Chapter 323

A knight’s realization could strike like lightning, but ultimately, it was the body that had to execute it.

As he woke up to a new day and bolted upright, Kraiss, startled, immediately asked.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

When Enkrid remained silent, staring into empty space, Kraiss kept rambling.

“That’s just your body being worn out. Rest, and you’ll be fine.”

“Is that so?”

Enkrid replied absentmindedly, then revisited his realization.

Would it work?

It felt like it would.

That sensation—his intuition—electrified his entire body.

“Why does it feel like you’re getting worse by the day?”

Kraiss muttered beside him.

Enkrid ignored him.

He had to dedicate ten days—and two more—to his training.

He needed to ingrain into his body the swordsmanship he had grasped within this cycle of repeating days.

“...What is this?”

Ragna, who had assisted in his training, was unusually surprised.

“What?”

“When did you come up with this?”

“It just came to me.”

“So this is talent, then,”

Ragna murmured to himself, not seeming particularly curious.

Enkrid refined his swordsmanship, discussed it with Ragna, and engaged in light hand-to-hand sparring with Shinar.

The dexterity of the fae was in a class of its own.

Especially their ability to read an opponent’s intent—it was, for lack of a better term, beyond common sense.

When he asked about it, the answer was simple.

“It’s a fae’s gift.”

That, too, was something worth learning.

In fact, Enkrid realized he was already using a fraction of that gift himself.

From that point on, all that remained was training.

And that was what he excelled at the most.

So he did just that.

He honed his swordsmanship, refining and tempering it through endless repetition.

Just as much as he did that, he also observed and mimicked the fae’s abilities without hesitation.

Although, calling it “mimicry” wasn’t quite accurate.

Shinar had generously shared his knowledge, after all.

“If you twist it a little, reading emotions can resemble mind-reading. You just have to apply that to combat.”

Above all, Shinar was remarkably articulate.

Compared to Rem, Ragna, Jaxon, and Audin, he was an absolute angel.

No, a seraph.

Audin did attempt explanations now and then, but he was more of a learn with your body type.

In other words, rather than explaining verbally, he preferred physical demonstrations.

That wasn’t always a pleasant experience for the learner.

Regardless, Enkrid incorporated Shinar’s explanations into his training.

Even his Shackles of Omen proved useful once again.

The sense of evasion—it was an instinct honed by recognizing one’s own survival impulses.

And where did those instincts come from?

From what unfolded before his eyes.

A culmination of sensory data flashing through his mind in an instant—this was what warned him.

That was intuition.

The sense of evasion was, in essence, a technique that harnessed intuition for dodging.

Then what about the fae’s gift?

It wasn’t possible to imitate their racial ability to read emotions.

So Enkrid took a different approach.

He started with his vision.

After learning the Isolation Technique from Audin, he had trained his eyes to assess an opponent’s skill.

To that, he added focus.

He fixated on his opponent, treating them as a single point.

His body, conditioned by the Isolation Technique, remained prepared to move at any moment.

He concentrated on that single point, sharpening his senses like a honed blade.

He saw with his eyes and felt with his senses.

That was the foundation of replicating the fae’s ability.

“You... that thing you’re doing now.”

When he demonstrated the technique before Shinar, the fae was surprised.

His expression remained unchanged, but his pupils dilated ever so slightly—so minutely that one wouldn’t notice unless they focused with absolute precision.

Enkrid himself found it fascinating.

To perceive it, he had to immerse himself even more deeply, fixing his gaze upon his opponent with an intensity unlike before.

Having learned how to expand his One-Point Focus, he had now returned to his original method, but with even greater depth.

“I copied it.”

“If it were something you could copy, we wouldn’t call it a racial secret.”

“Is that so?”

“When you meet the fae clans in the future, you should show them this trick.”

“Meet them?”

“Well, before having a child, you should at least introduce yourself.”

The fae world functioned similarly to a clan society.

He had heard they practiced communal child-rearing, meaning that the village itself—the homeland—was both parent and family.

“Wouldn’t a child of a human and a fae be destined for misfortune?”

“It’s fine. Just surround them with love.”

Enkrid had intended to quip back, but the counter came so smoothly that he found himself laughing instead.

“You laugh a lot.”

Shinar remarked.

It sounded like he meant your smiling face looks good.

Enkrid let the moment pass without much thought.

It was time to focus again.

The fae’s secret technique, at its core, enabled them to perceive even the subtlest shifts in their opponent’s breath, movement, and micro-expressions.

A knight was still human.

He wasn’t a god—he had gaps, however small.

Enkrid intended to exploit those gaps.

