Chapter 671: It's Not Like That at Night
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 671: It's Not Like That at Night
Contrary to Krais's concerns, no fierce battle broke out.
Both sides knew better, having clashed once before. Unless they were prepared to fight to the death, it was difficult to determine who would emerge victorious.
"Just because you hold the advantage now, do you think it will last?"
The speaker was the man who had barely survived his encounter with Rem. He looked ordinary enough, but his eyes burned with a sharp intelligence. His name was Magrun Zaun.
Although his hair was a different color than Odinkar’s, the two shared a subtle resemblance. While Odinkar carried a somewhat languid air, this man radiated a gritty, dogged persistence. It was merely an impression, but it likely wasn't far from the truth.
These people didn't seem to hide their inner thoughts. Encrid knew this from observing elven society. Since elves had no need for deception, the very word for "lie" didn't even exist in their language. These people likely lived the same way; they had no reason to mask their true intentions.
"House Zaun lives in constant competition. We are different from you, who complacently sacrifice the weak," Magrun continued. Under the collective gaze of the group, he swept his eyes over his surroundings.
His posture and attitude made it clear that his spirit remained unbroken. It was as if he were declaring that being beaten by Rem wasn't the end of the story.
To an extent, Magrun’s words hit the nail on the head—at least regarding how knights were generally treated on the continent.
Knights rarely clashed with one another. A knight's combat power was simply too precious to waste. Most kingdoms treated their knights with extreme care and respected their wishes. It was only natural; any injury or death resulting from internal sparring would be an immeasurable loss to the state.
Magrun was arguing the exact opposite. He pointed out the complacency of those who became stagnant the moment they achieved knighthood. It was a passionate, conviction-filled speech.
And Rem didn't even pretend to listen.
What is he even blabbering about?
Indeed, Magrun's words fell on deaf ears when it came to the madmen of the Border Guard. The people gathered here were flowers that had bloomed on the battlefield. They were those who had stood firm where blood poured, kept death as a constant companion, whispered with steel instead of tongues, and fought just to see tomorrow.
In Encrid's case, it was a miracle he was even alive and speaking. At least, that was how Rem saw it. Audin and Sachsen surely agreed.
Right on cue, Magrun snorted and pointed a finger at Encrid.
"I heard you all gathered to teach him. I suppose his talent was exceptional? Did you savor what was handed to you? Did you simply walk a predetermined path? Is that how you reached your current level?"
His words burned with passion, his tone thick with confidence. It was the kind of speech only possible for someone with absolute conviction in their own worldview.
Encrid snapped out of his thoughts and looked at Magrun—specifically, at the finger pointing at him.
Magrun spoke as if swinging a sword infused with Will.
"Did Ragna lead you? Did you reach this place out of sheer luck? Just wait. I will catch up to you in no time. It won't take more than two months at most."
Pel, who had gone to the elven city with Encrid, slain demons, fought cultists, and witnessed everything since their return, couldn't help but mutter.
"What is that idiot even talking about?"
"Don't butt in, you unqualified weakling," Magrun snapped, without even sparing Pel a glance. Pel flared up, but Ropode grabbed his arm.
Ropode's expression was as stoic as ever, but the tight, unyielding set of his mouth made it clear he wasn't in a good mood either.
"He's not entirely wrong, is he?" Ropode said rhetorically. He didn't mean to provoke Pel, and Pel knew that.
Instead, the two of them clenched their teeth, silently resolving to increase the intensity of their daily beatings from Audin by at least two levels starting tomorrow.
Was the method Encrid devised really the fastest path? Maybe not. It might not even be the right one. But there was no other way right now, so they simply did it. Hadn't they learned that much from watching him?
Rather than agonizing, move forward. Instead of collapsing, crawl if you must, but keep your eyes ahead.
That was what they would do. Just as they had seen and learned.
In any case, Pel and Ropode shared the exact same thought: You idiot, the people here caught up to the captain in just a fortnight. Do you think they're going to just play around for the next two months?
