Zaun could only be called twisted—and twisted again.
They had strength but did not use it, and for the sake of refining their swordsmanship, nothing was off limits.
Among the words Grida had once shared, one in particular lingered.
"Climb far enough back into our line, and you find the beginning. Someone who was lacking in something sought to fill it through the sword—that's how it all began."
There was no need to ask what they were lacking.
The meaning was that everything, whatever it was, led back to the sword.
A man jilted by a woman—how should he overcome the pain? If he were Zaun, the answer would be: wield the sword.
A child who had lost his parents—how should he ease his grief and longing? Wield the sword.
There was once a boy who lost his way easily. He longed for the right and proper path. His talent drove him to one road he never lost—the sword.
His desire to find the true path manifested in the blade.
A child who could not remember faces grew to have a gift for remembering techniques instead.
Grida had a near-perfect memory when it came to swordsmanship.
Thus—
"Oh, Roni? What's the matter?"
That she still misnamed Krais when she saw him was no surprise.
For anyone who understood her—for anyone who understood Zaun—it was only natural.
"Why do you always get my name wrong? You doing this on purpose?"
Krais grumbled, and Grida only laughed as she answered:
"Sorry. Haven't crossed blades with you yet."
If she had fought him, she would have remembered his sword.
Without that, she could not recall his face.
Could such a philosophy really make sense—filling personal lacks with the sword?
To outsiders it was madness, but to them it worked.
And one last piece made it possible.
Talent.
The gifted gathered and twisted themselves into endless training.
That was the House of Zaun.
All who knew how to read a fight understood the trick Grida had played.
Enkrid himself, having faced her, knew it too.
'Tailored counters.'
It was no different from what Shinar had once done.
Shinar had found a way to break the Wave-Blocking Sword.
Grida had found a way to overturn calculation.
A counter made to break one specific technique.
"These are the fruits of my two months."
That was the result of Magrun's earlier words.
'Unorthodox.'
Strings of meaningless gestures to shatter calculation.
She might stomp the ground with no follow-through.
She might stab backward under her own arm, slap her thigh, shake her head for no reason.
Some motions carried meaning. Others carried none.
But since the patterns did not match, calculation itself unraveled.
'Entertaining, I'll give her that.'
It wasn't about winning—it was about pure technique, a method to break calculation and turn even that disruption into swordplay.
How could such people not be fascinating?
Would they account for the Wave-Blocking Sword too?
After all, that technique belonged to the realm of thought as well.
'If they kept applying pressure this way, what would happen?'
Still, it wouldn't work on Wave-Blocking.
It would only run parallel.
Wave-Blocking was a defensive style, peerless in endurance.
Even if it trained the mind, the essence of the style was defense.
Magrun knew it. Grida knew it.
So if the Wave-Blocking Sword appeared, their answer would be not to engage.
They broke techniques, and they reveled in swordplay itself.
That was who they were.
Odincar, watching, shrugged his shoulders as if excited.
Enkrid adjusted his stance.
He knew Grida had a knack for striking weaknesses—that was her specialty.
"Again."
He raised his sword above his head.
His arms lifted, leaving chest, flanks, and armpits wide open.
Grida's eyes marked weakness after weakness.
Her body moved to strike.
All she had to do was thrust down with her point.
But she couldn't—not so easily.
'Why not?'
Because of the sword Enkrid held aloft.
'If I go in, I'll be struck.'
Grida pulled back at the last instant.
A snap judgment.
Her sword, catching the sunlight, flashed white as it straightened vertical.
Enkrid had shifted his calculation. Not sustained, but momentary.
If defense was the wave that blocked, then offense was light that blazed in an instant.
That was the meaning he set into his art.
Crackle.
Feet rooted to the earth, he pushed forward.
Dust rose beneath his boots.
If the left stepped, the right must follow, and so he claimed the distance he sought.
"Don't block it!"
Odincar shouted on impulse, dread tightening his throat.
Magrun's eyes bulged, intent on watching.
Rem, Audin, Ragna, Jaxen moved at once. But too late.
