Chapter 806

Chapter 806

“There is no point in trying to bait me just to force my hand.”
Aisia squeezed the words out, her jaw set tight.
“…Bait?”
Enkrid unsheathed his blade, Dawn Tempering—simply referred to as Dawn. The polished steel gave off a celestial radiance, appearing untouched by the numerous conflicts it had survived.
‘The method of purifying through heat.’
Aitri had suggested once that, if circumstances allowed, one should warm the metal before applying oil. Abiding by that wisdom, Enkrid had visited the royal forge, subjected the blade to the flame, and coated it with the seed oil he had carried from the East.
“It resembles a lady whose grace is masked by a rough exterior.”
The sentiment was that despite its unassuming silhouette, the craftsmanship invested in it was profound.
The monarchy employed various master smiths. One had offered that perspective, while another held a contrary view.
“No, the beauty isn’t concealed. It is on full display. It appears basic, yet the contours are elegant.”
“And those elegant contours are buried under that coarseness.”
“Look closer at the leather binding the hilt. Look at the integrated steel. This is a work of art.”
“Art? A blade is a utility, a tool for slaughter. Nothing more.”
“And because it remains true to that purpose, it becomes art!”
“You obsessed aesthete!”
“Your pragmatism is shallow!”
Enkrid had stood by as three of the royal forge’s finest craftsmen bickered over Dawn. These were the premier makers in Naurillia.
They battled with arguments, asserting their visions, yet none truly dismissed the skill of the others.
‘To acknowledge another is to progress.’
They were aware of this truth. Though the veins in their necks bulged and their faces grew crimson from the heat of the debate, once they settled, they would incorporate the differing views into their own perspectives.
‘Truly exceptional work always draws a multitude of interpretations.’
In the same way, endless debates had formed around the five sword concepts of Leonecis Oniac. Some theories were validated, some cast aside, and others evolved into entirely new disciplines.
So it was with Ki Swordsmanship—a methodology that did not fit the standard five categories but forged its own path.
It was a discipline focused purely on technical mastery above all else, transcending the principles of weight, orthodoxy, trickery, velocity, and fluidity.
‘Eastern Ki Swordsmanship.’
It had been labeled “Eastern” in the past because combatants from those territories frequently employed it. An athletic, high-skill style—that was Ki Swordsmanship.
Similarly, the South was once whispered to be the master of Illusory Swordsmanship, though such claims held little weight in the present day.
‘A legitimate knight utilizes all five modes—fusing them, perfecting the whole.’
One should have a specialty, but never ignore the rest. In that regard, Ki Swordsmanship was an outlier—so eccentric it was once dubbed the Suicide Sword.
Its exact beginnings were shrouded in mystery, but observing its execution allowed Enkrid to speculate.
‘The craft of a herdsman.’
He had seen flickers of it in Pell. Eastern Ki Swordsmanship likely originated from the herdsmen of the great wilds. It was merely a theory, but his gut told him it was the truth.
Regardless, it didn’t matter. It was just a passing thought regarding the blade.
In any case, Dawn was a magnificent weapon—the very reason the smiths had quarreled.
Now, that edge was leveled at his ally. A knight against a squire. There was no requirement for training weapons here.
“Yes, baiting,” Aisia said again, lifting her weapon. Her sword projected an unusual energy—a mix of raw intimidation and cold steel.
Balrog used to fight by letting his pressure explode like a gale, but Aisia distilled hers, using it with intent. She couldn’t wield it as instinctively as a true knight, yet her aura was far from common.
‘She is following Roman’s example.’
Just as Roman had once imitated a knightly blow, Aisia was forging her own identity.
“It isn’t baiting. It is simply the reality,” Enkrid stated flatly.
Her usually soft eyes narrowed, glinting with a sharp, perilous light.
“Ah, reality as a form of cruelty,” Rem whispered in admiration from the sidelines. Such a sharp remark was worth noting, so he muttered it to himself several times.
Soldiers practicing nearby began to drift over, forming a wide ring. Among them were Rem, Audin, Shinar, Rophod, and Pell.
Jaxon had already pulled a seat toward one of the stone supports and sat, whittling a scrap of wood with a small knife while looking straight ahead. Even though his gaze was fixed on the fighters, the wood split perfectly, thin ribbons of cedar falling to his feet.
