Chapter 707: Why Are They Fine

Enkrid spoke to Ragna.

“You’ll be lucky if half of them make it.”

Anne, who had been lying down, raised herself halfway and looked at the ones walking out.

Her gaze was fixed, without a single blink.

If you looked at Anne head-on right now, you might have seen their backs reflected in those large eyes.

Enkrid, Ragna, and the still-reclining Grida turned their attention to Anne at those words.

“Sorry, Ragna. I said I could fix them all.”

Only half of them could be cured.

And even then, only if they didn’t die while fighting out there.

That’s how it sounded to Enkrid.

Anne could’ve made excuses, given justifications, or listed valid reasons.

But she didn’t.

Even a genius couldn’t accelerate time.

The curse-like disease had plagued Zaun for a long time, and that was because someone had used this place as a testing ground.

The malice behind it was truly vicious.

If Anne had only had a year, she wouldn’t be speaking like this.

She would’ve said she could save seven out of ten.

If she’d had three years, she would’ve said something else entirely.

At the very least, she would’ve declared boldly that no one would die from the disease.

But now she couldn’t.

To apply the medical system she’d established based on alchemy, she needed countless trials and time to observe reactions.

What use was talent in the face of such an absolute lack of time?

What difference did it make from a brittle, crumbling leaf?

“I’m sorry.”

Anne said again.

Ragna’s gaze, like hers, remained fixed outside.

He could see the backs of those born and raised in Zaun.

Amid them, Grida Zaun—his sister—added her voice.

“No one’s blaming you.”

Ragna couldn’t find his path.

He didn’t know how to set a direction.

He’d never really thought of that as a flaw.

If anything, he considered it a blessing.

New paths, new worlds, new things always welcomed him.

Walk a path in the daytime, and at night, it becomes unfamiliar.

This is a curse? No way.

But when he held a sword, the path became clear.

He could walk a road laid bare before him, see the end of it.

In the journey of holding a sword, there was nothing Ragna didn’t know.

That’s why that path never interested him.

That’s why he left home.

You could say it was a rebellion, straying from the obvious path, or simply a life chosen in pursuit of something more.

“Ragna, this is the place where you were born and raised.”

Enkrid said.

After returning to Zaun, Ragna reflected on his own actions.

‘I didn’t want to look for the sunrise.’

Why not? He posed the question to himself and searched for the answer.

“The answer’s inside you. The things you’ve built up become your signposts.”

Enkrid’s mantra now resonated with Ragna.

What does it mean to say it’s okay to be angry?

“They threw filth on your home, hurt your family, and tried to destroy the place where you were born and raised.”

That’s why the sunrise no longer mattered.

His instincts had made him swing his sword into empty air, then suddenly stop mid-run.

Was he afraid of dying without leaving anything behind? No, that fear wasn’t there.

He had simply stopped.

Instinct.

Intuition.

As if it had been a destiny ordained by the gods.

And now, he knew why.

‘Because my house is in danger.’

Enkrid had called Zaun a minor kingdom, but to Ragna it was the place with the fields he’d played in, the people who raised him—the place where everything began.

It was home.

The wayward son’s body had long since returned.

But only now had his closed eyes opened.

His father had wasted away, his face now a shadow of itself.

His mother’s eyes now bore a malice he had never seen before.

His sister’s belly had been pierced.

Others he’d call his brothers and comrades were coughing blood and battling illness.

“There’s someone out there who did this to us.”

Enkrid said.

“I know,” Ragna replied.

Yes, now he understood.

Why he was angry.

Had he thought he shouldn’t step forward because he’d abandoned his duties?

Had he truly thought others would judge him for that?

“One swing of your sword won’t make up for all the time you were gone.”

Enkrid added—not quite a lecture, not quite advice.

It meant that now, after things had fallen into this state, even if he fought like hell, not everyone would praise him.

Whether Ragna truly understood or merely let Enkrid’s words pass him by, he still responded.

“I don’t care.”

Enkrid, seeing that, gave a slight nod.

Yeah, that was more like Ragna.

With that, Enkrid let a memory from the past drift by.

There was no point in chewing on something painful.

Now, he simply wanted to help his friend and comrade avoid seeing the same horrors he had.

“Grida.”

“Speak.”

“Protect Anne.”

“Even if you hadn’t said so, I would’ve risked my life to do it.”

Grida wasn’t the only one staying behind.

There were others—those who, after Heskal’s departure, had been struck by seizures, gasping for breath from their sickness.

Anne had saved them.

Among them was the sword-bearing squire who had guided them at first.

Even a boy of just thirteen was now beyond Anne’s magic.

The boy was terminal.

He’d been struck by the most virulent strain of the “seeds” that mad bastard out there had sown.

His guts were swelling with lumps of flesh—a disease that would kill him slowly.

He couldn’t fight, so he was one of the few who remained behind.

“I’ll protect her too.”

The boy said.

Did he even understand what he was saying?

He did seem more aware than Ragna had been at that age.

That much was clear from his words.

“I’m not in condition to go out and fight, but if someone tries to come for the healer, I can probably land a hit.”

Yeah. He could probably do it.

The boy had fire.

“They used poison before, right? And Anne kept anyone from getting hurt? If it’s a similar kind of enemy, I can handle it as well as you.”

Grida added.

She meant to reassure them.

