Chapter 464: Speaking While Blocking the Gates
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 464: Speaking While Blocking the Gates
The short-haired blonde Associate Knight subtly let her sleeves drape down as she sensed a presence at the doorway.
A thin blade, hidden against her wrist, was already gripped in her palm. It wasn't because she felt threatened; it was simply a habit.
With a hint of wariness, the Associate Knight asked, “Do you have something to say?”
Rem, the barbarian of the West and Encrid’s companion, was leaning against the doorframe. He stared at her blankly, his eyes devoid of any particular emotion.
“Where did you learn that poison art?” Rem asked in a flat tone.
It was an abrupt question, but the Associate Knight understood immediately. Her thoughts naturally traced back to the West, to a barbarian, and to a certain person she had once saved. She also knew that the poison arts she employed were far from ordinary.
Poisons were not all created equal.
For instance, Sachsen used toxins extracted from plants, animals, and minerals alike. He combined arsenic, belladonna, poisonous mushrooms, and countless other substances to create synthetic poisons.
But the blonde Associate Knight’s methods were different. Her poison was created through sorcery. Though the refining process and application were similar, Rem muttered to himself, 'The manufacturing process is completely different.'
It was a technique that couldn't be used without direct instruction. Moreover, it was a method he recognized.
The blonde Associate Knight sensed no malice from the man before her, and she remembered his performance on the battlefield. Though he hadn't fought for Oara or the city itself, there was no denying he had been a vital help. Furthermore, the sorcery poison wasn't even her primary technique. She didn't consider the information a secret.
“I happened to save an injured person by chance,” she replied calmly. “I learned it then.”
“Did you save their life?”
“Probably? I thought they were a bit of an odd person. Even though they barely escaped with their life, their confident attitude was quite memorable.”
The blonde recalled the memory as she spoke. Rem, in turn, recalled someone from his own past. If it was that fellow, he would have babbled some nonsense out of sheer embarrassment even after being saved.
“I see. Understood.”
As long as the art hadn't spread through foul means, it was fine. He knew that wouldn't be the case anyway; he had simply wanted to confirm.
Now that he had come here and asked, Rem felt he finally understood why he had sought her out. Seeing traces of his homeland even here felt like a sign that it was truly time to return. He had also managed to ward off bad luck—clearing away misfortune before a major event.
This battle had been exactly that. He had fought with half his life on the line.
'Honestly, more than half.'
His ribs still ached. The swollen bruise on his flank hadn't faded yet, making every step uncomfortable. Having no other business, Rem turned to leave, but the blonde spoke to him one last time.
“Thank you.”
The sincerity in her voice prompted Rem to stop.
“That fellow. He was smiling brightly when he left.”
At those words, the blonde smiled as well. Though tears might fall on some days, she would live on smiling as much as possible from now on. That would be Oara’s wish.
*
Rem looked up at the sky after leaving the blonde’s house.
The sunlight beat down harshly. It wasn't a pleasant warmth, but an uncomfortably heavy glare. Just when the air seemed to lighten, it grew heavy again. It was a different kind of heat from the sunlight of the West. Even though it had rained yesterday, the air was humid and damp.
On a day like this, just staying still was unpleasant, yet everyone in the city seemed to move about busily without complaint. Rem became a mere spectator as he walked through the streets, casting a glance around his surroundings.
Everyone is certainly diligent.
With that thought, he reached the front of the lodging and spotted a bastard who was more diligent than anyone else in the city. Rem’s mouth opened of its own accord.
“My, my, what are you doing with your hands trembling like that?”
Encrid was there, gripping his sword and swinging it at an incredibly slow pace. The effort to control every single fiber of his muscles was evident. It was a training method used to dissect and savor every individual movement. Rem had tried it a few times himself, but he hadn't found it amusing, nor did he feel the need for it.
For instance, even though he had witnessed Oara’s fight, Rem didn't feel the need to learn anything from it. What was there to learn from such an obvious fight?
But Encrid was different. He would have to thoroughly chew and swallow every single thing he had learned and gained from the experience. Rem knew this, but teasing him was an instinct.
“Reviewing,” Encrid replied indifferently, repeating the motion without breaking rhythm.
In front of him, Luagarne stood with her arms crossed.
“You ought to express your gratitude to the one who built that body of yours,” she said.
