Chapter 732: Come to the Empire
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 732: Come to the Empire
The Sword of Chance was the ideal style to employ when facing an unknown opponent. It was a technique designed to bring every variable of probability under the user's own intent.
His five senses, honed to a razor's edge through Sensory Technique, read the very vibrations in the air.
'In Imperial swordsmanship, the manifestation of intimidation is the foundation.'
His mind automatically dissected and analyzed Balmung’s earlier words.
Imperial swordsmanship. Basics. Intimidation. Manifestation.
Since the concepts had materialized clearly before his eyes, grasping them didn't feel particularly difficult.
'Tempest Zaun’s intimidation is a natural force.'
It was a state reached through the organic progression of training the sword.
But the man before him was different. When Balmung called it the "basics" of Imperial swordsmanship, he likely meant they learned this "manifestation" systematically and intentionally from the start.
Then why did they master and use it in such a way?
'First, to exert a clear, distinct pressure on the opponent.'
And second, by revealing a portion of their swordsmanship through that manifestation, they implicitly concealed their other techniques.
What this man, Gelt, was demonstrating now was how to hide oneself behind the blade. It appeared to be a classic defensive posture, but...
'I cannot be certain.'
Dissecting, defining, and organizing the enemy's swordsmanship took only an instant. Just as Gelt seemed to vanish behind the silhouette of his sword, he closed the distance.
'A silent approach.'
This was a combination of specialized footwork and "Assimilation," one of the core knightly techniques.
A metallic, fishy scent drifted into Encrid's nose, and a sour taste spread across his tongue inside his half-open mouth. His sense of touch reacted instinctively, raising the fine hairs on his skin.
There was no sound. Though his eyes saw a clean, righteous slash, he knew that wasn't the full story.
Encrid channeled strength into his left big toe, twisted his waist, and swung his sword along the tightest possible trajectory. Samcheol, held firmly in his hand, traced a gentle downward arc before leveling parallel to the ground, slicing toward the middle of his opponent’s torso.
It was a feat of swordsmanship that could only be described as acrobatic.
Clang!
A heavy shockwave reverberated from the center of Samcheol’s blade down to Encrid’s grip. Gelt had suddenly extended a hidden hand to swing a second sword—two spans shorter than the one in his other hand—clashing against Samcheol.
Even though Encrid had blocked the surprise attack, the hairs on his skin remained standing.
'It’s not over.'
His hands moved faster than his conscious thoughts could process. Releasing his left hand from Samcheol, he drew Penna and swung it upward in a blur.
Gelt was already bringing down the primary sword he had been hiding behind in a lethal follow-up strike.
Clash!
Penna’s blade, rising deftly past Samcheol, deflected the descending heavy sword. With all his attacks thwarted, Gelt retreated using those same silent steps.
Shhhk.
Without his soles seemingly even leaving the ground, he glided out of sword range.
Was Encrid supposed to just stand there and watch? Not a chance.
Simultaneously with his parry, Encrid bent and snapped his knees and ankles straight.
Thump!
He exploded off the ground, charging forward. It was a step he had adapted into his own style from the footwork Luagarne had taught him. It was a simple, straight-line charge—the kind where his torso would be skewered if his opponent simply held their sword steady.
Gelt reacted instantly.
Abruptly halting his backward leap, Gelt shifted his center of gravity by digging his heels in, then thrust the longer of his two swords forward. The blade pierced the air with a sharp whoosh. Accelerated by Encrid’s own charging speed, the tip of the blade became a point of light faster than any arrow he had ever faced.
Since Encrid had already raised his sword as he charged, that point struck the flat of Samcheol. The instant it connected, he twisted his wrist, reacting purely on raw, heightened sensation.
Ting!
Half of it was sensory reflex; the other half was predicting the exact timing of the impact.
'Just because it’s the Soft Sword doesn't mean I rely solely on sensation.'
For with accumulated experience came insight. The Sword of Chance was a carriage pulled by the twin steeds of sensation and experience.
He had blocked the attack, closed the distance, and deflected the thrust. His opponent might well have panicked, but instead, Gelt let go of his thrusting sword entirely and swung a heavy fist.
Ignoring the punch, Encrid dropped Penna, gripped Samcheol with both hands, and swung.
It was as if everything had been calculated for this single strike. The sword was contained within his intent; the subsequent strike carried the speed of a flash of light. His optimized thoughts reached a conclusion in an instant, and that conclusion manifested immediately in reality.
Slash—spurt!
"Fuck!"
