"If you slack off just because the shop collapsed, will someone buy you bread? I can't send my daughter off to marriage empty-handed. Or will you take her instead?"
It was when he opened the door of his intuition.
The shoemaker, despite losing his workshop, had not stopped working. It was an unforgettable sight, etched clearly in his memory.
It wasn't exactly a grand spectacle, but the craftsman had displayed his work, and Enkrid had observed it.
Lifting the tanned leather, striking it, stitching it, applying adhesive—forming the shape, setting it firmly in place—each motion flowed seamlessly.
What had he thought upon seeing that?
"How long must one do something to become that skilled?"
That must have been his thought, followed by the belief that if he endlessly swung his sword, he too would grow accustomed to it.
As always, back then, his days were a continuous cycle of worries about how to move forward. He also recalled the sight of Aetri wielding his hammer.
"Was there ever a moment of hesitation in his hands?"
Never—not even once.
Whether sharpening a sword on a whetstone or striking heated metal, Aetri's hands moved without pause.
If one had walked the same path hundreds, thousands of times, they could navigate it even with their eyes closed.
Such was Aetri's craft with metal. And what about the Frog beside him?
That Frog, who had once said she would drive nails into her own slippery hands if necessary to craft ornaments—was there ever a trace of awkwardness in her movements?
There was none. Not in the slightest.
Long before dawn, she would wake, take up tools suited to her hands, melt silver, bind gold, shape various metals—always drawing forth the images in his mind.
There was no room for clumsiness in something repeated without rest, day after day.
Even when mistakes piled up and failures emerged one after another, her hands naturally moved on to the 'next' step.
He had not seen everything, but by watching the practiced motions, he understood—they must have repeated the same task for an unfathomable length of time.
Snap!
One day, Jaxen had suddenly approached in complete silence and snapped his fingers. Startled by the sound, Enkrid had instinctively snapped his head toward it.
"How did you just turn your head? Did you think about turning it? Did you first register the sound, identify its direction, and then turn? Or did you simply react?"
Jaxen had said there was no simpler way to explain it, yet at the time, Enkrid still did not understand.
He had vaguely grasped that it was similar to using Will, but he had not truly felt it. The giant merchant naturally spread the word about the value of his wares.
The woman roasting jerky controlled the heat and seasoning without any conscious effort. Did she hesitate or second-guess herself in the process?
"She did not."
Had he not been in awe watching the Tattered Saint and the woman roasting jerky before him? Her motions were flawlessly synchronized, utterly seamless.
And did the Tattered Saint groan when using his divine power?
"No, it was completely natural."
The same applied to what he had taught Seiki.
He had told her to wield divine power as naturally as breathing, to play with it, to toss it around freely.
Seiki herself had once said:
"I've known how to handle divine power since I was young. I only later realized that I could actually manifest it."
Audin had also put it simply:
"You just do it. It's not that you can't, it's that you don't."
Even Ragna, half-asleep, had mumbled: "Just as I've swung my sword more than ten thousand times and mastered the motion of cutting, you simply need to use Will reflexively. I've already done it."
Then, if Aetri could do it, so should he.
If the woman roasting jerky could do it, so should he.
While they forged metal and cooked meat, he had wielded his sword and moved his Will.
Thanks to the unfailing wellspring within him, he had spent an impossibly condensed period of time practicing.
He used it, again and again, repeating it every day. Yet, he had thought it wouldn't work.
Why?
Because Will was the manifestation of intent—so he believed one must first perceive an action before executing it.
"Why wouldn't it work? It's an obsession, you crazy bastard. You think Will only moves if you consciously exert intent? That Will and intent are the same thing? Do you really believe that?"
Will stemmed from intent. Or did it not?
It did.
Yet Rem had said Will and intent were not the same. At the time, he could not understand.
But now, he did.
There had been no grand revelation—merely the memory of the woman roasting jerky came to mind, and suddenly, Enkrid could move his Will naturally as he wielded his sword.
His initial goal had been to master swordsmanship beyond his specialty, but the answer had become clear.
"Everything must become my specialty."
