Chapter 721: Interesting

Ragna found it amusing.

By going along with Enkrid’s lead, he could say his objective had been largely achieved.

‘As long as everyone’s attention is here, no one can go after Anne.’

That had been one of the reasons for targeting the Medusa. With a monstrous creature collapsing after a fierce dance of blades, would anyone really bother diverting troops just to kill some girl quietly mashing herbs behind them?

No one would even get the chance. That was his intent.

In the end, this too could be called a way of protecting Anne.

A thought so deranged only a madman would entertain it—but it worked.

Right now, none of those enemies were even thinking about the girl.

Just two swordsmen—an image worthy of being immortalized in song—had changed their expressions into something pitch /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ black.

Well, their original faces were already a bit dark, so it might’ve been hard to notice with a human eye.

‘If I believe it’s true, then it is.’

Ragna wrapped up his thoughts, content.

What was left now was survival—and the remaining fight.

“Can you still fight?” Ragna whispered.

Enkrid clenched and then opened his fist before replying.

“As well as a docile Rem.”

It wasn’t a code phrase, but it might as well have been. Ragna understood instantly.

There’s no such thing as a docile Rem in this world. Meaning: Enkrid could barely fight. Not even half his usual strength.

Judging from the earlier moment when he sliced through the Medusa’s neck—yeah, that tracked. He had seemed briefly out of it.

“That was a crude tactic.”

“It was your mother’s.”

“I meant it was crudely brave.”

Even if she was his foster mother, Ragna didn’t commit the blasphemy of insulting her with his own lips.

He swiftly corrected himself, then shrugged and stepped in front of Enkrid.

“When we get back, I’ll tell the story of how I stood in front of my wounded captain.”

“Leaving out the part about slaying the Medusa?”

“Isn’t it the storyteller’s right to decide where a tale begins?”

Drmul, watching the two banter, found them fascinating.

Were they fearless? Or had they simply accepted death?

If it were the latter, then he had something to say.

“You two may wish to die, but you won’t be able to.”

His voice was calm, but coming from a half-rotted corpse, it should’ve sounded eerie or terrifying. Then again, if the listener didn’t perceive it that way, it hardly mattered.

“Ah, I agree. I have no intention of dying either,” Enkrid replied without missing a beat.

“That’s not what I meant...”

“We’re not here to sip tea, so why the small talk? Tch.”

He even cut Drmul off mid-sentence. With skill like that, he deserved the title of “Knight of the Sharp Tongue.”

His tone, words, and attitude formed a perfect trio. Ragna found himself newly impressed.

Anyone who could comprehend speech would find their temper twisted by this man.

Sure enough—

“Kill them,” Drmul snarled.

His decayed eyelids twitched, what remained of his brow a blackened lump of flesh bulging like a tumor, now trembling visibly.

At his command, his disciple raised his right hand. Judging by the earlier black mass, that had been his doing.

This was the guy with an extra eye in his forehead.

Ragna knew how to deal with mages. He’d picked it up from Enkrid—just enough to get by.

Better to cut down a mage before they cast. A simple premise. So why not put it into action?

He dug his foot into the ground and raised his greatsword before bringing it down.

In terms of pure speed, it wasn’t especially fast. But by knight standards, it was fast enough—and for an old man with three eyes, it would feel blinding.

He added a step to his downward strike. Advancing as he swung, Ragna didn’t need to calculate to know the sword’s reach.

The timing, the trajectory—his sword would split the old man’s skull clean in half and drag out whatever hideous thing lay inside.

But just as his body shifted and the blade came down, a heavy pressure slammed into his chest.

Thud!

Ragna’s body lifted nearly two spans off the ground and was thrown backward. Not far—but enough. He’d instinctively twisted his waist mid-air to redirect the pressure and reduce the impact.

“My eyes see the laws that govern nature. You think a mere swordsman could escape my gaze?” the three-eyed elder said with pride.

