Chapter 433

The madman, both a wanderer in search of dreams and a lunatic in pursuit of purpose, had met three knights.

The first was a knight of Azpen.

All of his techniques were fast and powerful.

Even knowing them wasn’t enough to block them.

No—now, perhaps he could block a half-hearted strike like that, even if it wasn't sincere. But back then, that’s how it felt.

His overall physical abilities felt like they belonged to someone from a different plane. His sword strikes reflected that.

The next knight-level warrior he encountered was the Mercenary King, Anu.

He never showed everything he had. What he revealed was only the barest fraction.

And the Mercenary King was a beastkin. The techniques he showed were without even transforming.

Even so, Enkrid learned much—because Anu fought as if he were showing things one step at a time.

What he had demonstrated was mastery.

His spear would fly in from unimaginable angles with movements that defied comprehension.

The last was standing right before him.

Drawing back the black sword that had just struck.

Ragna’s sword was a one-hit kill.

A blade that existed solely to kill.

It embodied the essence of heavy sword technique.

Not all knights were the same.

What was it that the Mercenary King had referred to as "experience"?

Where did this difference originate?

“From honing what you have.”

If you believe the path you’re on is right, then instead of looking back or hesitating, you take even one step further.

The king’s words remained vividly in his mind. His teaching had been clear.

The moment Enkrid realized that, he understood something for certain.

Talent—heaven—would never grant him what he wished for.

A genius among geniuses.

One in ten thousand.

And from among that ten thousand, only one more would be chosen—and that was a knight.

“So what?”

Would anything change because of that? No. It was no different than usual. It had always been like this.

There was never permission.

Not from the heavens, not from talent, not from anyone. But what if you still found a way?

This was one of those ways. Enkrid felt like he understood it. He saw the thread. So he smiled, and without thinking, words spilled from his mouth before they passed through his brain.

“Again.”

His arms trembled. If he didn’t brace his core, he’d be pushed back. It felt like trying to withstand a hurricane without even a walking stick.

As if he’d climbed a glacial mountain peak without so much as a scrap of clothing.

No, that’s not true.

He did have a walking stick, and even if it was nothing but a rag, he wore something wrapped around him.

Enkrid steadied his mind.

Everything he had built up until now—that was his clothing and his walking stick.

For someone who couldn’t believe in themselves after all they’d built, there was no tomorrow.

So, it began with believing in himself.

That, too, was part of what the Mercenary King had meant.

Walking the path you believe is right. Not turning away from what you've built.

Enkrid smiled as he looked at Ragna, then asked with his eyes:

Do you think this ends with just one swing?

Ragna assumed his stance as if it were only natural. The black sword, Darkyung, rose vertically from the earth as though splitting the sun with his own body.

He intended to repeat the same move.

An unblockable attack, even if you knew it—recreating the exact feeling Enkrid had felt when he first saw the knight of Azpen.

***

Ragna had held back, and even then, this was the result.

The black lightning fell three times, and Enkrid blocked all three. Or rather—it was more accurate to say he withstood them.

His right arm nearly suffered muscle rupture, and his left almost broke.

“That crazy bastard…”

Rem, who had watched to the end, was about to voice that thought but stopped. His throat suddenly itched, and he raised a hand to scratch it—unable to speak the sarcasm aloud.

“Well, even I…”

Even he couldn’t go easy after watching someone like Enkrid.

His arms were shaking uncontrollably, yet he still tried to lift his swords. His body wobbled like it would collapse any moment, but his eyes hadn’t died.

Could anyone really half-ass it against someone who fought like he was burning his entire soul?

Even Spenadul—that lazy bastard who’d smoke a cigarette with his own asshole—had held back a little.

If Ragna had pushed even a bit harder, both of Enkrid’s arms would’ve been shattered.

So calling him a brute was hard.

“Haha, our lazy brother seems to have had quite the epiphany.”

Audin offered pure admiration. It wasn’t every day you got to see knight-level swordsmanship.

Even Audin himself wouldn’t be able to do something like that just by releasing his binding seal.

He, too, would need time to adjust.

Or grueling training.

But it wasn’t unreachable.

Rem and Audin remained composed.

But the others did not.

Enkrid was surrounded by people bursting with talent.

Rem, Jaxon, and Audin were special—but the rest weren’t exactly ordinary either.

