Chapter 703: He Used Both

Alexandra had a habit of tormenting her opponent during sparring matches.

Odinkar, when deeply focused, often couldn't distinguish between a duel and a real fight.

Grida, of course, suffered from facial blindness.

And Lynox—Lynox had his own shortcoming: a complete inability to decide whose side he should be on.

If he wasn’t acting on a whim, his skin itched and his ass squirmed like he was sitting on nails.

A perfect anecdote to illustrate this bad habit came from his days as a mercenary wandering the continent.

“Why the hell are you standing over there?”

A former ally asked him once.

And Lynox had answered proudly:

“Ah, I’ve decided I’m on this side today.”

“What the fuck? Even if you’re a merc sold off to Krona, do you have no sense of honor?”

“Ah, shut up.”

With that, Lynox essentially tried to assassinate the man with the sheer frustration of his words. He failed, of course.

He had gone from ally to enemy overnight, all because of a few drinks.

The truth? He just met someone he liked on the other side.

He had crossed blades and thought: “Damn, I can’t kill this guy. He’s too good.”

So he switched sides.

The fight was between two nobles over a strip of land. After that betrayal, one noble irrationally hired an elite mercenary company out of fury.

In retaliation, the other noble did the same. A skirmish of barely ten people turned into a full-scale war.

And the end? It was utterly miserable.

Both nobles were ruined. One couldn't pay the mercs; the other had his serfs revolt.

Had Lynox and the other mercenaries intervened, it might have been fine.

But the battle was almost over. Why bother?

It wasn’t for nothing that people called Lynox the “Ruin-Bringer.”

Sure, partly because his specialty was breaking techniques—but also because sometimes he just destroyed the whole situation.

He was also called a “mercenary who could always turn enemy.” Not the friendliest of nicknames.

In any case, Lynox never decided anything for himself. That’s why he wasn’t a pioneer. He didn’t walk his own path—he followed others.

He knew that when he acted on his whims, things turned to chaos. So yes, he could never be the family head.

His question had reflected his entire life and nature. He delivered the situation—let the head of house decide. That was how Lynox thought.

And the family head had spoken: “We fight.”

Just then, a rough voice cut through the divided crowd.

“Are you saying my father did this?”

The downpour muffled the voice somewhat, but not completely.

Why were there two opposing factions within Zaun?

Simple—though, perhaps more accurately, complex.

One side consisted of those whose friends had been killed by Heskal.

The other consisted of those who believed Heskal would never do such a thing.

Despite all the evidence, they couldn't accept it—because of how devoted Heskal had once been to them.

As the two groups glared at each other with rising tension, something began to take shape in the sky. A mass, sluggish and lumpy, coalesced into a vaguely human face.

What the hell is that?

Enkrid instinctively looked up, blinking away the rain that slapped at his face.

Above, the enormous face spoke:

“Cursed children, I shall welcome you into my embrace. Step forth now and seek the light. You will live—and be granted all that you desire.”

A spell.

A threat.

And a suffocating sense of presence.

Naturally so—after all, a massive face had appeared above them like a god descending on the training field.

The intent packed in its words made Enkrid’s skin crawl.

Slick.

And then a cheap trick.

While everyone looked up, a black shadow rose behind the family head.

All four reacted simultaneously.

Enkrid sidestepped.

The family head spun and slammed his elbow.

Lynox extended a knife-hand strike.

Alexandra's blade flashed—drawn and sheathed faster than anyone could see.

It had been an assassination attempt—a Scaler with black scales laced with red.

Not quite a named creature, but clearly a mutant—an evolved or transformed beast.

CRACK!

Alexandra’s slash carved a hole in the creature’s throat.

The family head elbowed its head, sending it flying like a kite with its string cut.

THUD, THOK!

The monster rolled, then began ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ to rise again.

Resilient bastard.

Even after all that?

Lynox ended it. He retracted his strike, approached the beast, and unsheathed a slim sword.

“And what the hell are you supposed to be?”

With one clean motion, he severed the already-damaged neck.

Ssssshk.

The head rolled in the rain. The sword disappeared back into its sheath just as swiftly.

“Tch.”

Lynox clicked his tongue, slapping his hand in the air. Anyone who had sparred with him could see he wasn’t at 100%.

The spot where Heskal had struck him had turned black—poison.

It had affected him.

“That bastard said the symptoms would worsen over two days. I also got scratched by his poisoned blade.”

A marked weapon—that meant it carried a knight’s Will. To coat it in poison?

That was insanity. Poison would damage the Will itself.

And Heskal had still done it.

One had to wonder what the hell was going through his head. Enkrid certainly did.

It wasn't hard to guess anymore.

Everything that had happened had built up in Enkrid’s mind. He started sorting it all out.

‘Schmidt came from the Empire. He had no hidden agenda.’

But Heskal must’ve used him. Made it look like Schmidt was an agent, trying to pull Zaun toward the Empire.

Look at Schmidt now—his face was twisted like a man who’d stepped in dung during a picnic.

