Chapter 435

Enkrid had experienced halts in his life so many times, anxiety was no longer part of him. He simply acted.

He ran, leapt, and climbed the mountains.

Lua Gharne never left any tool unused.

That included people—she used whatever and whoever she could. He was just one of them.

Just yesterday, Enkrid had fought Dunbakel, Teresa, and Rophod.

He thought they’d refuse to fight him three-on-one out of pride, but all three accepted without hesitation.

Lua Gharne taught them a formation to fight together without tripping over each other.

That alone was enough to prevent Enkrid from easily gaining the upper hand. Their coordination was viciously efficient.

Dunbakel circled the battlefield, exploiting her speed and nimbleness to strike only when she saw an opening, while Teresa pressed forward relentlessly with her shield from the front.

Her blinding techniques had grown more refined, and her overall proficiency had improved, making her even more formidable.

And beside them, Rophod swung his sword with stubborn strength.

It wasn’t the style of a heavy blade. He fought with calculated intent, weaving strategy into every swing.

At times, Rophod would swing not at Enkrid but into empty space. But when there was no other place to dodge, Enkrid would be forced to deflect that blade anyway.

That created a gap—and into that gap, Dunbakel’s curved blade would fly.

Enkrid found himself catching glimpses of Rophod’s talent.

Calculating moves in the middle of a three-on-one fight?

That kind of instinct would shine brightest when commanding a small force.

And indeed, Rophod was awakening to that very talent.

He was beginning to read the flow of battle from above, as though watching from high ground.

A skill not only useful for small unit tactics, but potentially applicable in solo combat too.

It was textbook orthodox swordsmanship. Lua Gharne spoke of feints and pressure, but Rophod drove his opponent back by faithfully swinging his blade.

Exceptional.

Enkrid recognized Rophod’s talent.

And Lua Gharne had noticed it long before him, awakening it with just a few words of advice.

One might expect to feel the bitter gap between talents laid so bare—

But Enkrid didn’t even flinch.

He was too busy gasping through daily training to worry about such things.

Even Dunbakel had improved dramatically, though no one could say how.

She fought with two curved blades, her claws, and her whole body—killing techniques using every limb.

It was combat born of instinct.

But her strikes were not mindless—they were calculated even in chaos.

Messy, yet near impossible to guard against.

In any case, yesterday he’d barely held his own against the three of them.

And today, the challenge took a different turn.

“Have you ever fought a mage before?”

Before Enkrid could even answer Lua Gharne’s question, a woman stepped out from behind Frokk—long black hair and nothing but a thin robe draped over her shoulders.

Of course, it was Esther.

“Is it necessary to improve swordsmanship?” she asked in return.

Enkrid paused, then said, “Maybe so.”

Honestly, he ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) had no idea. But he figured he’d gain something out of it.

Seeing everything in the world, making a teacher out of whatever lay before him—this was Enkrid’s greatest strength.

Esther didn’t say no.

She blinked her large eyes a few times, brushed her hair with one hand, and raised the other.

“Then let’s do it. Drumuller’s Scythe.”

As she spoke, she extended her thumb, index, and middle fingers in a seemingly meaningless gesture.

At the exact same moment, Enkrid drew Acker and swung.

Clang!

A blade of compressed air flying toward him shattered the moment it met Enkrid’s strike.

He felt a subtle shock run through his arms. Like blocking a warrior’s full-powered slash.

It should’ve been alarming, but Enkrid didn’t waver. The moment he blocked it, he reversed and pushed forward.

His feet kicked off the ground, his body trailing afterimages.

If you weren’t a knight, even tracking him with your eyes would be hard.

“Beware the serpent.”

Esther’s voice pierced his ears during that momentary gap.

No—her voice echoed in his whole head.

He couldn’t ignore it.

It was strange. He was charging with laser focus, and yet her voice rang out vividly beside his ear?

And with it came an illusion: Acker in his hand transformed into a snake, coiling up his arm.

The vision vanished in a blink.

That was the result of his instinctive will to reject it.

Clang!

Enkrid’s sword was stopped—right above Esther’s outstretched palm. A mage’s barrier.

How to break it?

He’d already experienced this once—when he cut down the Count.

Raise the sword straight up, then bring it down with a heavy blade-style vertical slash.

