Chapter 698: Leaving Nothing to Chance

While Enkrid spent the past few days in training and sparring, and while Grida vanished and returned, Anne had not been idle either.

“I need to look around a bit,” she had said offhandedly.

But it hadn’t been just talk. She’d gone out, walked the grounds, learned the paths, and spoken with people.

“Cough-cough—wha?”

“How long have you been coughing like this?”

“I dunno... maybe last summer?”

Six months. That’s how long the cough had been going on.

Primary symptom: hemoptysis.

Blood mixed with phlegm. According to the patient, it only happened occasionally when he felt particularly unwell.

She found three people with similar symptoms.

“Sometimes I feel drained, but nothing hurts. Hey, Ragna, good to see you back. Wanna go a round?”

One of them had said this—and immediately jumped into a sparring match with Ragna. Anne couldn’t gauge their skill difference just by watching, but from the way they spoke, she could infer a few things.

“You’ve really improved,” said the man with the loose, brown hair.

Ragna withdrew his sword in response. Clink—the greatsword slid back into place on his back.

“Train every day. That’s all it takes.”

“...And you’ve come back completely insane.”

Zaun was a place where only those with talent survived. More than talent—discipline and an obsessive drive to improve were essential.

Those who couldn’t adapt ended up in the hunters’ village.

And when their strength faded, they moved again—to the village of retirees.

That place was where the talentless ultimately gathered.

Smithies and merchants had their own intermediary village, dealing with the Empire and trading caravans.

This was the structure of House Zaun.

A place where only proven skill earned you a place. Naturally, everyone here lived with sword in hand.

To people like that, telling them “just keep trying” was tantamount to saying:

“You’re not talented. Give it up.”

The man had bristled—but the gap in skill was clear.

Anne had watched him carefully and later asked Ragna:

“What did you think?”

“He wasn’t hopeless, but... with that level, I don’t see what legacy he’ll leave behind.”

“No, not that. His condition. Did you notice anything off? Like sudden weakness or anything strange?”

“Nothing. He was in peak condition.”

Sparring wasn’t a life-or-death matter—but at Ragna’s level, a clash of blades was still a kind of conversation.

He could often sense things about his opponent from just that.

“Intermittent onset,” Anne murmured.

Ragna realized this girl was up to something—and that he was helping her with it.

“Another thing I’ll leave behind, I guess.”

Enkrid protected people. Ragna had seen that many times.

At first, it had only raised questions.

Why?

Why would someone swing a sword not for themselves, but for others?

He understood part of it, logically—but he hadn’t felt it in his heart.

The path of the sword was simple. Which meant he hadn’t experienced the pain of losing someone he wanted to protect.

That had always been his way.

Kids born with no name, no wealth, grasped metal from an early age. First it was shackles and farm tools—then weapons, when they realized they were stronger than their peers.

Nobility aside, the fastest path to rising in this world was combat.

If you could fight like a squire, merchant guilds would offer premiums to hire you. In mercenary circles, you’d be treated with respect.

If you fought like a junior knight?

You could live well off the shares of a caravan. Maybe lead your own mercenary company. Even marry into a noble house that lacked military might.

With luck, you might even be adopted by a noble family.

Granted, there was the catch—you had to be younger than your new “father.” No one wanted a son older than themselves.

It had happened in the past, but for those who cared about appearances, it was unacceptable.

Becoming a junior knight meant changing your status completely.

Becoming a full knight meant stepping into an entirely new world.

Even middling nobles bowed before knights.

That was the world they lived in.

If you had violence in your hands—there wasn’t much you couldn’t get.

The power Ragna held had rarely met a wall. So he’d never known loss. Never once failed to protect what mattered.

“Why are you trying so hard?”

The moment the question bubbled up, Ragna asked it. Time was precious. Human lives were finite. Ragna felt that now, deeply.

Anne was silently mulling over intermittent onset and related symptoms, jotting notes with a charcoal pencil when she looked up and met his eyes.

She saw his red irises shining through his blond hair—eyes that looked like those of a man desperate for knowledge. And that’s where all curiosity began, wasn’t it? A thirst for knowledge.