‘My body won’t fully recover.’

That meant he had to push through with what he had.

And to compensate for his lack, he would rely on raw strength.

That meant Heart of Might.

The Heart of Might would drive his injured body beyond its limits.

The backlash—the inevitable damage to his body—was a concern he simply couldn’t afford.

If he worried about that, he wouldn’t survive today.

Once all his preparations were more or less complete, Enkrid came to a sudden realization.

There was no need to prolong today.

No, there was no reason to prolong it.

Was this arrogance?

Or hubris?

Or simply an illusion?

He didn’t know.

He wouldn’t, until he faced it.

So he advanced.

Enkrid passed through another iteration of today, then another, until at last, morning arrived.

It was today.

Today was the day that needed to become yesterday.

As he sat up and rubbed his face, Kraiss asked.

“What’s wrong? Not feeling well?”

“I’m not feeling great.”

“What does not feeling great even mean?”

“It means I’m in pain, but I can still move.”

“Ah, got it.”

Kraiss tilted his head, watching his commander’s vacant gaze.

Did he take something?

No, that couldn’t be it.

“We move tomorrow.”

A newfound, unwavering determination flared in Enkrid’s voice.

“Oh, come on. Is there really no priest around? Your head hurts, doesn’t it? You fell headfirst off a cliff while escaping enemy lines, right?”

Kraiss exclaimed dramatically.

Was this guy seriously okay?

“If you fall headfirst off a cliff, you die.”

Even Shinar’s factual remark didn’t make Kraiss drop his suspicious gaze.

Instead of responding, Enkrid moved his body briefly, then lay back down.

It was bizarre.

And it only got weirder for Kraiss.

His commander, who had said he could move, didn’t get out of bed.

He gave orders here and there but barely lifted a finger himself.

“What the hell?”

He could move, right?

So why was the Fairy Company Captain spoon-feeding him porridge?

Dunbakel had tried to help, but her lack of delicacy forced Shinar to take over.

And he kept giving orders, so Kraiss, growing irritated, finally snapped.

“You’re resting.”

“Yes.”

“I mean, you’re resting like your life depends on it! What, do you have an appointment with death? We’re supposed to survive and win, so why the hell are you making people nervous?”

Kraiss’ instincts were blaring alarms.

Who the hell puts this much effort into resting?

Something was wrong.

“I’m training in the art of resting properly.”

Enkrid’s dry sarcasm finally shut Kraiss up.

Saying the right thing at the right time was a skill.

And Enkrid was a master at it.

“Head injury and drugs. No doubt.”

Kraiss muttered to himself.

Until sunset, Enkrid rested desperately—as Kraiss had put it.

It was the process of attaining his best possible condition.

“Is the sun setting?”

“Huh?”

“Go check.”

“Uh… yeah, almost.”

Once Kraiss confirmed the time, Enkrid finally sat up at dusk.

Then, he began heating his body.

He checked his flexibility, tensed and relaxed every muscle fiber.

He adjusted his gear, repositioning his sword belt.

With his physical preparation complete, he steeled his mind.

A single blade took shape in his heart.

Enkrid stared blankly.

He couldn’t quite understand why everyone was acting like that.

No matter how he looked at it, he must have seemed like a lunatic.

He was never normal to begin with, but today, he was even stranger.

“Commander, are you really sick?”

Kraiss finally asked, his tone serious.

Enkrid answered with sincerity.

“No. But I will be.”

Even if he succeeded, there was no way this would end without consequences.

Rip.

Just as Kraiss was about to say something, the tent fabric tore apart.

A man with an unremarkable face and brown hair stepped through.

“My apologies.”

The same opening line as always.

“Just once. That’s the least I can do.”

The same words, spoken in the same way.

He wasn’t seeking understanding.

There was no need for that—it was merely something he said for himself.

Enkrid had been waiting for this moment.

He moved first.

The enemy’s attention turned toward him.

Now, it was time to show them what he had prepared.

***

“Sir Jamal, I ask this of you.”

“Do you understand that this request tarnishes my honor?”

Abnaier struggled to find an answer.

“You know why this shouldn’t be done? No, there’s no way you don’t know.

So you’re asking me to do it despite that?”

Sir Jamal’s words carried weight.

They were sharp, laced with thorns.

Yet, Abnaier grit his teeth.

Even if it wounded his pride, even if it stung, there was no avoiding this.

“Please.”

“This means your ‘request’ no longer exists.”

“I understand.”

Jamal didn’t frown.

He didn’t curse.

There was no need.

This was something that couldn’t be undone.

But that didn’t mean he liked it.