Put intent into the cut. Ragna’s strikes were like thunderbolts—Enkrid’s wouldn’t reach that level, but they would echo it.

“It’ll be blocked,” Esther warned, her hands shifting without rest, weaving new shapes in the air.

As her fingers traced several sigils, barriers overlapped above her head, binding Enkrid’s blade.

“Roita’s Clinging Web.”

Any passing mage who saw it would have screamed.

Esther had completed the spell first and chanted the incantation afterward.

A technique few mages dared attempt—delayed invocation.

In short, Enkrid was utterly outmatched.

The saying, “A prepared mage is more dangerous than a knight,” existed for a reason.

Esther had just proved it.

The Count’s spells were massive and overwhelming.

And because Enkrid had once cut through ten thousand wraiths, he had assumed he held the advantage against magic.

He was wrong.

To be fair, Enkrid didn’t know just how remarkable a mage Esther really was.

Especially in one-on-one combat—Esther was already at a level few could hope to reach.

That Galaph fellow, the water mage from Azpen, would’ve run the moment he saw her if Esther had been in top form.

Even so, Esther felt genuinely threatened by Enkrid three separate times.

For her, that was saying something.

But Enkrid never realized it.

“Another round?” he asked.

He just did what he always did.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

“As many as you like,” Esther replied with an easy nod.

He wanted it, so she gave it.

She didn’t hold back. That day, Enkrid broke his left arm and had to cut his hair short after it was singed.

“That suits you.”

Lua Gharne, with her impeccable eye for aesthetics, approved of Enkrid’s short hair.

Through all of this, Enkrid didn’t experience any dramatic leap forward.

But just changing his perspective yielded no small gain.

“When fighting a mage, even speaking gives them the first strike,” Esther advised him afterward.

Enkrid absorbed every word.

Of all the things he did well, learning from someone and truly digesting it was among the best.

So he did.

Esther smiled. Enkrid saw it and said:

“You really shouldn’t smile at people like that.”

Come to think of it, she was just as stingy with smiles as Shinar.

“Why not?” Esther asked.

“If you looked in a mirror, you’d understand. With how much shows through that thin robe, I’m surprised you don’t tear out men’s eyes on sight.”

“I know. That’s why it’s a weapon. The moment someone loses themselves in my face, they forget I’m a mage.”

Where does strategy begin?

Enkrid had a new insight.

If beauty could distract an enemy’s focus, wasn’t that a valid weapon too?

It matched the logic behind Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.

“Impressive,” he said.

“My face is always impressive,” Esther replied, smile gone, taking his words at face value.

He’d been talking about the strategy, not her face—but Enkrid didn’t correct her.

To an outside observer, their conversation might have seemed cold and clinical. But to the two of them, it was the warmest exchange they’d shared.

Esther acknowledged it, too: she had become part of this group.

“What about that soldier?”

At the end of the sparring match, Enkrid asked.

He’d seen Esther call over a soldier now and then, instructing him on something, and finally decided to ask.

“He has talent.”

That was all Esther said.

Enkrid didn’t press further.

It wasn’t that Esther intended to raise a disciple.

Her first reason was to refine her own understanding through teaching.

The second was more practical: it was clear that if left alone, the soldier would end up dabbling in magic and eventually blow himself up.

Might as well steer him toward something useful.

It was a reasonable thought—one born from watching Enkrid and his behavior over time.

Must a mage be narrow-minded?

Not anymore, Esther admitted.

She had lived a life of seclusion, research, and inner struggle—but she had learned a great deal simply by observing others and keeping people nearby.

In fact, it had helped her more than she ever expected.

“Right, don’t kill him.”

Rumors had gone around that Esther used soldiers as sacrificial offerings, so Enkrid added the remark.

“If he dies from bad luck during training, so be it.”

She said it plainly, because she knew just how perilous the path of magic could be.

Enkrid could tell there was no malice in her words, and he nodded.

She had no intention of sacrificing him, that much was clear.

Of course, a few soldiers who’d seen the strange symbols marked on the friend Esther dragged off had let their imaginations run wild in fear—

But any mind that fragile would shatter just as easily on the battlefield.

Enkrid wanted to forge strong soldiers.

So they would have to overcome petty rumors like these.

And so, sparring with a mage became part of Enkrid’s routine.