From what Luagarne had observed, she believed that one of the core foundations of the current Encrid was his physical vessel. She, too, had witnessed Encrid replicating the knight’s strike. His muscles could have ruptured; he could have collapsed, surrendering his body to the emptiness brought on by the excessive use of Will.
Yet, Encrid’s body had endured. She found it incredibly fascinating.
Then what about the consumption of Will? What about the void that follows after emptying one’s willpower?
'The Curse of the Void did not affect him.'
The Curse of the Void referred to a state of losing all motivation due to the excessive use of willpower. Despite using power that overflowed his vessel, Encrid had not succumbed. It was a state of having nothing left to burn—exhaustion or burnout in its purest form.
'Normally, it would be only natural to collapse.'
Even Roman, who was accustomed to replicating that strike, had gasped for breath and slumped to the ground. After crushing the bipedal spider monster with his crude, club-like greatsword, he had been left completely defenseless. If Aisia hadn't unleashed her draconic strength to block the path, Roman would have occupied a spot in the funeral scheduled for this afternoon.
Yet, Encrid was perfectly fine. He was so fine that he could stand up and swing his sword the moment the physical strain vanished.
How could she not find it fascinating? Luagarne believed there was nothing else that could pique her interest more than this.
*
Encrid spent half his time swinging his sword and the other half in meditation.
When it came time to meditate, he sat plop on the dirt ground in front of the lodging. To passersby, he looked like someone with nothing to do, blankly staring up at the sky.
Encrid’s gaze chased the clouds. They seemed thicker than usual today. Low, thick gray clouds filled one side of the sky, looking as though they might touch the ground. It would likely rain by afternoon.
While his gaze remained vacant, Encrid’s mind worked restlessly.
'How did she block it?'
The Fragment of Balrog had lowered its posture and lunged, an unexpected move targeting below the knees. If it were him, dodging would have been the priority, but Oara had blocked the move by seamlessly connecting her downward swing into a defensive transition. The blade had plunged straight down, attempting to split the Balrog’s skull, forcing the creature to retreat to its original position just as quickly as it had charged.
What the Fragment of Balrog showed was surprising, but Oara’s swordplay was even more astonishing. How did she execute that strike?
Normally, it would have been incomprehensible, but now he could catch a glimpse of it. The experience of mimicking a knight’s strike based on Will had provided Encrid with a new perspective. He could understand it if he broke down Oara’s movements.
'It’s the same as before.'
Swordplay was the art of connecting points through the feet. It was a sword that reacted instantaneously. Like reaching out to grab a cup, only to change one's mind halfway and pull the hand back. It was an acceleration of reaction speed.
'You don't set a destination while reaching out; you just react in the moment.'
Executing a downward swing as practiced, then modifying it according to the opponent’s movement—could one swing a sword with full force while keeping such preparations in mind?
Oara had done it. Whether it was possible or impossible did not matter; he had seen it achieved before his eyes.
Though Encrid didn't know it, that was the very essence of Oara’s technique. Her sword did not move along a predetermined line. Instead, it plotted the most efficient points and drew lines in the moment. It was a style of swordsmanship that rendered the battle of wits displayed by masters of the Orthodox Sword completely meaningless.
Drawing out whatever was needed from Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu at the necessary moment—that was the core. It was a swordsmanship made possible only by a knight’s physical capabilities and absurd reflexes based on Will.
In other words, it was a swordsmanship that only a knight could use. It was something she had created after reaching that realm. Until then, Oara must have defeated her opponents using only basic fundamentals.
In a way, it was similar to Rem’s technique. He could understand why Rem said there was nothing to learn. She was merely drawing out what was ingrained in her body from the realm of instinct.
The clouds wove and tangled, moving like Oara’s sword. Before them, Encrid swung his own blade in his mind. The clouds shifted again. The gray masses transformed into the Fragment of Balrog, swinging a red rod at unpredictable trajectories. The heat emanating from the rod scorched his skin.
The clouds changed continuously. Before long, they became Ragna’s sword. And then, they became the spear thrust by the Mercenary King of the East.
'Experience.'
The Mercenary King had said it was vital. That was truly excellent advice. Encrid knew what he had to do.
“Master everything I possess perfectly,” he monologued.
“Did you have a pipe dream?”
He must have closed his eyes at some point. When he opened them, he saw the gray-haired barbarian of the West. Rem was standing three paces away.
