Chapter 666: The Hammer-Wielding Madman
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 666: The Hammer-Wielding Madman
Encrid’s gaze drifted to Esther’s eyes. Her pupils burned with a feverish intensity, and her hair fluttered as if caught in a breeze, even though the air was still.
What is wrong with her?
“And I never cut in line. Big-Eyes, another glass.”
Esther's breath carried a scent that didn't belong to the night sky. It was a sweet yet heavy, smoky aroma.
“Yes, yes, coming right up.”
Krais had already produced a sweet-smelling bottle and was pouring it into the glass Esther held out. The aroma was smooth, but the alcohol content was clearly lethal.
“It’s a gift we received from the Elven City,” Krais explained as he poured.
Sinar added, “It is brewed from five kinds of fruit and infused with dawn dew. Its name is Tintilus Wir. In the continental tongue, it translates to something like ‘Creeping Poison’ or ‘Silent Fog.’”
So, it’s a heavy hitter.
“I do not get drunk. Do not worry,” Esther muttered. “The Glint spell is a mage's secret. One does not show their secret techniques to just anyone. Sinar, it is good to have you back.”
She’s definitely drunk, Encrid thought with absolute certainty.
“Alcohol? I told you, I do not get drunk. Why are you looking at me like that? The night sky is spinning. Is today the day the world ends? Are the stars falling to shatter the earth? If so, we cannot just sit here. Enki, follow me. I must find us a place to stay for a while.”
She was beyond drunk.
“Is there no room for me?” Krais chimed in with a chuckle. He seemed to find Esther’s state quite endearing.
“You claw-stealing thief!”
Esther suddenly clenched her fist and swung. Krais, no amateur himself, reflexively leaned back to dodge. The sharp whoosh of her fist cutting through the air was unmistakable.
If it had connected, it would have caused a fracture at the very least. Though Esther looked slender, the power of a panther dwelled in her limbs. She had told him so herself—a lingering trait from her transformation into a Lake Panther.
“Not the face!” Krais cried out as he dodged, which was an absurd thing to prioritize.
So anywhere else is fine?
“Why not the face?” Rem asked, swallowing a mouthful of meat. One would expect a man like him to eat messily, smearing grease everywhere, but Rem was surprisingly neat.
Come to think of it, Rem was a man full of surprises. He was sharper than he looked, enjoyed setting insidious traps, and was chillingly calculated when tormenting others.
Even when he hunted nobles, he was selective.
He had intentionally built his notoriety by targeting only the truly irredeemable, ensuring that those with malicious intent would direct their grudges solely at him.
His tidy eating habits were just another layer to his complexity. Such a side of him was likely only visible within the current order of knights. Watching him simply brought those thoughts to the surface.
“Unlike Rem, I actually value my looks,” Krais said, slowly backing away from Esther. He didn't seem to realize the gravity of what he’d just said.
That was Krais’s own brand of unpredictability. Usually, he was a man of calculation and preparation, yet he occasionally blurted out something incredibly foolish. It was as if the words escaped him without a single thought, despite knowing exactly how Rem would react.
“And what about me?” Rem asked. The smile playing on his lips was chilling—a bloodcurdling grin that seemed to snuff out the light of the campfire.
“...You are the most handsome man the West has ever produced,” Krais said, attempting a desperate pivot.
“Too late, you bastard. Today, I’m going to give your face a very 'manly' makeover,” Rem said, drawing a dagger carved from bone. It was an eerie, jagged thing; heaven knew where he had acquired it.
“Whoa, whoa, don’t do this! Ragna, Audin, Captain! Captain!”
Krais scrambled behind the campfire, the flames flaring sideways like dancing hands as he moved.
Watching the flickering shapes of the fire, Sinar muttered to herself with an indifferent expression.
“It’s fine now. It’s over.”
The demon’s fire was gone. She knew this, but a brand once etched into the soul does not fade easily.
“Where is Bran?” Encrid asked, watching the brief commotion.
Sinar answered immediately. “He won’t quit smoking. Funny for a Woodgard to smoke, isn't it?”
It wasn't funny. Not to Encrid, who knew exactly why Bran smoked.
“I’m going to go get some fresh night air. Big-Eyes, a few scars on your face won't kill you,” Ragna said as he stood up, prompting Krais to snap back.
“You don’t have a single scar on your face, do you?”
“That’s because there was never anyone capable of leaving one.”
Normally, Ragna was a man of few words. He moved as if every action were a chore. Yet among them, he spoke quite a bit and rarely showed his usual laziness. This was Ragna’s own unexpected side.