Crackle, crackle.
Enkrid scraped his right foot diagonally forward, twisted his blade, and pressed his right forefinger against its flat.
A thumb-grip.
Then he swung.
In that single instant, he calculated every possible defense Grida could choose—then struck.
Her white blade, held vertical, was smashed aside by Samcheol.
Bang!
The impact thundered, and Grida let out a grunt.
Enkrid's swing had been a high horizontal cut.
The strength of such a strike was that even blocked, it flowed straight into a bull stance, ready to stab.
And so he did.
He spun the sword overhead, knocked her blade aside, slid his guard across hers, and thrust.
Grida's knees buckled halfway under the force.
To all eyes, it seemed her skull would be pierced clean through.
But it never happened.
Enkrid had already halted the thrust.
"…I need to piss."
Grida muttered.
Enkrid spoke instead to the shadows of his companions behind him.
"If I'd meant to kill, it would've been diagonal cut—followed by rising slash."
"Then I was right not to stop you."
Rem said drily.
Odincar had risen, sword drawn.
The outcome was plain. Enkrid victorious, Grida defeated.
Grida exhaled, laughter in her voice as she dropped to the dirt.
"Hey—you should've fought the whole way with insight."
"We never agreed on that."
"That's true."
She nodded.
Enkrid sheathed his sword with a smile.
"Entertaining, but not exactly sparring material, is it?"
Ragna commented from the side.
"And you're the one to say that?"
Rem shot back.
But Lawford hardly heard.
Eyes wide, he replayed the fight, the revelation blazing inside him.
'If calculation can be read—what then?'
The answer had just been shown.
'Change the form of calculation itself.'
If he could wield several kinds of calculation?
Not all were the same.
Enkrid had just shown him.
Perhaps unintentional—or perhaps all the teaching until now had secretly been laying the groundwork for this moment.
He hadn't expected a single spar to unlock it.
Lawford raised a knife-hand and began slicing the air in silence.
Pell started to comment but shut his mouth.
Now was not the time to interrupt.
And he would not insult his own pride by interfering with one whose talent seemed lesser.
Meanwhile, Enkrid turned his gaze aside.
"Damn it, I've lost."
It was Magrun who spoke.
Not because of what he said—though in these two months, his sharp words had softened.
Sometimes he even treated Enkrid as if they were long-time friends.
"Magrun."
Enkrid called him.
Magrun grinned, about to reply—then his brows furrowed, his expression pinched, and with a cough he spat blood.
His tunic bloomed red.
Odincar sheathed his sword with a ring and caught him.
Grida retrieved her weapon and stepped back.
"Tch. For the curse to flare up now of all times."
Grida muttered.
Enkrid's eyes sought Esther—then Rem—then returned.
But Esther had been gone for two days, chasing some starlight, and Rem only twitched a brow.
"Blegh!"
Magrun hacked, vomited thick blood, eyes rolling back as he collapsed.
Odincar caught him.
"What curse?"
Enkrid asked, staring down at him.
Grida scratched idly at the corner of her mouth as she answered—without urgency.
If this had been the first time she'd seen such a thing, she wouldn't be so calm.
"An unlucky curse. A few get it. Some cough blood and live, some cough blood and die. Usually the breath shortens, and then they die."
Her tone was matter-of-fact.
Ragna seemed to know as well.
"Exactly that."
There wasn't much more to be learned.
Odincar, half-holding Magrun upright, only checked his condition with a steady calm.
"Jaxen."
"Yes."
"Fetch Anne. Audin."
"Yes, I'll take a look, brother."
Audin knew well that curses had no hold on Enkrid.
He himself had never feared them either.
He called golden light to his hand and pressed it to Magrun's chest.
"Mmh…"
Magrun groaned faintly.
"If this is a curse, it doesn't seem to be one my power affects, brother."
So Audin said.
Was holiness the antithesis of curses? Not exactly.
Holy power could heal the bleeding a curse caused, but curses themselves belonged closer to sorcery than sickness.