So she answered honestly.

“I hate this kind of thing.”

“This kind of thing?”

“It’s not perfect yet, but someone is experimenting here. And I’m betting it’s a bastard of a person. I hate that they’re using alchemy for something like this. I hate it more than I can say.”

Her voice was full of weight. If Enkrid were here, he’d have said she possessed Will.

Because those who are completely sincere in their craft—those who give their all—naturally awaken Will.

Anne was one of them.

She always gave her all.

And now, what she said next was no different.

“This is your home, Ragna.”

Was that supposed to be a reason?

Ragna gave her a look—Is that supposed to mean something?

Anne wanted to snap You thick idiot, and kick him in the shin.

But she answered calmly.

He’s always been like this. I knew that from the start.

Trying to explain why someone liked someone else always sounded strange and awkward.

It was just that her heart had moved.

Maybe his looks triggered it—but those alone weren’t enough to anchor her there.

But now, Anne’s heart had anchored.

“I want to protect your father, your mother, your friends, your brothers, your sisters.”

A bit more specific than Enkrid’s vague promise to “watch your back.”

“Because maybe someday... they’ll be the grandparents of my child.”

Anne said it flat-out. Maybe because she’d nearly died on the way here. That kind of threat had been one of the levers that pried her mouth open.

If you might die at any moment—you shouldn’t waste a single one.

Not that she was dying. Not that she was in a panic.

Just—

“I want to live today.”

Just like Enkrid.

Anne was sharp. She had eyes—and she had brains. She had learned many things.

Like how to live in the present.

That kind of mindset—that’s what made her speak now.

But that wasn’t all.

Walking the fine line between alchemy and healing, she often thought of the people who’d died—people who’d been like family. Each time, she thought the same thing. No, wished:

“I want to have a child.”

One day, she would pass her healing knowledge on to that child.

She’d become a mother. Laugh, cry, scold, tremble—share those moments.

And through it all—

“I’ll spread Remede Omnia across the continent.”

It was a hope. A dream.

And dreams weren’t limited to just one.

Anne wanted to be a mother. She wanted to evolve healing into something new and enduring.

And she wanted to be Ragna’s wife.

That was the dream she held.

Her eyes sparkled as she said it. Light gleamed between her freckles, hitting the eyes of someone who had once been lost.

Ragna was a man. Not an idiot. And he remembered everything Anne had done.

The freckled girl who stayed at his side, sharing her dreams aloud.

Now, agreeing with that dream, Ragna finally answered.

“If I make it back alive—let’s talk again then.”

Anne frowned.

Was that a yes or a no?

Ambiguous. Ragna thought it was the best answer he could give.

“Are you planning to die here?”

Anne asked bluntly.

“No. But swordsmen never know when they’ll die.”

“If that’s your excuse, you’d better come up with something better.”

Having said her piece, Anne tucked that dream into a mental drawer.

“Right now, I need to treat this illness.”

Her focus was elsewhere.

Ragna kept following her afterward, and over the next few days, Anne uncovered several facts.

“The illness... it’s been modified.”

It wasn’t the same disease she’d known.

“The manifestations have diversified.”

Why?

Because it wasn’t made using just rats or animals anymore.

“The seed types have multiplied.”

“Seed” referred to the origin material of the illness. Some were harvested from rats. Others from monsters or magical beasts. Even decaying corpses had been used.

Using poisonous plants or venomous creatures was a given.

The recipe involved mixing such ingredients and deciding on a method of spread. Once infected, a patient would burn with fever, suffer muscle pain, and die.

Anne had studied all of this before. She’d identified specific “seeds” like the heatblossom seed, the pain seed, and more.

Coughing was supposed to be secondary.

Now, it sometimes started with a cough.

Fatigue, too.

These unfamiliar symptoms meant someone was still actively researching and modifying the disease.

“Who?”

Her mentor, Raban, was dead. Raban’s own mentor would be too old.

Then who?

“The continent is vast... and geniuses are everywhere.”

Anne muttered, scoffing to herself.

She hadn’t realized before. But now she knew for certain.

Above her, blackstorm clouds blocked out the light.

