Chapter 404: When Resolve Becomes Will, It Shines
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 404: When Resolve Becomes Will, It Shines
“They often say becoming a knight requires overwhelming talent. But what does that actually mean when you break it down?”
Liebart slammed his shield into the dirt, using it as a crutch to heave himself upright. His brow furrowed deeply, his face a mask of agony as he strained to endure the pain.
Crimson blood dripped from the tip of Spark, which hung loosely toward the ground, splattering rhythmically onto the floor.
Encrid did not rush in.
His intuition whispered that his opponent wasn't finished yet. A puncture wound of that severity should have left any man incapacitated, but Liebart was different. Between that gut feeling and a sudden curiosity about what the man had to say, Encrid stayed his hand.
“Associate Knights master their arts based on Will. But are those beings called ‘knights’ really any different?” Liebart continued.
His tone was calm, yet it carried a desperate, agonizing edge. Blood poured from his abdomen, but despite the groans of pain, he forced his back straight.
“They are different, indeed. They are faster. They are stronger. For instance, they can unleash a momentary, overwhelming force—much like that vertical strike you brought down earlier.”
Encrid nearly rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The blood flowing from Liebart’s wound was turning thick and turbid.
That wasn't all. The man who had been grimacing in agony just moments ago now wore a relaxed, almost serene expression. It wasn't a bluff or a deception; he truly seemed perfectly fine. It was an incomprehensible transformation unfolding right before Encrid's eyes.
“Ah, did you know? Malten possessed far better technique than me. Benukt was stronger than me. And Banat’s agility was at a level barely attainable by humans.”
Liebart spoke the names of his comrades like a prayer. Since Encrid didn't know any of them, he offered a sword swing instead of a reply. He kicked off the ground with a sharp crack and lunged forward, unleashing a diagonal slash. He had sheathed Spark and now gripped Silver with both hands.
Clang!
Liebart deflected the blade, displaying a raw strength that rivaled Encrid's own. Sparks flew wildly as the two pieces of metal collided with a deafening roar.
What is this?
The sheer force of the impact left Encrid's hands numb.
As Encrid backed away, Liebart traced the trajectory of his previous swing in the air. He was holding his sword with only one hand now—the same hand that had just blocked Encrid’s two-handed strike. He repeated the motions as if breaking in a new weapon.
Diagonal slash. Vertical slash. Horizontal slash. Thrust.
They were basic, fundamental movements, but the power behind them was unlike anything he had shown before.
Whoosh!
The wind whipped up by the sword falling perpendicular to the ground brushed past Encrid's cheek.
“So, it's like this,” Liebart muttered.
As he spoke, the blood flowing from his flank mingled with a dark, viscous substance, turning a deep, blackish-red before quickly drying up. His beard bristled, sharpening into needle-like thorns, while a coarse pelt began to crawl across his skin, covering his face.
Yet, his eyes remained the same color. The cold, calculating gaze he’d held when they first met was gone, replaced by a scorching heat—a flame fueled by slaughter and lust. It wasn't pure passion; it was a twisted, distorted, and hideous emotion.
“One simply needs to master every single physical ability to the level of a knight,” Liebart said.
He wasn't wrong. If one could match a knight in physical ability, reaction speed, strength, and agility, wouldn't that be a path to becoming a knight?
Liebart's entire body was now covered in fur. He had been human moments ago, but he was human no longer.
He resented the world that had driven him to this point. That was why he wanted to tell his story—why he had no choice but to go this far, and why he was doing this. He couldn't bear to keep it inside. There are times when a person is desperate to have their story heard, and for Liebart, that moment was now.
After all, the bastard who had bested him—a creature seemingly defined by talent—stood right before him. Knowing nothing of Encrid’s struggle, he assumed his opponent had reached this height solely through innate gifts. To him, it made no sense otherwise.
His arms and hands were now fully bestial. Letting his sword hand hang loose, he opened his mouth. His jaw structure had shifted, but not enough to hinder his speech. He had struggled to get used to the change at first, but those days were long gone.