If swinging the sword naturally meant he didn't need a specific specialty, then so be it. Perhaps not everyone did it this way, but he would.
That was all that mattered.
"No, Audin carves vast circles, but when needed, he can become a sharp awl."
An awl pierces through a circle.
But it is also more prone to breaking.
"Adaptability."
That was the defining trait of a higher-ranked knight.
One must be able to switch between broad and narrow techniques as needed. Thinking back on it, he realized just how monstrous the soldiers in his unit were.
"Every time I caught up to them, they evolved further, developing adaptability and surpassing me once again."
Though Enkrid himself had been the one to lead this transformation, that fact was neither here nor there at the moment.
All he felt now was the satisfaction of being among such incredible warriors. How fortunate it was to have such people right beside him.
He remembered Marcus once telling him about the former battalion commander who had assembled the notorious troublemakers into one unit.
Wasn't that man called an opportunist, only interested in his own survival?
"I suddenly feel like meeting him."
To think he might even owe the man some gratitude.
"Hah."
Amidst these thoughts, something new surfaced in his mind, expanding his understanding. It wasn't just about swordsmanship.
Was Will truly exclusive to knights?
A different notion stirred awake in some hidden corner of his thoughts.
"Ordinary people also use Will naturally."
Of course, using it wasn't easy, and even if they did, it wasn't visible. But they did use it.
This wasn't speculation—it was certainty. He had seen it with his own eyes.
Even now, he recognized it in them.
The woman roasting jerky, Aetri hammering metal—they unconsciously wielded Will.
Thus, if someone reached the pinnacle of their craft, enough to be called a master, then it could be said that they, too, were using Will.
'No, if their source is the same, maybe it's not Will but rather mana?' Or perhaps they needed a term exclusive to them.
One thing was certain, though—technique alone was not everything.
The dwarf who had once visited Aetri possessed greater smelting skills than Aetri at the time, yet he did not exude any sense of majesty.
Thinking of majesty, his thoughts extended toward Krang as well.
Krang was both a sharp spike and a radiant star—someone who stood out no matter where he was.
His majesty could not be hidden, even if he wore tattered clothes. 'The value Krang holds lies within him.'
And what resided within him?
He had an inkling as to why Krang's words captivated people.
Dignity, majesty, and the force he exuded were likely all manifestations of Will. 'Many people unconsciously use Will, even if just a little.'
It was the privilege of those who dedicated themselves to their craft, pouring in their effort and time.
Or it was something one was simply born with.
Lost in thought, his senses stirred, sending a faint signal. Enkrid felt the wind as it blew and caught a scent.
It always started with a smell.
His nose twitched as he sorted through various scents. The sweat of his group, worn from their forced march. The medicinal scent clinging to Anne.
The faint, lingering smell of blood from Ragna. The perfume Grida used.
The metallic scent of their weapons.
Everything was familiar, a mixture of smells he had encountered before.
Yet, weaving through them was a distinctly different scent. A faint stench of blood and a sharp, acrid odor.
Next came sound.
The wind rustled through the dense foliage.
Rustle.
Interwoven within that noise was something else entirely. And lastly, touch.
His fine hairs stood on end as his sensitivity sharpened.
For a brief moment, Enkrid perceived everything around him, searching.
Like oil mixing with water, his five senses merged into a sixth, expanding his perception. A chilling sensation crept up the back of his neck.
Enkrid turned his head and adjusted the position of his sword. The tip of the blade in his right hand rose slightly.
That subtle movement made Ragna and the three from the Yohan family react. Ignoring them, Enkrid turned his head, looking up to his left.
If one could see murderous intent, what form would it take?
His heightened senses and newfound understanding—his instinctive use of Will—coalesced, shaping it into a visual form.
A short, sharp needle. Flying from afar.
Piercing straight toward its target.
His maximized perception unfolded the page of the future before him.
And on that page, he saw a blackened smear embedding itself into Anne's head. Its exact nature was unknown.
But the murderous intent was unmistakable. His Samcheol traced a smooth arc.