“That was incredibly obnoxious. Why don’t you say that in front of the squad later? Everyone’s been getting slack lately,” Ropode replied to Ragna’s comment. Meanwhile, Pel grumbled about the lack of logic before chugging the expensive Elven liquor straight from the bottle.
“Hey, if you finish that by yourself, I’m going to slice your stomach open and pour it back out,” Rem threatened.
Audin went a step further, grabbing Pel by the neck and wrenching the bottle from his mouth. Pel reflexively resisted, only to get smacked upside the head.
“This is divine punishment.”
No, Audin, that’s just violence.
Since they couldn't let Ragna wander off alone, Ropode stood up and followed him. In the meantime, Encrid took a sip of the liquor Krais had brought.
It’s strong.
Yet, the sweet and sour notes weaving through the heavy aroma of alcohol delighted his tongue. It was a drink where the flavor warmed the palate before the harshness of the alcohol could hit—fitting for its moniker, "Creeping Poison." With a drink this potent, it was only natural that Esther had passed out.
“I shall save you. Do not worry, you fools,” Esther mumbled from where she lay. At some point, her robe had expanded to serve as a thick blanket, but she still seemed to be shivering. Encrid figured he should bring her a proper cloak later.
“It’s a strong drink. Shall we have a celebratory toast?” Sinar said, sitting across from him.
“For what?” Encrid asked, half-expecting another joke.
“For finally grasping the self you have long desired.”
Perhaps influenced by the flickering flames, Sinar spoke with a rare seriousness, saying exactly what he needed to hear.
Encrid had once discussed the value of a peace forged by the sword. He had believed that their existence was the very order of knights he had always dreamed of.
But to be honest, he simply liked the present. He liked standing beside these madmen, and he liked being able to protect those behind him. He liked being able to assert his will in battle and step forward. He truly loved all of it.
“Sometimes, put aside your troubling thoughts and just rest,” Sinar said. She added "in my arms" right after, but he ignored that part.
Encrid ate, drank, and slept. And he dreamed.
“The weather is lovely. Today, I shall tell you an old tale. It is very entertaining, you know? It is about an elf who loved jokes.”
An old woman, who had once sold her body to survive, had found peace and sat her grandchild on her lap to tell stories.
“Doing business is hard, but seeing my child’s face gives me strength.”
A fruit vendor pulled his cart, thinking of his wife and child.
Amidst a field of flowers, a shy young couple whispered sweet nothings, while a soldier from the security force grumbled that he was getting a belly because there was nothing to do lately.
Seeing this, a baker nagged him to wake up early and run. The guard told his father to do it himself, to which the baker retorted that he was busy baking bread every morning, and if the son didn't like it, he should quit and bake bread instead.
In the dream, no one worried about the monsters roaming outside the town, nor did they fear that the flames of war would one day consume them. There were no bandits to steal what they owned, and the lord wondered if maintaining the castle walls was even necessary.
Encrid drew his sword as he watched them. To be precise, he drew his sword outside the city where they dwelt. Peace and tranquility would not simply arrive while one lay down and patted their belly.
The knight who ends the war!
The knight who will dye the war in twilight!
We shall call him the Twilight Knight!
The Knight of the End of War!
The Knight of the End! The knight who will end the war!
The bard’s song marked the end of his dream, and he awoke.
Encrid rose at dawn and began his training. When morning came, Esther recalled the events of the previous night, let out a silent scream, and did not return to the quarters for two days. According to the soldiers on duty at the mountain outpost, strange shrieks could be heard echoing from the peaks—a mix of screams from monsters and demonic beasts.
“Well, she certainly has a fiery way of venting her anger,” Rem remarked.
Encrid chuckled. A few days later, a summons came from Eitri. He was asked to come to the forge.
Encrid’s heart pounded with anticipation. It wasn't an imprinted weapon yet, but he had been told it was the stage right before it. Under the circumstances, his pulse couldn't help but quicken.
As soon as he finished his dawn training, Encrid dashed through the city and headed straight for the forge.
“You’ve arrived?” Eitri welcomed him as if he had been waiting. Amidst the heat of the forge warming the blue dawn air, Eitri sat with his hooded assistant standing beside him.
“Do you know of the three great metals of the continent?” Eitri asked.
“No,” Encrid replied, shaking his head.
People were naturally knowledgeable about fields they were interested in. Encrid had heard of Valerian steel, True Silver, and Ink Gold through word of mouth, but he knew nothing beyond the names.
