"Three-Iron, are you ready?"
Enkrid answered Grida's call, and she carefully chose her next words.
"I told you not to do that. You really look like a lunatic."
Grida was dead serious. It wasn't even a sword with a will of its own—so why did he keep talking to it?
Enkrid said nothing further. He only spoke because there was enough reason to.
The sword's name was Three-Iron: forged around meteoric iron, with black-gold and true-silver layered into its edge.
'If it held a will, one could call it a soulbound weapon.'
Not every blade Aetri made was like this. Three-Iron was unique.
Where Penna had felt like a sword that simply fit in the hand, Three-Iron felt like a sword that was part of the hand itself.
It whispered—clamoring to run wild, to sing in chorus with other blades. A voice only Enkrid could hear.
To be exact, it wasn't really a voice. But it felt that way.
"Samcheol said it wanted to join the ensemble."
"…Normally I'd refuse to agree with you, but you do realize you sound more insane every time you say things like that?"
That was Rem, who had appeared without anyone noticing, watching the match unfold.
It was dawn, after he'd already drenched himself in sweat.
The season was shifting—the air no longer bit with frost, but carried a hint of warmth.
Even with the earlier sunrise, dawn training never ceased, so sweat remained a daily ritual.
It had been that way for two months. Watching Enkrid, Grida finally admitted to herself:
'Training maniac.'
Even among the Zaun, famed for their obsession with the sword, such a type was rare.
'Didn't think there'd be someone like this outside the family.'
Every so often, a genius warped by obsession would appear.
The strangest part wasn't his genius, but how it seemed to… stand still.
Two months of sparring, and yet Enkrid showed little visible change.
'But there must be something beneath it.'
Something she couldn't see. Something that had let him become a knight and earn universal recognition.
As the spring breeze washed over, a colder draft slipped into her chest.
Her muscles tightened with tension.
Her heartbeat quickened. Perfect. The right level of tension heightened reflexes.
'I've been slacking too much.'
Even while wandering the continent under the pretense of searching for Ragna, she had never neglected training.
But there was a clear difference between solitary drills and training with comrades who lived and breathed discipline.
'Feels like I've fallen behind.'
But it was the path she chose. She'd bear it. She knew this would happen.
It wasn't laziness.
She had simply done her duty. When the family head had ordered her to retrieve Ragna without setting a time limit, it had carried the same meaning.
'Wandering and drinking had its joys, though.'
Even when some noble had tried to claim her as his concubine—it had been amusing.
Especially after she lopped off the wrists of his three guards and saw his expression.
The lover she had once taken, who had gone off in search of his own path—that too was now only memory.
Casting off these fleeting thoughts, Grida spoke:
"Have you uncovered Zaun's secret?"
Enkrid, blade lowered loosely at his side, nodded. Truthfully, it wasn't much of a secret.
Grida and the rest had never hidden anything. Everything was plain to see.
"What secret? You didn't even try to hide it."
"Still sounds cooler if I call it that."
Grida flashed her white teeth in a grin. Even on the road, she had kept her mouth clean.
Knights rarely fell ill, so tooth decay was almost unheard of.
Now, sword in hand, the two squared off.
Rem stood by, and Audin had also stepped out.
Pel and Lawford were binding their wrists and ankles together for practice, but now turned to watch.
Part of their current training was dueling with limbs tied—beyond the endless beatings with the iron club.
Seeing the two knights face each other, both Pel and Lawford felt a rush of frustration.
'Two months already, and still so far away…'
They couldn't even reach the toes of knighthood.
But that was natural. If knighthood could be reached so quickly, knights and knightly orders wouldn't be so rare across the continent.
Even so, they were climbing swiftly.
Magrun saw it most clearly. He had been observing all along, and felt a stirring of certainty.
'Those two will make it.'
Zaun raised knights in a unique fashion. And Magrun, through his experience, trusted his hunch.
Even their frustration would become fuel. That was the Zaun way.
'Zaun thrives on competition.'
It stoked ambition, drove improvement.
The Border Guard drilled men half to death, but Zaun bred competition willingly.
Enkrid didn't take his eyes off Grida. She had never been an easy opponent.
Truthfully, her skill was a step below Odincar or even Magrun.
That had always been his honest assessment.
"So what did you find out?"
Grida shifted a step sideways, sunlight pouring down from behind her into Enkrid's eyes.
He half-turned, protecting his vision, and answered:
"Never stopping. Competing always."
He had seen it in the three Zaun knights, listened to them, studied them.
It was easier to learn through their words than to dissect techniques.
And what he found was this:
Zaun competed without end. At the heart of that competition was desire.
If someone asked Enkrid how will was forged, he would answer:
"With passion to pursue what you seek."
That was the lesson. And Zaun's creed was the same: will is forged by endless ardor.
They had built their house on those with talent.
For the untalented, effort alone was not the teaching.
Different from Enkrid's chosen path—but there was much to learn nonetheless.
"They drive you to excel at what you already do best."
He lifted his sword as he spoke, eyes tracking Grida's whole body.
The calculations began. Predicting movements, weighing probabilities.
Grida smiled where she stood.
"Right."
"And those who fall behind are left behind."
