Chapter 433: Permission Was Never Granted
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 433: Permission Was Never Granted
The madman—a wandering seeker, a lunatic chasing a dream—had encountered three knights in his journey.
The first was the Knight of Azpen.
Every technique the man possessed was both blindingly fast and devastatingly powerful. Even if you saw the strike coming, you couldn't block it. Or rather, perhaps now Encrid could parry a blow that lacked sincere intent, but back then, it had felt impossible. The knight’s physical capabilities belonged to a human on an entirely different plane, and his swordsmanship reflected that absolute gap.
The next master of knight-level martial prowess he met was the Mercenary King, Anu.
Anu had never shown his full strength; what Encrid had witnessed was a mere fraction of his power. Furthermore, the Mercenary King was a beastman. The techniques he displayed even without transforming were already at the pinnacle.
Even so, there had been much to see, feel, and learn, because Anu had fought as if slowly demonstrating each move for him. What he had shown was pure artistry—spearheads flying from incomprehensible angles through movements that defied logic.
The third knight was right before his eyes.
The opponent was currently pulling back the massive black blade he had just swung down.
Ragna’s strike was a one-hit kill—a sword meant to end a life without fail. It was the perfect embodiment of the Heavy Sword Style.
Not all knights were the same.
What was the "experience" the Mercenary King had spoken of? Where did this fundamental difference originate?
'By honing what one possesses.'
If you believe the path you are walking is right, do not look back in agony. Take one more step forward.
The King’s words remained vivid in his memory. The teaching was clear. The moment he realized this, Encrid knew for certain: talent—or rather, Heaven—did not grant him what he desired.
'A genius among geniuses.'
One in ten thousand. And from those gathered, the chosen of the chosen—that was a knight.
'So what?'
Would that change anything? No. It was the same as it had always been.
Permission was never granted.
Even if Heaven, talent, or the world itself refused to permit it, he would find a way. This was one of those ways. Encrid felt a spark of understanding. He saw a clue. A smile formed on his face, and his mouth opened, releasing words before his brain could even process them.
"Again."
His arms trembled violently. If he didn't brace his core, he felt he would be blown backward. It was like standing without so much as a staff before a tempest capable of uprooting ancient trees. It felt like climbing a glacial mountain range—where urine froze the instant it left the body—without a single rag to cover himself.
'No, that’s not right.'
He had a staff, and he had clothes wrapped around his body, even if they were mere rags.
Encrid steeled his mind. Everything he had built up until now was his clothing and his staff. There is no tomorrow for someone who denies their own progress and fails to believe in themselves.
Thus, it began with self-belief. The Mercenary King’s words carried that weight as well: walking the path one believes to be right and never turning away from what one has built.
Encrid smiled, looking at Ragna, his eyes asking a silent question:
Are you planning to end this with just one swing?
Ragna took his stance as if it were the only natural response. Blackie rose perpendicular to the ground, its massive frame splitting the sun. He intended to repeat the exact same movement.
An attack that could not be blocked even if known—a strike that perfectly recreated the sensation Encrid had felt when he first saw the Knight of Azpen.
* * *
And this was Ragna swinging while holding back his strength.
The black lightning struck three times in total, and Encrid endured all three. "Endured" was the only accurate word, as the muscles in his right arm had nearly ruptured and his left arm was on the verge of snapping.
'That ignorant bastard.'
Rem, who had watched the exchange to the end, started to spit out a curse but stopped himself. Feeling a sudden itch in his throat, Rem raised a hand to scratch it, unable to voice his complaints.
'Even I would have...'
He, too, understood that it was difficult to go easy when facing a man like Encrid. Even as his arms shook, Encrid tried to grip his sword again. His body swayed as if he might collapse at any moment, but the light in his eyes remained fierce.
How could anyone face a man who threw himself into battle, burning his very soul, with a half-hearted effort?
Spenadul—that lazy bastard who looked like he’d smoke tobacco through his ass—had actually held back. If he had put even a fraction more strength into it, Encrid’s arms would have been shattered. It was hard to call him ignorant for that.
"Haha, our lazy brother’s realization is truly extraordinary."