“Once. I will swing my sword exactly once.

You understand that this is my limit, don’t you?”

“Yes. I do.”

Abnaier bowed his head.

Knights were bound by honor.

Their vows and oaths dictated their actions.

But why did they uphold such things?

It wasn’t just for the sake of being honorable.

Practicality played a greater role than mere moral duty.

Will was strength, and to maintain it, what was necessary?

How did one cultivate their will?

There was a knight who had sworn to see the world with only one eye—Sir Luper, the One-Eyed.

Because of that vow, her sight surpassed that of any other knight.

Will was not something tangible.

The moment one doubted it, it weakened.

To reinforce the unseen, a knight needed shackles—something that bound them to their conviction.

Restrictions, vows, and oaths.

That was the foundation upon which knighthood was built.

Oaths made their vows stronger.

And knights clung to honor.

The title of knight would fade if they abandoned their honor.

Could someone who discarded honor ever keep their oaths?

In the end, honor was the cornerstone of their Will.

It was one of the fundamental pillars.

Knights had chosen to uphold it themselves.

Knights fought knights.

And yet, here was Jamal, breaking that rule.

Of course, such ideals could not always be upheld in war.

In the chaos of battle, it was sometimes necessary to charge into enemy lines and cut down ordinary soldiers.

But those were special circumstances.

There were higher principles of honor and loyalty that sometimes took precedence over the rule that knights must only fight other knights.

But this?

This was different.

He knew his opponent was not a knight.

He knew they were unprepared.

And yet, he had to cut them down anyway.

"They might as well call me an assassin-knight."

That was why he despised this task.

And that was why he intended to finish it in a single stroke.

Of course, that didn’t mean he would swing carelessly.

He would strike precisely, at a level the opponent could not defend against.

Even if it was a distasteful job, this was still tied to an oath.

At least one forced promise was removed from my list.

He had always known he would have to do things he found unpalatable.

The only consolation was that this was for Azpen.

Jamal approached the enemy encampment, searching for an opening.

No matter how many sentries they posted, it was impossible to guard every point.

Evading the eyes of common soldiers was a simple matter for Jamal.

By spreading his Will, he could detect enemy positions.

Once inside, the rest was even easier.

Assimilation.

A technique that allowed him to blend his presence into his surroundings using Will.

Sudden, excessive movements would disrupt his presence, and this trick would never work against another knight.

But in this situation, it was the perfect skill.

He couldn’t use his personal engraved weapon for this kind of task.

So, as he passed by an abandoned tent, he picked up a short sword.

It was a terribly neglected weapon.

Even so, he gripped it and scanned his surroundings.

Finding his target was not difficult.

"Just once. One strike."

He would swing his sword with sincerity.

The opponent would be unable to block it.

Jamal knew this better than anyone.

This was simply his way of coming to terms with the act.

If he didn’t, his own unease would hinder his Will’s growth.

"No choice is truly wrong."

He steadied his mind.

He honed his conviction.

Jamal prepared himself.

It was time.

Not all knights were the same.

Back in his days as a squire, Jamal had sacrificed much to obtain what he needed.

Among those sacrifices were the oaths he had sworn.

More precisely, they were contracts rather than oaths.

It was an exchange—he did what was required of him, and in return, he received what he needed.

This was no different.

Rip.

The tent fabric tore as he stepped through.

His eyes scanned the people inside, and then locked onto one.

A face he could never forget.

Even with a messy beard and flattened, tousled hair, there was one man whose face shone.

A stark contrast to his own unremarkable features.

“My apologies.”

Jamal spoke.

His target—Enkrid—showed neither shock nor reaction.

He didn’t say anything.

Instead, he moved.

It wasn’t subtle, but it also wasn’t an outright attack.

It was just enough to be irritating.

There was a hint of killing intent.

Jamal didn’t allow his thoughts to linger.

As a knight, he would simply fulfill his oath.

Even if this was more like a contract than a true vow, it didn’t matter.

He would do his duty.

He had already given his word—once, and only once.

That meant he had given his opponent an opening to escape.

If one person blocked him, he would retreat.

That was his solemn vow.

A knight’s vow.

And with that decision made, Jamal moved.

His first strike was aimed at the heart of the shining-faced target before him.

The heart—that was all he would aim for.

He would leave the face untouched.

For the sake of the man’s comrades.

His mind steeled, his conviction surged.

Conviction became action.

The knight’s hand moved.

The poorly maintained short sword left its sheath.

Ting, tidik!

Even the sound of the blade being drawn was crude and unrefined.

But that didn’t matter.

Jamal was certain.

It was more than enough.