The assistant brought over a chair, and Encrid sat down. Two teacups sat steaming on the table. Eitri placed a long, cloth-wrapped bundle on the table and spoke.
“Mount Uber Ink Gold comes from the yellow iron of the East, and True Silver comes from the iron mines of Lewis. You do know that they are only named Ink Gold and True Silver, and are not actually real gold or silver, right?”
He knew at least that much. As Encrid nodded, Eitri continued.
“And from the Valeri iron mines, True Iron is rarely found. It is deep blue in color. Normally, as metal increases in hardness, its brittleness also increases, making it easy to shatter—but Valerian True Iron does not have that flaw. And they say that if you melt a meteorite fallen from the sky, Meteoric Iron is obtained from within.”
Listening closely to figure out what Eitri was getting at, Encrid thought he understood his intention.
“The armor you brought this time had Meteoric Iron mixed into it. And the other metal was the Philosopher's Stone, also known as the living metal.”
The first sword Encrid had received was made of Ink Gold, and the next was True Silver. The one he currently held was Penna, a sword personally forged by an Elven blacksmith from Moonlight Silver, which possessed special properties even among True Silvers.
Eitri’s eyes burned with passion. Scholars risked their lives for the truth, and knights immersed themselves in the sword. Then what about artisans? What was most important to an artisan undertaking an unprecedented challenge? Though their desires might shift, Encrid thought he knew what Eitri wanted right now.
“Should I get you some True Iron?”
“Yes,” Eitri answered without missing a beat.
In terms of swordsmanship, it was like a thrust that hit before the blade was even seen. That was how swift and unhesitating his answer was. What the artisan before him desired most was materials.
“Just speak plainly next time.”
“Yes, I will do so from now on.”
It wasn't that Eitri had wanted to beat around the bush.
Eitri must be enjoying this too.
He was enjoying the process of forging an imprinted weapon. He wasn't looking at the present with misery or despair. And that was only right.
A hammer-wielding madman who enjoyed the process.
That is what you are.
That was how Encrid defined him. It was a thought that, had Eitri heard it, would have earned Encrid a highly displeased look.
Having finished his build-up, Eitri returned to his usual dry demeanor. He unrolled the cloth bundle he had placed on the table.
“I can see the path forward to some extent, but I suppose you could call this my first test. Do you like the shape?”
Seeing the path forward likely meant he had figured out how to make an imprinted weapon, and asking about the shape while calling it a test meant he intended to lock it into this form.
Penna was a short, single-edged sword. Even so, he had used it well. From the way it fit snugly in his hand to its incredible cutting power, it was a weapon in its own right. Even Rem had grumbled every time his axe clashed against Penna.
“If we keep this up, my axe is going to start feeling offended,” Rem had said.
Ragna had flat-out told him it was time to get a new sword.
“I need to go fetch a sword for a bit,” Ragna had said once.
“Where to?”
“There is a place.”
Leaving alone without even revealing his destination was practically declaring he would never see them again.
“We call that a farewell, not a trip, Ragna,” Krais had chimed in, echoing Encrid’s thoughts.
In the end, Ragna had not left.
“Well, the way back is a bit confusing, after all.”
Hearing that made it even clearer that they absolutely could not let him go. For Ragna to say he was confused meant that if he set off on his own, he would probably end up wandering onto a boat and drowning in the sea.
At any rate, Penna was an exceptional weapon. Thus, finding something he liked more would be difficult.
Encrid gripped the hilt of the sword lying on the table.
The pommel, wrapped in clean brown leather, was simple—a pointed diamond. The ricasso was unsharpened, and the guard was a simple straight line, devoid of any patterns or designs.
“The tip of the sword is blended with Ink Gold, the blade with True Silver, and the core is Meteoric Iron.”
The Philosopher's Stone had been melted down and used to fuse the three metals.
The blade was long, closer to a two-handed sword than a one-handed one. The grip was of a corresponding length as well. The thickness of the blade was slightly heavy, reminiscent of a spatha.
Overall, it had the form of a two-handed sword, but that didn't mean it couldn't be wielded with one hand. With a knight’s strength, one could swing a club made of five maces bound together. Furthermore, even among such knights, Encrid possessed exceptional physical strength.
“I like it. Immensely,” Encrid said.
The saying about falling in love at first sight just by catching a glimpse of someone's face came to mind. That was exactly how Encrid felt right now. It was magnificent in shape alone. Even without testing its balance, it was the exact ideal he had envisioned.