Contrary to Krais' worries, no fierce battle broke out.
Both sides had already fought once, and they knew: unless they staked their lives, it would be hard to determine victory or defeat.
"Just because someone shows dominance once, does that mean it will last?"
It was then that one of the men who had nearly been killed by Rem spoke up. His appearance was ordinary, but his eyes gleamed with intelligence. His name, as Enkrid had heard, was Magrun Zaun.
Though his hair color was different, his features faintly resembled Odinkar's. If Odinkar gave off a languid impression, Magrun felt the opposite — stubborn and forceful. Perhaps it was just a feeling, but it seemed close enough to the truth.
These people did not bother hiding their thoughts. That much was clear after seeing the Fairy society.
They had no use for lies, and so the very word "lie" didn't exist for them. They had lived with their hearts laid bare, and so lived without concealment.
"Zaun has always lived within competition. That's different from you, who idly prey upon the weak."
Magrun continued. Under everyone's gaze, his eyes swept the surroundings.
His posture and his gaze showed that his spirit would not be outdone.
It was as if to say: just because he had been beaten by Rem did not mean it was over.
Magrun's words struck close to the truth. He was speaking to the general attitude that the Continent's knights usually held toward others.
Knights did not duel with knights. Their value was too precious.
The Kingdoms across the Continent treated knights with that respect, and they honored the will of the knightly orders.
If knights sparred freely and injured or killed each other, the loss would be immeasurable.
So Magrun's words turned that very idea on its head. He was attacking the complacency of knights who became content once they received their title.
It was a heated speech.
But Rem did not even pretend to listen.
What the hell is he going on about?
Indeed, Magrun's words hardly suited the madmen of the Border Guard. Everyone here was, so to speak, a flower that bloomed only on the battlefield.
They stood firm where blood poured out, kept death close by, replaced words with whispers of steel, and met tomorrow with sword in hand.
For Enkrid to still be alive and speaking among them was itself something remarkable.
That much, at least, was how Rem saw it. Audin and Jaxen would likely agree.
At that moment, Magrun gave a snort, raised a finger, and pointed straight at Enkrid.
"So you all gathered and taught him, didn't you? His talent must have been extraordinary. Did he savor what was handed to him? Did he simply walk the path laid before him? Is that how he came this far?"
His words were charged with heat. His tone brimmed with confidence.
They were words born of firm conviction.
Enkrid stirred from his thoughts and looked at Magrun — no, at the finger pointed at him.
That was Magrun's conclusion, spoken as though swinging a sword imbued with his Will.
"Did Ragna lead you? Was it luck that brought you this far? Just wait. I'll catch up to you soon enough. No more than two months."
Pel had gone with Enkrid to the Fairy city, had slain demons, fought cultists, and witnessed all that had happened upon their return.
"What the hell is that idiot babbling about?"
Pel muttered.
"Those without qualification should not interfere."
Magrun said without even glancing at him. Pel bristled, but Lawford grabbed his arm.
Lawford's expression was the same as ever, but the way his lips were pressed tight, without the slightest tremor, made it clear he was not in a pleasant mood.
"He's not completely wrong, is he?"
Lawford spoke in a way that sounded almost like a retort, though not meant to provoke Pel.
Pel understood that much.
Instead, the two clenched their teeth and silently resolved to raise the intensity of Audin's beatings by at least two levels starting tomorrow.
Was Enkrid's method truly the fastest path forward? Maybe not. Perhaps it wasn't even right.
But for now, there was no other way. So they would keep at it. Wasn't that what they had learned from watching the man himself?
Don't sit around worrying. Move forward. Even if you must crawl, look ahead.
That was what they would do. Just as they had learned.
In the end, Pel and Lawford's resolve aligned.
You fool, everyone here caught up to that Captain in just half a month. And in those two months, you think they did nothing?
Magrun stood straight-backed. He wasn't arrogant. This was confidence built upon experience.