He was a fellow who washed well for a barbarian, and a squad member who would split the skull of a disobedient noble with his axe. He was the man who had told him about everything from Velopters to the Dusk, the place where the black meteor fell, the cannibalistic tribes, the River of Sand of No Return, and the origins of sorcery—yet had completely left out his own story.
He had intentionally avoided speaking about himself.
“I heard you’re heading to the West. When are you leaving?” Encrid asked.
“If I go with this body, I might die. No, actually, I’ll probably die.”
“Did you go around splitting someone’s skull there too?”
“Not quite, but well, I have my reasons.”
Hearing Rem’s words, Encrid raised his gaze. Normally, he wouldn't be curious. But right now, it seemed that Rem—the crazy axe murderer—was showing a faint trace of something akin to fear.
Rem?
It thoroughly piqued his curiosity. Even Luagarne, who was chewing on a bug nearby, slightly raised her head.
“Gurgle.” Her cheeks twitched. In human speech, it would translate to something like, 'Oho.'
“Can I tag along?” Dunchabel asked, showing interest. The beastman had been fully absorbed in training her body in the background, but the sight of the fearless Rem showing hesitation was too much to ignore.
“It looks like you’ve all gone half-mad. I don’t get why you want to follow me,” Rem grumbled.
“Let’s just go sightsee. I’ve never been to the West,” Encrid stated firmly.
“Aren’t you busy?”
There was no reason to be busy. As long as Azpen didn't make a move, the Border Guard would be safe. Since Krang hadn't sent word, there shouldn't be any immediate trouble. Moreover, if it were urgent, Krais would not have stayed quiet; he would have sent a hawk or a messenger.
There was no such news. It meant they were eating well and doing fine. If there was any worry at all, it was perhaps whether Ropode had been beaten to death by Ragna, or if Pel had gotten himself thrashed after acting cocky.
Ragna now possessed the martial power of a knight.
'Isn't it fine for him to get a little lost now?'
Even if Ragna were to cross the Azpen border, the one to worry about would be Azpen, not Ragna.
“I’m not busy,” Encrid said.
“Did I ever say I’d return after going to the West? I don’t think I did.”
It sounded like a threat—a warning to back off if they wanted him to return. Those words only stoked Encrid’s competitive spirit.
“I’ll just drop by.”
He had to see what the man was hiding.
“Are you really going to follow me?” Rem showed a flash of anger, but soon shook his head. “Do as you please.”
And so, Dunchabel and Luagarne joined the journey to the West.
The group rested for three more days until their bodies had fully recovered. It rained twice more, but perhaps due to Oara destroying the Core of the Demon Realm, the weather became clearer than before.
It was a bright, clear day with a high sky. The sunlight was as stinging as ever. While Knight Oara had been serene, the sunlight of the City of Oara felt harsh and fierce.
Encrid packed his bags and stepped out. Rem, Luagarne, and Dunchabel followed. Aisia joined them along the way.
“Are you leaving?” she asked.
“I must.”
“Did you say your goodbyes?”
“Roughly, yesterday.”
He had visited Roman in the middle of the night to tell him he was leaving. He had intended to leave two days ago, but Roman had strongly dissuaded him.
“Stay just one more day before you go.”
There was no reason to refuse. Besides, a drizzling rain had been falling then, making it a poor day to depart.
After warming up with the Isolation Technique and checking his gear, Encrid found he didn't have a single Whistle Dagger left. He had thrown them all during the battle. He had tried to retrieve them, but the blades were chipped beyond use.
He had stopped by the blacksmiths, but they had all closed their doors in unison.
“Ah, I told you we have nothing to sell. There’s not a single thing to sell to you.”
The stubborn artisan’s words lingered. It felt less like they had nothing to sell, and more like they were under orders not to sell to him.
As they set off, Aisia suddenly spoke. “To be honest, I had half given up.”
“On what?”
Aisia matched her pace to his steady footsteps. “I thought it would be enough just to scrape by on one meal a day with my brother. But I don’t think that’s the case anymore.”
She had found her will to move forward again.
“Because I saw Sir Oara’s back,” Aisia said.
Leaving the city, Encrid thought once again of the impact Oara’s death had left on everyone.
They reached the castle gates. Roman was there, blocking their path, his greatsword resting on his shoulder.
“I still cannot understand,” he said.
His resolve was clear—they would not be passing through those gates easily. Behind him stood his unit, including Milio, along with the short-haired blonde Associate Knight.