Chapter 378

‘How did he achieve such delicate movements?’

In his memory, Shinar swung his sword. His footwork was light as a butterfly. The Leaf Blade he wielded moved just as lightly.

Despite its broad, leaf-shaped middle, it fluttered as though weightless.

Watching the blade dance like a drifting leaf, it seemed as if there was no force behind it at all.

But facing it in battle was an entirely different experience. The strikes carried undeniable power. Enkrid knew this well—he had fought against it himself.

How does he do that?

To execute something with precision, one must apply force. Yet, such movements were only possible when that force was absent.

He understood the mechanics, but whether his body could actually replicate them was another question entirely.

‘Is this a path I don’t know?’

No. He knew it already. He had learned, trained, and endured countless hardships, imprinting these skills onto his body.

“There isn’t just one way to exert force. Without precision, the Isolation Technique is meaningless.”

Audin had once said that muscles come in different types.

There were large muscles, but also smaller ones that controlled fine movements.

By training and retraining those smaller muscles, Shinar had achieved that level of precision.

Enkrid needed that, too.

“If you sharpen your senses, you’ll be able to feel it.”

Jaxon had repeated the same words countless times. Taking that to heart, Enkrid half-closed his eyes and began swinging the weapons in his hands.

He traced an imaginary line in the air and swung his sword toward it with exacting precision. It didn’t work perfectly at first. That didn’t matter. Enkrid repeated it.

It was similar to training where one would draw a target on a tree and strike only that mark. However, compared to wildly hacking at a large target, this practice—what he called "Meeting the Sword Tip"—required an entirely different level of precision.

If he were to use Naurillia’s military ranking system as an analogy, this was the difference between a bottom-tier soldier and an elite warrior.

And his opponent’s sword wouldn’t remain still.

‘Aisia never stays in one place.’

She was always shifting, stepping, turning, adjusting the angle of her blade.

The answer became clear—he needed the precision to pluck a moving bird’s feather in flight.

To achieve that, he had to train so that the tips of his swords would meet with pinpoint accuracy. Enkrid sank into deep concentration, immersing himself in the sea of repetition.

Then, voices interrupted him.

“A barbarian like you has no business interfering! Go suck on goat’s milk!”

The third training session of the day wasn’t all that different from usual. However, the moment the situation escalated—the meeting with the magistrate—was entirely unlike before.

When Enkrid turned his gaze, he saw Rem grinning as he gripped the handle of his axe.

“Goat milk, you say?”

Ah, there was no stopping him now.

Enkrid realized this and hesitated for a moment before stepping forward.

The magistrate was desperately trying to restrain the situation, while the South Gate Captain stood in his path with unwavering resolve. Whether it was due to loyalty, lack of thought, or blind confidence in his own strength, one of the soldiers drew his sword and slashed downward.

“You bastard!”

The shout rang out as the soldier swung his sword at Rem’s head.

Just before the blade could touch his hair, Rem moved.

With a light step, he kicked off the ground and leapt to the side.

The descending blade slashed through empty air, and in that instant, Rem spun his axe mid-air, changing its direction before swinging it.

Thunk!

A sharp sound echoed. Instead of a lethal slash, it was a blunt-force strike using the backside of the axe head.

The soldier’s abdomen caved in momentarily before returning to shape. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it was far from a light tap.

“Guhh!”

The soldier who took the hit was launched through the air.

‘That’s going to hurt.’

Enkrid knew it well—he had taken plenty of hits himself. That wasn’t the kind of strike one could shrug off. If Audin’s hammer was something one could endure, this was a force that could shatter bones and rupture organs if taken wrong.

The soldier crashed to the ground, rolling over before vomiting onto the dirt. Tears and snot dripped down his face, and his vomit was tinged with blood.

He retched, his eyes rolling back before he collapsed, unconscious. He had been struck in the stomach, but the sheer force had knocked him out.

Rem snorted and muttered under his breath.

“Weak.”

Though spoken softly, the sheer power behind his single blow had silenced the entire crowd. His voice may have been low, but it was clear as day.

The magistrate’s mouth hung open in shock. Then, gritting his teeth, he spat out his next words.

“...Treason!”

If left alone, Rem would unleash a massacre. And with Ragna and Jaxon standing behind him, they were more likely to join in than stop him.

The moment the magistrate finished speaking, Enkrid moved. Once again, he had to intervene.

With a push off the ground, he leaned forward, closing the distance. He struck the back of the neck of the man blocking his way.

The soldier had been staring at Rem in stunned disbelief, his grip tightening on his spear at the mere mention of treason.

His hands, with veins bulging, were impressive. But his body was frozen.

Not that it would have mattered even if he hadn’t been.

Crack!

