Chapter 676: Interpreter Shinar

The Zaun were a twisted and re-twisted lineage.

They had strength but chose not to use it. For them, anything was acceptable if it served the purpose of refining their swordsmanship.

Among the things Grida once said, one line stood out.

“If you trace the predecessors of our predecessors, you’ll find our beginning. I heard it all started with someone who lacked something and picked up the sword to fill that void.”

There was no need to ask what that lack was. It all ended in the sword.

For example, how does a man overcome the pain of unrequited love after being rejected by a woman?

If you were Zaun, the answer would be: swing your sword.

What about a child who lost their parents? How do they resolve that longing and grief?

Again, swing the sword.

There was once a child who constantly got lost. That child longed for the right and proper path.

His talent pushed him forward so that, at the very least, he never lost his way with the sword.

His desire to find the right path manifested through swordsmanship.

A child who couldn’t remember faces grew up to possess a talent for memorizing techniques.

Grida had a near-perfect memory—only when it came to swordsmanship.

So—

“Oh, Roni? What brings you here?”

That she misnamed Kraiss was not unusual. If you understood her—if you understood the Zaun family—it was to be expected.

“Why do you keep getting my name wrong? Are you picking a fight?”

Kraiss grumbled, and Grida would simply smile and reply,

“Sorry. I never crossed blades with you.”

If they had sparred, she would’ve remembered him through the sword. Without that, she couldn’t recall faces.

Could you say that filling a void through swordsmanship made any sense? To others, it was madness. But to them, it was natural.

Because there was one final piece that made it possible:

Talent.

Those born with talent gathered and twisted themselves into obsession, devoting everything to mastering the sword.

That was the Zaun family.

Anyone who could read a fight immediately saw through the trick Grida had pulled.

Even Enkrid, who had just experienced it firsthand, knew it.

A tailor-made counterattack.

It wasn’t far from what Shinar had done.

Shinar had found a way to counter the Wavebreaker Sword.

Grida had brought something that overturned “calculation.”

A counter-technique that shattered just one technique.

“I’ll show you the result of two months.”

This was what Magrun had meant earlier.

Anomaly.

A string of meaningless actions meant to disrupt the calculations.

She was supposed to stomp the ground and dash out, but her movements didn’t connect.

She turned her back, thrust her sword under her arm, slapped her thigh for no reason, and shook her head left and right—some of it had meaning, some of it didn’t.

Because the flow of movements didn’t match, the calculations inevitably became distorted.

It’s fun, though.

This wasn’t to win. It was purely to break a technique.

They twisted calculations and then used even those twists as swordsmanship.

Aren’t they hilariously entertaining?

But had they considered the Wavebreaker Sword too? After all, it was also a product of thought.

What happens if someone keeps applying pressure like this?

It still wouldn’t work against the Wavebreaker Sword.

It would just result in two parallel lines moving forward together.

Wavebreaker was a purely defensive sword. In terms of sustainability, it was unmatched.

Though born of cognitive training, its essence was still defense.

Magrun and Grida both knew this.

So, if the Wavebreaker Sword appeared, they wouldn’t engage.

They enjoyed breaking techniques and found swordsmanship fascinating.

Odinckar, watching, began bouncing his shoulders, clearly amused.

Enkrid adjusted his stance.

Grida knew how to strike at weaknesses. That was her specialty.

“Again.”

Enkrid spoke as he looked at Grida. He raised his sword above his head, lifting both arms and exposing his chest, sides, and underarms.

Grida spotted several weak points.

Her body moved on instinct.

She just had to lower the sword tip and stab in.

But despite knowing this, Grida couldn’t do it easily.

Why?

Because of the sword Enkrid held above his head.

If I move in, I’ll get hit.

Grida pulled back her sword. A split-second decision. Her blade caught the sunlight and gleamed white as it turned vertical, pointing straight down.

Enkrid changed the form of his calculation—from sustained to instantaneous.

If defense blocks waves, then offense flashes in a single instant.

That’s how he defined swordsmanship.

Zzzzt.

He slid forward without lifting his feet. Dry earth puffed up beneath his boots. If the left foot went forward, the right was sure to follow. He claimed the distance he wanted.

“Don’t block it!”

Just before the strike, Odinckar shouted. Something foreboding moved his lips.