Enkrid silently admired it.

‘He said “mere swordsman” again, huh.’

One would think after being mocked this much, he’d be cautious.

At any rate, the triple-eyed elder was incredibly fast in casting spells. There hadn’t even been a trigger word, so it was impossible to detect the timing.

“You two are woefully ignorant. You don’t even understand the stages of spellcasters—charging in with swords like fools.”

It was the perfect moment for bragging, and Drmul couldn’t resist.

Enkrid imagined this must’ve been how he acted when teaching alchemy—insufferable.

While Drmul talked, Ragna stabbed with his greatsword.

The target wasn’t a knight. A deep stab should’ve been lethal.

But it didn’t go as expected.

Whoosh!

A burst of black smoke erupted in front of Ragna.

The smoke transformed into dozens of hands and feet, weapons like swords, spears, and hammers—all blocking his path.

Ragna redirected the stabbing motion and swung in every direction.

His blade moved so fast that raindrops followed its path. It was like he was whipping up a miniature storm with each slash.

The limbs and weapons made of smoke shattered as if they had physical form, breaking under the tempest of the blade.

Boom! Clang! Crack!

Amid the noise, Ragna parried a heavy strike aimed at his knee with his greatsword.

Kkkkrrrrrk!

The invisible weapon was barely visible thanks to the rain. A compressed blade of air.

A long gash was left across his greatsword, and part of the guard over his knee was torn.

Had he not been wearing greaves, he would’ve suffered a deep wound. But Ragna merely reset his stance and raised his sword again.

“Fearless little worm!” the three-eyed elder bellowed.

Lightning crackled as he thrust out his hand. White bolts branched like gnarled twigs and surged forward.

Ragna flung his greatsword slightly above eye level and jumped back.

KA-BOOM!

The lightning struck the blade, sending it flying far off.

Seeing this, Drmul resumed his lecture.

“The first stage is the Watcher—those who have just glimpsed the world of spells. Next comes the Speaker—those who borrow from beings beyond and chant their spells.”

He seemed intent on conveying that resistance was futile.

With a casual gesture of his rotting hand, a foul odor spread through the air.

Enkrid reflexively raised his hand to block his nose.

Apparently, the stench didn’t come from Drmul himself, but from the three-eyed freak with his bizarre appearance.

Drmul continued his condescending explanation to the two fools standing before him. Enkrid couldn’t be sure of the man’s true thoughts, but based on tone and gestures, it was probably genuine.

Maybe he taught alchemy across the continent just to show off? Not from goodwill?

Enkrid figured he had a decent glimpse of Drmul’s true nature—half luck, half observation.

“And what comes after the Speaker?” Drmul asked, still in that tone.

Meanwhile, Ragna had dashed in barehanded, only to be met by a golem made of black stone, which forced him to leap back.

Naturally, the golem had been summoned by the elder.

Ragna didn’t bother pretending to listen. Enkrid, however, kept up appearances.

“Unlike that delinquent, I’m an exemplary student. Please, continue, Master Drmul, the legendary alchemist.”

He even raised his tone with mock respect.

The Lua Gharne-style combat swordplay had its uses—especially when buying time while injured.

With the Medusa gone, Enkrid tilted his head upward and feigned an attentive posture.

Drmul found his behavior obnoxious but couldn’t resist the urge to keep talking.

“Next comes the Possessor—those who own their magical realm.”

Thud!

A nearby crash. Ragna was fighting the golem.

In terms of raw body control, Rem was better—but if they were talking martial skill, there was no one in the Mad Platoon who could rival Audin.

Well, if it were a bare-knuckle fight, Enkrid was confident he could take Ragna down.

That wasn’t to say Ragna was incapable.

Taking a few hits, he seized an opening and shattered the golem’s head—blocking alternating fists and then jumping up to deliver a knee to the jaw.

By luck, the creature’s core had been in its head, and its movements ceased.

