Chapter 708: Seemingly Impossible
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 708: Seemingly Impossible
Swordsmanship begins with the efficient transmission of force.
It is the study of the stride width needed to generate power, the proper way to grip the hilt, and the mechanics of channeling strength from the ankles through the waist, shoulders, and wrists. To study the postures that facilitate this flow and to hone the swing within those frames—that is the essence of the blade.
The Clan Head swung his sword as if demonstrating the very basics of the art.
Stepping forward with his left foot, he swept his blade from right to left.
Though it was a strike built on nothing but the fundamentals, the world seemed to shift around him. Sound vanished. The howling wind and the lashing rain were sucked into the trajectory of his steel, ceasing to exist.
Watching the Clan Head’s sword, a sharp ringing erupted in Encrid’s ears.
Eeeeeeee—
It was a strike that devoured everything in its path, whether a raging storm or a crashing thunderbolt.
Single-Point Focus activated instinctively, slowing the world to a crawl. In his vision, the Clan Head’s movements and the lunging monsters were pulled apart into distinct layers. His Insight forcibly dragged the reality of the next moment into the present.
The Clan Head’s sword traced a single arc. The line drawn from the upper right to the lower left was thick and oppressive, like a stroke from a heavy brush soaked in dark ink.
The two monsters would be caught in that trajectory, split asunder and slain. Yet, even as they died, their outstretched claws would pierce the Clan Head’s shoulder and flank. The intent of the beasts, lunging from above and below, was unmistakable.
Boom!
An explosion followed the ringing in his ears.
Encrid let out a low groan and nodded. The future his Insight had predicted had warped, but he wasn't surprised. It defied expectation, but as the Head of House Zaun, shouldn't the man be capable of at least this much?
The Clan Head’s sword was faster than the beasts' momentum. In an instant, the two monsters were cleaved and sent tumbling through the air. With heavy thuds, the creatures—now mere lumps of meat spilling black blood—collapsed into the mud.
Pulling his sword back, the Clan Head let it hang loosely at his side.
"Come forth, Hescal. I shall hold you to account for your sins."
Shhhhhhh—
Beyond the sheets of rain lay the Pilgrimage Road of the Sword, a path named by those who revered the blade to honor the God of the Sword. Below that road, an army of monsters stood in formation.
Every single one of them stood shoulder to shoulder, maintaining a strict, disciplined line.
The Clan Head must have seen it too. No one looking at that sight would think today’s battle would be easy. A man who knew the full might of House Zaun stood there as their enemy; naturally, he would have come prepared to win.
And yet, with a single strike, the Clan Head had shifted the entire atmosphere. Schemes? Traps? What of them? Were they supposed to be shields capable of withstanding his sword?
The Clan Head’s blade seemed to ask that very question.
"Then hold me to account."
On the opposite side, Hescal replied from the heart of the monster army. He was neither cowed by the Clan Head’s intimidation nor swept away by the tension. His presence commanded attention. By standing tall before the Clan Head, he made it clear that he was the one orchestrating this nightmare.
Their gazes locked through the thinning rain.
The downpour seemed to grow colder. A bolt of lightning cracked across the dark clouds, as if severing the very space between them.
It was neither Hescal nor the Clan Head who broke the silence.
"Hescal."
Amidst the standoff, someone stepped forward, limping. His pupils trembled incessantly, though surely not as violently as his heart.
"Ah, Riley. I thought the Clan Head would have locked you up. But then, the Clan Head is a clever man. Bringing you here despite his suspicions must have been an attempt to shake me."
Shhhhhhh—
The rain held neither malice nor goodwill. It was devoid of emotion. Hescal’s tone was exactly the same. There was no malice, yet he left no room for sentiment.
"Did you use me?" Riley spat, gritting his teeth. He clenched them so hard that blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, only to be instantly washed away by the rain.
Unless one was standing right beside him, it would have gone unnoticed. But Encrid, who had somehow ended up right next to him, saw it all. It was a mere coincidence; he hadn't intended to stand by Riley’s side.
But this spot is perfect.
Riley was at the center of the House Zaun forces. This position was ideal for observing the surroundings and taking charge of the situation.
"Were you deceived by some illusion? Did they find a weakness to exploit? Are you poisoned? Do you need an antidote?" Riley muttered as if denying reality. None of his words made sense. If it were anyone else, perhaps they might have betrayed the house because their life was held hostage.
But not a man like Hescal. He would rather die than turn his back on House Zaun. That was the weight of the reputation Hescal had built over decades.
There was no trace of hesitation in Hescal’s eyes. Standing with his back straight and shoulders squared, he exuded nothing but righteousness and absolute confidence.
"How could that be?" Hescal denied it in a gentle, affectionate tone—the same one he had always used.
"Then why!" Riley’s cry pierced the rain. Though he appeared calm on the outside, he was screaming on the inside.
Hescal did not click his tongue, nor did he blame Riley. He simply looked at the Clan Head and asked calmly, "Clan Head, did you really think I would be shaken by this?"
"One must try everything." The Clan Head did not deny it. He admitted that bringing Riley was a calculated move to unsettle his opponent.
"Give up even now. It is over," Hescal said.
Even in this moment, Encrid was closely observing the motionless horde of monsters, assessing their density and counting their numbers.
Are there slightly over a thousand?
To act as a scout, one had to know how to gauge the enemy's strength. Encrid knew how to do at least that much. What surprised him, however, was that the monsters were not budging an inch.