Audin expressed genuine admiration. It wasn't every day one got to witness knight-level swordsmanship. Even Audin couldn't immediately pull off something like that just by releasing his restriction; he would need time to adjust, or perhaps a period of grueling training. Still, it wasn't a realm beyond reach.
Rem and Audin remained calm, but the others were not.
There were many talented individuals by Encrid’s side. While Rem, Sachsen, and Audin were exceptional, the rest were formidable in their own right.
Teresa fell into deep thought, her eyes half-closed. She replayed the scene over and over. It was lightning—a disaster falling in the form of a terrifying black iron that one wouldn't even dare to block.
'Could I block that with a shield?'
Even with an unbreakable shield, could the arm holding it endure the impact? It was a strike that made even someone with the body of a half-giant hesitate. Teresa clenched her teeth, her jawline sharpening with tension.
Just as despair was about to take root, Encrid—who had finally collapsed unconscious after holding his ground—caught her eye. Looking at him, a different emotion surged within her.
'I can do it too.'
It was a fierce competitive spirit combined with a determination never to yield. Dunchabel and Ropode felt the same. Everyone was lost in thought.
Luagarne’s eyes did more than just sparkle; she was shedding tears.
"Why is that Frok crying?" Rem asked, noticing her.
"She seems to be overwhelmed with emotion, barbarian brother," Audin replied.
Audin was right. Luagarne felt something swelling deep within her chest. She was so moved she couldn't find her voice. Her sleek, smooth Frok fingers trembled.
'How can anyone be like that?'
She had witnessed Encrid’s growth, but she also knew the reality of his talent. Her innate Frok intuition and her own experience made her acutely aware of Encrid’s limits at every turn. Yet, he still moved forward.
Luagarne saw something far greater than merely rising above jealousy. It was the will to forge ahead even if Heaven did not permit it, even if he possessed no talent whatsoever. It shone brighter than a falling star and burned hotter than a blazing fire.
It was pure, unadulterated will.
'Permission was never granted.'
Encrid had proclaimed those words with his entire body and proved them with his actions.
Luagarne’s mouth opened. "He will become a knight."
It was an abrupt statement, but no one disputed it. The Mercenary King hadn't left a legacy for Encrid out of absolute certainty; it was a gift thrown to a bastard who carried his dreams upon his sword.
And now, the Frok, who always explored the unknown by perceiving reality, felt a powerful conviction that transcended reason.
That man will become a knight.
While the Frok was moved and the others were pensive, the one who had received the greatest shock was Pel.
'What on earth is that?'
He had never once thought he would lose to anyone in terms of talent. He was from the Shepherd of the Wilderness; every person in that group was a monster. Even if he drew the Idol Slayer and fought, there were elders he could do nothing against.
But he had always believed he would catch up. Now, seeing what had unfolded, his confidence eroded. What he had believed to be a solid mountain felt as though it were scattering in the wind like dust.
'Is my talent actually pathetic?'
Pel stood frozen, paralyzed by the shock.
* * *
If his arms were ruined, he simply had to train his lower body.
"You never rest. That is an excellent attitude. When blood circulates quickly, recovery speeds up."
A properly trained healer would have called it madness. If the body was suffering from inflammation, rest was the priority, not pushing further. But there was no such healer here, and Audin’s words weren't entirely wrong.
Encrid’s body was not so fragile as to break from this. Through the Isolation Technique and his Regenerative Body, his physical form had become highly specialized for recovery.
It took seven days for his arms to fully heal.
Exactly one week later, Encrid gripped his sword and called out to Ragna.
"Stop being lazy and get out here. Today, I’m going to fix all your bad habits."
The directionally challenged man, who was swinging his sword in the center of the training ground more diligently than ever, turned his head and replied calmly.
"I would have agreed even if you just asked for a normal spar."
Feeling slightly embarrassed, Encrid scratched his cheek. "It’s a habit."
It was a habit formed from calling out Rem and the others. Shouting, "Get out here, you crazy barbarian bastard, let me knock you down a peg!" was his way of requesting a spar, not a genuine provocation.
"This time, I’m going this way," Ragna said, holding his sword parallel to the ground.
