Chapter 675: Stagnant Water

“Samcheol, you ready?”

That was how Enkrid responded to Grida’s challenge, and Grida, watching him, carefully picked her words.

“I told you not to call it that. You seriously sound like a lunatic.”

She was dead serious. It wasn’t even a sentient sword—why the hell did he keep talking to it?

Enkrid didn’t offer a rebuttal. He simply spoke to it because it deserved to be spoken to.

The sword’s name was Samcheol—a masterwork forged with black iron at its core, its edge honed with dusk-gold and true silver.

If only it held Will, it could pass for an engraved weapon.

Not all of Aitri’s creations were like this. Samcheol was special. If Penna fit the hand like a glove, Samcheol felt like an extension of the hand itself.

And so, the sword spoke.

It whispered of how it longed to dance, to play, to sing in harmony with other blades. It begged for motion, for battle. A voice only Enkrid could hear.

Though honestly, he didn’t really hear it.

“Samcheol whispered that he wants to perform a duet.”

“...I normally wouldn’t agree with anything you say, but you’re really starting to look crazier than usual. You do know that, right?”

That was Rem, who had apparently shown up to watch. She had woken at dawn and was still sweating from her morning routine. The biting chill in the wind was finally fading into spring warmth.

The sun was rising earlier now, but dawn training hadn’t changed. The sweat remained the same, day after day.

Grida had come to accept it.

A training addict.

Even within House Zaun, where sword obsession was the norm, he was rare.

Didn’t think the continent would have someone like this.

Now and then, such erratic geniuses surfaced.

The weird part was, despite being clearly gifted, he somehow looked like he wasn’t progressing at all.

Even after two months of sparring, she hadn’t seen a clear change in Enkrid.

There has to be something.

There must be something she didn’t know—he had to have become a knight somehow, and earned everyone’s respect.

As the spring breeze blew, a single strand of chill cut through her chest. Grida felt her muscles tense with anticipation.

Her heartbeat quickened—perfect. The right amount of tension would sharpen her reaction time.

I’ve slacked off too much.

Even while wandering the continent under the pretense of looking for Ragna, she had never stopped training.

But there was a difference between solo drills and training with people who were seriously dedicated.

That’s why I’ve fallen behind a little.

Well, she chose this path—she had to own the consequences. It wasn’t ignorance. And it definitely wasn’t laziness.

She had simply done what needed to be done. The /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ clan head who told her to find Ragna hadn’t even set a deadline—there was meaning in that too.

Eating and drinking while wandering was fun, anyway.

And there had been that one noble who wanted to take her as a concubine after falling for her on sight.

The look on his face after she cut off the wrists of his three guards—priceless.

The man she’d taken as a lover had gone off to find his own path—that too, was now a memory.

Shaking off the fleeting thoughts, Grida asked,

“Did you figure out Zaun’s secret?”

Enkrid nodded, sword dangling loosely at his side. Truthfully, there hadn’t been much of a secret to begin with. Grida and the others had never tried to hide anything.

“What kind of secret is it if you never even tried to hide it?”

“Saying it that way makes it sound cooler.”

Grida bared her white teeth in a grin—clear signs she’d kept up her oral hygiene even while wandering.

As knights rarely fell ill, their teeth rarely decayed either.

They were now gauging distance, eyeing each other, swords in hand.

Not just Rem—Audin had come out too. Rophod and Pell were tying cords around each other’s wrists and ankles, ready to watch.

Lately, they’d started a new type of training: sparring with certain limbs restrained.

Both of them watched the duel unfolding before them and felt a spike of anxiety.

It’s already been two months...

They still couldn’t touch the hem of a knight’s robe.

But that was normal. Even with structured training and optimized methods, no one became a knight overnight. If it were that easy, knight orders wouldn’t be so rare across the continent.

Still, both of them were rising fast.

That was clearest to Magrun, who’d joined the spectators and had recently passed on his observations to Grida.

He saw something in the two of them.

They’ll make it.

Zaun trained knights in a very specific way. And based on his experience, Magrun was confident—what he felt now could be called certainty.

Even the urgency those two felt would become fuel for growth.

That was how Zaun worked too.

Zaun thrives on competition.

And that competition drove ambition. But here, it was even more intense.

The Border Guard trained as if they were trying to kill their recruits. It was the opposite of Zaun’s self-driven training culture.

Enkrid didn’t take his eyes off Grida. She was never an easy opponent, but honestly, she was still a step below Odinkar or Magrun.

That hadn’t changed.

“So, what did you figure out?” Grida asked, stepping slightly to the side. Sunlight spilled past her back, aiming right into Enkrid’s eyes.

He turned a half-step right to shield his vision and replied.

“Constant competition to prevent stagnation.”

He’d observed the three from Zaun, listened to them, spoken with them, and studied their habits. His desire to learn and curiosity had driven him.

It was easier to understand their values through conversation than by mimicking their techniques.

And this is what he came to understand:

Zaun always competed—and at the root of all competition was desire.

If someone asked Enkrid how to cultivate will, he would answer:

“You need passion to pursue what you long for.”

Zaun taught the same. How do you grow will? Through endless burning passion.

That was Zaun’s creed—and Enkrid had seen through to its core.

Because he had talent, he could see it. And those who had that talent were likely the ones who founded the house.

Telling the talentless to rely solely on passion? That wasn’t Zaun’s way. That was a path Enkrid didn’t intend to take either—but there was still much to learn from them.

“They encourage you to become even better at what you already do well.”

Enkrid added, raising his sword tip. He spoke, but his eyes had already scanned Grida’s entire form.

