Grida had liked this place at first sight, but living here made her like it even more.
Otherwise, she would have left after her business was done, regardless of talk about "two months."
She had wandered the Continent, seen many places, but few had pleased her as much as here.
And she wasn't the only one.
"This is incredible."
Odinqar seemed to enjoy it most of all.
He bit into the day's special — ground meat mixed with onion and flour, grilled, and stuffed into bread — and gave a hearty thumbs-up without hesitation.
Grease mixed with meat juice dribbled down his chin.
It was the kind of sight that made you want to take a bite yourself.
The sizzling crust, the savory juices swirling across the tongue, sliding down the throat.
Yes, Grida admitted, it was delicious. She raised her thumb in agreement. The food here truly was excellent.
The seasoned jerky, the well-baked bread, the pork barbecued all day long and shredded with sauce into long bread rolls.
What did they call it again? Pulled pork sandwich? And that wasn't even the end.
'And the pumpkin soup, and the juice as well…'
The hot broth warmed her insides, and the flavor was superb.
The Zaun family didn't fall behind in cuisine either, but this land had its own character.
Some dishes were similar, but others were new and different. And that was delightful.
Odinqar, being fond of food, couldn't help but exclaim.
"Couldn't I just stay here?"
"Do you think you could?"
Grida, knowing it was a joke, placated him with kind words. What about the four wives and children he had left back home?
"Joking, just joking."
Odinqar laughed heartily.
"Hey, if you're done eating, come outside for a match."
From beyond the dining hall, Enkrid called him.
"How do you want to do it today?"
Odinqar swallowed the last bite and asked.
"Will you take on two, or just one?"
Enkrid's voice carried in again from outside.
Odinqar did not know restraint. That was why every spar with him meant risking death.
Even Enkrid, after a few such matches, had been warned by Anne.
"Are you a tattered old doll? Planning to stitch up every part of your body?"
Even after nearly losing his collarbone, the two of them had sparred twice more.
Once, Odinqar had even won. That time, Enkrid had nearly died.
Just before the blade pierced his throat, Jaxen had intercepted it with a dagger. At the same time, Odinqar's arm had been seized by Audin.
After that, it was decided such duels could no longer continue. Someone would truly die before it ended.
Then Rem offered an amusing suggestion: in his unit, he had one man spar against three of similar skill.
"Wasn't that just to torment them?"
Krais had muttered from the side, but everyone knew it wasn't simply sadism.
Well… perhaps Rem's tastes played some part.
After all, he forced them to fight three opponents without explaining the reason, gave no hint of how to endure, made them figure it out with their bodies — and laughed at them as they suffered.
"That's good. Brother."
"Not bad. If three strong fighters pressure one, that one will learn. And the three will also learn by working together."
For once, Jaxen spoke at length. He only did so because he wanted to say this kind of sparring was madness.
Still, if Rem's men could do it, there was no reason knights couldn't.
So the style of sparring changed.
Enkrid fought against two or three at once, and Odinqar did the same. Sometimes Rem or Audin took that role.
What amazed Grida most was that Odinqar gradually began to control himself.
Seeing it, Rem chuckled.
"Beat enough sense into someone, and it sticks."
Jaxen claimed it was simply correcting bad habits.
Audin said it was the grace of God, delivered through his fists.
Their words were different, but their meaning the same.
'So the answer is to beat everything into shape?'
But despite their words, they were delicate. Their techniques, their actions, even the way they sparred.
'Could it really be just from beatings?'
Was it that easy?
Odinqar had lived his whole life on a tightrope between life and death. Such habits weren't changed in a moment.
So what had caused it? What was the core of this change?
Observation alone wouldn't reveal it. Research would be needed.
Perhaps Magrun had already guessed. That was his specialty, after all.
But one thing was clear: at the center of it all stood Enkrid.
With the new sparring methods, some measure of safety was secured. And so, these madmen only grew wilder.
Enkrid especially astonished Odinqar.
Not only his approach to sparring, but the way he lived each day shocked those around him.
At dawn he trained his body. In the mornings, he sometimes walked with a panther, sometimes with a witch draped in revealing black robes, long hair flowing. But even those strolls were training.
'Duels with a magician.'
At least twice a week, and more beyond that, he sparred with barbarian, assassin, and fairy alike.
'And on top of that, he teaches the others.'
He managed his own unit, whether they were guard or knights. Mostly, he set the direction of their training.
"I won't fall down!"
Among them, one squire named Clemen stood out. Talent aside, her burning zeal was remarkable.
The girl Seiki, who sometimes came, had natural talent, but seemed uninterested.
Meanwhile, other members helped lead the unit's drills.
What mattered was the time left to Enkrid himself. With it, he fought. All day long. Sparring.
Endless. Restless. He simply fought. Every single day.
'Can the mind endure it?'
The body was not the issue. If the mind wavered, the body would follow. So the mind was the first concern.
And yet Enkrid endured, calmly consuming it all. That alone was astounding.
With these thoughts, Grida called out to a passing man. She had nearly learned all the names of the Madmen Knights.
"Hey, Lawford. Care to spar?"
The man answered sourly, as though deeply offended.
"My name's Pel. Shepherd Pel. Why do you keep confusing me with that bastard?"
