Chapter 432 - Like Black Lightning

Chapter 432 - Like Black Lightning

Enkrid didn't waste his time while waiting for Ragna.

Of course, he wasn't the type to.

Even now, he was sparring with Rem, creating friction between sword and axe.

Clang!

The silver axe, blocking Aker's slanting slash, pushed the blade away.

Enkrid tightened his grip, twisting his torso to divert the force.

Noticing this, Rem feigned pulling his axe back before slamming it down vertically.

Bang!

The weapons clashed again, sparks scattering from the collision.

Neither side gave an inch.

Their exchange continued, skill countering skill, in an unyielding rhythm.

It was an intense conversation of sword and axe, with no room for breath. And no human could live without breathing.

Both fighters pushed their stamina to the brink, until their vision swirled.

This scene had already repeated twelve times. Hours of fierce sparring had even Enkrid gasping for breath.

Rem wasn't much better off.

"Hah... hah... Watch closely," Rem said, stepping back.

He pursed his lips into an 'O,' drawing in a sharp breath. His ragged panting and heaving shoulders quickly subsided.

Instinctively, Enkrid traced the line of the axe swing that began from Rem's shoulders.

As expected, Rem swung the axe.

No, it didn't stop at just one swing.

Enkrid barely managed to counter with Aker.

Ching!

The blades crossed, and Enkrid twisted away.

Despite his exhaustion, Rem's axe strikes continued relentlessly.

Rem's axe was already fierce, sharp, swift, and heavy.

When the seemingly weightless weapon slashed without recoil, it often sent chills down one's spine.

But now, it was even more formidable.

What's worse, after panting like that, he suddenly unleashed this?

Amid the rapid, recoil-free swings, another axe came flying unpredictably.

The dual axes, held in each hand, shattered the rhythm, attacking endlessly. Enkrid parried and blocked with Aker and Gladius, feeling as if he were catching raindrops with bare hands.

It wasn't an attack you could block just because you anticipated it.

And yet, Rem was holding back.

If not, this onslaught could have easily cost Enkrid an arm.

"Just when you think it's over, squeeze out every last bit. I call it 'a handful of breath.'"

Rem's explanation came between labored breaths. His complexion had turned a sickly purple from holding his breath and pouring every ounce of energy into the attack.

Rem still taught through action more than words.

And that suited both teacher and student.

After steadying his breath, Rem continued, "If you're not careful, your heart could burst, or your blood vessels might rupture. Hell, it feels like you've shaved off a bit of your lifespan."

It was a far more dangerous technique than the Heart of the Beast.

Originally a technique used with protective spells, Rem had modified it slightly.

His recent insights into spellcasting made it possible.

Moreover, it was a skill the lunatic commander before him could master and use even more effectively.

"If you want to land even one hit, you'd better learn it before the duel."

The spar with Ragna was in two days.

Rem's intention to help was clear.

Enkrid didn't refuse. Why would he? He spent the morning loosening up with the Isolation Technique and then dedicated himself to learning Rem's Handful of Breath.

Rem offered advice freely throughout.

"I'm naturally ambidextrous, but you're not."

"What are you trying to say?"

Even as he trained Enkrid, Rem was refining his own skills. It was obvious from the sweat dripping off him—more than usual.

Because of this, Dunbakel was at her wit's end, unable to keep up. She had even postponed forming the unit Enkrid had previously assigned her to.

Enkrid didn't push her.

Forcing it wouldn't work on someone like her.

Krais likely didn't think forming a unit was urgent either.

"Unit organization is important, but it's not like war will break out tomorrow. At least for the next year, things will stay quiet."

The time required for a king to stabilize the nation.

Moreover, after observing the Border Guard's policies, Naurilia had begun setting up outposts in every city connected to the capital.

The kingdom and Border Guard were developing along similar lines.

Of course, Enkrid spent no time worrying about such matters, choosing instead to swing his sword one more time.

Regardless, Rem was focused on his axes, training with more dedication than ever before.

And somehow, he still found time to spar with Enkrid, even if his explanations were a bit lacking.

"I'm not using both hands fully yet. It's more like this."

"Explain... Huff... Huff... a bit more," Enkrid said, planting his sword tip into the ground to catch his breath.

Rem thought for a moment before asking, "Can you write with your left hand?"

He couldn't.

He could summon Swift Will by plucking sparks with his left hand, but writing was beyond him.

"If you're going to use both hands, you need to use them properly. If you're clumsy, it's worse than not using them at all."

He didn't insist on wielding two weapons, but Rem was right.

If you had something, you needed to use it properly.

Otherwise, it was pointless.

By now, only opponents who demanded such skill remained.

Two days passed quickly, but this time Enkrid delayed. Luagarne had intervened.

Of course, Enkrid agreed, or it wouldn't have happened.

"Postpone the duel. You're wondering why, aren't you? Fine. I know you won't improve drastically in a few days. But you can solidify your mindset. You can't waste what you learned from the Mercenary King, can you?"

Luagarne rarely gave direct answers.

Self-discovery came first. He helped but never outright solved the problem.

That was Luagarne's way.

Enkrid delayed for a few more days.

In the meantime, he practiced writing and eating with his left hand.

"Once you've built flexible, sturdy muscles, using them is what gives them meaning, brother."

Audin also assisted Enkrid.

He even taught him a few more Valah-style martial techniques.

There was one grappling technique and one striking technique.

Not all techniques needed names.

Ragna merely watched it in silence.

In the meantime, Enkrid had grown adept enough to write letters with his left hand, despite his clumsy handwriting.

After all, he had to send a reply to the king's missive.

When Krais saw this, his curiosity about the contents of the royal letter got the better of him.

"What does it say?"

It must have been something about offering this and that to keep the eastern king in check.