“What would you do if your opponent used feints and pressure?”

Lua Gharne began sharing her experience through every stage of the process.

She had spent over a hundred years chasing battle, probing its unknowns, and studying its depths—this was the insight of Frokk.

“Feints and pressure aren’t everything, but if you can pull them off, no illusionary blade style beats them.”

“They break too easily against a straightforward strike.”

“Then account for the opponent’s brute strength. Brother, it’s even better if you can deflect and twist it.”

—Feints and pressure can work visually as well. If the opponent’s sensitive enough, pure intent is enough.

Ragna’s thoughts eventually crept into Lua Gharne’s lessons. Audin chimed in too, and even Jaxon, despite being busy, left a scribbled note.

Rem, surprisingly, kept quiet most of the time.

Enkrid absorbed experience from Lua Gharne.

And from the others, he learned how to overcome that experience.

More importantly, he put it into practice—again and again.

“It would’ve bored me before, but now it’s tolerable.”

Even Ragna offered what passed for praise.

Gone was the Enkrid who couldn’t reproduce a technique even after being shown.

His body, trained through isolation techniques, had grown sturdier than ever.

Just from the way he stood—legs spread, spine straight, evenly distributing weight—you could see how far his balance had come.

In short, Enkrid had become a quasi-knight capable of withstanding the thunderous sword.

Lua Gharne hadn’t planned everything, but the time, experience, and training she’d given had been a great help to him.

His skill hadn’t skyrocketed overnight, but his perspective had expanded. His thinking had changed.

Naturally, this had an effect on others as well.

Rophod in particular had broken through a barrier under Lua Gharne’s guidance.

Rophod had always been born with a talent for this.

He might not see a move ahead, but he could push his opponent into traps with his swordplay.

There was an old saying passed down across the continent.

Is it best to predict a move ahead?

Or is it best to make even that move fall within your plan?

These were the two philosophies behind orthodox swordsmanship.

And Rophod was clearly aligned with the latter.

“Not bad.”

Enkrid said this after one of their matches, and Rophod nodded with a satisfied look.

He’d been acknowledged by the one he most wanted recognition from.

How could he not be pleased?

Yet Rophod displayed not joy or thrill, but calm satisfaction.

Frokk enjoyed observing people, especially those with charm. To like someone meant you could read their expressions well.

Lua Gharne saw it—deep, genuine satisfaction on Rophod’s face.

And in that moment, she understood the single greatest difference between Enkrid and everyone else.

He never felt satisfaction.

“One more time.”

He said that more than anything else during training.

He might enjoy a moment, might even feel exhilaration—but never contentment.

Would he stop if he became a knight?

Not a chance.

Lua Gharne knew the world of knights. Even within that world, there were levels. Ragna alone was proof of that.

Among knights, he’s still at the starting line.

Sure, he was better than those who’d lost their way.

But outstanding talent?

At the level of a knight, talent was no longer the deciding factor.

By the time you were at the top of that world, comparing talents was almost laughable.

Everyone was so skilled the word “genius” didn’t even apply anymore.

From that point on, what mattered was effort, direction, enlightenment, and an iron will.

The world of knights was vast.

Lua Gharne understood that.

Just look at the knights of Naurillia.

What about that knight from the western kingdom?

And the Mercenary King, Anu?

All of them were walking disasters. Ragna had risen to a similar level, and even the fairy looked close.

But they still had gaps to close.

Becoming a knight wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.

Most quasi-knights who failed to cross that wall never understood this.

At least, that’s what the seeker Lua Gharne believed.

A knight’s power, if treated as the destination, became a mirage you’d never reach.

In that regard, Enkrid didn’t worry her.

That man, consumed by greed and ambition, showed no signs of stopping.

“What a waste of talent.”

The thought came naturally.

What if that man had exceptional talent?

Even just a bit more than ordinary—just a sliver above average?

He didn’t have to be a genius.

Just that much?

Or if he simply had more time than others.

What if a day for one person was a week for him?

Foolish fantasies. Wishing for what could never be was a waste of time.

And it was even dumber to think that way after seeing Enkrid.

The man who swung his sword one more time instead of wasting time thinking.

Lua Gharne believed this man would become a knight.

It wasn’t even a hope. It was a certainty—one that needed no justification.