Only those who delighted in competition remained. And so they advanced.
"That's right."
Grida nodded.
She had spoken with Ragna since his return—about his childhood.
"Ragna? You'd call him slow, I suppose. But there was always something different. His talent was real."
Things others had to grind their teeth to learn, he picked up at once.
But he had no ardor. His natural gift was both blessing and curse.
"Ordinary talent breeds passion. Too much talent… takes it away."
That was the conclusion. The elders gave up on Ragna, and Ragna cared even less.
That was when his sloth began.
"Even as a child, he found everything a bother. But if he went outside—he loved to wander. Said walking new paths was fun."
Enkrid had never heard it all from Ragna himself, but he'd caught the gist.
Paths with clear destinations bored him.
So when he strayed, when he lost the way, every road became a new one.
'Losing his way was how he always found new paths.'
So for Ragna, being unable to find the road was no curse—it was a blessing.
The opposite of talent.
Back then, had Ragna been shackled by the family's demands? Or had he simply been left to do as he pleased?
If what you were best at didn't match what you wanted to do, which path should you take?
Enkrid knew the answer. And he respected it.
"Zaun seeks neither war with the Demon Realm nor anything else. We devote ourselves solely to the sword—indulging in it, studying it, savoring every moment."
Grida continued.
Yes—that was Zaun's system.
They never hesitated to learn from one another in competition.
They expended no power elsewhere.
They remained within that crucible alone.
"You could call it stagnant water. But to keep from truly stagnating, it is our duty to wander. Most of Zaun's members roam the continent. Some of them, if they find kindred spirits, remain to leave their mark on history."
Enkrid had no thought of criticizing them.
If you had strength, were you obligated to use it? Not necessarily.
If need arose, they could be used. If given what they wanted in return, they would serve.
But he didn't want to force it.
Shouldn't they live as they wished, too?
It was a choice born of respect for personal will and desire, apart from strength itself.
A fellowship of people who gazed only at the sword, who yearned for nothing but the sword.
Who competed with each other, burning with ardor.
Who freely exchanged techniques and never withheld teaching.
'Would they sell their souls to demons for the sake of swordsmanship's progress?'
Zaun could. But they did not. He had heard the answer from Odincar.
"If I sold my soul, then who would remain to train with the sword? I'd vanish. I hate that."
Selfish. But fascinating.
"Magrun's been watching you for two months now."
Grida lifted her blade. Enkrid tilted Samcheol into guard. Both ready.
"Be careful, Enki."
She warned him.
Behind Enkrid stood Rem, Audin, Jaxen, Esther, Shinar, Teresa, Lawford, Pell, and Luagarne.
Behind Grida stood Odincar, arms crossed, while Magrun dragged up a chair to sit.
Their eyes locked.
Was this the same Grida he had first faced in the market?
Enkrid asked himself—and answered:
'No. Different.'
This was the woman who had tempered her body like steel for two months.
Her sword thrust forward. Her left foot struck ground first.
Insight showed him the moment before it came.
A thrust—sharper, swifter, deadlier than before. A point of light cutting through the air.
Clang!
The white blade met Samcheol and was knocked aside.
No time to measure breath.
Enkrid crossed his feet, closing distance in an instant, and drove Samcheol's pommel toward Grida's skull.
An unpredictable, unorthodox strike.
She blocked with her forearm.
Thud!
The difference in strength was obvious.
She was driven back—choosing to yield ground rather than let her arm shatter.
At the same time, Enkrid calculated the dozens of possible counters she could launch.
But Grida chose none of them.
Tap, tap.
She stomped the ground twice. Or rather, she kicked the floor with her soles.
To the eye, meaningless.
To Enkrid—it unfolded into dozens of possibilities.
'Why stamp her feet?'
Distraction? The start of some hidden technique? A step? A shift of position? The trigger for terrain-based tactics?
A dozen thoughts flashed in the instant.
'If I can't tell, I'll see in her response.'
The reason for such motions was revealed by what followed.
Enkrid reversed his sword, changing which edge led.
Samcheol had two faces: black-gold on one side, true-silver on the other.
By itself, it should have thrown the weight hopelessly off.
But Aitri had balanced it with the meteoric core.
Which meant the metals remained different.
And so, this was possible.
He turned the black-gold edge forward, adding weight to the swing, granting the blade greater acceleration.
A technique born of imbalance itself.
Enkrid stepped in, twisting his hips, the motion flowing through elbow and wrist as he slashed.
Whoosh!
The blade tore the air where Grida had stood.
She rolled aside—yet not to end there.
Mid-roll, her left hand struck the ground, springing her body upward as she slammed her right fist against her own chest.
Smack!
Hard enough to make a sound.
'Why?'
Why that motion? A setup for attack? A slip of balance?
'No.'
After repeating it a few times, Enkrid's foot tangled and he staggered.
Grida seized the moment—her sword point shot forward.
Clang!
He blocked, but blood streamed from his nose.
"Fun, isn't it?"
Grida asked, seeing his state.
Even as the world spun, Enkrid answered:
"Yeah."
It wasn't hard to deduce what she'd done.
'A chain of unpredictable movements—upending calculation itself.'
That was the conclusion.