“Sometimes, people have to risk their very lives just to become a knight. But if death is the inevitable outcome, should they still walk that path?”
It was the question of the cliff: when you reach the edge and all that's left is to jump, do you do it? Even knowing you will die?
“A single step for others was a step I had to risk my life to take,” Liebart said, his voice dripping with resentment. “And if you're lucky enough to cross that gap once, is that the end? No. I had to face cliff after cliff. So, I gave up.”
To Encrid, who had reached this point without an ounce of natural talent, these words could have sounded like a mockery. By any objective metric, Liebart’s innate talent must have been far greater than his own.
The opponent poured out his resentment, speaking of agony and despair. He cursed the world, his lack of talent, the Goddess of Fortune, and fate itself. That bitterness had led him here.
Yet, Encrid did not feel mocked.
Rem has Rem's path.
Ragna has Ragna's path.
Sachsen has Sachsen's path.
Audin has Audin's path.
Dunchabel, Teresa, Esther, Andrew—everyone simply walked their own path. And he had his own. Just because his opponent sang a dirge of despair, Encrid felt no need to dance to that tune. He felt no resentment, and he showed no emotion toward the man at all.
Liebart felt a surge of irritation. His confession should have elicited a reaction. Usually, people reacted in one of two ways.
After growing accustomed to this power, he had hunted down and killed every person who had once defeated him.
“That’s cheating,” some had gasped. That had deeply satisfied Liebart’s twisted heart. Yes, it was cheating! But talent itself was the ultimate cheat, so wasn't this only fair?
“Why would someone of your caliber... what a foolish choice,” others had rebuked him, calling it a false power.
No. Power was the only truth.
Now, he waited for Encrid to speak. Even if a real knight came, could they confidently claim they could surpass him now? Liebart had felt the limits of his talent, so he had discarded his humanity to grasp the martial might of a knight.
“Every chimera was merely a test subject for my sake,” Liebart declared.
Encrid saw no need to repeat the words Esther had told him—the trivial truth that the Count’s intentions had never been for Liebart’s benefit. Even if he spoke them, Liebart wouldn't listen. And even if he did, nothing would change.
Encrid raised his sword.
Liebart stared into the blue eyes shining through the black hair. They were straight and unwavering, eyes that looked directly ahead, pressing forward.
Liebart wanted to gouge them out. He loathed them. The more he looked at the boy, the more uncomfortable he felt. It was as if those eyes were reprimanding him, telling him his path was wrong. It felt like a whip that stung twice as hard as any spoken word.
He would kill him. He would tear him apart.
“My lord granted me power in this manner.”
Encrid shifted his grip, angling his blade. The intimidation radiating from Liebart had changed. The pressure weighing on Encrid’s shoulders was of a different caliber now. If the intimidation of the Knight of Azpen had been like ropes binding his body, what Liebart displayed now was like a massive block of iron crushing his spine.
“And thus, I became a knight.”
The declaration fell, and the oppressive pressure doubled.
Encrid did not back down. His opponent spoke of knights, while he himself remained a mere Associate Knight. But did that change anything?
He would still win. He would not lose.
For resolve becomes Will, and it shines.
Whoosh!
It was a movement that seemed to fold space. Liebart’s sword thinned into a silver thread as it fell. Encrid swung his sword upward, his timing razor-thin. Had he missed it by a hair, his body would have been split in two.
Boom!
A deafening roar erupted as the blades clashed. Encrid felt as though his entire body was being driven into the earth. His knees trembled. No—it was an illusion, a trick of the mind caused by the sheer weight of Liebart’s intimidation.
Encrid forced his feet out of the dirt and raised his sword perpendicular to the ground. As if waiting for this, Liebart’s sword slammed against the flat of Encrid’s blade.
Clang! Crack!
A spiderweb of cracks ran down the center of Silver. His opponent’s sword still looked like a mere thread—fast, faint, and carrying a multiplying impact that battered his entire body. Yet, it was blockable. He could react to it.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
He swung Silver against the onslaught. He fought back, blocking again and again. Had anyone other than Encrid been standing there, they would have broken long ago. What Liebart said was true; through his chimera body, he had leaped far beyond the limits of humanity. He truly possessed the power of a knight.
