Chapter 699: Sword of Chance
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 699: Sword of Chance
Clouds once again choked the sky. The sunlight, which had been faintly filtering through, vanished without a trace.
The outskirts of Zaun fell away into a sheer drop, backed by a cliff that rose like a fortress wall. Under the dark, hazy sky, the landscape—which would have been breathtaking on a clear day—looked like a fragment torn from a nightmare.
With that nightmare as his backdrop, Encrid gripped his sword and faced Hescal.
Hescal stood in an unusual stance. He held a gauntlet equipped with a small shield—its internal mechanism a mystery—in front of him, while keeping the sword in his right hand raised, partially hidden behind the buckler.
Don't leave chance to chance.
Why had that thought occurred to him?
It had started with a question that arose while listening to the Ferryman. The man always spoke of the future.
Does the Ferryman actually know the future?
Some of what he showed manifested in reality, while some did not.
No one can truly determine the future. Speaking of what lies ahead changes the present. This is the prophet’s dilemma.
If you do not speak, you cannot prove your foresight. If you record it and only reveal it after the fact, it is not a prophecy, but merely a record. Yet, if you open your mouth and speak, does that make it a prophecy? Those who hear a prophecy, knowing what is to come, will no longer act as they were meant to. Thus, the future changes, and the prophecy fails.
The Ferryman was no exception to this dilemma.
The Ferryman doesn't know the future either.
And yet, he spoke as if he saw it clearly. How was that possible?
Wearing a mask hides one’s face and allows them to impersonate another. A masquerade is enjoyable precisely because the face behind the mask remains a mystery. That is why masquerades are filled with people dressed to the nines. By adorning themselves, people can appear in ways that were previously unimaginable.
The Ferryman didn't see the future; he merely adorned the present to make it seem so. He changed his masks as the situation required.
What if he simply observes the situation and speaks accordingly in the moment?
It was about not leaving chance to chance. That was what Encrid had figured out.
However, one could not achieve this with a narrow field of vision; a broad perspective was essential.
Only by knowing how the situation unfolds can one turn chance into intention.
His thoughts paved their own path, connecting and reaching the swordsmanship he was currently practicing. Ideas tangled like a spiderweb raced toward a single conclusion.
Why had he fixed his instinctive swordsmanship into the form of a counterattack? Because it was natural. It was the only path available to him at the time. So, he had followed it.
But why?
He needed a clearer path. He had to examine the process more closely.
He questioned himself repeatedly, searching for answers. He had to find the reason. A genius might do it naturally without knowing why, but Encrid was no genius. Therefore, he had to understand every single detail.
Doing something blindly versus doing it with full awareness was as different as heaven and earth. At least, it was for Encrid.
The answer came without much difficulty. It was, after all, the result of days of contemplation. In other words, he already knew the answer.
It was because he had to accept the situation first before reacting. That was why he only used it as a counterattack.
A sword that utilizes chance.
It was his third swordsmanship style, following Wave-Blocking Sword and Flash.
It was the same as before. Once its meaning, method of implementation, and training method were established, it could become a distinct style.
Was it easier this time because he had already done it twice? Not a chance. Creating a swordsmanship style was akin to opening a new world.
Even so, the Goddess of Fortune had visited him again today. Was this purely luck? No. It was intention.
I will absorb even that luck into my intention.
This was the meaning imbued within the style. To define it: To make all luck appear to flow toward me.
The method of implementation was to utilize everything that occurred by chance. The training method was to fight hundreds, thousands of times, experiencing diverse situations and mastering the response to each one.
But is experience truly the only answer?
A small doubt arose. This would be the area where the swordsmanship could develop further, though it wasn't something to fret over now. Learning through experience was something Encrid had done countless times. Since the training method was already second nature to him, he only needed to establish the implementation and the structure.
Encrid did just that, utilizing the chance encounter that was Hescal.
Without warning, Hescal thrust out the shield in his left hand, blocking Encrid’s vision. While obscuring his eyes, Hescal gave off a faint indication of moving to the left.
Encrid swung his sword reflexively. Samcheol’s blade drew a short arc and struck the shield. Pushing back the shield itself was difficult; Hescal was as strong as a giant, and his technical skill was superb.
Clang!
The moment he struck the shield, Encrid felt the direction of the force shift. The shield deflected the power behind his sword.
Having used a deceptive tactic to make Encrid believe he was moving left, Hescal suddenly appeared from the right. He had blocked Encrid's vision with the shield, feigned a retreat to the left, and then thrust his sword from the right.
