"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Grida tilted her head, eyes narrowing.Ragna's mouth opened by reflex.
"What about my eyes?"
Come to think of it, the brat had always been like this since childhood. Still, seeing him glare like this was a first.
"Your eyes. Why are you glaring like that?"
There was a faint aura of killing intent in Grida's voice. The two of them had quite a gap in age, but they had picked up the sword at the same time.Wasn't the reason Ragna first picked up a blade because he didn't want to lose to her?Yes—there had been a day like that, long ago, when she remembered a boy just learning to walk, struggling to understand the world.
Of course, her memories didn't mean they were his as well.
"My eyes are my own."
Ragna answered without so much as a blink.A brother who had needed less than a month of training before she could no longer best him.
But annoying was annoying, regardless. His eyes, his tone—everything.
Grida's right hand fell, then rose. She opened her fingers loosely, then closed them tight. And suddenly, a sword hilt was in her grip.
Ping.
Steel leapt free of its sheath, racing toward its mark.A blade, gleaming white in the sun, reflected light straight into Ragna's eyes.The strike's path was merciless—difficult to avoid without blood being spilled.It rose high, fell straight, then curved like a swallow, darting for his arm.
Clang!
Ragna pivoted on his left foot, drawing his greatsword halfway to catch the blow. Then, pulling the rest free, he slashed upward.
Brother and sister—children who had clashed steel since youth.This was their greeting.
Yet Grida was startled. Twice over.
The first—
'Dodging?'
As a child, Ragna had never known how to avoid.
"Why dodge? Just strike back."
That had always been his way.Many said he might one day be the family's greatest Pioneer. But he had flaws.
'Too stubborn.'
So stubborn it was crippling.A swordsman needed to know when to yield, when to flow around an obstacle.Steel must move as water does—rising, cutting, retreating with the stream.Such was the teaching of their forebears.
But Ragna had refused. He always repeated only what he found easiest.
That was the brother she knew.The brother who, when Enkrid first met him, had been exactly the same.
And yet, here he was, deflecting.The style resembled the flowing sword, so different from the greatsword's usual brute force.
Unbelievable.
And the second surprise—
Grida had to grip her hilt with both hands.Because she needed both to block his blow.
Ka-ka-ka-kak! Gr-r-rk.
There was no hope of stopping it with one hand.
'How strong has this idiot gotten?'
Her foolish little brother.
His motion had looked almost lazy, raising the greatsword as though it were weightless.
But when Grida caught it, sweat prickled down her spine.
Thung!
At last she tore her blade away, springing back.
Whoosh.
The greatsword cut through empty air where she had stood.
Ragna's strike rose skyward before halting, the point angled toward the heavens.
And one-handed, he looked at her with eyes… different.
Earlier, they had been the barbarian Rem's eyes.Now—something else.
'You keep surprising me.'
The third shock.In Ragna's eyes she saw will. Desire.
This was the boy who had abandoned the family, sick of the path laid before him.
His eyes had once been dull, rotting, lifeless.
Everything was tedious. Everything joyless.
He had swung his sword as if it were drudgery.
But now—deep inside his gaze, she glimpsed the same flame she had once seen in Enkrid, the madman.
Grida's observant eyes caught it clearly.
'What in the world happened to you?'
She asked the question silently, adjusting her grip.
Instead of words, she would let her sword press the matter further.
Meanwhile, Enkrid stood alone in the training yard, sword slicing through air as his thoughts churned.
Would endless practice open the path?
Would filling his mind with nothing but swordsmanship be enough?
No.
The mind must be free.Focus only on the blade, and you trap yourself.Better to let thoughts drift, and in the drifting, discover something new.
Thus, Enkrid let his mind wander.
And inevitably, it wandered to the missing knight.
Ragna had been gone for a month.
But no one worried. They all assumed he would return.
'As Grida remembers faces, Ragna memorizes terrain.'