Only Ragna continued his drills a short distance away, appearing uninterested. To a casual observer, he looked distracted, but those who understood his talent saw it differently.
“That idiot is over there playing with sticks, completely clueless,” Rem remarked, as expected.
Aisia blocked out the commentary. She shut her mind to the world, centering her entire being on the man in front of her.
‘My adversary is a knight.’
A single lapse in judgment wouldn’t just mean defeat; she wouldn’t even be able to put up a fight. She refused to let that happen. She had pushed herself to the breaking point for this moment.
“Haven’t you done enough?”
Her brother’s weary voice surfaced in her memories, but she hadn’t been satisfied then. She had actually found joy in the struggle.
Only after her hands had bled and healed countless times did she remember why she had obsessed over the sword as a youth.
‘Because it was exhilarating.’
If it hadn’t been, she could never have persisted.
‘The perfect blow.’
Her mild expression vanished into a sharp glare. Her concentration tightened, and Aisia’s sword lunged.
‘Confinement.’
She poured every ounce of her spirit into the move.
From the falling blade, Enkrid perceived the weight of her pressure twisting into spectral cords intended to bind his limbs.
It might have unnerved another, but to him, it was transparent. His perception was more acute than that of most knights.
‘Aisia was always partial to pressure.’
He thought back to their initial encounter.
“Me? Aisia.”
She had projected pressure like a ghost-blade against her own neck. Later, when they fought, she used a style born from that—forcing the enemy to fixate on the sword’s point, limiting their options.
Now, that ability had matured. The falling steel carried a command to paralyze his entire form.
She had honed her natural talent.
‘A sword that channels the will—pressure itself.’
It wasn’t as massive as Balrog’s, but—
‘The trajectory is right.’
Boom!
Enkrid brushed her technique aside through sheer force of will, not even bothering to manifest the Wall of Refusal, and parried her steel. Rainwater sprayed outward from the clash, misting the air.
Aisia did not falter just because her first move was neutralized. She retracted her sword and adjusted her stance.
She changed her footwork, weaving in deceptions, preparing a lunge. Enkrid anticipated every possible vector of attack.
‘Five.’
Specifically, five probable lines of engagement. All were visible to his inner sight.
‘Damping the coals.’
Enkrid’s left boot tapped the back of her right knee with feather-light precision. That single movement extinguished every one of her possibilities.
Aisia instinctively pulled back the leg he had touched and swung again. In that heartbeat, her points of attack shifted and grew more numerous. This time, she intended to bring the blade down in a swift, vertical arc.
In her mind, the blow had already connected. But in the physical world—
It was impossible.
Ssak—
This time, the inside of her elbow was grazed. Dawn had surged in and nipped her, its edge passing by before she could blink. Her arm guard was sliced open, the leather soaking up the rainwater until it peeled away like soggy parchment.
Aisia refused to back down, and Enkrid offered no reprieve. Every lunge she made was dismantled and shredded.
“Merciless.”
Rem remarked. Ragna, who had been training half-heartedly, also paused to witness the exchange.
“He isn’t even permitting her an opening,” Ragna added.
Those with seasoned eyes recognized what was happening. To the uninitiated, it looked like a choreographed performance.
One side would swing only to be halted mid-swing; the other would deflect with small movements of a foot or a blade—yet their motions were so synchronized they seemed scripted.
“Hm.”
Rearvart was among those watching. His perception wasn’t quite at a knight’s tier, but he was convinced Enkrid was not a man to waste effort. No—it was more than a conviction. It was nearly a religious certainty.
If a cult following Enkrid were established that day, he would have been the first to sign up.
So he focused intensely on the hidden lessons in the movements, turning the observation into a personal study.
There were others like Rearvart as well—men who treated the duel itself as a textbook. Because they had been diligent in their own training, they were ready, possessing the grit and the hunger to learn without ego.
The duel was brief. Aisia never landed a clean hit, and Enkrid never once swung Dawn with lethal intent.
“Dammit.”
When the sparring ceased and they both took a step back, Aisia spoke softly. She bowed her head, her frame quivering.
