Chapter 671: Not at Night

Contrary to Kraiss’s worries, no fierce battle broke out that night.

Both sides had already fought once. They understood: unless they risked their lives, they couldn’t truly gauge victory or defeat.

“Just because we had the upper hand once, doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way.”

That was said by the friend who had nearly died at Rem’s hands. Though his appearance was unremarkable, the glint in his eyes betrayed sharpness. Enkrid had heard his name—Magrun Zaun.

His facial features resembled Odinkar’s, even if their hair color differed. If Odinkar gave off a languid impression, Magrun was the complete opposite—tenacious, unyielding. It was just a feeling, of course. Not perfectly aligned with personality, but close enough.

These people weren’t the type to hide their true selves. Enkrid had seen enough of the fairies' society to know. In a world without lies, they had no need for deception, and so they never learned to mask their thoughts.

“Zaun grows through constant competition. Unlike you, who complacently offer the weak as sacrifices.”

Magrun continued, scanning the group. His sharp eyes and upright posture screamed defiance. A statement: just because Rem had beaten him didn’t mean that was the end.

And he wasn’t wrong.

He was addressing the usual continental attitude toward knights—how they were treated with too much care, like valuable weapons never meant to clash.

Knights didn’t duel other knights. They were too valuable. Kingdoms across the continent honored their knights, respected their will, and avoided unnecessary risk. To let them spar with each other, only to risk injury or death—it was considered a loss.

Magrun’s words directly challenged that. He condemned the complacency of knights who stopped striving the moment they achieved their rank. His voice was fervent.

Rem, however, didn’t even flinch.

What the hell is he rambling about?

To be fair, Magrun’s words didn’t really suit the Madman from the Border Guard. The people here were the kind that bloomed on the battlefield. The kind who stood tall in the middle of carnage, with blood raining down, whispering through blades instead of tongues, greeting tomorrow with death on their heels.

Especially Enkrid—it was almost a miracle that he was still alive and talking.

That’s how Rem saw it. Audin and Jaxon would agree.

And right then—

Magrun snorted and pointed straight at Enkrid.

“So you all gathered to teach him, huh? His talent must’ve been special. Did he savor that privilege? Did he walk a path laid out for him? Is that how he got here?”

His words were burning. His tone reeked of certainty. He said it because he believed it.

Enkrid snapped out of his thoughts and looked at Magrun—specifically, at the finger pointed at him.

This was a declaration. Magrun’s words were like a sword strike, as if he were channeling Will himself.

“Did Ragna lead you all? Was it just luck that got you here? Wait and see. I’ll catch up to you in no time. It won’t even take two months.”

Pell had gone with Enkrid to the fairy city, fought demons, battled cultists, and witnessed everything that happened since.

“...What the hell is that idiot saying?”

Pell muttered.

“You’ve got no right to talk,” Magrun shot back, without even glancing at him.

Pell bristled, but Rophod caught his arm.

Rophod’s expression remained neutral, but his tightly sealed lips said enough—he wasn’t pleased.

“...It’s not like he’s wrong though.”

Rophod spoke almost like a challenge, but there was no malice. Pell knew that.

Instead, they ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) clenched their jaws and silently agreed—they’d raise the intensity of their training under Audin by at least two levels starting tomorrow.

Was Enkrid’s plan really the fastest path? Maybe not. Maybe not even the right one.

But there was no better method right now. So they’d follow. That was what they’d learned by watching that man.

Don’t overthink. Move forward. If you’re going to collapse, at least fall while looking ahead.

That was what they would do—just as they’d been taught.

In that moment, Pell and Rophod were of one mind.

Idiot. The people here caught up to their commander in just fifteen days. And you think you’ll do it in two months? You think they’ve just been lazing around since then?

Magrun stood tall and proud. It wasn’t arrogance. It was confidence built from real experience.

“Fed and raised without ever facing real competition...”

His tone was grating—no, blatantly provocative.

Even before he finished, all eyes turned to Enkrid.

He stared silently at Magrun. Everyone waited for him to speak. Surely it was time—whether to beat the fool down or shut him up with words.

“Two months, huh?”

Enkrid asked flatly. He didn’t sound offended.

If anything...

Why does he sound so pleased?

Rem tilted her head. Jaxon’s eyebrow twitched.

“Brother?”

Audin called out, but Enkrid held up his palm to stop him.

Pell, Rophod, and Teresa all looked on, wondering what was going through his head. Lua Gharne figured it out first.

He’s excited.

And the reason wasn’t hard to guess. Those idiots could fight well. That was enough.

“I’ll give you two months. Prove yourself and leave.”

Enkrid said again.

Magrun was different from Grida. He knew his flaws. He had a nasty habit of ticking people off whenever he opened his mouth.

Grida refused to admit she couldn’t recognize faces, but Magrun made no such excuses.

So this treatment... was new.

Why isn’t he mad?

Usually, people would bring up their credentials and claim to be insulted, demand apologies.

That was how it went.

“...Yeah. Two months is enough.”

The fire in Magrun’s voice cooled slightly.

“Anyway—Kraiss? Where’d Big-Eyes go?”

Enkrid changed the subject mid-thought.

“He slipped away earlier.”

Lua Gharne answered.

“Then Rophod.”

“Yes.”

“Find rooms for these three.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rophod bowed and walked off. Magrun didn’t take his eyes off Enkrid. Grida and Odinkar looked at him, surprised.

“Alright. You said your name was Odinkar? Let’s have a match.”

