A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 730-731

Chapter 730

Enkrid did not turn down Valphir’s offer. No soul—not even the patriarch of the house—possessed the authority to hold him back. How could they possibly intervene when his gaze burned with such visible fervor at the mere thought? Consequently, the people of Zaun could only provide what support was within their means.

“Ragna has departed to claim the Sunrise. The process will require several days. At the absolute longest, perhaps a fortnight,” Tempest noted, though he quickly sensed that Enkrid was hardly focused on his words. The young man’s attention was already fixed on the horizon of what lay ahead.

‘Ambition and the drive for a challenge.’

If one were to label the shimmering light in those eyes, it would demand multiple definitions. It was a smoldering furnace of a desire to acquire knowledge and evolve. Enkrid gave off the distinct impression that his mental preparations for the journey had been finalized long ago.

“Are you truly set on departing ahead of the rest?” Anne, one of the figures who had aided him, approached. She didn’t appear intent on blocking his path, merely seeking a final affirmation.

“Indeed. Ensure Ragna accompanies you later. If you leave him to travel solo, the two of you will never manage to share a home in this lifetime.”

“I am well aware of that.” The absence of a smile on her face confirmed her genuine apprehension.

From various corners, people stepped forward to offer supplies. Strips of jerky, preserved fruits, and even the specialized alchemical draughts of Milezcia were tucked into his travel pack.

“Take this. It belongs to you now.” The stingy Lynox reluctantly produced one of his treasured relics. It appeared to be a rod only slightly longer than a short blade, but with a sharp flick through the air, it extended with a rhythmic mechanical click to reveal a lethal spearhead.

“It is a portable javelin. It is imbued with a piercing enchantment, capable of punching through almost any defense. Furthermore—” Lynox leaned in to whisper additional details. It was clearly a masterpiece of rare quality. “Employ it with skill.”

Enkrid accepted the gift with his usual stoic grace. He secured it to his belt, hoisted his pack, checked his pair of swords, and turned his back to them. The deep navy cloak resting over his travel coat was impossible to miss, featuring an asymmetrical crest stitched into the fabric.

“Are you certain the two of you can manage this? If the need arises, simply send word. I will come to your aid,” Grida murmured as Enkrid walked past.

“With a puncture in your gut?”

“What, do you think Zaun lacks capable fighters? Besides, who hasn’t dealt with a few holes now and then?” Enkrid dismissed the worry with a casual wave, indicating he was perfectly fine. To an outside observer, the sight of him exchanging jests with companions might have seemed commonplace.

‘But that is an impossibility.’

He was far too striking to ever be considered ordinary. With his raven hair, eyes reminiscent of a crystalline lake, and that distinct navy mantle, he possessed the grace of a portrait. His tall frame and long limbs, combined with a physique honed by discipline and a perfectly poised gait, projected an aura of profound stability.

‘Most ladies of noble birth would be captivated the instant he entered their sight.’

Yet, there was a point of even greater curiosity. Tempest, who usually remained silent and demanding of nothing, attempted to tether Enkrid using only the weight of his voice. “Why do you refrain from requesting a reward?”

He had delivered Zaun from a catastrophic fate. He had uprooted the looming threat.

‘Only two bladesmen and a single girl?’

Those three had not acted in isolation. However, what would the outcome have been had this specific man not intervened? One did not need profound wisdom to see the answer. Events would have unfolded according to Heskal’s schemes—or worse, the Empire would have arrived late to the scene, wearing deceptive smiles while seizing everything they desired. The pact with the Empire was less a formal treaty and more a predatory understanding.

‘The Empire perpetually waits for the right moment to consume Zaun.’

But Zaun had no desire for such a fate. Individuals might pursue personal profit and depart, but the heart of Zaun as a collective resisted it. The role originally intended for an Imperial lapdog had instead been occupied by a man named Enkrid. He possessed every right to demand compensation. He could have laid claim to the military might of Zaun for his own ends. Even if he failed, he had the status to make the attempt.

Yet Enkrid of the Border Guard, the companion and leader of Ragna, asked for nothing. It was true that one occasionally encountered such anomalies—individuals who ignored the present to gaze upon the distant future, people of an entirely different internal caliber. But to the patriarch, Enkrid seemed distinct even from those types. He didn’t even seem interested in collecting a future favor. That was the most baffling part of all.

“What else could I possibly require?” Enkrid asked, tilting his head with genuine sincerity.