After all, the letter had arrived after news of the mercenary king had spread.

Krais, upon seeing the letter, had felt a hint of unease.

But his expectations were way off.

"It's a lament about how sitting on the throne isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"A lament?"

Enkrid nodded.

At such a time?

Krais wondered whether it was the king who was strange or his commander.

In any case, the reply was sent—a message urging the king to take things seriously if he'd decided to go through with them.

Enkrid put down the quill he'd been gripping with his left hand, clenched his fist, and then opened it again.

'It's not enough.'

He couldn't become as proficient with his left hand as with his right overnight. But he felt he understood the meaning behind Luagarne's words. So he stood and stepped outside.

It was noon, the sun directly overhead, on a day brighter than any other. The sky was clear, with not a single cloud in sight, and the air was filled with the scent of heat.

The smell of heated stone, dry earth, and fresh grass mingled in the air. It wasn't a bad day.

Though Ragna had said two days, a week had passed since.

Ragna had waited patiently.

During that time, he had become confident in his ability to control his sword completely.

He could swing with all his strength and still stop the blade in time to cut no more than a single strand of hair. He could halt it so precisely that it wouldn't leave even a red mark on the skin.

If they'd sparred two days ago, he might have ended up severing an arm in the process. But not anymore.

"I've kept you waiting."

In the center of the training grounds, Ragna practiced alone daily, swinging his sword.

To an onlooker, it didn't seem like he was refining an extraordinary technique. If anything, his movements seemed even rougher than before, as if they lacked discipline.

Nearby, Rem sat with arms crossed in a chair he had crafted himself.

Next to him, Audin lounged on a massive stone he'd somehow acquired and was using as a seat.

Even Dunbakel, Teresa, Fel, and Ropord were spectating.

Jaxen and Esther, however, were absent, both busy with other matters.

Enkrid didn't concern himself with anyone's gaze.

He lifted his sword and pointed it forward. The tip of the Aker blade seemed to form a dot, aimed at his opponent.

A pressure built, emanating from his sheer will, and brushed against Ragna.

But Ragna appeared unaffected.

To Enkrid, Ragna didn't seem particularly imposing. If anything, he looked weaker than before.

"Miss, and you die."

Ragna's lips moved just as Enkrid registered his words.

Beyond the realm of perception—where the naked eye couldn't follow, where only a faint sense of instinct could catch the edge—Ragna's blade swept upward across Enkrid's thigh.

It was an unexpected angle, a strike too swift and well-timed for Aker to block.

Enkrid barely managed to shift his weight back, relying solely on instinct, avoiding a critical wound by leaning away.

The black blade skimmed the thin fabric of his trousers, leaving a shallow cut. Blood began to seep from the tear, staining his pants.

With a single strike, it became clear.

"A knight?"

Enkrid murmured.

"The beginning of one."

Ragna's tone was calm. But to Rem, that nonchalant attitude was infuriating, and he spoke up.

"Spennadul brat."

Spennadul was a word from the western tongue, roughly translating to someone who smokes from their rear. It implied pointless effort or meaningless actions—often used as a jab against idlers in the west.

Naturally, no one else understood the term.

Even if they had, no one cared enough to respond.

Ragna remained unperturbed, lifting his black greatsword, Gumtoong, forged from dark metal. Despite its massive size, he wielded it as if it were lighter than a rapier.

When he swung it, the blade seemed to bend like a whip, though it maintained its weight.

While it lacked overt menace, anyone watching Ragna at that moment would instinctively step back.

His sword appeared as though it couldn't be stopped—a divine punishment about to be delivered—or a black lightning bolt poised to strike from the heavens.

Though he had yet to swing, everyone could already sense the destructive power of the impending strike.

Audin's brow furrowed slightly. It wasn't a blow one could counter, even with a restriction in place.

Though the sword had not yet descended, Teresa envisioned her shield shattering into pieces.

Dunbakel broke out in a cold sweat, vividly imagining her own death. She knew—if she wanted to survive, she shouldn't face that swing head-on.

Fel, gripping Idol Slayer, found the veins on the back of his hand bulging.

Ropord recalled the one time he'd seen a true knight of the order—a memory seared into his mind.

Luagarne stood off to the side, quietly observing Enkrid.

Everyone tensed.

Knights were such beings—forces of nature that altered the air around them simply by existing. Catastrophes, walking calamities.

And if one stood before you, sword drawn? If that sword was aimed at you?

The Frog's bulging eyes were fixed not on Ragna, who had reached the cusp of knighthood, but on Enkrid.

More precisely, he couldn't tear his gaze away.

'He's smiling?'

Enkrid smiled—a grin much like the one he'd shown when the ferryman told him he would die, that he'd hit a wall, and that his days would be stuck in an endless loop.

No one else could have understood. But it was true.

Enkrid smiled.

And then—

Whoosh.

The black lightning struck without the roar of thunder, a silent blade that seemed it would cleave Enkrid in two.

Clang!

Of course, such a thing didn't happen.

Drip.

Enkrid raised his sword above his brow just in time, intercepting the blow. Yet he was pushed back, and the blade of his own sword grazed his forehead. Blood trickled down in droplets.

The black lightning had been intercepted at the last possible moment with Aker and Gladius crossed in defense.

It was a narrow escape, but a block nonetheless.

The hurried motion of twisting Gladius had caused the edge to scrape his skin, resulting in the bleeding.

The dripping blood wasn't insignificant, painting Enkrid's face red.

Even so, he didn't close his eyes.

It wasn't as though he'd reached some grand realization.

Enkrid was a wanderer—a man who had spent his life searching for answers, charting paths, and chasing milestones as he roamed.

A madman who had stitched together shattered, tattered dreams to make it this far.

And so, at this moment, he felt joy.

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