Ragna hit the ground and immediately rolled away.

BOOM!

An explosion rocked the spot he had just vacated, flames flaring up before the rain doused them.

“Huff, huff...”

Ragna was panting—clearly exhausted.

“Like a bug. Just a measly bug,” said the three-eyed elder, repeating the phrase “just” again. Drmul’s voice softened, seemingly pleased.

“The Possessor grows indulgent, addicted to the joy of casting, and enters the stage called Immoderantia. Beyond that comes Vilith—the Realizer. They manifest their world into existence. Beyond even that, do you know what lies?”

A perfect pause. The man might’ve had the makings of a bard.

Not that anyone would want to sit around and listen to his tales with that face.

“Tacitus—the Silent One. A hierarchy where one transcends the laws of this world. Such a one no longer requires invocation words.”

Enkrid realized that for all Drmul’s flaws, he had been a proper teacher.

Petty, maybe—but he taught thoroughly.

Now, too, he was explaining each term carefully, building up concepts one by one.

Kind of admirable, really.

Some knights from certain cities could stand to learn from the man.

“Most instructors just say, ‘Do it like this. Now go.’”

“My disciple stands at the level of the Silent One,” Drmul finished.

So his student was a caster who no longer needed trigger words.

Ragna, backing away, called out to Enkrid.

“Still feeling docile?”

Explosions tore through the ground where he’d been standing.

“I’m a little irritated, but it’s not enough,” Enkrid replied.

He knew what strength he had left—maybe a few sword swings at best. He’d have to make them count.

Could he cut down that monster? He wouldn’t know until he tried.

“End it.”

At Drmul’s words, the three-eyed elder raised his hand.

A woman standing nearby sprouted horns from her skull. Scales erupted along her arms, her snout extending.

“Behold! When I become a god, this is the new form that will rule this land!”

She looked half-human, half-scaler.

Screeeeech.

She shrieked, then dropped her head and let her arms hang.

Huff. Huff. Huff.

With each breath, her shoulders and chest heaved. Even that motion exuded monstrous pressure—whether chimera or beast, it was undeniable.

She stirred, raised her eyes, and tilted her head upward slightly.

A gaze from below—a pressure that struck like a weight.

Telekinesis.

“Like being pinned by a hundred men,” the elder said.

If that was just the passive pressure, what would full force look like?

Ragna extended a hand sideways.

“If we’re not careful, both of us will die here.”

“Then who’ll tell the story of standing in front of their captain?” Enkrid replied.

“You do it.”

Enkrid handed him Penna once more.

“If I’m the only one who makes it back, Anne will poison me.”

“...Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

Jokes aside, the danger was real.

Could he shrug it off because he’d just repeat the day anyway?

No—Enkrid wouldn’t let himself think that way.

If he were going to live carelessly, he wouldn’t have struggled this far.

The ferryman’s words echoed in his mind—that luck doesn’t last forever.

‘If it won’t work, then make it work.’

With renewed resolve, Enkrid gathered his Will from his wrecked body.

If all else failed, he would dance his final blade-dance.

Ragna gripped Penna and steadied his breathing.

How many times in his life had he fought with someone to protect behind him?

Someone he had to keep alive stood behind him now.

He looked at the monster and the elder beyond.

“None of those behind me will die.”

He would once again learn how to fight while protecting others. What he learned from Enkrid—he’d make it his own.

Ragna was a genius. He’d seen what Enkrid did. He roughly understood his foster mother’s methods.

He’d mimicked them moments ago when he crushed the golem’s skull.

And now, he added his own twist.

If he failed—well, he’d die. But was dying really the issue?

No—achieving what he desired was more important.

Right now, what Ragna desired was to protect those behind him.

Was that an impossible dream?

Then he’d enjoy it.

“Interesting,” he said.

He stole Enkrid’s line.

“Hey, that’s mine,” Enkrid grumbled.