Chapter 442 - What is a Knight?
Enkrid filled his stomach with stale bread, thin soup, salted meat, and watery cookies made from mixed grains before acting on his resolve.
"Puah!
I'm dying here!"
Dunbakel resisted, but there was no escaping it.
Enkrid dunked her head into the bathtub.
Water splashed everywhere as her head surfaced again.
"I just bathed ten days ago!"
Dunbakel protested.
If splashing your face with water counted as bathing, then sure, she wasn't wrong.
"I could toss Rem in the same tub with you."
"I'll bathe alone."
Resigned, Dunbakel washed herself while Enkrid requested water for another tub.
"I'll scrub your back," Luagarne offered kindly.
"No, thanks."
Enkrid declined.
Soaking in the warm water, he felt the travel fatigue melt away.
He had the nagging sense that he'd forgotten something, but it probably wasn't important.
Thinking about his tasks ahead brought Knight Oara to mind, and soon a wave of drowsiness followed.
There was no need to fight it; he closed his eyes.
Enkrid fell asleep with his head resting on the edge of the wooden tub.
"You've come to an interesting place."
Splash.
A purple lamp appeared before his eyes, floating atop the river.
A shadow under a black hood slowly took form, its features sharpening one by one—eyes, nose, mouth.
The figure had stone-like gray skin and vacant eyes devoid of emotion.
It was the Ferryman.
"Does misfortune approach?"
Enkrid asked.
The Ferryman showed no reaction outwardly.
But if he had been human—if he had—he would have clenched his fists and ground his teeth.
Had he been capable of such a thing, he might even have struck Enkrid's face in sheer frustration.
Purple veins bulged in the hands gripping his oar.
"Guess not."
Enkrid tilted his head quizzically.
The Ferryman struggled to hold onto his reason.
This was the first time since taking the oar that his emotions had surged like this.
Until now, he had only felt derision and disdain, taking twisted pleasure in his encounters.
Now, though, he felt something different.
Perhaps this, too, was a positive shift.
After all, had he not lived so long that he had forgotten what it was to feel anger?
The Ferryman calmed himself through reason.
"It's fine if you don't know."
Enkrid's words carried no malice.
To him, the Ferryman was a divine presence.
He merely voiced his honest thoughts.
He had hoped for an answer, but if there was none, so be it.
His tone and demeanor made this obvious, allowing the Ferryman to respond calmly.
"Get lost, you lunatic."
He blessed Enkrid's day, promising that in the most brutal of ways, he would come to regret it.
Yet, none of the Ferryman's intended taunts escaped his lips.
Even if misfortune wasn't on the horizon, nothing would have changed for Enkrid.
From the next day, he adapted on his own.
***
"Good morning."
He greeted a soldier in the dining area, likely either Rowena's boyfriend or just another patron.
The soldier looked up.
Dunbakel, freshly washed and now sporting white fur instead of gray, followed Enkrid and addressed the soldier.
"Hello, beggar soldier."
The nickname was.
creative.
Why am I a beggar soldier?"
"I saw you asking for a discount in that alley."
Dunbakel mimed shaking her hips mockingly.
The soldier turned red, humiliated by the memory of his desperate plea and the accompanying gestures.
"I'm a squad leader," he said.
Enkrid acknowledged it casually and moved on, while Dunbakel ignored him entirely and trailed behind Enkrid.
"Don't they have roasted larvae?"
A Frog's question came from behind.
The soldier shook his head.
"No, we don't serve that."
"Fair enough.
Work hard, soldier with a healthy.
lower half."
After the trio left, the soldier muttered under his breath.
I'm a squad leader, you jerks."
Still, with insufficient contributions, he had to haul food in the dining hall.
Such was reality.
He had overextended himself trying to gather enough krona, but there was no regret.
The soldier bit his lip and said no more.
Enkrid stepped outside and picked a random open space.
The entire city was essentially one enormous military camp, dotted with wooden scarecrows for training.
The houses were sparse, leaving plenty of open areas that could serve as makeshift training grounds.