Magrun stood with his back straight. He wasn't being arrogant; it was confidence built on experience.
"Spoon-fed weaklings who grew up without fierce competition..."
His tone was blatantly irritating.
Even before he finished speaking, everyone's eyes turned to Encrid, who was staring silently at Magrun. They all waited for him to speak. It was time for him to either beat down this ignorant fool physically or tear him apart with words.
"Is two months all you need?" Encrid asked calmly. He didn't seem offended at all. In fact...
Why does he look happy?
Rem tilted his head, and Sachsen's eyebrow twitched.
"Brother?" Audin called out, but Encrid raised a palm to stop him.
While Pel, Ropode, and even Teresa watched, wondering what he was up to, Luagarne was the first to realize the truth.
He's excited.
She was right. The reason for his excitement was simple: these newcomers were good fighters.
"I'll give you two months, so prove yourself before you leave," Encrid said.
Magrun was different from Grida. He knew his own flaws. He had a habit of offending people whenever he opened his mouth. While Grida refused to admit she couldn't remember faces, he was self-aware. Yet, he had never been treated like this before.
Why isn't he angry?
Normally, a man in his position should be furious, boasting of his efforts and calling the remarks insulting or blasphemous. That was the natural order of things.
"Hmph, two months is more than enough," Magrun said, his voice cooling slightly.
"Right. By the way, Krais? Where did Big-Eyes go?" Encrid asked, changing the subject mid-sentence.
"He slipped away a moment ago," Luagarne replied.
"Then, Ropode."
"Yes."
"Find some lodging for these three."
"Understood."
Ropode bowed and walked away. Magrun's gaze remained fixed on Encrid. Grida and Odinkar also watched him with surprised eyes.
"Good. Your name was Odinkar, right? Let's have a match."
Encrid spoke next, completely ignoring the bewildered stares. Odinkar shared a similar disposition to Encrid, but he at least possessed some social awareness.
"Now?" Odinkar asked. He did want to fight; his instinct for battle was already making his heart race. But aren't you supposed to be offended right now? Why do you look so thrilled, gripping your sword as if you can't wait?
"The only reason I'm not drawing this sword is because it hasn't been broken in yet. I can spar with it by tomorrow. For now, I'll use this one."
Encrid was already past the point of listening to anyone else.
Grida Zaun's specialty was her ability to identify weaknesses through observation.
Encrid had already figured that much out. She likely had more hidden tricks, but that was what he had seen so far. He was curious about Magrun Zaun's skills as well, but the man was injured.
"Pel, go call Anne and have her treat him," Encrid said, his eyes still fixed on Odinkar.
A knight's recovery rate was on a completely different level from that of ordinary people. With just a little medicine, an injury of that scale would heal in no time. Knights could even mend broken bones in a single day if their Will was strong enough to act as a substitute for vitality. To achieve that before becoming a knight, one had to attain a Regenerative Body through brutal methods—exactly what Audin and Encrid had done in the past.
"Are you excited because you found an opponent, or because you want to beat him to a pulp?" Rem asked, reading Encrid's mind.
"Probably both," Sachsen chimed in.
"Lord, was the Apostle of the God of War not me, but you, Brother?" Audin lamented.
Encrid heard them but let it go in one ear and out the other, merely nudging his sword.
Swept up in the atmosphere, Odinkar drew his sword once more. With a sharp shring, the silver blade revealed itself. Though he had some social awareness, he wasn't the patient type either. In fact, he was generally quite impulsive.
Odinkar chewed on his words, practicing them in his head before speaking.
"I might have a bit of an advantage. The sword I'm holding is one I brought from my family and have already broken in. And let me warn you in advance—I don't really know how to stop. I lack patience, so even if things get a bit rough, do your best to survive."
