Chapter 430

It had been a long time since the sword in his hand had felt so heavy.

During the first year after he started wielding a sword, it had always felt heavy. Swinging around that solid chunk of metal just a few times made his arm muscles tremble, and the sharp pain between his thumb and index finger lingered all day.

Even a wooden sword used to feel heavy back then.

And now, this was many times worse than that.

Heavy.

It felt like dozens of iron weights were hanging from the blade.

If he so much as loosened his grip, the blade seemed like it would drop straight down and bury itself in the ground. The muscles in both arms trembled violently.

It was hard to believe. With all the training he’d done with Audin, his physical strength was never something he’d thought lacking.

But now, there was no time to think about that.

Every ounce of his attention was focused on enduring the weight of the sword. There was no room in his mind for anything else.

So heavy.

It felt like he’d drop the sword at any moment. Even lifting the tip slightly felt as difficult as crossing a winter mountain in nothing but bare skin.

The rain that had soaked his body for a moment earlier had already evaporated from the heat of battle, but sweat had started pouring soon after, soaking Enkrid’s entire body again in no time.

Sweat streamed down his face. Droplets ran off his chin, falling to the ground without pause.

It’s really heavy.

At this rate, he’d naturally drop the sword. It was a miracle he had fought while holding something this heavy.

He hadn’t even had a chance to catch his breath since earlier. His breathing was ragged, like he’d been running nonstop all day.

The sweat flowing from him only increased, drenching his entire body. It felt like he’d stepped out of a bathtub fully clothed.

Still, the hardest part of it all was the chunk of metal in his hand. The famed blade Acker, which had once felt perfectly molded to his grip, now squirmed like a snake trying to slip from his fingers.

Why does it feel so heavy?

He didn’t know. All he had done was block the other’s spear.

It was around then that Anu approached and whispered to him, while Enkrid endured the weight of the sword.

To Enkrid, the time spent holding up his blade felt long, but in reality, only a brief moment had passed.

Just enough time for a few words to be exchanged.

“Can you withstand the weight? The Bull’s a bastard that loves to pass on its burden.”

Enkrid couldn’t fully grasp all the implications in the king’s words, but there was one thing he did understand.

“If you let go, that’s your limit. And if you die, then what you want will never come true.”

Saying he must die wasn’t about death itself—it meant he had to run with death always by his side.

Even without the king’s words, Enkrid already felt it.

That he must not let go of what he held in his hands.

There was only one thing he knew for certain.

Enkrid thought he might drop the sword—but he also knew he wouldn’t.

If I were the type to drop it just because it’s heavy...

Then he never would’ve dared take a step toward an impossible dream in the first place.

“You want to become a knight? Then go see much, experience much, and build up everything you can. All of it will help you on your path.”

The king continued. Vague words. At least, that’s how they sounded to Enkrid in that moment. But Anu’s tone was filled with warmth.

“If you don’t forget what you carry in your sword, the path will open.”

Those few words stuck in Enkrid’s mind. Even as sweat poured and the blade tip trembled, he remembered them.

“I’m in your debt.”

The king gave his shoulder one final pat, then left.

Enkrid saw the tip of his sword droop slightly from where he stood.

Not even the Will of Rejection, nor the Heart of Might, nor the Beast’s Heart, nor One Point Focus, nor the techniques of refined senses and isolation—

None of it helped him simply hold the sword in this moment.

The Bull had made the weapon in his hand feel impossibly heavy.

It was a mystical feat performed through Will.

Even as Enkrid realized that, he still raised the tip of his sword.

Just because everything he had learned failed here didn’t mean the resolve he’d forged inside him would break.

If he were going to give up, he never would’ve started.

The sword tip slowly rose. At last, he fully lifted the blade—and in that moment, the weight vanished.

The extra burden placed by the king’s Bull disappeared.

And only then did Enkrid realize it had torn open the palm of his hand. Red liquid streamed from the hand holding the sword.

The leather-wrapped hilt of Acker was darkened with blood.

It was the wound caused when the Bull’s horns first clamped down on Acker’s blade and tried to wrench it from his grip, and he had endured it.

You could say it was the price of withstanding a weapon meant to disarm a knight.

Realizing that, Enkrid stumbled and collapsed.

“You really are an idiot.”

Someone caught his body and spoke. It was Esther’s voice.

And with that, Enkrid lost consciousness.

***

Enkrid dreamed. It had been a long time.

Not the dream of the Ferryman—an actual dream.

“You plan to live off swordplay? Give it up. You’ll die young.”

“Even the gifted ones don’t make it past fifty in the mercenary trade.”

This was before he even got a chance to fully voice his dream. These were the words of those who told him to throw away his dinghy before even attempting to sail the sea of dreams.

That little boat had holes in the bottom.

It couldn’t move forward.

Your oars are broken and rotting.

You can’t go forward.

Your boat is made of fallen leaves. You plan to cross the sea with that? It’ll sink even on a lake or river.

So you can’t go forward.

Everyone said the same thing.

Outside of his platoon, Enkrid had only ever seen two people take his dream seriously.