The impact sent him collapsing to the ground with a groan before he could even register what had happened. Before his body could hit the dirt, Enkrid spun and used the momentum to bring his palm down onto another soldier’s helmet.

A loud boom rang out.

“Urgh!”

The soldier’s legs gave out beneath him like a limp octopus, and he crumpled to the ground.

His brain was rattled. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

These were the two who had been blocking the path between Enkrid and the magistrate.

Enkrid grabbed the magistrate’s ankle as he sat on his horse. The magistrate looked down at him in horror.

Their eyes met, and Enkrid gave him a pleasant smile before yanking.

Crunch!

“Aaaagh!”

The magistrate’s opposite foot was caught in the stirrup, twisting as he was pulled down. A moment later, his leg snapped.

It was the same move Dunbakel had demonstrated before.

As the magistrate dangled half out of his saddle, Enkrid struck his head with his elbow.

Thud. Crack.

The crunch of a dislocated neck echoed, but he wasn’t dead.

All of this had happened in the span of a single breath.

Hiiiii!

Only then did the horse rear in panic, but Enkrid had already stepped back, avoiding its hooves.

The squire standing behind the magistrate was gripping his half-drawn sword, his eyes wide in shock.

Next to him, the captain of the watch merely rested a hand on his blade, frozen in place.

“You could’ve just killed him, you know.”

Rem muttered casually.

Enkrid, still gazing at the unconscious magistrate slumped over the horse, furrowed his brow.

“What was his name again?”

“I believe it was Pullman Vertes,” the watch captain replied hesitantly.

“If we’re done here, we should get going.”

Enkrid spoke, and the squire opened his mouth as if to protest—then closed it.

What could he even say in this situation?

Silence followed. The soldiers had nothing more to add. The watch captain saw no reason to step in and get his own leg broken.

The stillness after Rem had sent the soldier flying was even heavier now.

“I think you’re worse than me. I should hand over the ‘Noble Hunter’ title to you.”

“You can keep it.”

Rem joked, and Enkrid dismissed it just as easily.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The unmistakable sound of hooves pounding at full speed rang out, followed by a desperate voice.

“Help me!”

The words were wrenched from deep within. The voice was familiar—expected, even. This was the third time it had happened.

It was Marcus.

Enkrid effortlessly moved through the ranks of soldiers blocking his way, climbing onto the wall.

No one dared to stop him. In fact, they stepped aside.

Rem followed, and Dunbakel leapt up beside them.

“Rem.”

Enkrid spoke while watching Marcus flee for his life. A peculiar pursuer trailed him.

“That’s the Undying Madman. We lost him before, but he’s been lurking here all along.”

“I’ll go beat the crap out of him.”

“Go.”

Enkrid’s response was immediate, and without hesitation, Rem dashed forward.

Kicking off the wall, he soared unnaturally high, landing on the roof of a nearby building.

Simultaneously, he drew a throwing axe and shouted.

“You bastard! Try running this time!”

There was no waiting in ambush. The pursuer turned immediately, and Rem welcomed it.

Chasing down prey was easy. What he wanted was to hunt them down to the end.

It was an instinctive thrill.

“You lunatic.”

Rem, who had just been called a lunatic by the Undying Madman, shut his mouth and leapt forward. His body soared over rooftops and walls before landing on the ground. He shot forward with terrifying speed, and the so-called Undying Madman fled just as quickly.

It didn’t take long for both figures to vanish from sight.

From atop the wall, Enkrid turned his body slightly and raised a hand.

“I’m heading to the palace. Who’s going to stop Viscount Mernes’ army in the meantime?”

He simplified what Squire Rophod had said earlier.

What was bound to happen would happen.

Rophod’s feelings mirrored that sentiment.

What did the words of the man sitting on the wall truly mean?

Why was he standing here in the first place?

“Ragna, Dunbakel.”

Enkrid saw the change in Rophod’s eyes and called for the two.

“Understood.”

“Hrgh, fine.”

Both replied, and just as Marcus began explaining that something had happened at the palace, a group of assassins arrived.

“Stab…”

They had perched themselves on the wall again, as if honey had been smeared on it. The white-haired, monocled assassin in the center opened his mouth to speak.

Enkrid didn’t wait.

There was no point in talking.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Timing was everything, and the difference in skill was plain to see. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, leapt onto the wall, and slashed downward.

A fleeting thought crossed his mind as he swung his sword.

‘Has my sword become more precise than before?’

He didn’t know.

He couldn’t physically sense any changes yet.

From the assassin’s perspective, something suddenly flew at him—a blur descending in an instant.

He had no time to dodge. The sword claimed his head.

Crack! Crunch!

The blade split the assassin’s skull vertically. His severed head burst apart, brain matter and blood splattering onto the ground.