At the very last second, Gelt abandoned his punch and leaped aside. In exchange, he lost his left arm. Had he not moved, his head would have been split in two.
Encrid flicked his vertically swung sword through the air. The blood on the blade splattered onto the ground. A few drops hit Encrid’s cheek. The severed arm flopped on the dirt like a freshly caught fish.
A long duel wasn't necessary. The outcome was clear.
Was Imperial swordsmanship really so different? Some of the techniques might be unfamiliar, but the core remained the same: Cut the opponent, and do not get cut yourself.
Just as Encrid had done.
"What kind of monster raised this guy?" Gelt spat, pinching the flesh of his upper arm.
He was controlling his muscles to stop the bleeding. It was an impressive skill, performed effortlessly. Encrid watched and committed the technique to memory.
Gelt glared at Encrid, gripping his remaining sword in his right hand. Looking at him, Encrid felt he finally had a rough grasp of what Imperial swordsmanship represented.
'A flawless circle.'
It was the standardization of all techniques to a high level. He didn't know if this was all there was to it, but based on this encounter, that was how it seemed. It was faithful to the basics, with clear evidence of rigorous, systematic refinement.
It was just that their concept of "basics" was on an entirely different plane from the Continent’s.
This was an insight into a law that even Ragna, Rem, Audin, Sachsen, or Sinar would have struggled to perceive so easily. Was it a stroke of luck stumbled upon by chance? No, it was an inevitability forged by everything he had built to walk his own path.
Encrid was creating his own swordsmanship, and with it, carving out a new milestone. Furthermore, he had recently observed and learned the ways of House Zaun. He hadn't just skimmed the surface; he had dived deep, immersing himself in their philosophy. Zaun was a place open to those who wished to enjoy and learn.
'But what about the Empire?'
Knights raised knights. In that process, countless systems must have been established. Among them, the ultimate goal of Imperial swordsmanship itself was...
'To bring the extraordinary down to the level of the ordinary.'
The manifestation of intimidation was a skill only a handful of people in House Zaun could wield. On the Continent, even simple intimidation wasn't a skill every associate knight could manage.
'But the Empire is different.'
The very atmosphere felt different. Moving past mere speculation, his intuition found the answer and settled it firmly in his mind. You couldn't understand Imperial swordsmanship just by watching it. Ultimately, without experiencing the process that made such extraordinary techniques "ordinary" to learn, one couldn't even begin to predict it.
An Imperial knight who surpassed that framework would possess strength on an entirely different level from a knight of the Continent.
Should he feel despair because of this? Because their starting points were different? Or should he feel dizzy at the sheer, vast distance between them?
An ordinary person might, but Encrid was not ordinary.
Couldn't that serve as a guide? It was far better than walking a path without any signposts at all. Blending his own style with the answers the Empire had found—Encrid smiled naturally at the prospect of learning yet another thing.
"Does this bastard have a habit of smiling when he cuts off someone's arm?" Gelt asked, watching him warily.
It was a deep misunderstanding. But Encrid saw no reason to clear it up.
*
Balmung had been surprised about six times while watching the fight.
His first mild surprise was the sheer potential Encrid displayed.
'His skills are no joke.'
At that level, wouldn't he be able to hold his own against Tempest Zaun? Of course, Tempest Zaun possessed his signature "single strike." Even Balmung couldn't block that. It was a strike you only stood a chance against if you fought outside its range.
Excluding that, it was beyond just holding his own—the boy might actually win.
'That’s how well he fights.'
Gelt always mixed feints into his opening attacks. Balmung had seen many who didn't fall for them, but...
'This is the first time I've seen someone turn it against him.'
This fellow Encrid had shattered his opponent’s intent by drawing his second sword, seized control of the flow, and then successfully executed a gamble of a charge in a single breath. In other words, putting aside mere athletic ability, physical strength, reflexes, and senses, he simply knew how to fight.
'His experience is extraordinary.'
As a former mercenary himself, Balmung could see it clearly. That wasn't just innate talent; it had to be backed by blood-soaked experience. At a glance, it looked as though he had survived hundreds of near-death crises.
'A cliff climbed by a talentless man clawing his way up.'
A weed that grew while being pelted by a downpour of luck. Such images came to mind.
Balmung’s hobby was painting. He felt a sudden urge to paint such a scene when he returned. He wanted to paint a cliff and a weed—two mismatched things—and make them harmonize.
There were other things that had surprised him.
'Even while fighting like that, a portion of his attention is directed at me.'
Why? Because he didn't fully trust Balmung. That had been the case the entire time they traveled together. Encrid and Balmung’s journey had been conducted with a faint, lingering wariness toward each other. Even as they conversed and fought side-by-side, it remained.