Magrun watched with wide eyes.

Rem, Audin, Ragna, and Jaxon all stepped forward at once.

Still, they were too late.

Zzzzt—!

Enkrid scraped his right foot across the ground diagonally forward, rotated his blade, and pressed the flat side with his index finger. A “thumb grip.”

Then he swung.

In that single moment, he calculated every defensive motion Grida might make.

His tri-iron sword struck Grida’s vertical white blade and passed through.

BOOM!

A deafening crash. Grida let out a stifled grunt.

Enkrid had executed an upper horizontal slash.

Its strength? Even if blocked, it could shift immediately from an overhead posture to a thrust.

And that’s exactly what he did.

He rotated the sword over his head, batted Grida’s white sword to the left, then slid his blade down, using the cross-guard to pin her sword and stabbed.

The force made Grida’s knees buckle halfway. Everyone watching could almost see a gaping hole appear in her skull.

But it didn’t happen.

Enkrid had stopped the sword in time.

“...I really gotta pee.”

Grida muttered.

Enkrid looked toward the shadow cast behind him.

“If I meant to kill, it wouldn’t have been a horizontal slash—it would’ve been a diagonal cut followed by an upward slice.”

“I didn’t stop you for a reason.”

Rem added a needless comment.

Odinckar had already stood, blade drawn.

The situation was clear: Enkrid won. Grida lost.

She exhaled and let go of her tension, collapsing to the ground.

A laugh tinged her voice.

“Hey, you’re supposed to fight with insight all the way to the end.”

“We never agreed on that.”

“True enough.”

Grida nodded. Enkrid smiled and sheathed his sword.

“It looked fun, but not exactly meant for sparring, huh?”

Ragna, watching, spoke.

“And that’s your comment?” Rem snapped at him.

Meanwhile, Rophod, who had barely managed to absorb Enkrid’s technique, was deaf to everything else.

Inspiration had descended and settled into his head.

If your calculations are read, what will you do?

Enkrid had shown the answer.

Change the form of your calculations.

What if you had several different types?

Not all calculations follow the same format. That was the realization.

It wasn’t intentional... or maybe it was. Maybe everything he’d been taught until now was for this moment.

He just hadn’t expected to change this much in one spar.

Rophod, newly enlightened, began slicing the air with his palm.

Pell, watching, almost said something but held back.

Now wasn’t the time to interrupt.

Especially not someone with less talent than yourself.

Pell’s pride, as the shepherd of the wastelands, wasn’t that small.

He held his tongue.

Enkrid, meanwhile, looked off to one side.

“Tch. I lost.”

It was Magrun.

But not because of what he’d just said.

Though he’d been sharp-tongued these past two months, he had softened a bit.

Sometimes, he even treated Enkrid like an old friend.

“Magrun.”

Enkrid called to him.

Magrun smiled and opened his mouth, but then furrowed his brow and grimaced before coughing—blood.

His chest was soaked in red.

Odinckar silently sheathed his sword and moved beside him. Grida retrieved her sword and stepped back.

“Hm. Of all times for the curse to act up.”

Grida muttered.

Enkrid looked for Esther, then at Rem, then back.

Esther had been gone for two days searching for starlight or something. Rem only twitched his eyebrows.

“Hurk!”

Magrun coughed again, thick clots this time. Then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed.

Odinckar caught him with one arm.

“What curse?”

Enkrid asked, eyes on Magrun.

Grida scratched near her lips.

There was no urgency in her tone.

If this had been her first time seeing someone cough up blood, she wouldn’t have been so calm.

“It’s the kind of curse that hits a few people if they’re unlucky. Sometimes they live, sometimes they don’t. Usually, they just slowly suffocate... and die.”

She spoke flatly. Ragna seemed to already know.

“Exactly that.”

He didn’t know more, though.

Odinckar checked Magrun’s state quietly, cradling him.

“Jaxon.”

“Yes.”

“Fetch Anne. Audin—”

“Yes, I’ll take a look, brother.”

Audin knew curses didn’t affect Enkrid.

And he wasn’t afraid of curses himself.

He summoned a golden glow in his hand and placed it on Magrun’s chest.

“Hm.”

Magrun groaned.

“If this is a curse, it’s not the kind that works on my powers, brother.”