That was why they looked to Rem—though he did not move.
"No stench of rot, at least."
Rem sniffed and muttered.
He even asked his axe:
"You agree, don't you?"
For someone who mocked Enkrid for talking to Samcheol, he conversed with his own weapon just as naturally.
"Your axe doesn't sing to you, then?" Grida teased.
"Hey, my axe really does express its will."
That might be true—but to an onlooker, it looked no different.
Grida thought it, but held her tongue.
Now wasn't the time.
Enkrid wondered if Magrun had truly been this ill the past two months.
He hadn't seemed it.
The fit was sudden.
Soon enough, Jaxen returned, leading Anne.
"If it's just a matter of a severed limb, shouldn't we bring Seiki too?"
Anne asked as she came near.
"No. This is an old curse."
Grida's casual words silenced her.
She knelt at Magrun's side, pried open his eyelids, and examined him.
"Open his mouth."
Odincar did.
Anne leaned close.
From sparring injuries, they all knew by now—this girl was a superb healer.
Better, in fact, than anyone Enkrid had seen even in the main branch.
Instead of his tongue, she inspected the inside of his cheeks.
Then she drew a rounded spoon from her pouch, scraped gently along the inside, and wrapped the sample in paper.
"You said this was a curse?"
She asked.
"Yeah."
Grida nodded.
"It isn't."
Anne exhaled, rose, and after a hesitation, turned away.
She walked with a faint stagger—not truly unsteady, but more like someone reeling from a mental shock.
"Wait."
Ragna caught her arm.
"What?"
"You looked like you could barely walk."
"…Yes. I'm a bit weak. Spent a few nights researching."
The two left together.
Grida watched them go, then remarked:
"A little rest will do her good. The head of house lived under this curse for over ten years, after all. Still strong, isn't he?"
"The symptoms are faster than before, but yes—still fights like a monster."
Odincar answered.
Enkrid felt a flicker of curiosity about this "head of house" they spoke of.
But he asked nothing.
Would he ever meet him?
The thought passed.
The next day, Magrun woke.
"I'm fine now."
He rose easily, as though nothing had happened.
Later that afternoon, Anne sought Enkrid out.
Ragna stood beside her.
Together, they looked almost like a pair.
"I'll need to make a short trip."
Anne spoke first.
"Where?"
"The Zaun house. Ragna says he'll guide me."
Enkrid asked on reflex:
"So your dream wasn't healer—but wanderer?"
"…What?"
Anne blinked, puzzled.
Ragna answered instead:
"I've business at the main house myself. I'll take her along."
He spoke as if it were a neighborly errand.
But of course, they could not be left to go alone.
Anne was no guide by nature—she didn't enjoy travel.
She had nearly died several times on her way to the Border Guard, she'd once said—using up all her luck then and there.
"It's about time we returned too."
Grida remarked.
"Yes, you should."
Anne agreed smoothly, then looked to Grida, Odincar, and especially Magrun.
"It's a wonder you've lasted this long."
So she said.
Enkrid didn't know what she meant—but he knew what he should say.
"I'll go too. I can't turn away from your family's crisis. It's Ragna's home, after all."
The words left his mouth at once.
He owed Ragna too much.
To defend his birthplace—how could Enkrid not go?
Jaxen, Rem, Audin were all absent at the time.
Only Shinar was present, and she heard him.
She interpreted his heart plainly:
"What he means is: he's dying to meet your head of house, so he's insisting on coming."
Grida nodded.
A madman had said something mad—no more than that.
As for Anne, who called it a wonder they'd endured, Grida wasn't surprised.
If this curse were meant to kill, it would have killed them all long ago.
Still—
"You know what this is?"
She had to ask.
Many had died to it.
No one set out to "fight" the curse, but if it could be erased, who wouldn't want that?
"I do. I'll know more once I see it directly."
Anne answered.
Enkrid added at once:
"I trust Anne's word."
"What he means," Shinar translated smoothly, "is: he'll go no matter what, because he wants to meet your head of house."