Not routes—landscapes. He knew the lay of the land like a map.If it came to it, he would climb a tree, leap across rooftops, whatever it took.
From above, the road was always clear.
Perhaps he had gone outside the city. But likely not.Like Jaxen, who often left for errands, Ragna sometimes drifted into the markets to indulge himself.
Most guessed he was there now—stomach full, lying against something warm, drifting to sleep.
Not inaccurate.
Enkrid guessed the same.So he let the worry go.
His thoughts turned to the past month.
Endless training, as always.
And the presence of the three from Zaun.
'Zaun…'
He had listened. Watched. Learned.
And felt the spark of challenge.
But then, even before that, his dream of founding a knightly order had always lit a fire in him.
Krais might have scoffed at the idea that Zaun had truly stirred him.
"If the captain's passionate, even Juri selling marmalade at the market could tell you that."
That's what he'd probably say.
Still, the truth remained: none of them—Jaxen, Rem, nor himself—were content with standing still.And the three from Zaun?
They were like butter spread on fresh bread—raising the flavor of everything.
"Inquiry, calculation, preparation."
Unbidden, Jaxen's words returned to him.They floated in his mind, stirred, then settled into order.
"Confirm the opponent, and read the environment."
That was inquiry.
"Trace the possible lines of attack."
That was calculation.
"Predict the consequences of your action."
That was preparation.
The foundation of assassination—yet still its core truth.
"What I first learned is contained in this. What I use even now does not stray far from it."
So, what had Enkrid gained from Jaxen's teaching?
Basics. To refine what he already had.
To do what he could, but better.
'Inquiry, calculation, preparation.'
He had done this mercilessly of late. And yes, there was a flaw.
'Overusing calculation burns out the mind. The duration is too short.'
That wasn't the direction his Wave-Blocking Sword should go.
But was the Wave-Blocking the only answer? Not necessarily.
'Finish the calculation in an instant.'
He recalled sparring with Rem.
With Audin.
With Jaxen's endless games of pursuit and feint.
Day by day, he fought. He trained. He thought. He reflected.
Where once he would have needed to die to learn, now experience had piled up like stones, enough to light his way.
And now, in this moment, inspiration welled.
'Rem focuses on the instant.'
Jaxen accounts for everything around him.
Audin deceives his opponent to secure distance.
All of it layered together, shaping Enkrid's inner vision.
When arrows flew—when Rem's slingstones struck—everything became a world of instants.
Time stretched. In each instant, a choice.
'A strike means nothing unless it lands.'
Flash. A flare of light.
Not just speed, but speed sharpened by calculation—that was worthy of the name Flash.
Its meaning: light bursting in an instant.Its method: lethal swiftness, born of calculation.Its training:
'Strike in the instant, guided by tactical thought.'
And never forget speed, no matter the moment.
A brutal path to walk—but for Enkrid, having glimpsed the way, it was bliss itself. His whole body trembled with ecstasy.
"What in the world's wrong with him?"
At the edge of the training yard, studying sword forms, Magrun asked as he stared at Enkrid.
The Knight was trembling all over, drooling, eyes shining with rapture.
To the unknowing, he looked a madman.
One moment, he was sparring with shadows, pondering alone—and the next, lost in delirium. No one in even the eccentric Zaun family had reached quite this level of peculiarity.
To Magrun, Enkrid was incomprehensible.
"Leave him be. He's just excited."
Rem had seen it before. He spoke with complete calm.
"Does this sort of thing happen often in the West?"
"What the hell would it? The West's full of people, same as anywhere, you idiot."
Rem barked in annoyance and stalked off.
'So then… are you saying he isn't human?'
Magrun's doubt only deepened.
Meanwhile, Enkrid's rapture ebbed, and clarity returned.
The path was set. Now came only practice.
And with that, Jaxen's last piece of advice came to mind. A lesson about never succumbing to carelessness or arrogance.