Encrid parried the blade repeatedly. It was precarious, but he held. Seeing the damage to Silver, he drew his Gladius. The sturdy, thick blade was the work of a dwarf; it did not yield to the relentless assault.
The thread curved, aiming for his shoulder. He raised his sword and swung diagonally to strike it away. If he merely tried to endure, he would be crushed; he had to strike back. This was the lesson he had learned fighting the Knight of Azpen.
Encrid did exactly as he had been taught. Every offense and defense mirrored the other. And so, after more than thirty exchanges of razor-thin endurance, Liebart took a step back.
He was filled with doubt. “You’re parrying a knight’s sword?”
An Associate Knight? It was impossible. The caliber of the swordplay, the speed, the power—it was all on another level. How was he holding on?
In response to Liebart’s disbelief, Encrid casually pressed a hand against his severed earlobe. It was a wound sustained when the tip of the sword grazed him while dodging. Blood trickled down his neck.
His armor was gouged and torn. Since he wasn't wearing a helmet, blood seeped through his hair from a tear in his scalp. It was a monstrous assault—a sword that moved as freely as a thread. Yet, he could block it.
Because it was easier to block than Ragna’s slashes.
Because it was easier to block than Rem’s axe.
It was easier to block than Sachsen’s presence-less sword.
And it was easier to endure than Audin’s brute fists.
Having survived all of that made this manageable. At least, that was how it felt to him.
“Are you sure you’re a knight?” Encrid asked.
He knew that if his opponent were a true knight, it wouldn't be just this. As he asked, a realization dawned on him.
“You’ve never actually fought a knight, have you?”
He hit the mark. Liebart had been terrified of defeat, too scared to face the reality of the gap in talent. Deep down, he had hoped to face a knight after this transformation, believing he had finally surpassed his limits.
Encrid had seen right through him.
The irritation in Liebart’s eyes flared into pure rage. A mere Associate Knight daring to...?
Encrid’s expression shifted, a dimple appearing as he spoke. “From where I’m standing, you’re not even as good as Ragna.”
Who the hell is that? Liebart didn't ask, but he saw the intent. The bastard was mocking him, throwing his own words back in his face.
“Even Rem could probably take you down if he tried half-decently. A knight?” Encrid’s voice rose in a mocking lilt.
That snapped the final thread of Liebart’s sanity. If he couldn't even be a knight after all this? After abandoning his humanity? This was the path he had walked—murdering his own family, slaughtering his house, sacrificing his fiancée and several noble houses to the experimenters. He had laid everyone who followed him upon the altar.
And yet, he still wasn't a knight?
“Maybe a few punches from Audin would knock some sense into you. Why not take this chance to devote yourself to God?” Encrid said, panting heavily, his sword-arm trembling.
“I will kill you,” Liebart hissed, “and then I will hunt down and slaughter every single one of those bastards you just mentioned.”
Liebart lunged with twice the speed and power he had shown before. By the time the words “every single one” left his lips, his sword was already descending to split Encrid’s skull.
Encrid barely blocked it.
Clang!
The screech of metal echoed across the battlefield. More eyes gathered to watch. Friend and foe alike halted their combat, staring at the duel. This clash would not decide the war, yet no one could look away. It was a collision of two lives, a trial to prove whose path was right and whose was wrong. Their blades spoke for them.
The wounds on Encrid’s body multiplied. With a sharp crack, his shoulder guard was sent flying. A fresh gash opened on his cheek. Droplets of blood scattered in the air. His thigh was slashed.
Even as he was pushed back, Encrid’s thoughts remained unchanged. Esther had told him he must not lose. If he lost here, he would be forced to start over from the morning once again.
If he had lived his life worrying about such things, he would have already been trapped forever in a mediocre today.
I will win.
He would not lose. His resolve remained unshaken.
Once again, resolve became Will, and it shone. It was the manifestation of a new power.
His fourth Will, following Rejection, Moment, and Crushing.