The movement was simple, and the tactic simpler still, but it was a lethal strike born of the brilliant wit that engineered the situation and the outstanding technique that disrupted Encrid’s senses.
Samcheol, having struck the shield, had been deflected to Hescal’s left—Encrid’s right—making the path to bring it back far too long. Since it was impossible to pull the blade back in time to block, it should have been a fatal opening.
The blade flew in.
As if he had been waiting for this exact moment, Encrid pulled back his deflected sword and struck the tip of Hescal’s thrusting blade with his pommel. If the blade was out of position, he would block with another part of the weapon.
Clang!
The collision was so precise that the metal didn't slip, letting out a deafening roar.
"Are you trying to damage the tip of my sword?" Hescal asked as he backed away.
Encrid clenched and unclenched his hand, which was throbbing from the impact. "The blade of an imprinted weapon wouldn't damage so easily."
"Was that intentional?"
Encrid nodded. He answered the question that came without a moment's breath.
Turn even chance into intention.
Of course, it hadn't been intentional. He had been caught off guard.
This is his fang.
The fang Hescal hid was lethal. A deceptive sword. That was his true weapon. He put calculating and cornering his opponent at the forefront, only to kill them with a single deception.
The victor wins, and the defeated dies. Such was the world of those who held swords. Hescal was strong. That was certain.
And though unintentional, the Sword of Chance Encrid had just demonstrated was the natural counter to Hescal. Hescal sought openings through deception, but the Sword of Chance turned even those openings into intention.
Of course, it wasn't something just anyone could pull off.
He does so casually what should only be possible with the experience of thousands of battles.
Hescal possessed an extraordinary eye, allowing him to grasp the weight of the feat Encrid had just displayed. That was why he was so stunned. It was a feat possible only after accumulating countless experiences.
Treating chance as intention? It was easy to say, but impossible without countless real combat experiences—of being stabbed, of being cut. He felt it was something that would only be possible after fighting relentlessly for a hundred years, constantly seeking out suitable opponents.
"Is it outstanding talent?" Hescal muttered.
Encrid lowered his sword, caught his breath, and half-closed his eyes. While sparring, another thought had suddenly flashed through his mind. It was a thought that connected suddenly, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. It was a knot that untied naturally because the swordsmanship he was contemplating aligned with his current situation.
He reviewed the events that had occurred up to this point. He looked at the complex, tangled situation simply, then untangled it to examine the threads. It wasn't difficult. Some things were clearer precisely because he was looking at them from the outside.
If it was an intention disguised as chance...
One assumption was possible.
What if targeting Anne wasn't intentional?
Why target Anne? Why stall for time? Was Anne a threat? How did they even know to target her?
What if the one who stalled for time and the one who targeted Anne were different people? Not all questions yielded answers, but he felt he knew the answers to a few.
They saw Anne by chance. They recognized her, judged her to be a hindrance, and tried to kill her. But they failed.
The opponent’s malice was clear, but it wasn't persistent.
It was just a casual move.
That was the conclusion he reached.
"Were you watching?"
In the midst of this, Hescal spoke. It wasn't addressed to Encrid.
"It has been a long time since I saw someone so serious while swinging a sword."
It was the Clan Head. He stood blankly beside Anahera.
"Is that so? It was a pleasure, Encrid of the Border Guard."
Hescal exchanged a few words with the watching Clan Head and nodded to Encrid. He had learned a lot from the young man. Encrid nodded back in gratitude. He was learning so much here.
"How is your body?" Hescal asked the Clan Head.
"Put your worries aside. I can take care of myself."
Hescal worried about the Clan Head’s health, but the man remained as emotionless as ever.
That was the end of it. The Clan Head left, and Anahera lunged forward, declaring it was her turn. She was at the level of an Associate Knight, but her raw strength was comparable to that of a full Knight.
Giants were a race capable of beating hundreds of humans to death. Her nickname, the Red-Blooded Demonic Beast, wasn't for nothing. Normally, her boiling combativeness should have caused one incident after another—specifically, incidents involving beating people to death—but she had adapted to Zaun.
When asked why: "Because it's fun."
Humans are not all the same, nor are elves, nor are Froks. The same goes for giants. What allowed her to overcome the combativeness flowing in her blood was likely curiosity and a desire for self-improvement.
"I will become a knight," Anahera declared.
"It won't be easy," Encrid said, raising a bump on her head.
He had struck her with the flat of his blade. If he had cut her with the Truesilver or Ink Gold side, Zaun would have been short one beautiful giantess.