Despite his aching limbs and his reliance on a walking stick, Tempest forced his spine straight and squared his shoulders. “Because you were the savior of Zaun.”

There was no utility in speaking in riddles. He was not a man of subtle nuances. This traveler understood the significance of his actions; he was sharp-witted and perceptive. And yet—

“I have already gained much,” was his only reply.

Was it a sudden whim? Or a calculated move to ensure Zaun’s longevity? Tempest could not tell. Rather than following a blueprint of schemes, he followed the sudden heat rising in his heart. As the head of the house, he uttered words he had never before voiced to an outsider.

“Should you ever summon us, Zaun will march at your side. Odinkar, see to it that my vow is honored.”

“As you command.” Odinkar, standing nearby, gave a firm nod. Perhaps because he had perceived Enkrid’s nature even before Tempest had, there was no shadow of doubt in him. The words were spoken plainly, the lack of outward flair being a result of the patriarch’s own stoic nature. But the gravity behind them was immense. Enkrid, however, showed no shock.

Truly?

He merely cast a glance of mild interest over his shoulder and nodded once before continuing his walk. “Then, farewell.”

At that moment, the patriarch spoke once more. “To the champion who preserved our lineage.”

There were no boisterous shouts or weeping eyes. They simply unsheathed their steel.

*Chachachachachak.*

Dozens of blades were hoisted toward the heavens, a silent salute to their benefactor. It was the height of summer—the light was brilliant, and the foliage was a vibrant, lush green.

—

It took several moments of blinking for Ragna to recognize that his surroundings were not the physical world.

‘Sunrise.’

He had ventured here to claim the blade—Sunrise, the ancestral heirloom and magical artifact of the Zaun line. The weapon lacked a permanent shape, and even its title of ‘Sunrise’ was subject to change over time. That was the extent of Ragna’s knowledge. The rest had been passed down from his father’s lips.

“The task is straightforward. Overcome the lingering consciousness within the steel, and it will submit to you. If you are found lacking, you will emerge as a mindless shell.”

“Understood.” Ragna displayed neither trepidation nor hesitation. He didn’t even bother to inquire about the criteria for ‘worthiness.’

The weapon was housed in a plain wooden crate, appearing rusted and battered, looking nothing like a legendary blade. That was likely its most effective protection. What brigand would suspect such a relic was a priceless treasure? Furthermore, a sword capable of inducing insanity just by being held could hardly be considered a conventional prize. To be honest, the silver-hilted blade Lynox had once showcased looked twice as valuable.

“I managed two swings. In those days, the weapon answered to the name Sunset.” Recalling his father’s anecdote, Ragna peered forward. Three silhouettes, representing both men and women, materialized before him.

One woman, whose hair was a red so intense it looked like a living flame, gave a radiant smile. “If you treat us as mere shadows of the past, you will perish.”

“I’m on a schedule, so let’s conclude this quickly,” Ragna retorted without missing a beat.

Later, during the heat of the struggle, he discovered they had once been aided by a figure named Acker in the distant past—but the information went in one ear and out the other. Even their grim warning that his physical form would waste away if he lingered too long failed to move him.

“A bold youth.” Only the woman among them spoke. It seemed Acker hadn’t passed down the traditional forms, but Ragna didn’t care for formalities. His only goal was the soul-bound weapon of his family, the blade that shifted its essence to reflect its wielder’s Will.

“You insolent boy, have you no reverence for your forebears?” Even when that cry reached him, he ignored the noise and swung his massive blade.

He had watched someone else shatter their own ceilings and forge ahead. ‘I am capable of the same.’

He was forced to clash with all three spectral figures simultaneously. But this—this was a minor hurdle. Those looking for a way out search for justifications to quit. Those who believe in their own victory search for a path to it. That was Ragna’s essence. He fought with a relentless, stubborn conviction.

While everyone predicted a two-week ordeal, Ragna opened his eyes after a mere three days.

“He has already left?” When informed that Enkrid had departed without waiting, he wasn’t shocked. On the surface, Enkrid appeared to be a man of cold logic and preparation. But Ragna, having stood by him through fire, understood a core part of his spirit. He moved according to his own internal compass. Thus, the departure was expected.

The only people stunned were those who didn’t know Enkrid as well as Ragna did. Ragna stepped out with a colossal greatsword in his grip—showing no signs of mental decay.

“Was the Sunrise not supposed to take the form of a longsword?” Odinkar mused, tilting his head. That was the common consensus.