Gelt was an Imperial knight. If he went to the Continent, he could probably handle three or four Flower Knights with ease.
'Yet, while facing Gelt, he kept a portion of his attention on me.'
Even while executing that gamble of a charge. How could Balmung not be amazed?
'He’s a monster.'
Balmung scratched his cheek. It was a habit of his when he found himself in a tight spot. Whenever he did this, the scar on his cheek always seemed to itch.
What would happen if they fought to the death?
'Would I lose?'
The outcome was hard to predict. Just as he had his own secrets, Encrid of the Border Guard surely had plenty of his own. Seeing how Encrid didn't lean toward any of the five major lineages of swordsmanship, he would undoubtedly pull off things Balmung could never anticipate. He was even more outstanding than what Schmidt had described.
'He is hot, yet cold.'
Faithful to his instincts, yet highly calculating. Traveling together had been done on a whim, but Encrid had never neglected to observe and analyze him. He moved according to his whims, yet knew how to utilize everything around him. A talent like that was never forged overnight.
'What kind of life has he lived?'
He found himself deeply curious.
'A successor.'
The thought of making Encrid his successor crossed his mind, but he knew without even needing to consult his instincts: this wasn't a guy who would listen to anyone. His stubbornness was no joke, and his madness would be just as formidable.
Balmung released the metal clasp securing his weapon.
Click.
The hexagonal hilt fit perfectly into his heavily calloused hand.
"Hey."
Balmung spoke, unleashing his presence.
Encrid reacted instantly, turning his body. Now, Gelt stood to his left, and Balmung to his right. Balmung stepped forward, lightly tapping the ground as he spoke. Seeing this, Encrid turned fully to face him.
He had judged that Balmung couldn't be ignored. That was exactly why Balmung had released his presence.
'No hesitation in his reaction.'
Even his judgment was to Balmung's liking. The corners of Balmung’s mouth twitched. A satisfied smile spread across his face. Encrid stopped smiling and leveled his sword.
It was aimed at Balmung. In other words, without a single word exchanged, Encrid was playing along with him.
Gelt, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, turned to flee as the two of them suddenly flared their presence. At that exact moment, Balmung threw his weapon.
Boom!
The hunk of iron tore through the air in a straight line and smashed directly into Gelt’s head.
Splat!
His head burst like a pumpkin dropped from a castle wall. Shards of bone, brain matter, and blood sprayed outward in a radial pattern. The hunk of iron that had crushed the head stopped in midair and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Engineered with a peculiar center of gravity, it landed perfectly upright, its hilt pointing toward the sky.
"Where do you think you're going?" Balmung chuckled, strolled over, and retrieved his weapon.
He had directed a portion of his killing intent toward Encrid to deceive Gelt, but this had been his plan all along. He had taken advantage of the fact that Encrid was keeping a portion of his attention on him to kill Gelt in a single blow the moment he tried to run.
And this fellow Encrid had caught on and played along perfectly. The more he saw of him, the more he liked him.
"Come to the Empire."
He spoke with absolute sincerity.
*
"No."
Encrid saw no need to waste time contemplating his response.
"Didn't you say you were going to erase the Demon Realm?" At Balmung’s question, Encrid nodded immediately. "Whether that’s feasible or not, if that is what you desire, the Empire is where you belong."
It was an assertive statement. Encrid didn't reply, merely staring back with a flat gaze. It was his way of showing disagreement.
"Right, I figured you wouldn't listen. I can see the Continent’s greatest stubbornness in you."
Encrid had heard those words often—both when he was powerless and after he had gained strength. All those times had now transformed into Will within him.
'Stubbornness, vows, beliefs, willpower.'
Now, he knew the source of his inexhaustible Will.
'Will is born from willpower.'
When Esther said they shared the same source, she likely meant it was a variation of mana. It would be good to organize these thoughts later.
"Now that Gelt is dead, I shall take my leave, Encrid of the Border Guard."
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Balmung of the Empire."
"Until next time."
"As enemies?"
"It would be better as allies. Do not define the Empire as your enemy. It won't do you any good."
Was this a threat? A warning? Or perhaps advice?
"I'll handle my own affairs."
"Cocky bastard."
Instead of Gelt’s crushed head, Balmung searched the man's pockets, took something to prove his identity, and departed. Their journey together was over.
It was a road that would end for Encrid as well once he returned. Now that he was alone, sleeping peacefully was out of the question, but...
'Then again, that was no different from when I was with Balmung.'