Enkrid, having finished off one, jumped back.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Three daggers and five darts embedded themselves where he had just been.

Predicting the attack, he dodged effortlessly and spoke.

“Just so you know, I was stabbed. So the job was done. It hurt, it really did. That was the contract, wasn’t it? Look, I even have a scar.”

He raised his left arm as he spoke. His forearm was protected by a bracer, of course, so no scar was visible.

“That crazy bastard…”

One of the assassins muttered.

“Your insults lack originality.”

Enkrid replied indifferently. He had a natural talent for getting under people’s skin.

“You—!”

His opponent burned with rage.

Assassins specialized in killing from the shadows.

They slit throats, stabbed, and poisoned. They didn’t engage in verbal sparring.

They had rarely—if ever—been provoked like this.

Which was precisely why it worked so well.

Regardless of their skills, Enkrid had stolen every assassin’s attention.

With one swing of his sword and a few choice words, he had turned the tide.

By the time they realized it, Jaxon had already vanished. No need to tell him what to do—he would handle it on his own.

The white-haired, monocled assassin ground his teeth and shouted.

“Our cover is blown! Everyone, respond!”

Enkrid’s reactions had been too fast. So fast, the assassin was convinced he must have known in advance.

And then there was what he had said.

Stabbed? Where? The assassin thought for a moment and grasped the meaning.

He was talking about a contract.

They had been hired to kill him, yet he claimed he had only been stabbed. And why complain about the lack of creativity in insults?

It was all nonsense.

He just wanted to fight.

Of course, all of this was only happening because Enkrid had lived through this day before. But the assassins couldn’t know that.

Enkrid observed their coordinated movements.

They had trained for years.

In any situation, their tactics were the same.

Some would throw projectiles. Some would retreat. Some would use poison.

Meanwhile, Jaxon had changed slightly each time throughout the three days of repetition.

At first, he had charged in wielding a longsword. This time, he sprinted across the wall, drawing two stilettos.

Blood sprayed from their sharp tips.

Four assassins had already fallen to his blades.

Enkrid found it fascinating.

The enemy’s responses remained the same, yet Jaxon’s actions shifted each time.

‘Is he adjusting to my movements?’

It was just a hunch, but it felt right.

“Take him out first!”

This time, the order didn’t come from the white-haired assassin but from another. They were referring to Jaxon.

He was too dangerous.

Enkrid stepped aside and called for One-Eye.

“Give me a ride.”

He dashed toward the mansion gates. One-Eye ran alongside him, while Marcus sat on horseback at the entrance.

Enkrid gestured for him to stay mounted. Marcus obeyed and rode up beside him.

It was the third time today.

Enkrid decided this was a better approach than keeping him hidden.

Most of his choices mirrored the first day, but nothing could be perfect.

He always sought the best possible outcome, yet despite the repetitions, today was still today.

‘Perfection is impossible.’

He understood that.

So, he accepted it.

“Where can I hide?” Marcus asked.

“Take care of yourself. The lord is trapped in the palace. The knights seem to have mobilized.”

“Wait, you know?”

“...What?”

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Marcus’ voice faded beneath the pounding hooves.

He quickly veered off to the side.

He really did plan to hide on his own.

In the brief moment of reprieve, he tore his shirt and bound the wound on his arm.

It wasn’t a life-threatening injury.

Enkrid sprinted down the outer road toward the palace, vaulting over obstacles.

“Wow.”

One of the soldiers gawked as he passed. Enkrid kept running, leaping off One-Eye’s back at the perfect moment.

He practically floated through the air before landing smoothly. One-Eye’s eyes widened as if to ask, You can do that?

“Thanks.”

Enkrid gave a curt response before striding into the palace.

Then, as if drawn by fate, an old enemy appeared.

“You—”

Thud!

Before the man could finish speaking, Enkrid burst forward with Will and beheaded him with Silver.

The severed head crashed against the pristine white palace wall.

With a dull thud, blood splattered across the surface.

Before the man’s companions—masters of spewing nonsense—could react, Enkrid was already upon them.

Like a lone wolf tearing through a flock of sheep, he stabbed and slashed, cutting them down.

After briefly speaking with a maid, he stormed further into the palace, where a figure with bright orange hair awaited him.

“Alright, this is as far as you go. Let’s begin.”

Enkrid spoke while sprinting.

Before Aisia could respond, he leveled his sword.

Sword-tip precision.

He swung toward the very end of her blade.

The battle’s beginning and its conclusion were unchanged from before.

He had yet to surpass Aisia.

The only difference was that the man he had seen on the first day never appeared again.

Instead, after defeating Enkrid, Aisia immediately turned away.

“I have something to confirm.”

And then she left.

And never returned.

After that, it was repetition.

And more repetition.

Enkrid kept doing the same thing.