“If the blade accepts its master, its physical form will adapt,” the patriarch explained. He was so taken aback that his eyes were slightly wider than their usual narrow slits. Only Alexandra, his long-time partner, would have caught such a microscopic shift in his expression.

—

“Ultimately, existence is defined by cycles. Constant cycles.”

A cloud of disapproval had hung over the group when they learned Enkrid was traveling with Valphir Valmung, the knight of the Empire. However, the trek proved to be remarkably engaging.

“A cycle. An apprentice takes their Will, infuses it with a specific goal, and polishes it into a technique. Once a knight attains mastery, they wield that Will as naturally as breathing. But to achieve true excellence, one must return to that Will and re-infuse it with conscious intent.”

The explanation was ethereal and cryptic—yet Enkrid grasped the meaning immediately, having felt those very sensations within his own body. The sudden burst of Will and its subsequent containment was all about the intuitive flow of intent into raw power.

‘The transformation of the nature of Will.’

That was the hurdle Enkrid had been preparing to face—and he realized he had already cleared it. This was precisely why he had informed Tempest that his rewards were sufficient. Zaun had provided him with the growth he sought, and he was content.

‘I gained a wealth of experience.’ That remained his guiding thought. Saving a people did not give him a license to strip them of their dignity with demands. Furthermore, if Zaun lost its isolationist character, it would cease to be the place he respected.

‘Zaun thrives on its martial devotion precisely because it remains secluded.’ That isolation was the bedrock of its identity. A life of perpetual practice. A community that existed solely for the art of the sword, day and night. Their distance from the world kept them free of political rot. In that framework, the three surrounding villages acted as Zaun’s defensive plating. The villages dealt with the messy outside world; Zaun focused on the blade. It was an elegant system.

‘They are arguably the most potent small-scale military force on the continent.’ In a conflict where specialized elite units dictate the outcome, Zaun’s prowess was a terrifying variable. Valphir was a wellspring of such knowledge and continued to share these insights freely.

They had been trekking at a blistering pace for hours, a light sweat coating their skin. Their agreement was simple: no pauses while the sun remained in the sky. They navigated thin forest trails, scaled steep ridges, and vaulted over rushing water. Both men, possessing physical capabilities far beyond the average human, cleared wide streams with effortless leaps.

Following one such jump onto a gentle slope, Valphir posed a casual question. “Are you aware of the reason Tempest Zaun and Lynox harbor such disdain for me?”

“I am not.”

“It is simple. I am willing to do anything to secure a victory.”

The tactics and philosophies varied by the man. For instance, Enkrid’s habit of using the terrain or psychological manipulation could also be seen as using any means necessary. But Zaun would never condemn a man for tactical pragmatism. They were scholars of war who lived for the thrill of the fight. Therefore, what Valphir hinted at had to be something far more ruthless.

“I see no flaw in targeting a foe’s vulnerabilities,” Enkrid remarked. His own perspective was expansive. He had no grounds to judge Valphir. Even if the knight’s tactics were abrasive or grim—they were still valid within the scope of survival.

They pushed through dense brush, navigated treacherous muddy landslides, and eventually hit level ground. They encountered a handful of beasts along the path, but nothing foolish enough to provoke the pair could slow them down. In every skirmish, Enkrid watched Valphir’s movements with an eagle eye. The knight didn’t even bother drawing steel; he simply pulverized monsters with the heavy iron guards on his forearms.

A tusked beast larger than an ox charged them on all fours—Valphir simply pivoted and shattered its cranium with the back of his hand. The creature stumbled blindly for several paces before hitting the dirt. Later, they neutralized a pack of water-logged corpses unearthed by the storms—again, without unsheathing their swords. Not out of a sense of rivalry, but because Enkrid had been experimenting with his own martial theories, he also dispatched several using only his fists.

“I heard the monsters were utilizing organized formations?” Valphir asked after clearing a few more.

“It certainly made one wonder who provided their instruction.”

“That isn’t as rare as you might think. Near the boundaries of the Demon Realm, it’s a common sight. It has been occurring with increasing frequency in recent years.”

The mention of the Demon Realm caught Enkrid’s interest. Seeing this, Valphir went on. “Just as mankind adapts monster techniques for our own use, the monsters are now integrating human systems. It was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

There were several reasons Enkrid was finding this trek so fulfilling. One was the underlying current of tension that came from traveling as a pair. The second was the caliber of the information Valphir possessed—stories that were hard to come by in the borderlands. Enkrid had always been the sort of man who would spend his last coin on a traveler’s tale. He had a profound appreciation for a good narrative.