Her belly had a hole in it.

She could fight like this, sure.

But if she went all out, she’d die.

They couldn’t let that happen.

It was simple—just don’t let anyone get behind you.

What you protect is at your back.

That would become the legacy you leave behind.

Ragna looked at Anne.

“If I make it back alive...”

“Stop. I don’t want to hear any of that live-or-die talk. Just come back. If it gets dangerous, I’ll scream my head off. Come back and protect me again.”

Ragna gave a wordless nod.

“I will.”

If he died here—what would remain?

That girl, who radiated life even while tormented by guilt over not being able to save everyone, even though it wasn’t her fault.

Ragna opened his mouth, then closed it.

He swallowed the words: “The me in your memory will remain.”

“Let’s go.”

Enkrid said, stepping out.

Ragna followed him.

‘Not just Anne.’

She wouldn’t be the only one left behind.

There was also that bastard who had clawed his way up and said it was okay for Ragna to be angry.

That man would remember “me,” too.

They left the mansion.

As they walked, they met a member of the household walking more slowly.

A woman with short hair glanced at Enkrid and asked,

“But why is Enki staying here, anyway?”

She was someone Enkrid had grown fond of during his time here.

Maybe he was doing it for a friend, or to protect the people behind him—there were many possible reasons.

But he wasn’t about to say something that sappy aloud.

Ragna fell back and walked a little apart.

He hadn’t talked to the others in the house as much as Enkrid had—he’d been busy protecting Anne.

The woman found Ragna a little intimidating.

Step. Enkrid matched her pace and spoke.

“Samcheol.”

“...What?”

“Kept whining about wanting to play.”

The madman tapped the sword at his waist.

Swaaah—

The wind carried the rain into their faces.

The woman from Zaun took half a step away from Enkrid.

“So it was true what ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) that healer said.”

A madman who talks to his sword.

“Yeah, yeah, Samcheol. It’ll be fun today.”

Enkrid ignored the others and gently stroked his sword.

The woman picked up her pace and walked away.

He hadn’t meant to tease her.

Should he have said he didn’t like the bastard who wrecked his friend’s home?

Or that he hoped at least one of the people he’d come to care about wouldn’t die?

Too embarrassing.

Better to just say he was serious about this fight.

Samcheol wept.

That wasn’t a joke.

The blade trembled, resonating with Enkrid’s Will.

Not because the sword was literally crying, but because his Will had soaked into it.

“Why are you mocking me?”

Ragna challenged Enkrid.

It wasn’t a reprimand, but he’d caught on that Enkrid’s joke was a little much if he was trying to hide his true feelings.

“Me?”

“Isn’t it?”

“If I asked what you’d leave behind, what would you say?”

Enkrid turned Ragna’s earlier words into a counterattack.

“What else? The people who saw my swordplay.”

He smiled brightly, even through the rain.

Ragna laughed.

Yeah. He was angry at the ones who’d done this to his home.

And now he was walking toward them.

So of course he could laugh.

To ordinary people, that might seem like madness.

Zaun was built atop a basin, so the road leading up was a gentle slope.

It had been paved wide, and the people of House Zaun called it the Pilgrimage Path of the Sword.

‘They believe in the god of swords, don’t they?’

Enkrid walked that path now.

Because of the storm, puddles had formed here and there.

Still, it was an even road.

They didn’t worship holiness, but they revered and honored the sword.

So it was called a pilgrimage—for the path taken in reverence.

Down the winding road ahead, those responsible for this mess had gathered.

The storm made it hard to see far.

But at the front, the lord of the house and those blocking his path were visible.

Enkrid and Ragna looked at the lord’s back.

Without saying a word, the man drew his sword.

His enemies reacted.

Two scalers with black and red-mottled scales split to the sides and charged.

The lord stepped forward alone.

Hadn’t Anne given him some kind of potion?

In truth, most of what the genius healer had made were probably stimulants just to keep them standing.

Proper treatment would take time.

So had the lord taken the potion?

The force radiating from his body now was twice as thick as before.

Like a heavy blade, that pressure stood tall amidst the falling rain.

***

“Why are they fine?”

Heskal hadn’t been this shocked in years.

It slipped from his lips as a mutter.

They should all have been sickly and groaning—but they were standing tall.

They didn’t look like they were just forcing themselves to stand.

Next to him, Dremule’s disciple spoke.

“I don’t understand.”

An old man over seventy.

He’d gone blind as a child, and instead of opening his heart’s eye, had embedded a third eye in his forehead.

He had extracted and refined an Evil Eye—thanks to it, he could see through the rain.

“Someone interfered. Didn’t they say the healer girl was killed?”

Heskal, analyzing the situation with his superior mind, replied.

“She must’ve survived.”

The answer was simple.

It was that Anne girl.

His instincts told him so.

Dremule hadn’t tried to kill her for no reason.

Dremule already knew about that Anne girl.

As soon as Heskal passed along the information, Dremule had said she must die.

Because those who should die must die—was that the reasoning?

He wanted to eliminate the one person who could stop his disease.

The first contingency Heskal had prepared had failed.

Yet Dremule’s disciple didn’t flinch.

Nor did Heskal.

“It’s just a delay. Who could possibly undo what Master spent years preparing in a single day?”

That was true too.

Even if not, Heskal believed the outcome of this fight would not change.