Teresa half-lidded her eyes, deep in thought. She kept replaying what she had just witnessed.

That was lightning. Black lightning, falling as an unstoppable hunk of metal—a natural disaster.

“Could I block that with a shield?”

What if it were an unbreakable shield? Could the arm holding it withstand the blow?

Even with her half-giant body, that thought crossed her mind.

Teresa clenched her teeth. Her jaw muscles tightened, and a long mark formed along her cheek.

At the brink of despair—

She saw Enkrid collapse from pushing himself too far, unconscious.

But seeing him there, something else welled up instead of despair.

“I can do it too.”

It was the will not to give up, combined with the unwillingness to lose.

Dunbakel and Rophod felt the same. Everyone was lost in thought.

Lua Gharne’s eyes glittered—and then, tears spilled from them.

“What’s that Frokk crying for?” Rem asked.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

“Looks like he’s overcome with emotion, savage brother.”

Audin was right. Lua Gharne felt something swell inside her chest.

She was so overwhelmed with emotion she couldn’t even open her mouth. Frokk’s glistening fingers trembled faintly.

“How can someone do that…?”

She had seen Enkrid’s growth. But she also knew how poor his talent was.

Frokk’s raw instinct and Lua Gharne’s personal experience had shown her, again and again, the limits of Enkrid’s capabilities.

And yet, he still pushed forward.

Lua Gharne witnessed something greater than a lack of envy.

Even if the heavens didn’t permit it—even without talent—he would push on.

That was brighter than a falling star, hotter than roaring flames.

It was pure will.

“There was never permission.”

Enkrid had declared that with his entire body—and then proved it through his actions.

Lua Gharne opened her mouth.

“He’s going to become a knight.”

It came out of nowhere, but no one objected.

The Mercenary King hadn’t left something with Enkrid because he was sure of it.

What he left behind was more of a gift, something given to a man who dared to place dreams in his sword.

And now—

Frokk, who always recognized reality and sought the unknown, felt a certainty so powerful that reason no longer mattered.

That man—will become a knight.

Frokk was moved. Everyone else was deep in thought.

So it was only natural that the one most shocked was Bell.

“What… is that?”

He had never once thought he’d lose to anyone in terms of talent. Why would he?

He came from the Shepherds of the Wastes. Everyone there was a monster.

Even now, if he drew the Idol Slayer and charged in, there were still elders he couldn’t defeat.

But that had been fine. He might lag now, but he would catch up quickly.

Yet seeing what had just happened—his confidence was chipped away. What he thought was a solid mountain crumbled like loose soil in the wind.

“Was my talent… actually worthless?”

Bell was so shocked, he couldn’t move.

***

If both arms were wrecked, then the only thing to do was train the lower body.

“You really don’t know how to rest. Good attitude. The faster your blood flows, the quicker the recovery.”

If a properly trained physician had heard that, they would’ve called it madness.

When inflammation occurs, rest should come first—not overexertion.

But no such physician existed here, and Audin wasn’t wrong either.

Enkrid’s body wasn’t weak enough to break from something like this.

Thanks to the Isolation Technique and the regeneration-focused Divine Body, his body had become specialized for recovery.

It took exactly seven days for both arms to fully heal.

And exactly a week later, Enkrid picked up his sword and called for Ragna.

“Quit being lazy and get out here. Today I’m going to fix every bad habit you’ve got.”

The directionally-challenged swordsman, swinging his sword more diligently than ever in the middle of the training ground, turned his head and answered in a calm tone.

“I’ll come out even if you just ask to spar normally.”

Enkrid scratched his cheek, feeling just a little embarrassed.

“It’s a habit.”

A habit that had formed from calling out people like Rem. Habits like this didn’t disappear in a day.

After all, saying something like “You crazy savage bastard, get out here, I’ll break that nose of yours,” wasn’t really an insult—it was just how he asked for a duel.

“This time I’ll come at you like this.”

So said Ragna, raising his sword so that it was horizontal to the ground.

Where before he had struck vertically, this time it meant he was going to swing laterally.

If the last attack had felt like a black lightning bolt falling from the sky, this one felt like a castle wall collapsing.

It wasn’t faster than before, but there was nowhere to dodge. It felt like a giant boulder rolling straight toward him.

It was as if he were saying, this is what a knight’s strike looks like.

This time, two of Enkrid’s ribs cracked.

But he didn’t die.

