"By a hair's breadth."
The man finally answered.
Rem snorted, lips curling.
"You want me to slice your head clean off, then? 'By a hair's breadth,' my ass."
The man shut his mouth.
Whatever words he had, his body told the truth—he'd taken quite the beating.
His stance was off, balance uneven, and the crust of dried blood on his head said all that needed saying.
But silence didn't mean submission.
The fire in his eyes hadn't dimmed. He glared daggers at Rem.
"You want me to scoop those eyes out for you?"
Rem goaded him again, sharp as ever—but it was just talk.
Yes, there was a trace of killing intent in the air, but compared to what sparked when Rem tangled with Jaxen or Ragna? This was child's play.
Enkrid ignored their "play fight," his attention shifting past Rem. Two shadows moved in fierce rhythm.
One's Audin.
The other was new.
A man with cropped blond hair, blade flashing, his movements sharp.
He blends middle-guard forms with orthodox technique.
Picking the right method for the right moment.
By Enkrid's reckoning, that was close to the upper tier.
He studied the swordsman, tracing intent.
He's leaving openings on purpose.
He wanted Audin to close the gap. Why? Because he was confident in what came next.
Whatever it was, Enkrid couldn't see it yet. But he knew: it was no ordinary trick. A hidden art, something not meant for casual eyes.
Enkrid had crossed blades with countless wanderers.
Some were truly skilled.
Others lived on hollow names.
But the ones worth remembering had something in common—none of them showed their trump cards easily.
But isn't that just wasting chances?
That was how Enkrid saw it.
A ceiling can't be broken without pressing against it. A truth etched into his body.
This man was the same.
And sure enough, Audin answered the provocation.
He closed the distance—just within arm's reach. Too tight for a sword, perfect for hands.
The clash was instant.
The man slashed downward with his right-hand blade. At the same time, his left hand shot up.
And suddenly, another blade gleamed.
A second weapon.
Hidden in his armor.
As his hand slid past the gap of his cuirass, a short, serpentine dagger sprang into his grip—a Kris, unmistakable.
The blade rose like a striking fang.
Audin was ready.
His hands came together, fingers open, catching the weapon between them. Blood welled between his knuckles, but he forced the blade down, closing in even tighter.
The man's right-hand sword lost its target, reduced to smacking Audin's shoulder.
And then—Audin twisted on his heel, body surging forward.
Wham!
A brutal shoulder-and-back strike at point-blank range.
Impossible to block cleanly, painful beyond measure.
Boom!
The impact thundered. The man staggered back, armor dented. Audin's fingers dripped red where the dagger had bitten.
"Didn't land, huh."
The man grinned, breath rough with excitement—not disappointment.
His secret blade revealed, his move countered, yet he seemed all the more alive for it.
Enkrid found himself liking him already.
"Odinkar. Enough."
Grida's voice cut in.
The blond swordsman turned his head. His eyes still burned, but he trusted Audin not to strike in the lull.
That alone spoke volumes—this was a duel, nothing more.
"Shame."
He sighed.
Like Grida, he hadn't come to kill.
He had another purpose here.
Sure enough, Grida spoke.
"Proper introductions, then. I am Grida Zaun. This is Odinkar Zaun. And this, Magrun Zaun. We are of House Zaun."
All eyes turned.
Zaun—the House that bore Ragna.
And Grida, smiling, raised her hand to point.
"Ragna. We came to fetch you. Your hair's changed color, I see."
Her finger leveled at a head of brown hair.
"…Hm?"
Luagarne turned her head in confusion.
The man she pointed at didn't even flinch.
He didn't need to look—he knew no one else was around him.
Jaxen, meanwhile, wore his bafflement openly.
"…?"
His expression said it plain: What nonsense is this?
But Grida's smile never faltered. Her voice carried certainty.
"Still pretending? I never forget a face. I'm Grida."
The Border Guard fell silent.
"…Is that really him? Doesn't look like it."
Odinkar frowned.
He knew Ragna. That wasn't him.
But even as he spoke, his eyes never left Audin. Sword sheathed, yet his hunger lingered—he wanted another round.
"My opponent… probably the strongest in the order, wasn't he? I just need more time. Time."
Magrun didn't care at all.
Ragna, mistaken identity—irrelevant.
His mind was elsewhere, brimming with awe at the Barbarian who had floored him.
That technique. That power. He needed to study it.
Defeat can only be overcome by research.
That was his sole thought.
"He is. Ragna Zaun. The patriarch calls you back."
Grida pressed again.
Enkrid felt no lightning-strike revelation—only a creeping realization.