Frokk Lua Gharne wasn’t one of them.

She had judged it impossible—but felt something mysterious upon watching Enkrid accomplish it anyway.

Crang.

One was the friend seated on the throne of Naurillia.

Upon hearing Enkrid’s dream, he said he had found his own path.

And the other was the king of the East.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

It was a brief time, but through sparring with him, Enkrid had refined what he had.

The strange thing was, he had thought he’d hear countless remarks about his lack of talent during the duel—but the king of the East never said such a thing.

Back when he lacked the skill to overpower his opponent, more than half the people who came to hear his dream spoke only of his talent—or lack thereof.

Now, they couldn’t say that, because his swordsmanship was above theirs.

But the king had both the position and skill to speak of Enkrid’s talent—or absence of it.

He could’ve lamented it or been surprised, but he remained calm.

Rather, before leaving, the king said,

“Don’t forget what you carry in your sword. The path will open.”

It was support. It was faith.

Enkrid ignored all the voices of those faceless figures behind the veil.

The dinghy made of leaves, the rotting oars cobbled together—they had become a caravel crafted from waterproofed oak. The oars were now sturdy planks, carefully planed.

With that ship and those oars, Enkrid saw the markers and the road ahead.

What must I do to become a knight?

As everything around him blurred, a knight of Azpen appeared.

“If you block me once, I’ll let you live.”

Is that what he said?

Perhaps not. But this was a dream. The words didn’t matter—the meaning did.

All that mattered was that he had to block it once.

The knight of Azpen swung his sword.

A strike that was nothing but speed and strength.

Blocking was impossible, so Enkrid struck first.

The knight stepped back for the sake of his honor.

Using that single blow as a baseline, Enkrid honed countless techniques—slashes, thrusts, cuts.

Afterward, Enkrid also recalled the various techniques the king’s Bull had shown him.

The king of the East had shown the art of wielding Will itself.

If he had truly tried, he might’ve killed Enkrid easily.

Enkrid had no intention of dying easily, of course—but the reality was what it was.

He had forgotten that dying only reset today again and again.

And then—

“You bastard.”

The Ferryman tore into the dream from the side.

He, too, was part of the dream.

Enkrid ignored the Ferryman and sank deeper into thought, and there, he found a small revelation. A signpost pointing vaguely toward the road.

Different.

The king of the East and the knight of Azpen had walked different paths, and their techniques followed different arcs.

They were fundamentally different. Vastly different.

With that final thought, Enkrid opened his eyes.

A faint ache pulsed through his whole body, and his hand throbbed.

When he lifted it, he saw it was wrapped in thick bandages.

He saw the dim light of the lamps, the darkness outside, and a figure seated on the chair beside the bed.

“Shinar?”

“You said my name—now all that’s left is the wedding ceremony.”

A whimsical pixie-style joke echoed in his ears.

Enkrid didn’t laugh. Instead, he asked. Pixie jokes were hard to laugh at.

“What are you doing?”

“Admiring.”

There was no need to ask what she was admiring.

With one leg crossed, her elbow resting on her knee and her chin propped on her hand, she was simply watching him.

“You really do collapse the moment a fight ends, don’t you?”

Shinar added.

Enkrid shrugged like it was no big deal.

“I’ll be able to show you something interesting once I get up.”

“What do you mean?”

Still seated, Shinar showed a faint smile—one she would never show to anyone else.

With that smile, she uncrossed her legs and lowered her arms—and drew her sword.

She thrust.

The speed and angle were utterly incomprehensible.

The blade pierced Enkrid’s heart from outside his field of perception.

He felt like he was about to cough up blood. Every muscle in his body tensed, momentarily dulling the pain of his aching limbs.

Death stood before him.

Was this it? Would he die with his eyes open?

No, it wasn’t.

“Well?”

With Shinar’s voice, the sword that had pierced his heart vanished like grains of sand.

She had merely relaxed her arms while sitting, legs now uncrossed.

It had all been an illusion.

No—an overwhelming aura that presented a reality that could have happened.

“What was that?”

“Did you think I stayed away from your side for no reason?”

Even with her usual pixie joke, Enkrid grasped several truths all at once.

He had already experienced the overwhelming force of a knight twice before—so now, it was easier to recognize.

What Shinar had just shown him was a knight’s true might.

From the side, a leopard approached and curled up against Enkrid’s chest.

It seemed to be telling Shinar to leave now, that it had seen enough.

“I’ll be waiting for you to recover.”

Shinar said.

Enkrid’s heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to ignore the full-body muscle aches and leap up to grab his sword.

He wanted to take on Shinar’s real blade.

Thud.

Esther slapped his chest with her paw.

As if to say, don’t be stupid.

“I know.”

Enkrid answered.

He knew. He couldn’t fight like this. Even a sparring match was out of the question.

So, holding back was the right thing to do.

Instead, he’d focus entirely on recovering. And once he could rise and raise his sword properly again, he’d take on Shinar himself.

“What do you think? Of your fiancée.”

Shinar asked. Her smile had vanished without a trace.

Enkrid couldn’t help but answer.

“She’s the best.”

“Good.”