"Those who grow fat by eating what's spoon-fed, without fierce competition…"
His tone was more than a little grating — downright offensive.
Even before he finished, all eyes turned to Enkrid. He quietly met Magrun's gaze. Everyone waited for him to speak.
By now, it was his turn. To knock down that loudmouthed fool, with words or with fists.
"Two months will be enough?"
Enkrid asked calmly. No sign of offense on his face. Or rather—
Why does he look pleased?
Rem tilted his head, and even Jaxen's eyebrow twitched.
"Brother?"
Audin called, but Enkrid raised his palm to stop him.
Pel, Lawford, and even Teresa were watching him, wondering why he was reacting this way.
Once again, it was Luagarne who realized it first.
He's excited.
Correct. And the reason wasn't hard to guess. Because they were strong fighters.
"I'll give you two months. Prove it before you leave."
Enkrid repeated.
Magrun was different from Grida. He knew his own flaws. He had the bad habit of offending others the moment he opened his mouth.
Grida, at least, refused to admit she couldn't remember people's faces. But not him. Even so, this was the first time he had been treated this way.
Why isn't he angry?
Normally, at this point, people would lash out, ranting about their efforts and accusing him of insults and mockery. That was the usual order of things.
"Well… two months is enough."
Magrun's voice had lost some of its heat.
"Anyway, Krais—where did Odd-Eyes go?"
Enkrid asked suddenly.
"He slipped away earlier," Luagarne replied.
"Then Lawford."
"Yes."
"Find them some lodging."
"Yes, understood."
Lawford bowed his head and moved off. Magrun's eyes still clung to Enkrid, and even Grida and Odinkar looked on with surprise.
"Good. Your name was Odinkar, right? Let's have a bout."
Enkrid spoke without caring about anyone's reactions.
Odinkar, who shared a similar temperament to Enkrid, still had enough sense to hesitate.
"Now?"
He asked. Truth be told, he wanted to fight. His combat instincts throbbed in his chest.
But wasn't this the moment Enkrid was supposed to be offended? Then why was he smiling like a man thrilled to draw his sword?
"This blade's not ready yet. By tomorrow, I'll be able to spar properly with it. For now, I'll use this."
Enkrid was already past the point of hearing others.
Grida Zaun's specialty was her eye for observation — the ability to grasp weaknesses.
Enkrid had already figured that much out. Perhaps she had more tricks hidden, but from what he'd seen, that was her talent.
Magrun Zaun's skills were still an unknown, though for now he was wounded.
"Pel, fetch Anne. Have her treat him."
Enkrid said, eyes still fixed on Odinkar.
Knights had a resilience different from normal people. With just a bit of medicine, such wounds would heal quickly.
Even broken bones could knit in a single day, if their Will surged enough to replace vitality.
To achieve that before becoming knights, one had to undergo brutal training to awaken regeneration.
That was what Audin and Enkrid had once done.
"Are you excited because you've found an opponent? Or because you want to beat someone bloody?"
Rem asked, having caught on to Enkrid's state of mind.
"Both, I'd say."
Jaxen answered for him.
"Oh Lord, was the Apostle of War not me but you, Brother?"
Enkrid heard him, but let it pass as usual, merely flicking his sword.
Odinkar, caught up in the mood, unsheathed his blade once more. Ching— the silver blade gleamed.
He might have been cautious, but he wasn't the type to hold back. No — he was the type who could rarely restrain himself.
Odinkar mouthed a few words under his breath, as if rehearsing, before finally speaking aloud.
"I'll have a bit of an advantage. The sword I'm holding is one trained and passed down from my family. And I'll tell you in advance—I don't really know how to stop. I'm not the patient type, so if things get rough, you'd best endure it yourself."
If Grida had the flaw of not recognizing people's faces, and Magrun had the talent for ruining the mood of anyone he spoke with, then Odinqar's flaw was his lack of restraint.