Audin said.

Is divine power the counter to curses?

Not quite. Divine power can heal blood lost to curses, but the curse itself is closer to sorcery than illness.

That’s why Enkrid looked to Rem.

But even he didn’t step forward.

“No foul smell.”

Rem said, then asked his axe.

“You don’t smell anything either, do you?”

For someone accused of being mad for talking to his weapon, he was surprisingly fluent.

Grida couldn’t help but chime in.

“Does your axe ever say it wants to sing?”

“Hey, my axe actually expresses its will.”

Sure, but from the outside, it still looked the same.

Grida thought it but didn’t say it. Now wasn’t the time.

Enkrid had wondered if Magrun had been in worse shape these past two months, but no—this was sudden.

Soon, Jaxon returned with Anne.

“If someone’s arm got cut off, we’d need Seiki too.”

Anne said as she approached.

“It’s not that. It’s just an old curse acting up.”

Grida replied lightly.

Anne said no more and knelt beside Magrun, flipping his eyelids to check his state.

“Open his mouth.”

Anne said.

Odinckar obliged.

From prior spars, they all knew—Anne was an excellent healer.

Honestly, even his household had never had someone this skilled.

She didn’t check his tongue. Instead, she examined the inside of his cheeks.

Then she pulled a rounded metal spoon from her coat, scraped the inner cheek once, and wrapped the residue in a paper.

“You said it’s a curse?”

Anne asked.

“Yeah.”

Grida nodded.

“It’s not a curse.”

Anne exhaled, stood up, and turned around.

She walked away with a subtle stagger—not physically unsteady, but more like someone reeling from a mental blow.

“Wait.”

Ragna caught up to her and gently grabbed her arm.

“What?”

“You seemed like walking was tough.”

“...Yeah. It’s a bit rough. I’ve been staying up nights researching.”

As the two left, Grida muttered,

“Some rest and he’ll be fine. Even the head of house survived with that curse for over ten years. Still hanging in there, right?”

“Symptoms are faster now, but yeah, still fights like a monster.”

Odinckar replied.

Enkrid became curious about this “head of house.” But he didn’t ask. It wasn’t like he was going to meet them.

The next day, Magrun woke up.

“I’m fine now.”

He said casually and stood up.

That afternoon, Anne came to Enkrid. Ragna stood beside her.

Together, they looked like a good match.

“I’ll need to head out for a bit.”

Anne spoke first.

“Where?”

“The Zaun family, right? There. Ragna said he’d guide me, so we’ll go together.”

Enkrid replied without thinking,

“Was your dream always to be a wandering healer, not a priest?”

“What?”

Anne blinked wide-eyed. Ragna answered beside her.

“I have business at my household too. I’ll take her.”

They spoke like it was a short stroll next door.

But of course they couldn’t go alone.

Unless Anne had some extraordinary talent as a pathfinder, which she didn’t.

She hated traveling. When she came to find the border guard, she nearly died several times. She even said she’d used up all her luck then.

“It’s about time we returned too.”

Grida said beside her.

“Yes, you should.”

Anne added casually, then glanced at Grida, Odinckar, and especially Magrun.

“It’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long. You people.”

So she said.

Enkrid didn’t fully understand her words, but he knew exactly what to say.

“Then I’ll go too. I can’t ignore a crisis in your family. It’s Ragna’s home, after all.”

He declared.

Ragna had given him so much. There was no reason Enkrid wouldn’t join him to defend his birthplace.

With Jaxon, Rem, and Audin all away, only Shinar stood beside them.

She heard Enkrid’s words and interpreted his intent.

“You’re dying to meet this ‘head of house’ of theirs, so you’re coming along.”

Grida nodded. A madman saying mad things—nothing strange about it.

And though Anne said it was a miracle they lasted, she didn’t seem surprised.

If they were going to die from that curse, they’d have died long ago.

However—

“You know what this is?”

Grida couldn’t help but ask.

Many had died from this curse. No one had made it their mission to fight it—but if it could be removed, anyone would want that.

“I do. I’m sure I’ll know better once I get there.”

Anne replied.

And Enkrid added:

“I trust Anne’s words.”

“That’s his declaration that he’ll definitely join the trip, # Nоvеlight # just to meet the head of house.”

Shinar translated again, right beside him.