Ragna stood silently beside her.

He didn’t know the symptoms.

But—

“It can be cured.”

Thanks to ample support from the Border Guard, her research had made huge strides.

“All I need to do is develop a cure for each strain.”

She didn’t have it yet.

But with time, she could.

There was more to discover, but Anne believed it—firmly.

Her eyes now gleamed even brighter than when she’d confessed.

She radiated Will—born from complete confidence in herself.

***

When too many things intertwine, it can start to feel like everything was part of some grand plan.

But in reality, sometimes it was just coincidence stacked upon coincidence.

And maybe—someone took advantage of those coincidences.

“From a tactical standpoint... it’s possible.”

Not letting a coincidence remain a coincidence—that was the privilege of those with sharp minds.

In last night’s dream, the ferryman had appeared again, muttering about protecting Anne.

Enkrid had asked him,

“Why?”

“It’s kindness,” the ferryman had said.

But the look in his eyes was sly. No expression, no change—yet it felt sly.

Now awake, moving his body and sorting his thoughts, Enkrid pondered—

“The one meddling in Zaun—and the one gathering monsters and spreading disease outside... are they the same?”

Maybe not.

Or maybe one found the other—and used them.

“You standing there zoning out—is that disrespect? Or provocation?”

Heskal stood in front of him.

Coincidences aren't just coincidences.

He hadn’t meant to provoke Heskal—but now that it was on the table...

“Let’s say both.”

Enkrid chose to make it a challenge.

Heskal was composed. Calm. His swordsmanship was the same.

Lynox once said he hid his fangs—but Enkrid had never seen them.

“Oh, I like this,” said Anaheira—the lone giant woman in House Zaun, and widely considered its greatest beauty among the giantborn.

She grinned, flashing her fangs.

“Try not to die being cocky. I’m up next.”

She’d already queued herself as the next sparring partner.

Enkrid cleared his thoughts and focused.

Heskal was no pushover. Fangs ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) shown or not, he was formidable.

Facing him, Enkrid spoke:

“If you won’t show your fangs, a molar will do.”

Heskal smiled. His light brown hair shifted in the wind.

The skies were still dim, but the sun had finally pierced a gap in the black veil—letting a soft light seep through.

Backlit in that gray daylight, Heskal said,

“It’s harder to show molars than fangs.”

Then, he extended his sword. A clean thrust.

But Enkrid knew better.

A thrust like that wasn’t just a thrust.

If you fought it with calculations, it became a contest of shields.

He’d won fights like that—but never with satisfaction.

“I concede.”

Heskal had said that once.

He’d also identified the true nature of Will at first glance.

What is instinct?

It was swordsmanship guided by intuition.

But how do you train instinct?

Wavebreaker and Flash relied on mental calculation.

Even instinctive swordsmanship needed a form of training.

And Enkrid, who had once tried to systematize it all, had found his answer:

“Empty the mind.”

Don’t calculate—react.

Movements engraved into the body would emerge on their own.

React.

Thanks to Alexandra’s help, he’d already experienced it once. He knew how valuable that experience was.

There’s a difference between a path you’ve never walked—and one you’ve stumbled through once by chance.

“Leave nothing to chance.”

That phrase returned to him.

Was it natural? He didn’t know. But for now—he wouldn’t resist the flow.

Enkrid moved, showing the swordplay he now called the Reactive Blade.

Wavebreaker was defense. Flash was offense.

This—was counter.

Thud!

Three Iron deflected the oncoming thrust and moved forward, tracing a small arc like a skipping stone. The parry and strike were simultaneous.

Was it a surprise attack? A calculation-breaker?

To most knights, maybe.

But not to Heskal.

He didn’t lose to swords slower than Alexandra’s.

His left gauntlet opened like a wing, forming a small shield.

Clang!

He blocked it with practiced ease.

If you can hide weapons on your body, why not shields?

“Wow!”

Anaheira gasped.

The strike. The block. Both were spectacular.

“Amazing, right?” she asked.

Standing beside her now, the family head responded:

“Yes.”

A rare sight.

He couldn’t remember the last time Heskal had dueled with such fervor.