Chapter 432: Like Black Lightning
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 432: Like Black Lightning
Encrid didn't spend his time idly while waiting for Ragna.
It was only natural. He was that kind of man.
Even now, nothing had changed. He had called Rem out and was currently clashing sword against axe.
Clang!
The silver-bladed axe caught Aker’s diagonal strike, parrying the blow before shoving the sword back with brute force.
Encrid tensed his arms and pivoted his waist, deflecting the momentum. Sensing the shift, Rem feigned a retraction, only to bring the axe crashing straight down.
Clang!
Once again, their weapons collided and rebounded. Sparks danced between the blades.
It was a relentless exchange of offense and defense—a cycle of techniques executed and countered without end. It was a fierce dialogue of steel that left no room to breathe. Yet, no human could survive without air.
Both men pushed their physical limits until their vision blurred and the world began to spin.
This was already their twelfth bout. The intense sparring had lasted for hours, leaving even Encrid panting for air. Rem was in no better shape.
"Whew... whew... Watch closely."
Rem spoke as he stepped back, his lips pursed into a tight circle. He took a sharp, sudden breath—gasp—and swallowed it. His ragged breathing and heaving shoulders stilled instantly.
Encrid instinctively tracked the line of the axe, starting from his opponent's shoulder.
As expected, Rem swung.
But it didn't stop at a single strike.
Encrid barely managed to bring Aker up in response.
Ching!
The blades crossed. Encrid twisted his body violently to dodge the follow-up. Rem’s axe-work continued, defying the logic that he had just been gasping from exhaustion seconds ago.
Rem’s style was already fierce—sharp, fast, and heavy by nature. Whenever that axe, forged from seemingly weightless iron, flew at him without any recoil, a chill would run down the back of Encrid’s neck.
But now, it was even worse. To think he could unleash such a flurry immediately after hitting his limit?
Between the rapid, recoil-free swings, Rem’s second axe flew in on an off-beat rhythm. The twin axes shattered all sense of tempo, unleashing a relentless onslaught. Feeling as if he were trying to catch individual raindrops with his bare hands, Encrid blocked desperately with Aker and Gladius.
It wasn't an attack one could block simply by predicting the trajectory. And even then, Rem was holding back. If he hadn't been, this assault would have claimed at least one of Encrid’s arms.
"It’s about squeezing out whatever is left when you think you’re finished. I call it 'A Handful of Breath.'"
Having said that, Rem began to pant even harder than before. His complexion turned a dull, sickly purple—the toll of holding his breath to pour out every last drop of his life force.
Rem still preferred to teach through action rather than words. It was easier that way for both the teacher and the student.
Catching his breath, Rem continued.
"Do it wrong, and your heart will burst. Or your blood vessels will rupture. Dammit, it feels like it shaves a bit off your lifespan every time."
It was a technique far more dangerous than the Heart of Monstrous Strength. Normally, it was a move performed while protecting the body with sorcery, but Rem had modified it. It was only possible because of the insights he had recently gained from drawing upon sorcery himself.
And Rem knew that the crazy bastard of a captain in front of him would likely use it even better than he did, once he mastered it.
"If you want to land even a single blow on him, learn this before you fight."
The sparring match with Ragna was two days away. Rem was offering his help in his own way. For Encrid, there was no reason to refuse. He accepted. He woke up every morning, warmed up with the Isolation Technique, and then practiced A Handful of Breath with Rem.
Rem offered advice throughout the process.
"I was originally ambidextrous, but you aren't, Captain."
"What are you trying to say?"
While teaching Encrid, Rem was busy honing his own skills. It was obvious to anyone watching; he was training harder than ever, dripping with sweat. Because of this, Dunchabel was also having a miserable time, and the task Encrid had previously ordered—forming a new unit—had been pushed aside.
Encrid didn't force the matter. Rem wasn't the type to do something just because he was told to, anyway. Krais also agreed that organizing the unit wasn't the most urgent priority.
"Organizing the troops is important, but war won't break out tomorrow. Nothing will happen for at least a year."
That was the time it would take for the King to stabilize the country. Above all, after observing the Border Guard's policies, Naurilia was establishing outposts in every city connected to the capital. In essence, the Kingdom and the Border Guard were developing in parallel.
Of course, Encrid would rather swing his sword one more time than worry about politics.
Regardless, Rem was swinging his axe more faithfully than ever, neglecting the unit's formation. Since he was sparring with Encrid in the heat of it, his explanations were often brief.
"Right now, you aren't truly using both hands."
"Explain... whew, gasp... more," Encrid said, planting the tip of his sword into the dirt to catch his breath.
Rem thought for a moment, then asked, "Can you write with your left hand?"
He couldn't. He could draw a Spark with his left hand to activate the Will of Speed, but he couldn't write.
"If you're going to use both hands, you have to use them both properly. If you're clumsy, you're better off not using the second one at all."
Encrid had no intention of forcing a dual-wielding style if it didn't fit. But Rem was right. If he had a tool, he had to master it. Otherwise, it was meaningless. At this stage, he was only facing opponents where anything less than perfection meant failure.
The two days passed quickly, but this time, Encrid was the one to delay. Luagarne had advised him to wait.
"Postpone the sparring further. You ask why? You know your skills won't transform in just a few more days. However, you can steel your resolve. You cannot let what you learned from the Mercenary King go to waste, can you?"
Luagarne never gave a direct answer. To her, the realization had to come from within. She would guide him, but she would never simply hand him the truth. That was her way.
Encrid delayed for a few more days. In the meantime, he practiced writing and eating with his left hand.
"If you have built flexible, firm muscles, they only have meaning if you use them, Brother."
Audin also helped. Encrid learned a few more techniques of Valaf-style Martial Arts—one joint lock and one striking technique. Not every move needed a name.