“What exactly are they picking up?”

“You were unaware? The concepts of Pressure and Intimidation were originally the domain of monsters. In fact, the entire framework of using Will? Humanity learned that by observing them.”

To Enkrid, Valphir Valmung was more than just a knight of the Empire; he was a captivating chronicler. Even now, he was weaving a history that kept Enkrid’s focus entirely gripped.

Chapter 731

## Chapter Summary: The Roots of Will and the Duel at the Basin

Oppression—it is a foundational technique for anyone who commands Will.
But where did such a concept originate?
Consider a predator, like a cat, radiating a murderous intent so thick that a rodent is paralyzed where it stands. Monsters operate on a similar frequency. They possess an inherent ability to project dread into the hearts of sentient creatures, mankind included.
It is easy to envision a person locked in place, their heart failing as they face the soul-crushing terror of a high-level beast.
“As long as the creature is of a certain caliber…”
These entities were masters of psychological dominance. That is the true genesis of Oppression.
It is the act of shattering a foe’s spirit, of ruling them through raw fright.
If one recalls the first time they felt such a weight, the memory is vivid: it is the sensation of a blade hovering millimeters from your throat—a stifling, heavy atmosphere.
“Will likely shares the same ancestry as Oppression. At least, that is what the scholars of the Empire hypothesize. They suggest the pioneer knight who first tapped into Will did so while studying the source of a monster’s unnatural strength… Ah, it seems we have another visitor.”
Valphir’s lips curled into a lopsided smirk.
Lynox had been right when he warned that Valphir possessed some irritating tendencies before they set out.
Even Schmidt had been visibly uneasy about their joint departure, delivering a long-winded caution before they parted ways.
“I am required to journey back to the Empire myself. A report must be filed. An alchemist of legend turning into a beast, masquerading as a deity, and subsequently being executed—this is a significant development.”
Schmidt’s withdrawal was partially due to his mangled leg, which prevented him from matching the rapid stride of Enkrid and Valphir. However, the political gravity of his report was equally pressing.
Still, Schmidt had made a point to hammer home a single message to Valphir—
“Enkrid of the Border Guard is destined to be a cornerstone of the Empire.”
Enkrid did not necessarily share that sentiment.
He had never expressed a desire to visit the Empire, nor had he displayed any curiosity toward it. He wondered why they were so insistent on his future.
“You mean me?”
Enkrid cut in during the explanation.
“That is simply how much you are worth,” Schmidt replied firmly.
Valphir merely rubbed at his ear, appearing bored. But Schmidt’s rank didn’t give him the right to keep lecturing.
The social standing between them was undeniable.
Valphir held the higher station; Schmidt was his subordinate.
And Schmidt’s earlier comments about Valphir’s lack of decorum were likely born from moments exactly like this—
“A ghoul.”
Valphir had a particular fondness for the symphony of snapping bone.
Without breaking the flow of the conversation, he kicked off the dirt and bridged the gap to the monster. He seized the creature’s limb and wrenched it until it popped.
The ghoul hadn’t even finished its first movement. A few more shadows lunged from the brush, only to meet the same brutal end.
Limbs were shattered, leaving the monsters to squirm in the dirt until Valphir brought his heel down on their throats, grinding them into the earth.
The only sounds in the clearing were the sharp cracks and dull crunches of failing anatomy.
“Beasts never provide that proper tactile feedback in the grip,” Valphir remarked.
He was not a man of subtlety; he voiced his darker inclinations without shame.
“Giant bones offer the best sensation. There is a certain majesty in the sound of something supposedly unbreakable finally giving way.”
Apparently, a giant’s bone snapping mimicked the sound of a falling stone column. That detail alone was enough for Enkrid to conclude that Valphir’s mind was forged differently.
“So, Oppression was born from imitating the killing intent of monsters… and Will was developed by observing their terrifying physical power?”
Enkrid summarized the thought as they walked.
They followed a parched trail beneath a bright sun. Tiny sprigs of emerald grass were beginning to claim the earth, and scattered blossoms appeared in the margins, but the path was clearly neglected by travelers.