"Oh? Really? But you two look alike."
At that, Pel drew his sword.
"A duel, then."
These people made everyday life amusing.
Grida sparred lightly with Pel, enjoying herself. Luagarne, the Frog, came by and started questioning her with theories. Magrun was delighted.
"Unbelievable completeness for something built in the wild."
Even Grida hadn't expected such words from Magrun. Praise instead of criticism? From his barbed tongue?
"Frog, was this your work?"
Magrun asked after.
"No, over there."
Luagarne's blunt finger pointed at Enkrid.
Magrun tilted his head at the sight.
"Really? Interesting."
Magrun answered plainly as he looked at Enkrid.
From his mouth came neither scorn nor malice. Even within the Zaun family, there were few to whom Magrun responded this way.
'You could count them on one hand.'
Now Enkrid was one of them.
But from the side, it wasn't anything miraculous. He had simply stepped in, spoken a few words, and joined the debate with theory. Neither he nor Magrun raised their voices. Both remained calm.
Once or twice a week, Enkrid would sit separately with Magrun for such talks.
'Strange.'
And she herself was the same.
At first she had spoken of man and woman, but now she no longer wished for that.
'Men grow awkward after parting.'
She disliked that. The way things were now was better.
"I'm not in line."
When she told the fairy this, the golden-haired one was openly pleased.
"Shall I bring you some spring water?"
All because her arm had bruised in sparring — and yet the offer was given.
"Wise of you. The line is long."
But for all that talk of lines, Grida had never once heard of anyone besides the Black Flower and the Witch of Gold.
Letters, though — there had been plenty. Invitations to parties, introductions as friends of this or that lady.
Even a letter from the King. One from the Eastern Pioneer King. And even one from a holy order.
'He truly is popular.'
Even a walk outside the city was enough for many to recognize him. Aside from the Witch of Gold, other fairies cast him furtive glances as well.
"Commander Shinar may be older, but I'm young."
One of the Border Guard's archery instructors whispered, sidling up.
Grida, standing by Enkrid, watched carefully. How will he answer?
"If four hundred years is all, that's not so much, is it?"
Enkrid calmly returned the joke in fairy fashion.
"I'm not even half that."
"To a human, two hundred or four hundred — it's all the same."
"…Two hundred and four hundred aren't the same."
The fairy blinked with innocent eyes, but within them lay sly intent. Fairies did not lie, but they twisted truths. That much Grida knew.
The fairy blinked again, emphasizing the age difference.
"You understood my meaning."
Enkrid firmly rejected the fairy's advance.
'Hmm, so this is how he does it.'
And there were others. The innkeeper liked him. A giant merchant showed goodwill. A Frog artisan puffed his cheeks, speaking endlessly about materials he had gathered and the jewelry he planned to craft.
Through it all, Enkrid listened. Earnest. Attentive.
And that was when Grida realized: she had truly fallen for him.
Not as a man for a woman. But as a person, wholly.
"You listen well."
"The passion in their words is what I like."
Such casually spoken words — yet they were captivating.
And so Grida asked:
"Would you consider coming to the Zaun family?"
She already knew the answer. A month of watching him had taught her: he would decline.
But once again, his reply was unexpected.
"Would visiting be allowed?"
"…What?"
"I mean, could I at least come as a guest?"
"Oh—yes. You may."
Yes. He would never join the Zaun. He could not be claimed.
His brilliance was too radiant.
Zaun was a still lake, destined to remain contained.
But Enkrid was the wind, blowing free. The wind might pass by a lake, but it would never remain still like one.
"Wind-Sword. Have you heard the name?"
"A bard's tale, isn't it?"
"Yes. One of the founders of the Zaun family."
"That, I've never heard before."
Grida shared bits and pieces of her family's lore.
"If you grow too close, it may cause misunderstandings."
Shinar intruded once, half-joking. Then the three of them would laugh and talk for a while longer. And when Esther approached, they would share silent tea instead.
Silence was good. Talk was good. They were good people, all.
'So this is why Ragna was in no hurry to return?'
And then, a stranger entered the unit.
Standing at the front, Grida addressed the golden-haired visitor with red eyes.
"Who are you?"
The figure blinked slowly, shaking out disheveled hair. He smelled of the road, his appearance ragged.
But the greatsword slung across his back was worthy of note.
"Grida?"
"Hm. You know me? You look familiar… Who were you again?"
The face was familiar. Grida frowned.
"Ragna. Why are you here? Did you get lost?"
"Ah, Ragna."
Yes. This was the trail she had followed to reach this place.
At first, she had searched seriously. Later, wandering had become its own amusement, and she had dawdled until she ended up here.
"I came looking for you."
"For me?"
"There's someone who wants to see the runaway."
"If they want to see me, they should come themselves."
"They couldn't. So I came."
Had the family not contacted her, Grida would have spent longer enjoying the road. There had been so many pleasures in traveling again after so long — even if there were miseries, too.
But now that Ragna had returned, she had words to deliver.
"Father is looking for you."
She said.
Ragna looked back at her with eyes that said: So what? Who cares?
'This place is good, yes… but Ragna has picked up some bad habits.'
Her brother had never worn such eyes before.
Eyes so similar to the barbarian Rem's.