Some people simply couldn't remember faces.
Grida was one of them.
Jaxen was left speechless. He'd never been mistaken like this before.
"…What? Ragna went to Eitri to have his blade sharpened."
Krais stepped in.
"…Huh?"
Grida tilted her head.
She wasn't hiding anything—Enkrid could tell.
But how could she mistake someone like this, after saying herself Ragna was blond with red eyes?
It was simple.
If Ragna couldn't find his way, Grida couldn't recognize a face.
That was the truth.
Enkrid had, for the first time in his life, met a woman who forgot his face after one glance.
He wasn't offended. It was simply fact.
"That one isn't Ragna."
Enkrid said firmly.
Grida pushed a little more, then finally relented.
"Even I make mistakes sometimes."
And with that, Enkrid was certain—
She really was Ragna's sister.
***
"Mm. He insisted on going to the market alone. We lost track of him."
The soldier reported grimly. He'd tried to follow, but if anyone could slip a tail, it was Ragna. Somewhere between the market and the barracks, he had vanished.
Krais relayed the fact to the Zauns. If they had come for Ragna, then it was their right to know.
"Ragna was hopeless at finding his way, even as a child."
Grida nodded, utterly calm—as though it mattered little whether her brother was missing or not. The other two cared even less.
Odinkar's eyes roamed instead. First Audin, then Enkrid, then the rest—his fighting spirit spilled in waves.
Magrun, however, simply spoke.
"Could we stay somewhere quiet for a while?"
Neither of the others objected. Each had their own mind, and none interfered with the rest.
"…What the hell are these people?"
Rem muttered the thought on everyone's mind.
Krais almost blurted My thoughts exactly before biting his tongue.
Jaxen crossed his arms, his glare measuring all three Zauns at once. His stance was clear: one wrong move, and he'd cut them down.
The Zauns noticed. They simply didn't care.
Zaun. The name was known to some. A northern house, famous for producing knights—called Seekers of the Sword.
Even among mercenaries and adventurers, there were whispers of Zaun-trained men. Once, the beastkin general Barnas, who'd led armies in Azpen's war, had recognized Ragna at a glance. Perhaps it was luck. Or perhaps it was blood.
Enkrid had heard the name only as the place Ragna was born. He'd wandered the continent as mercenary and guide, weak back then, and settled here in Border Guard.
But seeing three swordsmen of such caliber, all from one bloodline—it felt strange.
Knighthood he could understand. Even empire-born prodigies. But one family? One lineage?
Can bloodline really grant this? A heritage of skill? A destiny of the sword?
Old tales spoke of royal blood that carried strange gifts—moving objects by thought, reading minds, powers that birthed magic itself. Ester had told him as much.
A bloodline that breeds knights…? Is talent only fate? Is effort meaningless before it?
Enkrid rejected the thought.
Even if it were true, he would prove otherwise with his own body. That was one of his dreams—to prove a knight could be born from more than blood.
Not yet, perhaps. But someday.
I repeat today. Call it a curse, call it a blessing. But I won't let it be the only way beyond talent.
He refused to narrow his thinking.
"Enki, you see the battlefield too narrowly."
Luagarne's voice echoed in memory. He widened his frame of thought.
And from that shift, a truth he'd lived crystallized: shortcuts forged half-knights.
Count Molsen's chimera knights, Azpen's war-trained, Legion's holy city knights—are they truly different?
Changing flesh, gorging on power, wielding Will—none of that alone made a knight.
A knight had to walk the path themselves.
Borrowing another's will led only to hollow blossoms.
So what gave the Zauns their strength?
Not just talent, but something deeper: they had broken free from their own shells.
"We are House Zaun. Perhaps unfamiliar to some. Think of us as a lineage devoted to the sword."
Grida's explanation was oddly kind.
Krais added what he knew—rumors, consistent enough.
A tradition, then. A codified path.
Tradition was belief, carried forward.
House Zaun had a creed.
Rem scoffed, uninterested. Odinkar bared his teeth, his aura daring someone to rise.
Jaxen's fingers tightened around a hidden blade.
Krais felt the air change—an electric edge of bloodshed. His nerves screamed.
Damn that path-lost bastard…
He cursed Ragna in silence, then darted Enkrid a glance. But his commander made no move.
Audin, meanwhile, was still in his bear-form fury, fit to split men in two. No help there.
Krais thought hard. If they killed these three here, what would it gain them? Nothing.
Let them be? Risky.
At last, he chose the only sane path.
"I'm leaving."
He turned his back.
Better for his health, and his sanity.
After all, the Mad Knight Order was never something he could control.