If Grida couldn't recognize faces and Magrun had a knack for ruining the mood, Odinkar lacked self-control. The reason he usually appeared relaxed was because once he started something, he couldn't stop. For instance, if he found a dish he liked, he would eat only that dish for an entire year.
The worst of it was when he sparred. Odinkar simply did not know how to hold back. In real combat, that boldness was a strength, but in sparring, it was dangerous.
Yet, Encrid found everything about them perfectly fine. To be precise, it wasn't anything worth worrying about.
Not recognizing faces? That was fine. It was a hundred times better than constantly getting lost. Harsh words? That was practically cute. Sometimes, listening to Rem speak made him wonder if he should offer a silent prayer for Rem's enemies. That barbarian's mouth was getting cruder by the day.
And finally, self-control?
Why should I hold back?
There were people around him who could withstand his sword. Even if he surged forward, there were those who would ultimately overtake him and tell him he wasn't there yet. So, why on earth should he hold back?
"Bring it on, Two Months," Encrid said casually, unable to recall his opponent's name.
"I'm 'Two Months,'" Magrun muttered, bewildered. Grida let out a snort of laughter beside him.
By now, everyone knew what that madman wanted.
"You hear that you're a bit strange a lot, don't you?" Odinkar asked, letting his sword hang low.
Whenever members of House Zaun ventured out onto the continent, the word they heard most often was "peculiar." That was putting it nicely; behind their backs, people called them madmen. Yet, here was a madman who surpassed them all.
"No, not at all."
To make matters worse, he didn't even admit it.
"No, you're definitely strange," Odinkar said with a laugh. This time, he didn't choose his words carefully. He spoke straight from the heart. So, do I really not have to hold back?
Everyone stepped back, clearing a space for the spar.
Stepping back a few paces, Luagarne suddenly realized something. Encrid wasn't just excited because his opponent was a good fighter. There was something else mixed in.
Inquisitiveness.
Encrid had dreams and passion. Moreover, his inquisitiveness—his desire to know—had recently begun to shine. It was the trait that best suited Frok.
Know what?
House Zaun trained knights through an established system. They possessed a proper method of raising knights. Encrid wanted to learn that. That was likely why he had told them to stay. Ragna's absence was a good excuse, and the "two months" mentioned by Magrun was another.
In other words, it was all an excuse. Even if that weren't the case, he would have found a way to make them stay. Luagarne was certain of it.
Meanwhile, the corners of Encrid's mouth curled upward. A smile of deep satisfaction spread across his face. He looked at Odinkar and found a weakness. One was glaringly obvious.
Hadn't the man said it himself? That he lacked patience.
"Do you have a lover?"
"What?"
"If you do, I offer her my condolences."
"Why? Are you going to kill me?"
Odinkar countered the clumsy provocation with a smile. But Encrid was not one to provoke clumsily.
"No. Didn't you say you lack patience? Then how miserable your partner must be. The nights must feel terribly long for her. She probably falls asleep unsatisfied most of the time."
Because he phrased it indirectly, it took a moment for everyone to process his words. Odinkar was no exception, and as the meaning dawned on him, his face flushed a deep crimson. He glared and snapped:
"It's not like that at night!"
With those words, his body seemed to stretch as he lunged forward at a terrifying speed.
If he could break his opponent's composure, he would. Having secured a slight advantage, Encrid smoothly thrust Penna forward. He was executing one of the Valaf-style Martial Arts, a "body deflection" through his blade. Applying strength to his wrist and absorbing the impact with his body, he deflected the strike.
A weapon was merely an extension of the hand. He had roughly named this technique "Feather Fluttering."
He was still at the stage of fighting based on his specialties—an intermediate level by Encrid's standards. Victory or defeat was not determined simply by rank, especially in sparring. Moreover, he had the advantage because the Wave-Blocking Sword shone brightest in a duel.
Clang!
The two swords clashed. Lacking vocal cords, the blades cried out again and again, their steel bodies vibrating with force.
Clang! Clash! Ring!
And so, the two blades began to play a march.