Chapter 672: "You Brought Another Woman?"
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 672: "You Brought Another Woman?"
"Are you insane?"
Anne, who had been treating Magrun while watching the sparring match, gasped in horror. Beyond mere disgust, her face had turned deathly pale.
To her eyes, the scene was nothing short of a festival of madness. Her reaction was only natural.
Anne couldn't follow the high-speed flow or the intricate direction of the exchange, but she could certainly see the result.
Encrid’s sword had stopped halfway into the blonde man’s shoulder. If it had bitten even a fraction deeper, neither divine power nor medicine would have been enough to save his collarbone from being severed.
"I stopped it, Sister Freckles."
Audin spoke up, the back of his hand pressed firmly against the blade Encrid had swung. Though he wore no defensive gear, the golden sand flowing from his skin kept the blade from splitting his hand open.
Still, the thin trickle of blood that escaped was proof enough of just how mercilessly Encrid had swung his steel.
"Ah. I almost killed him."
Yet, Encrid’s tone was perfectly nonchalant.
"You don't die just from losing an arm," the victim added, just as casually.
Are these people out of their minds?
Anne was a healer. Had she chosen this path because she enjoyed watching people die? No. It was because she wanted to save them. She wanted to ensure that no more lives were lost to meaningless illness or injury.
So, what did they mean, "you don't die"?
If an arm were cleanly severed, massive hemorrhaging would follow. Blood would gush out like a waterfall.
Rapid blood loss leads to a plummeting body temperature.
That was a medical fact Anne knew all too well. To be precise, the onset of shock begins with anxiety, followed quickly by pale skin and a cold body.
The pulse quickens, and breathing becomes shallow.
As the temperature continues to drop, the pulse becomes irregular and weak. Once the skin begins to mottle with blue, consciousness fades, and life slips away.
A knight might hold out longer, but still...
Becoming a knight didn't make one immortal. Just as running wild on a high of omnipotence leads to a sudden collapse from exhaustion, relying blindly on the vitality surging through one's body was a quick path to the grave.
While studying under her master, Anne had conducted various research and learned a great deal by sneaking peeks at his journals. That was how she knew.
Unless one was a Frok, regenerating a severed arm was impossible. That was her firm conclusion—until another thought drifted into her mind.
Wait... is it actually possible?
What if it were someone with the divine power of an Archbishop, of which there are only a few in the Holy Order?
Maybe then?
Of course, simply pouring divine power blindly into such a wound wouldn't heal it perfectly. Over the past few days, hadn't the Ragged Saint given Anne advice while teaching Seiki? Thanks to that, Anne was currently researching desperately to develop potions infused with divine power.
She had learned something vital in the process.
Using divine power requires technique.
Just as skill was required to sew torn flesh with a heated needle, the same applied to divine power. However, how many people could wield divine power so skillfully? And even if they knew how, how many years would it take to master such a technique? One would have to apply divine power to countless wounded people to hone the skill and understand the precise calibration required.
"If you grew a third leg, how would you use it? If you grew a tail, how would you use it?"
According to the Saint, that was what it felt like. Yet, there was a way to get used to handling that "tail," or that "third hand." It was a matter of teaching and learning. The one who had mastered it first simply had to add their own experience to guide the one who was qualified.
For that to happen, the premise remained: they needed someone who could wield massive divine power, and someone with enough experience to guide it.
Coincidentally, we have both.
For technique, there was the Ragged Saint. For sheer volume of divine power, there was Seiki, who was more than worthy of being called a Saintess.
And then, there was her.
Anne could diagnose wounds that couldn't be healed by divine power alone. In those cases, she could administer potions to boost regeneration or even perform surgery depending on the progress. Her skill at stitching corpses since childhood was enough to put most master tailors to shame.
"As long as he didn't die, it's fine," Rem said from behind her.
"Still, this is too much," Anne muttered after a moment of thought, her hands already moving busily.
She sprinkled white powder to stop the bleeding first, then examined the injured area. Should I stitch it? Or use medicine? She did have a newly formulated medicine—an ointment she had just finished by gathering elven spring water and dawn dew.
Should I put him to sleep first? No, let's just stitch it and apply the ointment as is.
He was a knight. That level of resilience should suffice.
"It seems I was half a step behind this time. It won't go like this next time," Odinkar said.
Even after suffering a wound that could have killed him if things had gone slightly awry, he was still full of bravado. Encrid analyzed his opponent's disposition.
Recklessness that disregarded consequences.
The reason he had survived this long with such a nature was also clear. A talent worthy of being called a genius must have transformed his recklessness into boldness.
"Yeah. Next time, you'll probably just die," Encrid stated flatly.
"You said that just to gain a psychological advantage, didn't you? You're craftier than you look. Quite fox-like, I must say. Even during the fight, you kept 'calculating'."
Encrid casually wiped a nosebleed with the back of his hand. Just as Odinkar said, he had used the same method he employed when facing Grida. Calculation—the method of viewing every situation through the lens of probability.
Strictly speaking, this was something he had learned from Sachsen, but he felt the need to train it further. With a bit more refinement, it felt like it could become the foundation of a new sword style.
"Yet, you also know how to strike boldly when it counts. It's fascinating. It's rough, but..."
"Rough, but?"
"It's fun," Odinkar finished with a grin.
The white powder finally stopped the gushing blood. Only then did Odinkar glance down at his wound.
"You have an excellent healer."
One could tell just by looking at how she handled the injury.
"If you know that, would you please shut your mouth? You need rest," Anne snapped.
"I'm a knight. A wound like this heals in a day."
"Even a Frok wouldn't heal from this overnight," Anne said, her eyes fixed on the wound as she measured where to start the stitches.