The calculations began—projecting all potential movements and outcomes before the fight started.

Grida stood still and smiled.

“Exactly.”

“Those who fall behind get pushed out.”

Only those who enjoyed the contest would remain. That’s how progress was made.

“Also true.”

Grida nodded.

After Ragna returned, they’d talked about his childhood.

“Ragna? As a kid, you could say he was kind of... lacking. But he had one clear difference—he was alien. His talent was the real thing.”

What others had to grind their teeth to grasp, he did effortlessly. Yet he had no drive. That overwhelming talent was both a blessing and a curse.

“Average talent gives birth to ambition. Excessive talent robs it away.”

That was the conclusion. The elders gave up on Ragna, and Ragna didn’t care.

That was when his laziness began.

“He always found things annoying. But he did like to wander once he went out. Said taking new paths was fun or something?”

Enkrid had never heard Ragna speak his heart in full, but he’d heard things like that.

He wasn’t interested in roads where he could already see the destination. That’s why, when he ventured out on his own, it was genuinely exciting.

If he couldn’t find the way, then every road he met was a new one.

For Ragna, getting lost wasn’t a curse—it was a blessing.

The opposite of talent.

Back then, was Ragna tied down by the family’s expectations? Or was he free to do whatever he wanted?

If what you're good at and what you want to do don’t match—what then?

Enkrid knew the answer. And he respected it.

“Zaun doesn’t care about fighting demons or anything else. We pursue only swordsmanship—nothing more. And we enjoy every moment of it.”

Grida finished.

Yes, that was Zaun’s system.

They weren’t afraid to teach, learn, and grow through competition. They never wasted their power—but simply remained in that space.

“You can call us stagnant water if you want—but to prevent stagnation, most of us go on a pilgrimage across the continent. Some stay behind with like-minded people and leave their mark on history.”

Enkrid had no intention of criticizing them.

Just because you have power—doesn’t mean you have to use it.

If needed, he could enlist their help. He figured that if he offered them what they wanted in return, they’d cooperate.

But he didn’t want to.

Shouldn’t they also be allowed to live the way they chose?

That was his decision—one rooted in his respect for individual will and desire.

A group obsessed solely with swordsmanship.

Burning with passion through competition.

Because of that, they shared techniques openly and taught freely.

Would you sell your soul to the devil for the sake of perfecting swordsmanship?

Zaun might—but they don’t.

Enkrid had heard the answer from Odinkar.

“If I sell my soul, there won’t be a ‘me’ left to train swordsmanship. And I don’t like that.”

Selfish—but fascinating.

“Magrun’s been watching you for two months,” Grida said, lifting her sword.

Enkrid tilted his own in reply. They were both ready.

“Careful, Enki,” she said.

As they moved into position, behind Enkrid stood Rem, Audin, Jaxon, Esther, Shinar, Teresa, Rophod, Pell, and Lua Gharne.

Behind Grida was Odinkar, arms folded, while Magrun sat in a chair he’d brought himself.

Their eyes met.

Was this the same Grida he’d first met in the market?

Enkrid asked himself—and answered.

No. She’s not the same.

This woman had spent two months forging her body like steel—and now she lunged.

Her left foot moved. He perceived her first strike before it even left her hand—his intuition showed it to him.

A step off her left foot into a stabbing thrust. As soon as he recognized it, her sword was already flying—sharper, faster, more precise than before.

Clang!

Her white blade collided with Samcheol and was repelled. No time to breathe. Enkrid crossed his feet and surged forward.

He closed the gap in a flash and swung Samcheol’s pommel toward Grida’s head. An unorthodox move—unexpected.

She blocked with her forearm.

Wham!

The strength gap was obvious. She was knocked back. Had she tried to hold her ground, her arm would’ve given out—so she retreated with the blow.

At the same time, Enkrid calculated dozens of potential follow-up attacks she might use.

And Grida used none of them.

Tap tap.

She stomped twice. It looked meaningless—but to Enkrid, it triggered a dozen follow-up branches in his mind.

Why did she stomp?

To draw his gaze? The start of an unexpected technique? A misdirection? A movement setup? A terrain-based tactic?

Dozens of thoughts flashed in his head in a heartbeat.

If you don’t know, then watch how they follow up.

He flipped Samcheol, changing the direction of the blade.

Samcheol had two edges: dusk-gold on one side, true silver on the other.

Just hearing that might make you think the balance would be a mess—but Aitri had adjusted the black iron core to keep it perfectly balanced.

Still, the difference in blade weight remained—so techniques like this were possible.

He shifted the heavier dusk-gold side forward to add more weight—more force.

He extended his right foot, twisted his waist, transferred power from elbow to wrist, and slashed.

Boom!

The blade exploded through the air, slicing across the space where Grida had stood.

She rolled sideways and dodged.

Of course, she didn’t stop there. As she rolled, she slapped the ground with her left hand and launched herself up—then struck her own chest with her sword-bearing right hand.

Thwack!

The sound echoed—she’d hit herself hard.

Why?

Why that movement? Was it to prepare for an attack? Had she lost her balance?

No.

She repeated the same motion a few more times—until Enkrid tripped over his own foot, staggered—and Grida lunged, driving her sword forward.

Clang!

He blocked it, but blood poured from his nose.

“Fun, right?”

Grida asked, watching him.

Even as the world spun around him, Enkrid replied,

“...Yeah.”

Tracing back the sequence, it wasn’t hard to figure out what she had done.

A chain of unpredictable movements meant to break the opponent’s calculations.

That was the answer.