked freely, even idly. His hidden side.
"That's a rather arrogant thing to say. You should repeat it before the troops someday. They've grown slack."
Lawford spoke up at Ragna's words. Beside him, Fel grumbled—then seized the costly fairy liquor and tipped the bottle down his throat.
"Hey! If you drink it all, I'll cut your guts open and scoop some out."
Rem's voice was deathly sharp. Audin simply grabbed Fel by the neck and wrenched the bottle away. When Fel resisted, Audin smacked him once, clean and hard.
"Divine punishment."
No—that was just plain violence, Audin.
Since Ragna couldn't be let go alone, Lawford rose and followed. In the meantime, Enkrid sampled the liquor Krais had brought.
Strong.
But beneath the heavy note was a sweet and tart flavor that tingled on the tongue. A poison that seeped in silently, warming before it burned. A drink that fit its name.
For anyone else, it would have been enough to lay them flat. That Esther still lay sprawled made sense. Her robe had spread, becoming a thick blanket, yet she still looked cold. He'd have to fetch her a cloak later.
"I will save you. Do not worry. Fools, all of them."
Esther muttered from where she lay.
"A strong drink. Shall we take it as a toast?"
Shinar settled across from him.
"A toast to what?"
Enkrid half-expected another frivolous quip. But her voice was solemn.
"To this—you have seized the image you desired with your own hand."
The wavering firelight seemed to stir her into saying what was needed.
Enkrid had once spoken of the peace forged by the sword, of its worth. He had thought too, at times, that this band was the very Order he had once dreamed of.
But truth be told—he simply liked the present.
He liked standing beside these Madmen. Liked protecting those who stood at his back. Liked carrying his Will into battle, pressing forward.
He liked it all.
"Sometimes, you must lay down the burdens of thought—and simply rest."
Shinar had spoken. She had even added, "In my embrace," afterward, but Enkrid ignored that.
He ate, drank, and slept. And then, he dreamed.
"The day is fair. Let me tell you an old tale today. One you'll enjoy—it's about a Fairy who loved to jest."
Once, an old woman who had survived by selling her body found peace, placing her grandchild on her knee to share stories.
"Selling fruit is hard work, but when I see my boy's face, I get strength again."
A fruit seller pulled his cart, thinking of his wife and child.
In the flower fields, a shy youth and maiden whispered their love.
A city watchman grumbled that he had grown fat with no real crime to chase.
The baker scolded him, saying he should rise early and run.
The guard replied that his father should try that.
The baker, being that very father, retorted that his mornings were already spent baking bread—if the son disliked it, he should quit and take up baking himself.
In that dream, none feared monsters from beyond the walls.
None dreaded the fires of war consuming their homes.
There were no bandits to take what they owned, and even the Lord wondered whether keeping up the city walls was necessary.
From beyond those walls, Enkrid raised his sword.
Peace would not come to those who only lay on their backs, patting full stomachs.
A Knight who ends war!
A Knight who stains the twilight with the dusk of battle!
We shall call him the Knight of Twilight!
The Knight of Armistice!
The Knight of The End! The Final Knight! The Knight who ends strife!
The Bard's song ended—and Enkrid awoke.
At dawn, he trained. By morning, Esther—remembering last night—let out a silent scream and vanished from the lodgings for two whole days. Soldiers stationed at the mountain outpost later claimed they had heard terrible howls echoing there.
Monsters' cries, mixed with the screams of beasts.
"She sure knows how to vent."
Rem muttered. Enkrid only chuckled.
A few days later, a summons came from Aetri. He was asked to come to the forge.
At the news, Enkrid's chest thudded with anticipation. It would not yet be an Engraved Weapon—but close to it. Enough to make his heart race.
He finished his dawn training and hurried across the city in the early morning, straight to the forge.
"You've come."
Aetri greeted him at once. The heat of the forge broke the blue chill of morning. Aetri sat there, his hooded assistant standing nearby.
"Do you know of the Three Great Metals of the Continent?"
Enkrid only tilted his head.
"No."
He knew of Valerian Steel, True Silver, and Dark Gold only in passing, scraps of knowledge overheard. Nothing more.
The assistant brought him a chair. Steam rose from two cups of tea. Aetri set a long, cloth-wrapped object onto the table.
"In the Eastern Yellow-Iron mines, Dark Gold was found. In the Lewis veins, True Silver. Of course, neither are true gold or silver—you knew that much?"
Enkrid nodded.
"And from Valerian's mines comes something rarer still: True-Iron. Black-blue in color. Normally, the stronger the metal, the more brittle. But Valerian True-Iron lacks that flaw. And then there is Star-Iron—found in fallen meteors."
Enkrid began to understand where this was going.
"The armor you brought me contained Star-Iron. And with it… another metal. Philosopher's Stone, the 'Living Metal.'"
Enkrid's first sword had been Dark Gold. His second, True Silver.
Now he held Penna—Moon-Silver, ground and forged by a Fairy smith's own hand.
Aetri's eyes gleamed with fervor. A Scholar risked life for truth. A Knight for swordsmanship. But what of a Craftsman? One who courted the impossible?
The answer was clear.
"Want me to find you True-Iron?"
"Yes."
The reply came without pause, as swift as a blade drawn unseen.
So that's it. What he wants now is material.
"Say it simpler."
"I will, from now on."
Not out of calculation.
You're enjoying this, Aetri.
He enjoyed the forging, the pursuit of the Engraved Weapon. He did not see the process as torment, but as joy. And that was right.
A Madman with a hammer. That's what you are.
Enkrid defined him so. Had Aetri heard, he might have glared at him with dangerous eyes.
But the heat of the moment passed. Aetri unrolled the cloth on the table.
"The path is clearer now. This is the first test I must pass. Tell me if the shape pleases you."
A test. A form to be fixed.
Penna had been a short, single-edged blade. Useful enough—its weight and sharpness had even forced Rem to curse whenever his axe struck it.
"Another blow and my axe might start sulking."
That had been his grumble.
Ragna had been even blunter:
"Time I found a new sword."
Then he'd tried to wander off in search of one.
"Where?"
"There's a place."
Without explanation. Which was no different than saying farewell forever.
"We call that not a journey, but a goodbye, Ragna," Krais had said.
In the end, Ragna had stayed.
"Well, the way back does get confusing…"
If he admitted confusion, letting him go would have been murder.
Anyway—Penna had been worthy. To find a better blade would not be easy.
Enkrid gripped the hilt on the table.
Wrapped in neat brown leather, the pommel was simple, ending in a sharp diamond-shape. The ricasso unsharpened, the guard plain and straight, without carving or mark.
"At the tip is Dark Gold. The blade True Silver. And at the core, Star-Iron."
The Philosopher's Stone had fused them together.
The sword was long, nearer to a greatsword than a longsword. The hilt matched its reach. The blade was thick, like a Spatha. Though two-handed, it could still be wielded one-handed with Knightly strength.
And Enkrid had strength enough to swing a mace made of five iron clubs bound together.
"I like it. More than anything."
Enkrid spoke.
It was like seeing someone across the room and falling in love at once. That was how it felt now.
The form alone was perfect. The balance beyond doubt. His ideal blade, at last.