It was a jagged, unrefined landscape. Stones protruded from the dirt, turning what looked like a flat plain into a grueling obstacle course.
They had traversed several hills, though they were no longer on the territory patrolled by the Border Guard.
Despite a lack of visible prints or fresh intelligence, Valphir moved with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going.
“That is one school of thought. Others—the more academic types—have different theories.”
The Empire had successfully standardized language and trade across the land. There was a time when it sought to swallow the entire Central Continent, but that expansion had abruptly ceased.
The reason remained a mystery. It was why leaders like Crang remained hyper-vigilant regarding any Imperial movement.
Enkrid, following the principle of reciprocity, shared his own history. If someone offers knowledge, it is only virtuous to give some in return.
Even if the exchange isn’t perfectly balanced.
He spoke of the events involving Count Molsen and Drmul.
The conversation shifted toward the creation of chimeras and the artificial production of knights.
“Mass-producing knights? It doesn’t work that way. A knight is more akin to a masterwork created by a craftsman. If you try to cast them from a mold like cheap bronze, they will simply fracture. True value only comes through the heat of training and the precision of the forge. How does the Empire manage it? A knight serves as the blueprint for the next.”
Valphir spoke with total transparency, hiding nothing of the Empire’s pedagogical secrets.
They cultivate a vast number, and the experienced warriors mentor the novices.
“A cycle.”
It was a self-sustaining system built on perpetual repetition.
Enkrid absorbed the information, wondering if it was sheer fortune that brought him this insight.
He realized that once he returned to the Border Guard, he could implement these principles.
A knight guides a knight.
That fundamental truth took root in his mind.
“Is it your belief that the Empire is a force of evil?”
“I lack the experience to say.”
Enkrid refused to pass judgment on something he didn’t know firsthand, a trait Valphir silently respected.
He found Enkrid’s stoicism refreshing.
However, he still felt the need to test the man’s combat prowess more deeply.
Even with his vast experience, Valphir found Enkrid difficult to read through simple observation.
With a novice, you can see their flaws in their walk. With a master, you can see their skill in their reactions.
“But this man reveals nothing,” Valphir thought.
Conversely, Enkrid found Valphir’s true depth equally obscured. But both men understood that this mutual invisibility was the mark of a true predator.
Comparing him to the patriarch of the Zaun family, Enkrid realized Valphir was in that same elite tier.
Valphir, too, recognized that Enkrid was no soft “greenhouse knight” from the interior.
“In the Empire, some call the knights of the outer continent ‘flower knights,’” Valphir noted with a dry laugh.
Enkrid continued across the jagged rocks without a single stumble.
His movement was fluid—ankles flexible, power surging from his lower body through his hips—allowing him to draw and strike at a moment’s notice.
It appeared effortless, but it was a specialized gait designed for constant combat readiness.
It was the kind of movement that would exhaust a normal man, but Enkrid, forged by the wilderness, remained unfazed.
“So, the message is: without constant trial, one withers. Is that it?”
“You are the type of student who understands the whole picture from a single stroke.”
The praise was rare for Enkrid, and it felt slightly out of place.
While Enkrid moved with careful precision, Valphir simply pulverized any rock in his path, forcing the terrain to submit to him.
“The world is far from simple, Enkrid of the Border Guard.”
“Did I claim otherwise?”
He had not. Valphir nodded in acknowledgement.
After a few more exchanges, Valphir realized he wasn’t going to win an argument with this man.
So, what was the next step?
Valphir’s curiosity regarding Enkrid was no longer something he tried to mask.
As dusk fell, they sought refuge in a shallow cavern.
They kindled a small blaze at the entrance. Lacking proper cookware, they chewed on tough dried meat until Valphir broke the silence.
“Would you like to learn a specific technique?”
It wasn’t a challenge to a duel. It was a direct offer of tutelage.
And Enkrid was not a man to turn away a chance to grow stronger.