If he had struck vertically before, this was a horizontal swing. If the previous strike had felt like falling lightning, this one felt like a collapsing fortress wall. It wasn't faster, but there was nowhere to escape. It felt like a massive boulder rolling toward him.
It was as if the strike was declaring: This is what a knight’s blow is.
This time, Encrid cracked two ribs. But he didn't die.
A few days later, when the pain in his side had vanished, Sinar returned. Watching Encrid sweating in the training ground, she showed a rare expression—a slight arch of her left eyebrow. Encrid knew it was her sign of surprise.
"You must have traveled far."
"Did you miss me, my battered fiancé?"
"Did you learn to add modifiers like that from Audin?"
"I’m not at an age where I need to learn from anyone."
Encrid nodded and raised his sword. He hadn't forgotten what Sinar had shown him when he collapsed. If it hadn't been for Ragna, he would have been waiting for her day and night.
Sinar smiled as she drew Naidel. It was an elven smile reserved solely for Encrid. Encrid did not fall for the charm spell cast by her otherworldly beauty. Sinar erased her smile and closed the distance in an instant.
Clang!
Was it thanks to Ragna? Her strike was slower than the black lightning and easier to block than the horizontal wall of iron. Instead, her sword fluttered like a butterfly. He blocked it, but it suddenly bent, approached, and dropped from above. When he barely managed to parry that, it somehow returned to the front and thrust deeply toward his stomach.
While he was struggling to block and dodge, an invisible blade targeted the back of his head. Striking with a sword from the front while a blade simultaneously appeared from behind—it was the secret swordsmanship of the elves, forged from the forest’s essence.
"There is nowhere to run," Sinar’s voice reached him.
Encrid smiled. He had no intention of running.
Twisting his body, he blocked the elf’s Naidel with Aker in his right hand and drew Gladius with his left to strike down the formless blade. Flick. The formless blade vanished powerlessly, but he couldn't perfectly block Naidel. A few similar attacks left him with several scratches.
Naturally, he lost, and this time, he nearly had a hole put through his thigh.
"If she had thrust just a bit higher, you would've spent the rest of your life as a brand-new species—neither man nor woman," Rem joked from the sidelines.
"I almost made a grave mistake," Sinar admitted with a brief moment of reflection.
"It’s fine," Encrid said. He didn't mind.
After that, a routine that was both ordinary and extraordinary continued. One day, he would spar with Ragna. On others, he would spar with Sinar. In his spare time, he would learn techniques from Rem. Even while hanging out with Audin, he would pester Sachsen for lessons.
"The Mu-sal Thrust isn't about making it unblockable; it’s about thrusting so they don't even realize it’s happening."
He didn't strictly need to learn it, but knowing a variety of techniques would help. That was why he kept mastering new things. The elf’s blade was invisible, but it caught on his net of senses.
'Ultimately, is it about thrusting so that it can neither be seen nor felt?'
It was a realization he had gained through intuition even before Sinar could demonstrate it again. Repeating days like this was Encrid’s specialty. He trained to write with his left hand and kept his senses sharp by dodging Sachsen’s daggers. Though each day was identical to the point of being tedious, Encrid simply kept at it.
As he spent his time in this manner, the Ferryman appeared in his dream.
The Ferryman hadn't come to say anything specific; he intended to chide Encrid, asking if he truly found this tedious routine enjoyable. But Encrid was faster to ask a question.
"When is the ill omen coming?"
His eyes smoldered with the intensity he had shown countless times. Since the Ferryman resided within his mindscape, such a gaze was equivalent to speaking with his very soul. He was asking with everything he had.
The Ferryman couldn't bring himself to say that the "ill omen" had been the curse-wielder, and that the man had already met a miserable end. Hadn't the Ferryman boasted loudly, warning him to be careful?
Unaware of this, Encrid asked again. "Is it right in front of us now?"
It was a question that seemed more like a desperate struggle than anticipation. The Ferryman could not answer.
"Or is it tomorrow?" Encrid pressed.
The Ferryman silently cursed. 'Persistent bastard.'
Unable to say anything that would damage his dignity, the Ferryman closed the world without uttering a single word—a first since they had begun communicating.
Encrid woke from his dream, left only with the image of a suddenly speechless Ferryman.