Have they been trained? Or is it mind control?
Whichever it was, they were a formidable threat. The monsters, lined up without a trace of agitation, looked like a true army.
A unit that undergoes repeated training is called an elite unit. While individual capability matters, from a commander’s perspective, they are elite because they move as ordered. Normally, inexperienced soldiers break formation or flee in the heat of battle. If these creatures could fight while maintaining formation, they were as dangerous as any veteran legion.
I should consider them on par with the Border Guard Standing Army.
The monsters looked as if they had received formal drill training. It was only right to judge them as a lethal force.
"Why... damn it, why?"
Riley’s mind was breaking. That was how much of a pillar Hescal had been to him. As he muttered, Riley’s body swayed. The collapse of his spirit was manifesting physically.
Could this be called cutting down the mind? In that regard, Hescal was a terrifyingly remarkable swordsman. Without even drawing his blade, he had severed a man’s soul.
Encrid instinctively read the momentum of those around him. Luagarne had once told him: "Is there any bigger fool than a commander who goes into battle without knowing the state of his own soldiers?"
It is vital to know the enemy, but if you do not know your own side first, all is for naught. This was Luagarne-style tactical thinking, and Encrid had internalized every word of it.
He applied that lesson now.
Those who are angry. Those who are grieving. Those who are indifferent.
Everyone exuded different emotions. Among them, the most peculiar was undoubtedly Anahera of the Giant race. She was excited. Her breath was heavy, and she looked ready to spring forward at any moment. Seeing her fingers twitching against her hilt, it was clear that if left to her own devices, she would unleash the Red-Blooded Demonic Beast trait without a second thought.
In actual combat, she is definitely a force above a Squire.
Encrid categorized Anahera separately and began drawing lines for the others. Those who were grieving would likely fight well enough, but sending those who were panicked straight into the fray would only increase casualties. He sorted them: those who could fight immediately, those who needed time, and those better suited for the rear.
Furthermore, there is a shaman among the enemies.
Even setting mages aside, sorcery is the perfect tool for exploiting mental weaknesses. Curses burrow into the minds of the weak—Rem had said as much, and Encrid’s experience confirmed it.
His thoughts were clear, his judgment unwavering. Encrid mapped out the battlefield in his mind.
"Ah, Encrid of the Border Guard. I wished for you to return, so why did you stay? I wonder what more you thought you could gain here."
In the midst of the tension, Hescal addressed him. Shouting from a distance might have seemed cowardly, but it was clever positioning. If the Clan Head and his wife decided to target him, Hescal would die. He refused to give them that opening.
"What was your dream? You said you would tell me, and I couldn't bring myself to leave because I was too curious," Encrid shouted back. Even through the rain, their voices carried perfectly.
"Were you always so curious?"
"Since I was young, if there was something I didn't know, I couldn't even sleep."
It wasn't a lie. When it came to swordsmanship, it was the absolute truth.
"You truly are an interesting fellow," Hescal said, revealing a flicker of genuine interest. "Behind me stands a man who intends to become a god. Few are ignorant of the name of the alchemist Demuil."
It was a name from legend, one that had left a bloody mark on the continent’s history. If Anne had been here, she would have screamed that it was impossible. Demuil was Raban’s master—a mad alchemist who had developed the Seed of Plague, dreaming of mass slaughter. He was a phantom of the past who should have been dead long ago.
Hescal calmly stated his dream. "Just as he shapes divinity, I too shall shape divinity."
He was serious, despite the absurdity of the claim. But then, isn't that what a dream is? Something seemingly impossible, a desperate wish, a desire beyond reach.
However...
I don't think he's told me everything.
Shaping divinity could be a process or a tool. What would he gain by becoming a god? If he feared death, he would have sought immortality; if he wanted to save his dead son, he would have spoken of resurrection. Yet, Hescal said nothing more. He had merely revealed that his dream was to be a usurper of divinity.
Those few words bought time, and in that interval, several people showed the reaction Encrid had hoped for.
"Crazy bastard."
With that single remark, Riley Zaun defined his allegiance. He was the sword of Zaun. The trembling in his eyes faded. Even if the waves remained violent, a sailor who keeps his balance sways less. Riley did exactly that.
Not bad.
Encrid viewed the change favorably. A few others silently finished their battle preparations, though not everyone was so resilient. Many had received something akin to salvation from Hescal in the past, and they remained shaken. They could not be used as immediate combat forces.
The Clan Head, his wife, Rynox, myself, and Ragna.
There were five Knights in total.
Besides them, there were two who stood somewhere between a Knight and a Squire. One was Anahera of the Giant race. The other was the man who had led the opposing faction and clashed with Riley.
He was said to have once received Rynox’s recognition, but after seeing those with true natural talent, his spirit had been crushed. He had wandered for years, spending time in the Retirees' Village, the Hunter Village, and the Broker's Village. He was a swordsman who had finally returned from his personal hell and pulled himself together.
He was on par with Anahera, though he fought with more technical precision. While Anahera relied on her Giant heritage, Kato Zaun—nicknamed Kato of the Blade Armor—utilized a myriad of hidden techniques, including Eilkaraz-style Martial Arts and handleless blades concealed across his body.
Five plus two. The remaining combat-ready members of House Zaun numbered around seventy.
With the rest left behind to guard the estate, this was the entirety of the power House Zaun could muster.