"Are you insane?"
Anne, who had been treating Magrun while watching the sparring, paled at the sight. Her expression went beyond shock — her face had turned deathly white.
And with good reason. To her eyes, this was nothing but a parade of madness.
Of course, Anne couldn't follow the flow of the fight or its finer details. What she could see was the result.
Enkrid's sword had stopped halfway into the blond man's shoulder. A little deeper, and collarbone or no, not even holy power or medicine could have saved him.
"I stopped it, Sister Freckles."
Audin spoke as he pressed his hand against Enkrid's blade. He wore no armor, but golden sand flowed across the back of his hand, preventing his skin from splitting open.
Even so, blood seeped out. Proof enough of how merciless Enkrid's swing had been.
"Ah, nearly killed him."
Enkrid's voice, however, was calm as ever.
"Losing an arm won't kill me."
And Odinqar, the one struck, was equally nonchalant.
These lunatics?
Anne was a healer. Did she become one because she wanted to kill? Of course not. She became a healer because she wanted to save. To prevent people from dying meaningless deaths from illness. That was her path.
So how could he say losing an arm won't kill you?
If an arm were severed, the bleeding would gush like a waterfall.
Sudden hemorrhage lowers body temperature.
That much Anne knew.
Digging deeper — first comes agitation, then pallor, then the body begins to chill.
The pulse quickens, breathing grows shallow.
As temperature continues to drop, the pulse falters, weakens, then turns erratic. Soon, blue blotches stain the skin, consciousness dims, attention wavers.
Even a knight can't endure forever.
Becoming a knight didn't make one immortal. Just as overexertion could cause collapse, relying blindly on their surging vitality could still end in death.
Anne had been allowed to study under her teacher, and she had secretly read through his research journals. She had learned much.
That was why she knew. Unless one was a Frog, an arm could not be regrown. That was the truth.
Yet another thought rose in her mind.
Unless… could it be possible?
If it were someone who wielded high-archbishop-level holy power?
Maybe then…?
Of course, pouring divine power into a wound blindly wouldn't restore it whole.
In the past days, the Ragged Saint had given Seiki lessons — and even tossed Anne a few pieces of advice. She had been desperately working on developing potions that carried traces of holy energy.
And through that, she had realized something.
Even holy power requires technique.
Just as sewing torn flesh with a heated needle took skill, so too did the use of holy power.
But how many people truly handled holy power with mastery? And even then, how many years would it take to refine such technique?
Only through treating countless wounded could one grow proficient. Only then could one gauge how much power to use, and how best to apply it.
"What would you do if a third leg sprouted? Or if you suddenly had a tail?"
The Saint had once described it that way.
And he had also said there was a kind of incantation, not to conjure such things, but to help one grow accustomed to them. Guidance and teaching. Those who had learned and mastered it could then pass it on, once qualified.
But for that, one needed a wielder of holy power. And one who had the experience to teach.
And as luck would have it, we have both.
For skill, there was the Ragged Saint. And in sheer holy output, Seiki was worthy of being called a Saintess.
And then there's me.
Anne herself could judge wounds beyond the reach of healing, and in those cases administer potions that heightened regeneration — or, when necessary, resort to surgery.
Her hands, which had sewn corpses since childhood, were more skilled than most tailors.
"As long as he's not dead, it's fine."
Rem's voice came from behind.
"But this is too much."
Anne finally spoke, even as her hands moved briskly.
She sprinkled white powder to staunch the bleeding and examined the wound. Stitch it? Or use medicine? She had a new salve she'd made, blending Fairy spring water and morning dew.
Should she put him under first? No. Better to stitch and apply directly.
He was a knight, after all. He would endure.
"This time, I lost by half a step. Next time won't end this way."
Odinqar said, alive despite a wound that could have killed him. Enkrid had already gauged his nature.
Reckless. Utterly reckless.
And yet, that recklessness had carried him this far. His talent was enough to turn recklessness into boldness, enough to earn him the title of genius.
"Yes, next time… you'll just die."
Enkrid stated it plainly.
"You mean you said that at the start to gain the psychological edge? You're craftier than I thought. A bit of a fox. Even while fighting, you kept calculating."
Enkrid wiped the blood streaming from his nose with the back of his hand.
Just as Odinqar said, he had used the same method he employed against Grida: calculation. Seeing every situation as probability.
It was something he had learned from Jaxen, but he knew he needed to polish it more. With refinement, it could even become a sword technique of its own.
"And yet you can strike boldly, like anyone else. Strange. Rough."
"Rough?"
"Fun."
Odinqar finished with a grin. The white powder finally stemmed the flow of blood.
Seeing the neat treatment of his wound, Odinqar remarked:
"A fine healer, indeed."
It was plain from the touch of her hand.
"Then keep your mouth shut, will you? He needs stability."
"I'm a knight. I'll be fine in a day."
"Even Frogs wouldn't heal this in a single night."
Anne muttered, gauging where and how much to stitch.
Enkrid, meanwhile, spoke to Odinqar.
"Welcome to the Border Guard."
"Isn't that a bit early for greetings?"
"The real greeting was with this."