Ragna merely watched them quietly.
During that time, Encrid became able to write letters with his left hand, albeit in a terrible, jagged scrawl. He had to reply to a personal letter from the King. Seeing it, Krais had asked out of curiosity about the contents.
"What does it say?"
Krais assumed it was a promise of resources or titles to keep the King of the East in check. After all, the letter had arrived right after the news of the Mercenary King. Krais had been secretly worried about the political implications.
His prediction was wildly off.
"He's complaining that sitting on the throne is no job for a human."
"Complaining?"
Encrid nodded.
Such a mundane thing at a time like this? Krais couldn't tell if Krang was the strange one or if it was his captain.
Regardless, this was the reply. The content was simple: If you've decided to do it, do it properly.
Encrid set down the quill held in his left hand, then clenched and unclenched his fist.
It's not enough.
He couldn't master his left hand overnight. However, he felt he understood the meaning behind Luagarne's words. He stood up and went outside.
The sun was directly overhead, the day brighter than any other. On this cloudless day, the scent of heat pricked his nose—the smell of sun-baked stone, dry soil, and fresh grass. It was a good day.
Though they had originally agreed on two days, a full week had passed. Ragna had waited patiently. In that time, Ragna had become confident in his absolute control over his blade. Even when swinging with all his might, he could stop the edge after cutting a single strand of hair—so perfectly that it wouldn't even leave a red mark on the skin.
Had they sparred after just two days, the match might have ended with a severed limb. Not now.
"I have kept you waiting long."
They met at the center of the training ground. Ragna had swung his sword alone in this same spot every day. On the surface, it didn't look like he was practicing any grand swordsmanship. Rather, it was a succession of strikes that seemed even looser and more relaxed than before.
To one side, Rem sat with his arms crossed on a chair he had fashioned himself. Beside him, Audin sat on a large boulder he had hauled over to use as a stool. Dunchabel, Teresa, Pel, and Ropode were also watching. Sachsen and Esther were absent, both occupied with pressing matters.
Encrid paid no mind to the audience. He raised his sword and took aim. The tip of Aker became a single point, leveled at his opponent. Intimidation—a pressure rooted in pure willpower—bore down on Ragna.
Ragna remained unfazed. To Encrid, Ragna didn't even feel particularly intimidating. If anything, he looked weaker than before.
"If you lose track of it, you die."
The moment those words left Ragna’s mouth, the world shifted.
It was outside the realm of cognition. It couldn't be seen by the eyes; it barely registered on the sixth sense. Before he knew it, Ragna’s sword, Blackie, had slashed across his thigh.
It was a strike from an impossible angle. The speed and timing were such that blocking with Aker was a fantasy. Encrid barely managed to shift his center of gravity backward, relying entirely on instinct. His body tilted back, narrowly avoiding a fatal wound.
Blackie’s dark blade swept over his trousers. Blood began to seep through the tear, staining the fabric.
He knew from that single strike.
"A Knight?" Encrid muttered.
"Just the threshold," Ragna replied calmly.
Rem, watching from the sidelines, found that calm attitude incredibly annoying. "Spenadul-like bastard."
Spenadul was a Western term, literally translating to 'a bastard who smokes tobacco with his anus.' In context, it referred to someone who wished for results through meaningless actions, though it was commonly used as an insult for a lazy person. Naturally, no one else understood it. Even if they had, they wouldn't have reacted.
Ragna raised Blackie with the same detached air. The dark greatsword, forged from incredibly heavy Ink Gold, was held in one hand, yet it looked lighter than a rapier. It seemed as though if he swung it, the blade would bend like a whip.
He didn't project auras of terror, but anyone looking at Ragna now would instinctively take a step back. His sword looked like an unstoppable divine punishment—like black lightning about to strike from the heavens. Even though he hadn't swung yet, the sheer power of the impending strike was visible to all.
Audin’s brow furrowed. It was not a strike that could be blocked while keeping his restrictions active. Even before the sword fell, Teresa saw an illusion of her shield shattering. Dunchabel broke out in a cold sweat; in her mind's eye, she saw her own death. It was a strike one must never face if they wished to live.
Pel’s knuckles turned white as he gripped Idol Slayer. Ropode recalled a true Knight of the Order he had seen only once. He, too, saw the truth of the situation.
Luagarne stood to one side, her eyes fixed on Encrid.
Everyone was tense. A Knight was a force of nature—a calamity that changed the very air by their presence. What happens when that calamity aims its sword at you?
Frok’s bulging eyes were fixed not on Ragna, who had reached the threshold of a Knight, but on Encrid. He couldn't take his eyes off him.
Is he... smiling?
Encrid was indeed smiling. It was the same smile he had worn when the Ferryman first told him he would die, that the wall would block him, and that he must repeat this day forever.
No one else would understand, but it didn't matter.
Whoosh.
The black lightning brought no thunder. The silent blade looked as if it would split Encrid in two.
Clang!
Naturally, that did not happen.
Drip.
Encrid had raised his sword above his forehead to block, but the sheer force pushed him back, causing his own blade to nick his brow. Drops of blood trickled down.
Just before the black lightning struck, he had crossed Aker and Gladius to catch it. It was split-second timing, but he had blocked it. Because he had hurriedly twisted Gladius to brace the impact, the skin of his forehead had been scraped. The blood flowed freely now, staining Encrid’s face crimson.
Even so, he did not close his eyes.
It wasn't that some grand realization had suddenly dawned on him. Encrid was a wanderer who had spent his entire life searching for a way, losing his path, and wandering again in search of a signpost. He was a madman who had patched together his fragmented, torn dreams just to make it this far.
That was why, at this very moment, he was happy.