A few days later, once the pain in his side was gone and he was back to normal, Shinar returned. Seeing Enkrid sweating in the training yard, she made a rare expression.

Only her left eyebrow rose slightly, but Enkrid knew that was her sign of surprise.

“Looks like you’ve been far away.”

“Did you miss me? Your beaten-up fiancé.”

“Did you learn that modifier from Audin?”

“I’m a bit old to be learning from anyone.”

Enkrid nodded and raised his sword.

He hadn’t forgotten what Shinar had shown him when he collapsed.

If it hadn’t been for Ragna, he probably would’ve spent every waking moment wondering when she would show up again.

Shinar smiled.

A fairy’s smile—one she only showed to Enkrid.

Enkrid wasn’t affected by the charming magic of her otherworldly beauty.

The smile vanished as Shinar suddenly closed the distance.

Boom!

Maybe it was thanks to Ragna.

Her attack was slower than the Black Lightning, and easier to block than the sweeping blow that felt like an entire wall was crashing down.

Instead, her sword moved like a butterfly.

He blocked it, but it curved around and dropped from above. When he barely blocked that, it circled around and stabbed at his stomach.

Somehow he managed to block and evade her strikes.

Even though he wasn’t letting his guard down, a blade he didn’t even see suddenly went for the back of his head.

She was swinging from the front—so how could there be a blade behind him at the same time?

It was a skill she’d shown once before.

The fairy clan’s secret swordsmanship, drawn from the essence of the forest.

“There’s nowhere to escape.”

Shinar’s voice reached him.

And once again, Enkrid smiled.

He had no intention of dodging.

He twisted his body sideways, blocked Shinar’s sword Naidrel with Acker in his right hand, and drew Gladius in his left to parry the invisible blade.

Flick—the invisible sword dispersed powerlessly, but he hadn’t fully blocked Naidrel.

A few scratches appeared after several more attacks like that.

Of course, he lost. This time, he nearly got a hole stabbed ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) into his thigh.

“If she stabbed just a little higher, you’d be a brand-new lifeform—neither man nor woman.”

So said Rem, cracking a joke as he watched.

“I nearly made a serious mistake.”

After the duel, Shinar showed a moment of reflection.

“It’s fine.”

Enkrid didn’t care.

From there, a routine that was both ordinary and extraordinary began.

One day sparring with Ragna.

Another with Shinar.

In between, he learned various techniques from Rem.

He’d hang out with Audin, and if Jaxon didn’t look particularly busy, he’d cling to him too.

“Lethal Thrust isn’t about making it unblockable once it’s seen—it’s about thrusting so they don’t even notice it.”

It wasn’t something he had to learn, but knowing more techniques was always helpful.

That was why he kept learning and mastering new things.

The fairy’s blade wasn’t visible, but it was caught in his net of senses.

“So the ultimate goal is to thrust so that it can’t even be seen or felt?”

It was a secret of the fairies that he’d intuited.

A realization he came to just before Shinar demonstrated it again.

Repeating these days, repeating this training—that was Enkrid’s forte.

He practiced writing letters with his left hand, sharpened his reflexes by dodging daggers Jaxon threw at him.

It was the same day, over and over, to the point of tedium—but Enkrid just kept at it.

It wasn’t hard for him.

That’s how time passed.

And then—the Ferryman appeared in Enkrid’s dream.

Not because he had something urgent to say, but to nag: asking if these boring days were really fulfilling, and if not, whether it wouldn’t be better to just stay in the comfort of today.

But before he could say any of that, Enkrid spoke first.

“When does the ill omen arrive?”

Eyes that burned—he’d seen them many times. The world where the Ferryman lived was a mental realm.

That blazing gaze meant the soul itself was speaking.

It was a question asked with everything he had. A desperate plea was visible in his eyes.

The Ferryman couldn’t tell him that the one who brought the omen—the one who cursed the world—had already screamed and died.

Nor could he puff out his chest and declare, be careful.

Enkrid, still unaware, asked again.

“Is it right in front of us now?”

It sounded less like hope and more like desperation. The Ferryman couldn’t answer.

“Or is it coming tomorrow?”

Enkrid asked again.

The Ferryman cursed silently.

“Persistent bastard.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything that would damage his pride, so ever since their connection had formed, he simply sealed off the dream without a single word.

And so, Enkrid woke up having met only a silent Ferryman.