The pixie rose quietly. With her ever-faint presence, she slipped out of the tent.

Creak— the hinge’s scream marked her departure.

“You’re not sleeping? You wake up from passing out # Nоvеlight # and start a whole ruckus.”

“Ugh… I finally get to sleep in a tent again, and this is what I wake up to?”

“Pray. Your recovery will be quicker if you do.”

“Snnnrk.”

Rem, Kraiss, and Audin spoke, followed by Ragna’s snoring.

Ragna usually didn’t snore unless he was really exhausted. Whatever happened must’ve been enough to lull him into a snoring slumber.

“How long was I out?”

“Half a day, give or take.”

“You should sleep more. Don’t ignore the warning signs from your body, brother. Rest and calm down.”

Rem spoke, and Audin chimed in.

Esther smacked his chest again—rest, it meant.

She wasn’t wrong.

Enkrid thought for a moment, then closed his eyes.

He figured he could probably fall asleep quickly. Drowsiness was already creeping in.

From the side, Jaxon silently approached and placed a small jar of ointment next to the bed.

“For your wounds.”

He said and returned to his seat.

So you actually came back to the tent today, Enkrid thought vaguely.

Dunbakel, Teresa, Pell, and Rophod had different quarters, but the four of them stood watch in front of the tent like sentries.

Enkrid wasn’t aware of that as he drifted back into sleep.

***

Since joining the Border Guard, Esther had been away from the tent frequently.

If Enkrid had paid more attention, he might have noticed—but he had been completely absorbed in swinging his sword.

Same as always.

Esther wandered the Pen-Hanil River, the surrounding lakes, mountains, and forests.

Partly to restore the damaged magical realm from her battle with the Count.

And while she was at it, she also repaired that Bonehead she’d obtained earlier.

She even summoned a few spirits she had contracted with in the past.

“Do you take me for your next meal, ghoul?”

Along the way, she ran into a few clusters of ghouls.

Kraiss’s expanding guard posts and patrol plans had one downside: the monsters scattered across the land were now being driven together.

Weak solitary monsters couldn’t survive anymore—so those with a shred of survival instinct banded together.

These ghouls were one of those packs.

Monsters that once wouldn’t have dared make eye contact now bared their ugly fangs without fear.

Even though Esther hadn’t studied necromancy, she could’ve turned a few of those ghouls into her minions with little effort.

But there was no need.

No—doing so would’ve been beneath her.

That’s not raising your level. That’s lowering it.

With that thought, Esther waved her hand and summoned flames.

She roasted six ghouls on the spot.

Grrrrhhhkkk.

Their bodies ignited and writhed, turning into charred meat with a sickening stench.

I really do work hard, don’t I.

Esther understood why.

The man beside her kept struggling forward without pause. To stand by such a person, she couldn’t afford half-hearted resolve.

If all I do is recover my former strength, I’d be a disgrace to the title of the Witch Who Fights.

So she would go even further.

She had a good opportunity.

By scouring the inner Pen-Hanil Mountains for ruins and monsters, she could refine what she had—and perhaps find new insight.

If Ragna was a genius of the sword—

Esther was a genius of magic.

She knew the path she needed to take. She could immediately distinguish what was useful and what wasn’t the moment she saw it.

She knew what would help her go further.

Ah, you fool.

Esther thought to herself as she recalled Enkrid collapsing before the so-called King of the East.

He would keep moving forward.

He’d keep running into twisted demons and counts, and tangled with sorcerers.

That was just the nature of his path.

She would clear the obstacles born of magic that appeared before him.

That was how Esther intended to prove herself.

After all, even though the Witch Who Fights had given her body to this group, if she proved completely useless—

That’s something I cannot allow.

It was a matter of her very existence.

Still, Esther was curious.

Would Enkrid actually achieve what he longed for?

What kind of road was this man walking?

Where would it end?

She hadn’t felt curious about those things—not even when she looked at the King of the East.

So Esther wandered the mountains, refining her magic and organizing which of the six branches she’d learned in the tower were most useful.

And on her way back to the unit—she spotted a soldier.

She didn’t know his name.

But the soldier was rolling dice, unknowingly moving mana as he did.

It was magical talent.

Esther had been about to pass him by, then changed her mind and approached.

“You. You’re coming with me.”

Interest? No.

It was for herself.

Teaching is a form of learning too.

Her teacher had said that—and her own experience confirmed it.

So she did it.

The soldier, known as the Border Guard’s top gambler, only blinked in confusion.

“...Huh?”

“If you don’t come, I’ll give you a fate worse than death.”

Esther did what she always did.

And the soldier, knowing she was the magician rumored to be Enkrid’s lover, didn’t bother resisting.

Whether the soldier was a squad leader or not—transferring one lower-ranked soldier wasn’t something Enkrid needed to worry about.

That was up to Commander Greyham, who oversaw the Border Guard’s strength.

And Commander Greyham handled it just as expected.

“A soldier? Squad leader? She took one low-ranked guy? Let her. She knows what she’s doing.”

That’s what he said when someone told him either Esther—or the leopard—had taken the soldier.