Encrid spoke to Odinkar. "Welcome to the Border Guard."
"Isn't that greeting a bit too early?"
"Because my real greeting was replaced by this," Encrid said, brandishing Penna, the blade that had sliced Odinkar's shoulder moments ago. The steel reflected the sunlight, flicking away a single droplet of blood.
Just as Luagarne had suggested, Encrid was fully intent on learning their system. But could he learn it just by asking? He didn't know. If not, he could always steal the knowledge through combat.
For now, it was about technique.
Gaining the upper hand against Odinkar earlier had been a matter of luck. If that luck had been slightly off, he would have been the one on the ground. Yet, that fact was deeply enjoyable. Everything else could be thought about later.
At any rate, the three from the Zaun family decided to stay. The next day, Encrid was forced to take it easy.
"Absolutely no training until your treatment is finished. If you're going to push yourself, you might as well just die and become materials for my experiments," Anne had argued, completely devoid of humor.
Encrid's physical condition wasn't normal either. Even though his knightly vitality was extraordinary, his head throbbed from overusing his calculations. Fortunately, after about two days, the mental fog cleared.
During that time, he watched the sparring matches between Audin and Grida, and between Rem and Grida. Grida was the only one among the three from the Zaun family who didn't obsess over winning or losing.
"Isn't it cheating to attack while wrapped in divine power, Sachsen?"
"Sister, if you don't know my name, please don't just call me whatever comes to mind," Audin replied.
Despite Audin's protest, Grida remained nonchalant. Audin was the most difficult opponent for her to face. By the standards Encrid had established, Audin knew how to "draw a large circle." Furthermore, he was a paladin.
Divine power was a force specialized in defense. The golden sand enveloping his entire body was a gift God had bestowed upon Audin, an armor that could not be pierced by ordinary attacks.
"This is cheating! Rem!"
"That actually is my name," Rem said from the sidelines.
Even so, Grida just spat out any name that fit her mood. Among them, only Encrid's name was never misspoken.
Audin won the sparring match. It wasn't an overwhelming victory; rather, they had matched each other's moves until Grida conceded.
The spar with Rem was more intense. On the surface, Rem seemed to have many weaknesses. His specialty was a tactic of showing openings and then exploiting the opponent's reaction. Grida was a swordsman who knew how to wedge herself into those openings. She did exactly that—and she lost.
Rem moved his axe using only his wrists. It was the same trick he had used to tease Ragna. The recoil-free axe drew zigzags through the air, blocking Grida's attacks with impossible speed.
Clang! Clang!
The moment the two weapons clashed, Grida caught a glimpse of her own death.
Sorcery!
If divine power was a paladin's armor, sorcery was a barbarian's blade. That blade was roughly wrapped in cloth, a dangerous thing that would slice its own wielder's hand if handled poorly—yet Rem handled it with supreme mastery.
"You strike well," Grida laughed despite her loss.
Aside from her inability to remember faces, she was the most sociable and easygoing of the three.
"Luagarne? If you mean a researching Frok, we have one in our family too. I heard that Frok's ancestor created several of our sword styles."
While she bonded with the group, Ropode and Pel bit down on wooden blocks, enduring the intensity of their training to increase their physical resilience. Afterward, Magrun observed everyone and scribbled notes in silence.
There was no such thing as a "simple" knight in the Zaun family. Within the clan, knights were broadly classified into three categories.
The first was the Pioneer. Those who used their talent as a guide to forge ahead into uncharted paths; Odinkar was one of them.
The second was the Researcher. They were also called "those who delve deep." Fascinated by swordsmanship itself, they created techniques and then formulated theories to dismantle the very techniques they had made. Though they sometimes became engrossed in useless endeavors, they were the ones who built the foundation of the Zaun family. Magrun belonged to this category.
The last were those called Observers and Guardians. Grida Zaun was one of them. Rather than the outcome of a battle, they bore the duty of observing everything and passing the family’s legacy down to the next generation.
For an established system to be maintained, a corresponding structure was necessary. This was how the Zaun family operated.
"Is it alright for you to tell me all of that?" Encrid asked.
Grida smiled brightly. It was a day when torrential rain poured down as if a hole had been punched in the sky, signaling the start of the seasonal rains.
Ssssshhhhh—
Through the downpour, Grida's voice pierced clearly through the noise.
"It's information anyone can find out just by visiting the Zaun family. Besides, you want to know more details, don't you?"
They stood under a wide eave. Beyond the water mist created by the rain, Grida's brown eyes shone with curiosity. Encrid nodded.
"I don't have anything to offer in return, though," he said.
It was true. He had nothing to give as compensation. If she wanted a romantic relationship, he would first have to do something about the Gold Witch.
"You brought another woman?"
Sinar had come shouting from the early hours of dawn the day after the sparring match. Fortunately, the misunderstanding was cleared up, but she had told Grida in no uncertain terms:
"The line is already long. Your turn is far off."
"Sure, let's go with that. You're the Black Flower, right?" Grida had replied, defining her own way of identifying others.
It was simply fascinating how she could look at an elf's blonde hair and think of a "Black Flower." She possessed the talent to observe others, yet she couldn't remember a single face. Encrid wondered if information could even be transmitted properly like this, but he let it go. It wasn't his place to interfere.
Spring weather was fickle; it rained for two days, and then the sun shone for two more, drying the soaked ground. It was the season of blooming flowers and budding fruit. The seasonal rains had passed.
And even after half a month, Ragna still had not returned.
Meanwhile, Encrid frequently trained with the three from the Zaun family, learning and practicing. Though any time spent training was valuable, this was truly a precious window of growth.
In this manner, the days and time marched steadily forward.