"Preparation isn't the end. The last step is retreat. If there's no opening, why charge in? If there's no gap, you step back. Of course, you must know how far to retreat, when to retreat, and what damage you'll accept in doing so."
A warning not to be drunk on attack, blind to what lay behind.
Jaxen had meant it as a lesson in not wasting one's life.
But like all such lessons, its true weight lay in how it was heard.
'Lose yourself in technique, and you'll never see what comes after.'
He had learned this in the very first repeat of Today.
When he had thrown himself into the thrust, only to realize he had never thought of what came after.
He had vowed never to repeat that mistake.
And so, while he trained Flash, Enkrid hammered this lesson into himself.
It was then that Ragna entered the yard with Grida at his side. A return after a month away.
"Why were you trembling and drooling just now? Is there something wrong with your body?"
Magrun asked without even turning his head.
Rem, off to the side, was sharpening his axe, muttering darkly.
Audin only spared a glance before turning back to aid Pel and Lawford in their drills.
Audin's voice broke the silence:
"You said, the first to cry out loses, didn't you? Then I shall lend what little strength I have. The Lord will see us through, brothers."
The faces of Pel and Lawford paled as they bit down on their practice rods.
They knew what was coming—experience had taught them too well.
Whoosh.
Audin swung his custom iron club—smooth, thick as a grown man's arm.
Thwack!
That was the sound from Lawford's bare thigh.
"I held back."
Teresa, overseeing the bout, spoke gravely. Her eyes shone with solemn judgment.
"Good."
Audin beamed and raised the club toward his next target.Pell hesitated. Admit defeat? No. Impossible.While he wavered, the club swung again.
Thwack!
One strike each—perfectly fair.
Off in the distance, Luagarne paused her drills with whip and sword, sweat gleaming on her brow, and called out:
"You're back."
And that was all.
Ragna entered without fuss.
Odincar, who had been training alone, looked up, raised his sword.
"Hey."
A greeting.
"Odincar."
Ragna lifted his hand slightly in reply. That was all.
It was enough to show Odincar had fully adapted here—he met Ragna without surprise, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
A level of assimilation to rival even the Fairy.
Then Shinar entered behind Ragna, calling out to Enkrid:
"Fiancé. Today I'd like you to name our child."
Yes—just another ordinary afternoon.
"Truly strange folk," Grida muttered, watching it all.
Meanwhile, Ragna returned from the baths and the mess hall, then walked to Enkrid.
"Good. I needed you. Perfect timing."
Enkrid welcomed him eagerly.
He had just devised his new sword art—Flash—and the urge to test it burned within him.
Shing.
Ragna raised his greatsword. Despite Aetri's repairs, the blade's edge was chipped and notched—scars from battles with Penna and with Grida.
Enkrid drew the Three-Iron Sword.
Shrrrk.
The sound of steel rang clear.
And they dueled. As always, it was part of daily life.
"What about the child's name?"
"Already chosen."
Grida caught the exchange with Shinar and pricked up her ears. Was there truly a child?
But all Enkrid did was raise his blade and speak—so Grida could only think, once again, that the man was a lunatic.
"Three-Irons."
That was the name Enkrid gave his sword after much thought.
"Lucky the Odd-Eyed one didn't start rampaging. Really lucky."
Rem smirked at Enkrid.
"Right? Good name, isn't it? Even Odd-Eyes got so excited he went berserk at first."
"What a convenient pair of ears you've got. Why you bother keeping them, I'll never know."
And that, from Rem, was praise.
Day by day passed. Then a week. Then two.
Ragna's return brought no real change.
The same routine, endless enough to bore an outsider, slipped by.
It was spring now—clear skies, not a cloud or drop of rain in sight.Two months had passed.
On one such morning, Grida faced Enkrid.
"Let's go all out."
For two months she had poured herself into fundamentals, not duels.
Enkrid watched her and thought—
'Like fire heating iron.'
That was how Grida had tempered herself.