For Aetri, there could be no higher praise.
Yet, this madman hammering away at metal simply stood up without the faintest trace of a smile.
"Good steel."
His greeting was plain.
"I know."
Enkrid also nodded plainly. With that brief exchange, he left the forge, quickening his steps.
There was nothing particularly urgent. He simply wanted to hurry back and swing his new sword of Meteor Iron.
Strictly speaking, it was the Black-Gold-Sealed Meteor Iron Sword, but that name was far too long.
I need something like Odd-Eyes—short, intuitive, and catchy.
Three-Iron Sword?
If the sword had a will of its own, it might have leapt from its scabbard this very moment, declaring its intent to run away from home.
But since swords lack self-awareness, no such thing happened.
I like it.
Enkrid admired it inwardly.
Though Meteor Iron was the core, simply calling it the Meteor Iron Sword felt off.
The truth was, Meteor Iron varied widely in quality.
The batch Aetri had worked with this time had peculiar properties: sharpened thin, it snapped easily; forged thick, it became as hard as a pillar, with its weight distributed evenly across the structure.
It was no wonder the Black Serpent, Elle, once forged armor from it.
The metal's traits lent themselves better to armor, but Aetri had worked his craft to make it the backbone of the blade instead.
What remained he set aside as research material.
By the time Enkrid left the forge, chatting with the smith and lost in thought, the marketplace had begun to stir.
It wasn't so crowded that one couldn't move; thanks to Krais' reorganization of the city's districts, that was no longer an issue.
Besides, it was still early morning.
Crossing the market, Enkrid placed his hand on the grip of Penna, pivoted lightly on his left ankle, and let his right foot slip half a step back.
His body stilled—yet his eyes swept up everything around him.
Above to the right, a canvas awning flapped beside the wooden skeleton of a half-built structure. Beneath it lay a carpenter's hammer and nails.
To the left, a child sat drowsily on the stairs of his home, woken too early.
Shadows stretched across the ground where sunbeams struck tents and rooftops, filtering through moving bodies.
And there, beyond the central crossroads, stood a swordswoman who did not bother to hide.
She wore a breastplate of hammered iron plates, with leather armor protecting her waist and thighs.
Her attire radiated confidence—perhaps too much of it.
Her lips moved.
"Right, it's you."
It sounded like a question, but it wasn't. She already knew the answer.
Her body kicked off the ground, crossing the street in a blur.
Ching!
Her blade sang as she passed between startled passersby, carving a graceful curve through the crowd.
Like a snake, she weaved among them—her fangs, the tip of her sword, lunging straight for the space between Enkrid's brows.
Ping.
Naturally, the strike failed.
Enkrid slipped aside, drawing Penna upward.
This new blade wasn't yet familiar in his hands. Against an opponent like this, gambling with an untested weapon would be foolish.
Shhk.
Penna's arc, too, met only air.
He had timed it precisely, creating an inescapable trajectory—but she read it, retreating fluidly.
Now she stood beneath the darkened shade of a half-built tent.
The curve of her lips betrayed her mood.
She's smiling.
She looked delighted.
Then she struck again, moving no slower than Enkrid himself.
Steel clashed, bodies twisted, dodges layered on counters. Neither could land a clean blow.
Speed and insight both matched; each could read the other's intent almost as quickly as it formed.
Swish, flick, crack, hiss.
The duel danced through the marketplace.
Not a single bystander was harmed.
Penna skimmed just above a boy's head—its restrained force stirring only a breeze in his hair.
Startled, the boy ducked and rubbed his head nervously, but the duelists had already passed him by.
The swordswoman's blade swept past an old woman's shoulder.
The strike missed by design, leaving the elder merely tilting her head in confusion.
"Huh?"
Some noticed the fight. Others blinked, unable to understand what they had seen.
To the baker setting out bread, it was as though flickers of movement darted through his vision, then vanished.
To most, it looked like the two were playing a game of tag among the crowd.
The problem was, both carried swords—and swung them relentlessly.
"Are they fighting?"
That was the only explanation people could offer.
Enkrid, however, knew the battleground disadvantaged him.
If she struck at innocents, he would be forced to defend them.
She, meanwhile, used the crowd as her shield with practiced ease.
His strength surpassed hers—but this was no place to wield it.
Bad tactical ground.
He recalled how, against the Demon One-Killer, he had deliberately seized the monster's attention, denying it any chance to attack bystanders.
This swordswoman's grasp of battlefield conditions already outstripped that creature's.
A duel without tactics? Impossible.
Every effort to seize advantage in terrain and circumstance was, by definition, tactics.
She's better than me at this.
Enkrid realized it clearly after a handful of exchanges.
She bent the environment to her will.
The crowd was her armor; for him, they were burdens to protect.
Not that he resented them.
If he thought of them as a burden, he would never have sworn to protect all that lay behind his back.
Then calculate.
The Wave-Blocking Sword was not only about deflecting attacks—it also trained the mind.
Since returning to the Border Guard, he had crossed blades often with his comrades.
It wasn't for nothing.