He was pissed.

‘He used Schmidt’s words to spread confusion.’

Simple trick. Effective. In hindsight, easy to see. At the time, even Enkrid had thought it might be Imperial meddling.

‘Heskal controls travel between the three villages. He would’ve heard about Odinkar and Magrun returning—and about us joining them.’

‘Why target Anne?’

That wasn’t Heskal’s idea. He helped—opened the way—but didn’t direct the attack.

The attack had the cunning of someone steeped in magic. A mage or shaman.

‘He has one under him—or allied to him.’

He didn't let coincidence remain coincidence.

That was Heskal.

Even Enkrid had been used—unknowingly.

‘He made the family head suspicious of me.’

Ragna returned after years and immediately asked for Ilchul. The head and his wife, knowing the current threat, couldn’t hand it over.

And so, suspicion.

“Could Enkrid of the Border Guard be plotting something against Zaun?”

It was plausible. The Border Guard was a sudden, unknown faction. From the outside, it could seem like a hidden force deployed by Naurillia—like Azpen hiding knights.

“Ah, so Naurillia has fangs after all.”

That’s how it could be seen.

Zaun had power. Enough that someone like Schmidt came to recruit from them.

They had always rejected such invitations. And that repeated refusal bred paranoia in those observing them.

Heskal used that. Subtly fanned the flames.

‘He showed Grida monster traces on purpose.’

He created delays. Stretched time. Enkrid had suffered on the way to Zaun—and that same suffering awaited inside Zaun.

‘Damn... we got played.’

Would Kraiss or Abnaier have been tricked too?

Who could say?

Now Enkrid understood Heskal’s approach. Delay. The goal remained unclear—but the method was plain.

‘And the family head?’

According to Anne, he even refused diagnosis—said “not now.” He had only told that to Anne and Ragna.

Anne had gone around looking for a cure, not a curse, and asked too many questions.

People had bristled. A stranger asking about everyone’s symptoms—coughing—was bound to cause discomfort.

‘It would seem like she was discrediting Millestia.’

The family head’s “not now” wasn’t for Anne. It was for her to pass along. A coded delay.

“Not now” meant: don’t take Ilchul. Or maybe: wait, and you’ll see why you’re here.

Late, perhaps—but that phrase had gnawed at Enkrid.

And now he understood.

‘The family head was waiting for this.’

On the road, Odinkar had been frustrated—unable to identify the veiled enemy.

‘The head was the same. He wanted that enemy to surface.’

Because if you let it rot, it would burst eventually.

He had wanted to see the traitor before it was too late.

‘Ah.’

The family head had used Enkrid too.

He saw the fame of Enkrid the Border Guard and the strength of Ragna.

He had also ensured Anne had free passage.

Even if it wasn’t visible—he had helped.

‘And he let Alexandra teach me.’

That was a signal: you are an ally.

If Enkrid were the enemy, then so be it. But if not—then he was a gift from fate.

‘The family head didn’t leave it to chance either.’

He pulled in the wild card as far to his side as he could.

He made Heskal expose himself. And Heskal waited for his moment to strike.

The two had been locked in a silent chess match for years.

“These bastards, honestly...”

Enkrid muttered.

The floating face above still hadn’t stopped talking, despite sending in assassins.

“So what, two swordsmen and a little girl showed up and you think that changes anything, Tempest Zaun?”

Enkrid snorted as the family head raised a closed fist to the sky...And extended his middle finger.

Yes—that finger.

Cultures varied across the continent, but here? It meant the same for everyone:

Fuck off.

Or perhaps:

Kindly remove your dick and eat it.

A crude gesture—completely mismatched to the head’s normally stoic demeanor.

But now Enkrid understood—he wasn’t hiding emotion.

“Grida can’t recognize faces. Alexandra breaks people just for fun during sparring.”

“It’s not that bad,” Alexandra muttered beside him.

But sometimes, others saw things more clearly.

“Magrun couldn’t hold back his sharp tongue. And you—you can’t show emotion, can you?”

The head nodded. The emotion he’d shown Ragna earlier—that had been real. His concern. His happiness.

KRAKOOM.

A lightning bolt unlike any before cracked across the sky. Dozens of white streaks split apart and struck the floating face in the heavens—obliterating it.

Dark clouds once again swallowed the sky.

At last, Ragna emerged from inside and said:

“There was a lunatic after Anne. I chopped him up. What’s happening out here?”

Enkrid gave a single-word answer.

“Battle.”

Ragna nodded. There was something subtly eager in that nod. If not excitement, then at least relief.

He had seemed pent-up—on edge, like a man who hadn’t released his anger in a while.

He might not show it—but it had been building.

‘I’m not that bad,’ Enkrid thought.

Then he remembered the face in the sky.

“Just two swordsmen,” it had said.

‘Just?’

Enkrid smiled.

That was a word worth unpacking. But first—there was a more pressing matter: calming the two opposing factions from tearing each other apart.