"That's why it's fun. I want to fight better. I want to fight stronger bastards, too."
A combination of combativeness and a desire for self-improvement. Encrid understood her. Sparring and living within Zaun allowed him to understand things better than what he had learned from Grida, Magrun, and Odinkar in the Border Guard.
It was partly because the people here didn't hide anything, and partly because Encrid’s perspective had broadened as he opened up his own new world.
Zaun operated on a specific premise: that everyone could not be embraced under a single category. They respected individuality and helped people achieve what they wanted. They taught, sparred, shared training methods, and passed down techniques.
A system for geniuses.
The swordsmanship Zaun envisioned was exactly that. And Encrid was in the middle of establishing a system for ordinary people.
Our paths are different.
Strictly speaking, he had learned all there was to learn from their system. Whether it was techniques or anything else, they based everything on those with talent. Because that was the core. Once you knew the core, minor techniques or training methods would naturally follow if you contemplated them logically.
It is not the path that suits me.
Of course, talent served as the standard, but...
Those who fall short of that must also be able to rise.
That was the path swordsmanship should take. At least, by Encrid’s standards.
Though he didn't shout that he had defeated Anahera or proudly claim to have beaten down Zaun, everyone had tacitly acknowledged Encrid’s strength.
Hescal, who had stepped aside to watch, approached and asked, "How do you find Zaun?"
"It is good."
Hescal was old. It wasn't glaringly obvious because he was a high-ranking knight who could wield Will throughout his entire body, but he was at an age where physical strength and reflexes should have been deteriorating. Becoming a knight did not mean one could hold back the passage of time.
Slowly, but surely, they age.
Everyone has a period where they maintain their prime. A knight’s prime is long, and their strength does not easily fail, but it is not eternal. Hescal seemed older than he appeared. Yet, he still lived energetically, traveling between the surrounding villages. Everyone said he was a man who would do anything for Zaun.
"Yes, it is a good place. But don't you find the Clan Head’s attitude a bit disappointing?"
"Are you referring to him not sparring with me often?"
"Not that."
Encrid could not understand Hescal’s intention. Was he badmouthing the Clan Head the moment they became close enough for informal speech? Or was it something else?
"Zaun has a system for training techniques, but it lacks a system to resist external pressure. It is something the Clan Head should step up and do, but he doesn't."
"Is such a thing necessary?" Encrid asked.
"Coming from the Border Guard, shouldn't you know better than anyone? Can you stay just because you want to stay, or remain stagnant just because you want to? The power Zaun possesses is immense. Surely you know why Schmidt repeatedly tries to persuade us to enter imperial territory?"
They had crossed blades and conversed. Hescal knew the man before him was no fool.
What Hescal said was similar to the talk that had once circulated in the Kingdom of Naurilia, right after the creation of the Order of Madness. The argument was that the power held by the Border Guard was too great. Thus, claims arose that the Order of Madness should either be disbanded or sent to the battlefield. There were also arguments that they should be incorporated into the kingdom’s knights, following the Red Cloak Knights.
Encrid only learned of this later. Every time such talk arose, Krang cut it down immediately.
"Did you ever so much as wipe away Sir Encrid’s sweat while he was training? How, then, can you demand his loyalty to the royal family?"
That was what Krang had said to the nobles. It was a time when some of the nobles thought the Order of Madness wasn't quite mad enough yet. Of course, those who faced them directly quickly shut their mouths.
At any rate, that was Hescal’s argument.
"Zaun must change. We must change somehow before a larger wave arrives. When it rains, shouldn't one seek shelter under a roof?"
That was his stance. But not everyone shared it.
"Zaun has power. Yes, it has power. So we just need to establish an independent defense system. It would be even better if the method is a bit radical. I'm talking about drawing in talented individuals from the outside. The Empire saw us bringing in and teaching talented children and copied us, so why can't we look at the Empire and copy them? The Empire draws in talented people from across the entire continent and spares no effort in raising an army. It would be better if we were a bit more proactive."
This was Rynox’s opinion. Though his words were unrefined, it was because he lived a life where the sword came before speech. Hescal was the better speaker.
They said the Clan Head remained silent even after hearing both of their opinions, merely nodding in silence. His true intentions were unknown.
Looking at the two of them, Alexandra simply said, "They both love Zaun. And so do I."
That was all she said.
Encrid looked up at the sky, heavily laden with dark clouds. It felt strangely similar to the current situation.
"It feels like a storm is about to hit soon."
Just as Alexandra had once said. A silence like the calm before a storm seemed to envelop Zaun.