Even when he appeared relaxed, it was only because once he started something, he couldn't stop.
If he happened upon a dish that suited his taste, he could eat nothing else for an entire year.
And the worst of all was when it came to sparring. Odinqar simply didn't know how to stop.
In real battle, that recklessness could transform into daring ingenuity — a bold strike that turned into an advantage. But in a sparring match, it was nothing but trouble.
Yet to Enkrid, none of this was bothersome. More accurately, it wasn't worth fussing over.
Not recognizing people's faces?
That was hardly an issue. Better that than constantly getting lost and going missing.
Speaking harshly? That was almost cute. Sometimes, when hearing Rem talk, Enkrid wondered if he should hold a moment of silence for Rem's enemies. His barbaric tongue only grew sharper by the day.
And as for restraint—
Why should I hold back?
There were always comrades who could withstand his sword. There were always those who would surpass him and tell him, Not yet.
So why should he restrain himself?
"Come at me. Two months."
Enkrid said vaguely, unable to recall his opponent's name.
"Two months… is that me?"
Magrun muttered, baffled. Grida snorted with laughter beside him.
Now, everyone understood what the madman truly wanted.
"You must get told you're strange a lot."
Odinqar asked, sword hanging loosely at his side.
When members of the Zaun family appeared on the Continent, the most common word used to describe them was "peculiar." That was the polite way of putting it. Behind their backs, no one hesitated to call them madmen.
And here stood someone even more of a madman.
"Not at all."
Enkrid didn't even acknowledge it.
"No, you really are strange."
Odinqar said with a laugh, this time not bothering to choose his words. He simply spoke what was on his mind.
So… was it really fine not to hold back? The thought crossed his mind.
Everyone else took a few steps back, giving them room to spar.
Luagarne also stepped back — and suddenly realized something.
Enkrid wasn't excited simply because he had found a strong opponent.
There was something else mixed in.
Curiosity.
Enkrid had dreams and passion. And recently, that passion had aligned with curiosity.
It was the word that best suited the Frogs: curiosity, the hunger to know.
But curiosity about what?
The Zaun family trained knights with a system — a proper knightly method.
Enkrid wanted to know even that. That was why he had told them to stay.
Ragna's absence had been a convenient excuse. Magrun's foolish boast of "two months" was another.
In truth, they were all just excuses.
Even without them, he would have kept them here.
Luagarne was certain.
By now, a faint smile curled at Enkrid's lips, a look of satisfaction.
His eyes fixed on Odinqar, and he saw the weakness. Odinqar himself had admitted it: his lack of patience.
"Do you have a lover?"
"What?"
"If you do, then I offer her my condolences."
"Why? You planning to kill me?"
Odinqar deflected the clumsy provocation with a grin. But Enkrid was not one for clumsy provocations.
"No. You said you lack patience. Then imagine how miserable your partner must be. To her, nights would be unbearably long. Most of them spent falling asleep unsatisfied."
His words twisted slightly, forcing everyone to stop and parse their meaning.
Odinqar too paused — and when realization struck, his face flushed red.
With burning eyes, he snapped:
"At night, it's not like that!"
And with those words, his body shot forward, stretched taut like a released bowstring.
If his calm could be broken, it was. Enkrid took that small edge and pressed Penna smoothly forward.
It was one of the Valaf-style martial techniques, executed through the blade: a body-slipping deflection. Power flowed through the wrist, received with the body, and guided away.
A weapon was merely the extension of the hand.
He named it loosely: Feather Drift.
Still only a technique built on his specialties, what he classified as intermediate.
Victory was never determined by stages alone — especially not in sparring.
And in sparring, the Wave-Blocking Sword shone brightest, giving him the edge.
Clang!
The two blades clashed.
The swords had no throats, so instead, their steel bodies rang out, shouting again and again.
Clang! Bang! Jjeng!
Thus, the two blades began to play a marching song.