Enkrid spoke like he didn’t care about anyone else’s reaction.

Odinkar had a similar temperament, but he at least had a sense of social awareness.

“Now?”

He asked. He wanted to fight. His instincts were pounding in his chest.

Still—wasn’t this the part where you got pissed off? Why was he gripping his sword like a kid with a new toy?

“I haven’t broken this one in yet. I’ll be ready to spar with it by tomorrow. For now, I’ll use this.”

Enkrid didn’t even hear anyone else anymore.

Grida Zaun had a talent for identifying weaknesses through observation.

Enkrid had noted her specialty. She likely had more hidden talents, but that was the clearest one so far.

He was curious about Magrun’s ability too—but the guy was injured.

“Pell, go bring Anne. Get him treated.”

Enkrid said without taking his eyes off Odinkar.

Knights didn’t heal like normal people. With the right medicine, that kind of injury would be gone quickly.

Some could even mend broken bones in a day. That’s the power of Will—it acted like vitality itself.

Trying that before becoming a knight required brutal regeneration techniques.

That’s what Enkrid and Audin had done in the past.

“You excited because you’ve got a sparring partner? Or is it because you wanna beat someone up?”

Rem asked, reading Enkrid’s mood.

“Both, probably,” Jaxon replied.

“Oh Lord, was my brother the real apostle of the god of war?”

Enkrid heard it all. As usual, he let it wash over him, giving only the faintest nod of his sword.

Odinkar drew his blade again. Ching—the silver gleam shone as it came free.

He wasn’t the type to hold back. No, if anything, he was notoriously bad at self-restraint.

Odinkar took a few breaths, rehearsed the words in his mind, and finally said:

“I’ve got a bit of an advantage. This sword’s from my family, been trained with it for years. And I’ll say this now—I don’t really know how to stop once I start. I’m not very patient. So if this gets rough, good luck staying alive.”

If Grida was face-blind and Magrun had a gift for pissing people off, Odinkar lacked self-control.

Most of the time, he was chill... because once he got going, he couldn’t stop.

For example, if he happened to taste a dish he liked, he’d eat only that one thing for an entire year.

And during duels?

It was the worst.

In real battle, that reckless edge could turn into brilliant improvisation. But in sparring? Not so much.

Still, Enkrid didn’t mind any of it. Or rather, he didn’t think it was worth worrying about.

Can’t recognize faces?

Whatever. Better than getting lost and going missing all the time.

Rude mouth?

Kind of cute, really. Sometimes Rem talked in ways that made Enkrid wonder if he should offer prayers for her enemies.

Rem’s tongue was getting sharper by the day.

And self-control?

Why hold back?

He had people who could take his blows. People who would outpace him and tell him he wasn’t there yet.

So why should he hold back?

“Come on. Two months.”

Enkrid didn’t even bother recalling the guy’s name.

“I am the two months,” Magrun mumbled, confused. Grida let out a soft snort of laughter.

Everyone got it now. What the madman really wanted.

“You get told you’re weird a lot, don’t you?”

Odinkar asked, lowering his sword.

The Zaun family had a reputation across the continent: most people thought they were peculiar.

That was the polite way to put it. Behind their backs, everyone just called them lunatics.

But here stood someone even worse.

“Nope. Never.”

Enkrid didn’t even acknowledge it.

“You’re definitely weird.”

Odinkar laughed. He didn’t bother picking his words this time. He just said what he felt.

So... do I really not need to hold back?

Everyone stepped back, clearing space for the duel.

Lua Gharne, backing away, suddenly realized—

Enkrid wasn’t excited just because the guy could fight. Something else was stirring in him.

Curiosity.

Enkrid had a dream. He had passion. And now, that passion had a focus.

Frokk’s defining trait was curiosity—the urge to know.

Know what?

The Zaun family trained knights through a structured, codified system. A legitimate knight-training method.

Enkrid wanted to understand that too. That was why he asked them to stay.

Ragna’s absence had made for a convenient excuse. Magrun’s “two months” nonsense was another excuse.

It was all just excuses.

Even without them, he’d have made them stay.

Lua Gharne was certain.

Meanwhile, a smile crept across Enkrid’s face. A clear look of satisfaction.

He’d already spotted Odinkar’s weakness. The guy had said it himself—he had no patience.

“Do you have a lover?”

“...What?”

“If so, my condolences to her.”

“Why? You planning to kill me?”

Odinkar smirked at the jab. But Enkrid wasn’t one to joke clumsily.

“No. You said you lack patience, right? I just pity whoever ends up with you. Her nights must feel endless. Most of them, she probably falls asleep... unsatisfied.”

He phrased it just ambiguously enough that everyone had to mentally replay it.

Odinkar did too. When he finally caught the meaning, his face turned red.

“I’m not like that at night!”

And with that shout, he lunged forward—fast and deadly.

Break his composure—that was the key. Enkrid gently brought Penna forward to meet him.

He executed a move from the Balafian style—Body Flow, transferred through the blade. With just the right wrist angle and body movement, the force was deflected.

The weapon was just an extension of the hand.

He’d named this move Feather Drift.

Still operating off instinct and core techniques—by Enkrid’s standards, this was mid-tier.

Victory wasn’t always determined by technique level. Especially not in a spar.

The Wavebreaker Sword Style shined brightest in duels—giving Enkrid an edge.

Clang!

Their swords met. Lacking voices, the blades sang through the ringing of steel on steel.

Clang! Boom! Shing!

And so the two blades began their marching symphony.