Enkrid shifted his left foot to the side, distributing his weight evenly between both legs, and brought his sword upward in a straight slash.
Because he moved the moment he saw the killing intent, to an observer, it would appear as though he merely raised his blade and immediately swung it.
Thud!
A sound followed.
Flesh tearing and bursting.
Kiiiiik!
A death cry, something only a beast would utter.
Enkrid saw black blood raining down above Anne's head.
"Ragna."
Calling out as he swung his sword, Ragna reacted instantly.
Springing up, he drew his greatsword and slashed diagonally through the air.
Even as he straightened his knees, the force behind his strike was already at its peak.
He appeared to be swinging at empty space, yet his instincts told him something was there.
Shlick! Kiiiik!
The sounds followed—flesh being torn apart, a piercing shriek ringing in their ears. Enkrid confirmed what he had cut down.
A bat fiend.
Its fangs were grotesquely elongated, far longer than any normal bat's. It was split clean in two, spilling blood and entrails—already dead.
Then his eyes landed on what Ragna had struck. An owl bear.
A monster resembling an owl, often called a 'hunter of the night.'
A creature that, when determined to hide its presence, was difficult to detect. 'The fact that they got this close without us noticing… something is off.'
It was reminiscent of how Jaxen had approached them deliberately.
No matter how well bats or owl bears concealed their presence, this was beyond that. Beyond the murderous intent of the monsters and fiends, Enkrid sensed something else.
A recognition honed through his training with Esther and through slicing through Walking Fire.
The scent of a spell lingered in the air.
If he were to compare—Esther's magic smelled like dry firewood beneath the night sky.
This one, however, was a sickly-sweet stench, like crushed fruit squeezed to its very last drop. A scent so thick it barely registered.
A suffocating sweetness, present but elusive.
It was intense, yet imperceptible to those untrained. Even Enkrid only barely caught it.
And along with it, a sense of incongruity.
Both the bat fiend and the owl bear had focused on a single target. 'Why?'
His gaze landed on Anne—the freckled woman who, though startled and frightened, did not scream.
'Why are they after Anne?'
Could monsters and fiends even possess that level of awareness? Was it mere coincidence?
"Magrun."
The moment Enkrid called for Magrun, Grida reacted, turning her head toward the surroundings.
"Odin, secure the perimeter. What the hell are these monsters?"
The group had gathered around the crackling campfire.
"What the hell is going on?"
Magrun approached, wary of their surroundings.
It was absurd to be this on edge over mere monsters. But the recent attack had put them all on high alert. A knight was not immune to poison.
A knight would still bleed if struck.
And monsters and fiends were creatures that inherently possessed abilities superior to humans. Could an ordinary human crush a log barehanded?
An owl bear could shatter wood with the strength of its arms alone. Their claws were that tough.
Their limbs, that powerful.
Thus, a proper knight would rather overreact than be caught off guard. The others were no different, nor was Enkrid.
His sharpened senses remained on edge, like a bristling thorn.
The cloying sweetness of that scent still hovered faintly at the tip of his nose. If he let his focus wane for even a moment, he might lose track of it.
It was like sniffing the last lingering fragrance from a dried flower pressed close to his nose. The moment he pulled it away, the scent would become nearly imperceptible.
"These monsters… do they use magic?" Enkrid asked, keeping his senses sharp.
"What are you talking about? We're still within our own territory. This isn't even Imperial land."
That didn't mean their current location was within the territory of Border Guard.
They hadn't even crossed the Pen-Hanil Mountain Range yet, still northeast of Count Molsan's domain.
It was an unclaimed land, and yet they had been ambushed here. 'There's no killing intent, but…'
The scent still lingered. 'Where are you?'
How do you find an enemy you can't see? Enkrid's gaze swept over his surroundings.
Utilizing the environment was a fundamental principle of strategy. Reaching out, he grabbed a log from the campfire.
It was only half-burned, making it easy to use as a handle. Fwoosh.
Embers flared along the log. Whoosh.
The wind carried flickering sparks into the darkness, scattering them into nothingness. As the firelight wavered, Enkrid's shadow rippled like waves.