To a standard soldier, even a squire was a force of nature. Knights were entities beyond that monstrous scale—beyond measure or limit. That was the essence of a knight.
‘Calamities.’
The title existed for a reason.
Some onlookers saw her shaking frame and assumed she was sobbing. Overwhelmed by failure, unable to stop the tears. That was their assumption.
But Enkrid knew better.
When Aisia raised her gaze, her soft eyes were the same as they always were—but the fire of her resolve burned clearly within them.
“I am not giving up either.”
Were those words of desperate defiance? No—they sounded like the words of someone who was genuinely enjoying themselves.
“Mm. Then if you falter now, you will die. You might lose a limb.”
Enkrid spoke casually as he shifted. From the defensive posture where he had allowed her the first move, he now initiated the attack without delay.
Aisia’s sword rose in a diagonal parry, clashing against the edge of Dawn.
Kang.
Metal struck metal with a sharp greeting.
After that, neither uttered a word or even a battle cry. Aisia had no breath to spare for it, and Enkrid had no reason to.
Aisia felt as though she were fighting a mountain. She could not dictate the range as she wanted, and at any second, Enkrid’s sword could find her throat.
To stay alive under that constant pressure, she had no choice but to fight with everything she possessed. And so she did—clinging to the edge of the abyss with her fingernails, persisting. Her muscles cramped, her arms felt like they were on the verge of tearing.
The training session lasted for half the day.
“Why is it that every time I arrive, you two are trying to kill each other?”
Marcus showed up and muttered to himself—then gave a small nod.
“Well, hm. I suppose that is your natural state.”
The Mad Order of Knights earned their name honestly.
“Uu, huu, uu.”
Finally, Aisia collapsed from pure fatigue. A few soldiers who were close to her hurried to help her up.
“You certainly have a way of knocking women off their feet, don’t you?”
Shinar tossed out a dry joke.
As she was led away, Aisia gave Enkrid a departing glance—her arm draped over a comrade’s shoulder. In her look was gratitude, mingled with other complex feelings. Enkrid nodded back, sinking into a moment of thought.
‘Will it be possible for her?’
He had identified her spark, cleared the path, and provided help. But whether she could truly ascend to knighthood—he couldn’t be certain.
‘Now I see how fortunate Rophod and Pell truly were.’
Observing Roman, and now Aisia, he realized he couldn’t dictate their destinies. He could pull her up to a squire’s rank at the very least. Given that even squires varied greatly in skill, if he pushed her—
‘Perhaps to the tier of Lord Greyham.’
He might be able to drag her up by the collar. That was a far more realistic goal than her becoming a knight. But beyond that point?
‘That is anyone’s guess.’
He had cleared a path for Roman as well, but perhaps he would stay at that crossroads forever. Opening a door didn’t guarantee someone would walk through it.
It was the same for Aisia.
Attaining the rank of knight was always this grueling.
“Enki, I need you to act as an escort for His Majesty tomorrow.”
Marcus walked over as the clouds finally began to break.
“Me?”
“Aisia was slated for the duty, but in her current state, she’ll be lucky to walk by tomorrow, wouldn’t you say?”
Fair point. It was because Enkrid had sparred with genuine care—meaning, he pushed her until she learned, until she moved up a notch. Because of that, her body would be covered in bruises.
That was Enkrid’s version of kindness—not a soft spar that left the body intact, but one that trapped the opponent and forced them to evolve.
“Understood.”
With no cause to decline, Enkrid agreed.
The escort duty Marcus mentioned was for King Crang’s tour of the city.
Essentially, the monarch would be reviewing the capital.
Even with tension and shadow lingering in the corners, the duty could not be delayed. That was the decree of Crang.
“I would like to challenge you as well.”
Rearvart, feeling inspired, spoke up from the crowd of onlookers. And following his lead, others who had gleaned some insight stepped forward one by one.
“If Old Eyeball were around, he’d be charging us several gold pieces per bout,” Rem laughed. Then he shifted his gaze to those who had watched the entire display and learned absolutely nothing.
“The rest of you, over here. Your spirits are too soft.”
What was the point of showing them greatness if they lacked the vision to perceive it?
And so, the training grounds were soon filled with the sounds of weary shouting.