—

Valphir’s repertoire was vast and varied.
“You don’t need to perfect these tonight—simply understanding the mechanics is the goal.”
The lessons focused on “precise response” maneuvers.
He demonstrated how to shatter an arm or reverse a clinch depending on the enemy’s stance and choice of weapon. Each movement was a distillation of real-world bloodshed.
It wasn’t the “Imperial Swordsmanship” found in textbooks.
The grappling techniques used while retaining a grip on the blade were certainly not part of the Balafian tradition.
Individually, the moves weren’t flashy, but they fundamentally altered how Enkrid viewed a fight.
The more of these “minor” tricks one mastered, the more lethal their overall combat became.
Enkrid understood this well, committing every detail to memory even as he became drenched in sweat.
His focus was palpable.
Valphir began to recount his history.
“I once served with the Eli Mercenary Corps. Does the name ring a bell?”
They were currently locked in a drill—wrists trapped, bodies angled away, Enkrid’s ankle hooked behind Valphir’s.
Their limbs were a puzzle of tension. Valphir carried an aroma of old dust, like the air inside a long-sealed vault.
“I’ve heard it mentioned.”
Before the rise of the Mercenary King Anu, that name carried immense weight.
It was named after Eli, though rumors persisted that the three centurions serving under him were the true masters of the battlefield.
Valphir had been one of those three.
“Are you older than your appearance suggests?”
“Awakening to Will slows the passage of time on the body. It is born in the mind, but it floods the flesh with a certain vitality.”
Valphir’s explanations often blurred the line between the physical and the philosophical.
It was a paradox, but an observable one.
“The world is complex.”
A man cannot be understood from a single vantage point.
Enkrid held onto the lessons he had learned from Heskal, accepting these new truths as they came.
Was the Empire a villain?
The logic remained the same.
Knowledge requires experience.
*Snap. Thud!*
A joint was twisted, a leg pressured. It seemed Valphir was about to take him to the ground, but he suddenly broke the contact and stepped back.
“This is my niche. I have no reason to stay in a grapple for long.”
Valphir gestured to his belt.
A heavy, angular blunt weapon hung there, a silent statement of intent.
“Because his primary weapon is a mace, his goal is to maintain or create space.”
Once the objective is clear, the enemy’s movements become a language you can read.
“That is the heart of observational combat.”
The deeper your understanding of the foe, the easier their future becomes to predict. Cultivating that insight was paramount.
Of course, there were those who would use that very expectation to lure you into a trap.
Regardless, insight provided the winning edge.
That was likely why Valphir was sharing this—he was dissecting Enkrid’s habits even as he taught him.
Interestingly, Enkrid possessed a certain quality that made him difficult for even a veteran like Valphir to categorize.
*Sejunghwanqueyu*—unbound and elusive.
Valphir’s final thought on the matter: The more I study this man, the more he eludes me.
After three days of travel, dialogue, and training, they arrived at their destination.
It was a wide, desolate basin situated on the mountain’s flank.
The vegetation was sparse and stunted, giving the area a haunted, cold atmosphere. High peaks blocked the warmth of the sun.
Despite the season, a biting chill hung in the air.
In the center of this wasteland stood a man holding a longsword.
Disfiguring scars crossed his mouth and brow, though his face would have looked predatory even without them.
His right arm appeared slightly longer than his left—a physical mutation from decades of obsessive swordplay. Despite being a hunted man, he looked healthy and well-fed.
“He’s been living comfortably in exile,” was the observation.
“You bastards… you just don’t know when to quit, do you?” the man growled.
Valphir smirked and began to speak.
“I’ll tell you what—”
What came next caught Enkrid completely off guard.
“If you can defeat the man standing next to me, you walk away, Gelt.”
This individual—a former knight of the Empire turned bandit king.
“You were curious about Imperial techniques, weren’t you? I think I tweaked my ankle back there, so I’m sitting this one out.”
It was a transparent lie, but Enkrid accepted the challenge.
“Then stay back and recover.”
*Crunch. Crunch.*
Enkrid stepped out onto the damp, moss-choked grass, his weight shifting evenly.
“And who are you? Another Imperial dog?” the man asked, rising from a rock.
Gelt had only ever taken up the sword for the pleasure of feeling a blade slide through meat.
He found no joy in testing himself against the strong. He lived for the sounds of the defenseless.
Valphir had shared this during their trek.
And given the man’s aura, Enkrid didn’t doubt the assessment for a second.
*Ssshing.*
Enkrid unsheathed Three Iron, leveling the blade as he locked eyes with Gelt.
“No.”
“Some stray from Valphir’s old mercenary days?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly are you?”
Gelt stood fully, his sword angled across his torso, the tip pointing toward the gray sky.
Oppression—the technique was now a physical presence in the air.
“That is the foundational stance for projecting Oppression in the Empire,” Valphir called out from the rear.
The Empire’s martial arts were a level above anything the rest of the continent practiced.
One could hear it in the description, but Enkrid was now going to feel it in his bones.
He centered himself.
The cold breeze. The pale light. The lengthening shadows. The soft give of the mossy earth.
He pulled every detail into his consciousness.
And he readied the Sword of Chance.