Enkrid shook Penna — the very blade that had just cut into Odinqar's shoulder. Sunlight caught the steel, scattering droplets of Odinqar's blood.
Just as Luagarne had realized, Enkrid was brimming with intent to learn their system.
But could he simply ask outright to be taught? Perhaps not.
And if not, then he would steal it.
For now—
Technique.
The edge Enkrid had gained over Odinqar earlier had been luck.
Had fortune not tilted his way, the loss would have been his.
That fact, strangely, delighted him. The rest could be thought of later.
At any rate, the three of the Zaun family decided to remain, and the next day even Enkrid had to restrain himself.
"Not until treatment is complete. Otherwise, it would be better if you just died and became one of my test subjects."
Anne's persuasion left no room for laughter.
Besides, Enkrid's body wasn't in perfect shape. Even with the vitality of a knight, overuse of calculations had left his head pounding. Two days later, the pain was gone as if it had never been.
During that time, he watched duels: Audin against Grida, Rem against Grida.
Of the Zaun three, Grida alone cared nothing for winning or losing.
"Isn't fighting with holy power wrapped around you cheating, Jaxen?"
"Sister, if you don't know someone's name, best not to call it."
Even at Audin's reply, Grida remained unfazed. Audin was her trickiest opponent.
By Enkrid's measure, Audin could draw wide circles. And beyond that, he was a Paladin.
Holy power specialized in defense.
The golden sand that cloaked his whole body was a gift from God, and that gift formed armor few attacks could pierce.
"This is cheating! Rem!"
"That's my name."
Even when Rem, watching, corrected her, Grida tossed out any name she pleased. The only one she never used was Enkrid's.
That duel ended with Audin's victory. Not overwhelmingly, but by agreement — Grida conceding rather than being crushed.
The match with Rem was fiercer. On the surface, Rem seemed full of openings. That was his specialty: revealing gaps and then using even those to strike back.
Grida was a swordswoman who knew how to pierce openings. She did exactly that. And lost.
Rem needed only his wrist to move the axe. The same trick he had once used to torment Ragna.
The axe swung in recoil-less zigzags, deflecting her strikes.
Clang!
At the instant the two weapons clashed, Grida glimpsed her own death.
Sorcery!
If holy power was a Paladin's armor, sorcery was a barbarian's blade.
A blade wrapped in little more than cloth, ready to cut its wielder's hand if misused. But in Rem's grip, it was wielded with terrifying skill.
"Well struck."
Even in defeat, Grida only smiled. Except for her flaw of not recognizing faces, she was the most sociable and easygoing of the three.
"Luagarne, was it? If you're a research Frog, then we have one in our family too. I've heard one of their ancestors devised some of our sword techniques."
And so, while she made friends here and there, Lawford and Pel clenched wood blocks in their teeth as they raised the intensity of their beatings.
Magrun, on the other hand, observed and jotted notes in silence. In the Zaun family, there were no mere knights.
Within the family, knights were divided into three categories.
First were the Pioneers. Those who carved paths into the unknown, guided by talent. Odinqar was one such.
Second were the Researchers. Also called the Delvers. They became fascinated with swordsmanship itself, devised techniques, and then built theories to dismantle them. At times, they obsessed over useless endeavors, but they were the very ones who had shaped the current Zaun. Magrun belonged here.
The last were the Observers — or Guardians. Grida Zaun was such. Their duty was to watch over all, caring less for victory and loss, and pass the family's legacy to the next generation.
For a system to endure, it required its own structure. That was how the Zaun family functioned.
"Is it fine to tell me all this?"
Enkrid asked. Grida smiled brightly.
It was the season for heavy rains. And as if the sky itself had split, a torrential downpour hammered down.
Shhhhhhhhh.
Through the sheets of rain, Grida's voice carried clearly to his ears.
"Anyone who visits the Zaun family can know as much. And you — you want to know more, don't you?"
They stood beneath a broad eave. Through the mist rising from the deluge, Grida's brown eyes glimmered with curiosity. Enkrid nodded.
"I've nothing to offer in return, though."
He meant it. He truly had nothing to give.
And if what she wanted was something like a bond between man and woman, then first he would have to settle things with the Witch of Gold.
"Brought another woman again?"
The very next morning after the duels, Shinar had stormed in, shouting from dawn. Fortunately, the misunderstanding was cleared, but she still made it plain to Grida.
"The line is long already. Your turn is far away."
"Very well, if you say so. You're the Black Flower, aren't you?"
Grida's answer confirmed her own identity.
Strange, to think of a Black Flower upon seeing golden fairy hair.
She could observe others well, but couldn't recognize faces. Wouldn't that make her transmission of information flawed? The thought crossed Enkrid's mind, but he let it go. It wasn't his place to meddle.
Spring weather was fickle. Two days of rain followed by two days of sun, drying the soaked earth.
Flowers bloomed, fruit formed on the trees. The season of rains had passed.
And still, even after half a month, Ragna had not returned.
In the meantime, Enkrid spent much time with the Zaun three, learning, absorbing.
Perhaps every hour couldn't be precious. Yet truly, these hours were.
And so today, and each day, time strode swiftly onward.