Yesterday's rest and bath had left him refreshed, his fatigue gone.
"Your body is strong.
Excellent," Luagarne remarked.
As always, under the rising sun, Enkrid repeated his training routine countless times.
The Isolation technique was about pushing the body to its limits through relentless practice.
Even if misfortune came, nothing would change.
Since it hadn't, there was even less reason to deviate from his routine.
Training it was—moving his body, wielding his sword.
Luagarne drew her sword, the sound of its unsheathing ringing out.
Tiring or not, the Frog wielding her looped sword was no opponent to underestimate.
Through a simple sparring match, they loosened up.
As damp sunlight pierced the clouds, Enkrid incorporated his learned steps and used his blade to feint and unbalance Lua-Garne.
A thrust aimed at her left shoulder came after a feint to the right.
He used a step Luagarne had taught him, shifting his weight onto his left foot and thrusting with the sword in his left hand.
It mimicked the movements of a nervous soldier, a "frog step," where arms and legs moved together awkwardly.
Thanks to his practice with his left hand—writing, training, and more—his movements were sharper now.
All these efforts culminated in precise execution.
"Good!"
Luagarne exclaimed, her excitement evident.
While not inherently combative, sparring with Enkrid often brought out a certain thrill in her.
After working up a good sweat, an unexpected visitor arrived.
"Shouldn't you look for someone when they're missing?"
A barbarian with gray hair approached the training ground.
"Ah."
Enkrid realized what he had forgotten in the bathtub—Rem.
"Where've you been?"
"Do you even care?"
"Not really."
Judging by the dirt, leaves, and faint charcoal scent on him, Rem had been wandering.
His pouch, visibly weighed down, held bits of stone poking out.
Rem had been scouring the city and found a usable whetstone.
Without enough contributions to buy one, he'd taken matters into his own hands, locating a natural whetstone, hardening it by fire, and spending the night preparing it.
"Let's get some rest now," Rem said.
Rest was essential, even in Thousand Stone or the heart of the Demon Realm.
He did as he always had, unaffected by his surroundings.
Enkrid resumed his training without much thought.
As his blade cut through the air, a voice interrupted.
"So you want to be a knight?"
It was Knight Oara, sitting atop a tree stump at the edge of the clearing.
She perched there, arms draped over her knees, a plum in hand.
Chewing noisily, her lips stained purple, a drop of juice trickled down.
In the sunlight, her brown hair appeared soft, with natural waves framing her face.
A neat cloth was tied across her forehead.
Her eyes were round and sharp, her gaze piercing.
It seemed the alcohol had already worn off.
Oara spat a seed she had been chewing, and it embedded itself in the ground, its color matching her hair.
"Yes, I intend to," Enkrid replied.
"Hm," Oara nodded slightly and said nothing further, merely observing.
Enkrid continued his task as Oara stood still for a moment before shaking off the idleness.
She strolled to a tree between the houses, snapped off a branch, and began stripping it of leaves with her hand.
Soon, she drew a knife to trim it more finely.
"Better brace yourself," muttered Lagarne, who had been quietly watching.
Just as Oara turned with the polished branch in hand, a sudden motion followed.
Thud!
Dunbakel pushed off the ground, retreating over five paces in a single leap.
Now transformed into a white lion, she bared her fangs, lowering her body almost to the ground.
Her chin nearly grazed the earth as she held her head aloft, a display of intense wariness.
Her presence was overwhelming.
Unlike the typical oppressive aura of knights, which felt like a heavy stone weighing on one's shoulders, Oara's was more extreme—like iron shackles clamping down or a metal club swinging straight at you.
It wasn't merely a warning of "move, and I'll strike"; it felt more like, "you'll be hit before you can even react."
"Ah, it's been a while since I've done this with humans.
My control's a bit off," she muttered, stepping forward with the branch now lifted in her hand.
She moved to stand opposite Enkrid.
Enkrid raised Aker.
Under normal circumstances, movement should have been difficult.