Slow though his steps might be, as Rem often mocked, Enkrid had still gathered lessons.
Now, he extended the domain of the Wave-Blocking Sword—borrowing even from Jaxen's expertise.
"Expand your senses, and claim the field as your own."
Perfect — here's the continuation of Chapter 667 - Penna Is Enough, keeping the same flow, formatting, and consistency:
Enkrid did as Jaxen had once taught.
Sight, sound, scent, taste, touch—he gathered them all and wove them into instinct, predicting what was to come.
Every fragment of information flowed into his mind, where he calculated, again and again.
The Awl strikes the Circle.
He tied the thought-process of the Wave-Blocking Sword into what he had gained as a byproduct of its training.
In other words, he calculated—and through calculation, he glimpsed the future.
Accelerated thought lets you see farther than your opponent.
His eyes burned.
Blood burst from his nose, sliding down his upper lip.
To do this, certain conditions had to be met.
First, it had to be a familiar place—without that, there were too many variables, and his head would burst from the overload.
Second, he had to know his limits.
Go too far, and you faint.
A human brain overheats just like anything else.
Hadn't he already experienced that?
But here and now, Enkrid fulfilled both conditions.
He hadn't walked the Border Guard's marketplace often, but the streets were familiar enough.
And as for controlling his limits—that was something he had practiced endlessly, day after day.
Control, discipline—when it came to handling Will, Enkrid was unmatched even among the Madmen.
Tap!
His toe struck the ground sharply.
He did it on purpose—to draw attention.
Calculation was a game of probability.
Several lines unfolded in his mind.
He abandoned the safe lines, the evasions with minor gain, and instead chose the collision course—the path that forced an inevitable clash.
He pulled the future into the present.
As people's eyes turned toward him, Enkrid stepped aside.
His movement was glacial compared to before.
The swordswoman seized on it as an opening.
Her blade flashed in from behind his left side.
Enkrid turned his waist smoothly and drew his sword with the smallest of motions.
Time for the new blade.
His left hand tugged the freshly-forged weapon halfway from its scabbard, using it as a shield.
If she withdrew, he would strike like a pursuing hawk.
She knew this. She had no choice but to commit.
Clang!
Steel screamed.
The deliberate noise carried, and at last someone shouted—
"They're fighting!"
When anxiety had run high, Krais had ordered evacuation drills for the Border Guard's residents—so that no one would die to stray steel.
Some had cursed the drills back then.
Now, the instant the noise rang out, people scattered—slipping into homes and darting into shops.
"Guards!"
Another cry rose.
"Our time here is short, isn't it?"
The swordswoman smirked, realizing the shields of flesh had gone.
She hadn't relied on them anyway—she had never grabbed one to use as a hostage.
She was a Knight. Or at least, someone who fought at that level.
Enkrid slid the half-drawn sword back into its scabbard.
Chak.
Smooth out, smooth in.
A true masterpiece—even the scabbard was part of the blade, finished to perfection.
If he had felt cornered, he would have drawn it fully, whether or not he was accustomed to it.
But Penna is enough.
He did not feel as though he would lose.
What struck him as odd was that her face seemed faintly familiar.
But with the countless days he had lived, it was impossible to remember every fleeting encounter.
"Your tactical sense is sharp," she remarked. "You judged the field disadvantageous—and erased that disadvantage."
Enkrid gave a nod.
That alone was worth acknowledging.
"And you must be confident you can take me down. That half-drawn blade—you just received it, didn't you? Changed weapons recently? It balances your reach. And the other sword—you've been using it long enough for the edge to favor cutting."
Her words were questions, but not truly.
She wasn't demanding answers.
Her blade lowered—its surface bright, almost unnaturally white.
Even from the single clash earlier, Enkrid could tell—it was no ordinary sword.
"I wonder," she mused suddenly, "what the others are doing right now."
Her next words came just as abruptly.
"Did I come here alone?"
It was her habit to phrase everything as a question.
"No," she continued herself. "No, I didn't."
Her tone was casual, but the implication sharp.
"What are you?"
This time, Enkrid asked.
If she hadn't come alone, then others were attacking elsewhere.
This wasn't an attempt on him—it was a strike against the Border Guard.
But who she truly was, he could not yet guess.
Too little information.
I'll just have to beat it out of her.
"Who do you think I am?"
She asked again, moving even faster now that the crowd was gone.
Her blade cut the air into streaks, leaving afterimages.
Enkrid's brain blazed hotter.
He refused to stop calculating.
He chased probabilities, searching for the rational line.
Perhaps this was how every strike could become the correct answer.
His overheated mind clawed for solutions—reading the intent behind each swing, choosing the optimal counter.
His trained muscles carried out what his thoughts demanded, the perfect support for accelerated thought.
Clang!
Steel crashed again, then broke apart.
The force numbed his grip.
"You're strong," she admitted, sounding surprised—even as her feet carried her forward in another surge.
Enkrid's blood dripped freely from his nose.
And yet, joy shone in his eyes.
It was exhilarating.
So exhilarating his brain felt as though it were melting.