Oara's oppressive aura radiated within a precise range, spanning five paces in the direction she faced.
The weight of it was fundamentally different from other forms of pressure—a semi knight would surely falter under such conditions.
Yet Enkrid not only maintained his stance but unleashed his aura as well.
The moment he felt the invisible metal weight crash toward him, his Will of Refusal activated within, negating her force entirely.
Oara, unintentionally intrigued, observed with growing interest.
"Not a knight, but he shrugged off my aura?"
It was like watching a seven-year-old wielding a shield made of solid black iron—an impressive feat.
The child shouldn't even be able to lift it, yet Enkrid not only held it but managed to parry with it.
A faint smile curved Oara's lips.
"A fine sword you've got there," she remarked.
"It's a royal treasure," Enkrid replied.
"They call you the hero of the civil war.
Could've given me one too, don't you think?"
"You're acquainted with His Majesty?"
"Not at all.
Never met him."
Oara had no involvement in royal affairs or civil disputes.
Her sole purpose was to protect this place—a promise she had made to herself.
"Care for a spar?"
she offered, her tone seductive, almost as if extending an intimate invitation.
Enkrid accepted, stepping forward silently, without pretense or feints.
His movement was pure and direct, a line connecting two points with unwavering intent.
No probing attacks to gauge her strength—none were needed.
His opponent was a knight.
Therefore, he would deliver his best from the start.
His Heart of the Beast roared to life.
Every muscle fiber primed, his focus narrowed to a single point, making time itself seem to stretch.
The sensation of sinking into a swamp enveloped his body as he fought against the immense pressure.
And then, he swung his blade.
Nearby, Dunbakel's eyes widened.
Her claws involuntarily dug into the ground, cracking a stone beneath her hand.
The technique Enkrid unleashed was unfamiliar, even to her—a strike unmatched by any she had witnessed or endured.
Every ounce of his being poured into this single slash, muscles honed through the Isolation Technique surging to their peak.
It was as if someone had grasped the threads of time and stretched them taut.
In that suspended moment, Enkrid alone advanced, cutting down with unyielding force.
The blade seemed to cleave through sunlight itself, descending toward the knight's head.
But then—tap.
A hollow sound echoed as Oara's branch intercepted his sword mid-swing, resting lightly on his wrist.
Enkrid froze in place, still holding his stance.
Calmly, he shifted his left foot to the side, his blade tracing a new arc.
Oara countered fluidly, her branch moving to strike his wrist again.
She aimed to disarm him, confident that even a knight would falter under such force.
But not all knights were perfect.
Crack!
The power behind the branch might have broken a regular person's wrist, yet Enkrid endured.
His muscles, toughened through relentless training, absorbed the impact.
Drawing on Audin's lessons, he timed his movements to diffuse the blow, redirecting the point of contact.
With unwavering momentum, his blade resumed its course, slicing through the air like a white bolt of lightning.
Recognizing failure, Oara discarded the branch and drew her short sword in a blur.
Clang!
Steel clashed, the blades halting in a perfect deadlock.
Through her tilted short sword, Oara met Enkrid's gaze—her brown eyes locking onto the vivid blue of his.
Neither yielded.
Both channeled their force precisely into the point of contact, holding the other at bay.
"You're good," Oara admitted, genuine respect coloring her voice.
At this level, he rivaled her two finest squire-knights—or perhaps surpassed them in sheer determination.
Experience could only be gained through combat, but some truths were evident without fighting.
She had underestimated him—not his skill but his unrelenting nature.
Enkrid wasn't simply a polished knight; he was a survivor, forged from the ground up.
"Fail to block, and it'll hurt," she said, pushing his sword away with a burst of strength.
"Then tell me," she continued, lowering her sword, "what is a knight?"
Enkrid responded not with words but by resuming his stance.
"A knight is one who manifests Will, an intangible force, into reality."
A stark, unromantic definition—yet irrefutably true.
Knights, after all, could not be understood without Will.
And with that, Oara prepared to demonstrate her definition of a knight.
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