Chapter 732 - Come to the Empire
The Sword of Chance is the best sword technique to use when you don't know your opponent. That's because it gathers every coincidence within your own intent.
Senses refined through skill and instinct read the air.
"In Imperial swordsmanship, shaping intimidation is basic."
His mind automatically began to pick apart and analyze what Balmung had said.
Imperial swordsmanship. Basics. Intimidation. Shaping.
When the words came alive before his eyes like this, it didn't seem difficult at all.
"Tempest Yohan's intimidation takes on a natural form."
He'd reached that point through training with the sword.
But the man in front of him was different. When Balmung called this the basics of Imperial swordsmanship, he meant that they deliberately practiced this method of shaping.
Then why do they make a point of mastering and using it?
"One reason is to exert a clear pressure on the opponent."
Another is to reveal only parts of their swordsmanship through shaping, while discreetly concealing other techniques.
What Gelt was currently showing was a way of hiding oneself behind the blade.
It looked like a style focused on defense.
"But you can't be certain."
Disassembling, analyzing, and reorganizing the sword technique took only an instant. The moment Gelt seemed to hide his body behind his sword, he closed the distance.
"Footsteps approaching silently."
He was blending in "Assimilation," one of the knight's techniques.
The air entering Enkrid's nose carried a sharp, metallic scent, and the tongue resting in his half-open mouth tasted something sour.
His sense of touch kicked in, the fine hairs on his skin standing on end.
There was no sound, and all he saw was a clean, precise cut—but that wasn't all there was to it.
Enkrid shifted his weight onto his left big toe and twisted his waist, swinging his sword along the smallest possible arc.
Samcheol, gripped in his hand, swept in a gentle curve from high to low, then leveled out, heading to the middle of his opponent's torso.
It was almost acrobatic, this cut.
Clang!
A shock traveled from the midpoint of Samcheol's blade to his palm. Gelt, who had hidden one hand behind himself, suddenly whipped out a short sword nearly two handspans shorter than Enkrid's, blocking Samcheol's strike.
Even though he had just fended off such a surprise attack, Enkrid's hackles did not go down.
"It's not over."
His hand moved before he could even register the thought.
He dropped his left hand from Samcheol, drew Penna, and swung it upward.
At the same time, Gelt brought down the hidden sword in a follow-up attack.
Clang!
Penna's blade, skillfully angling past Samcheol, knocked aside the descending sword.
With both his attacks thwarted, Gelt retreated with the same quiet steps as before.
Sssssshk.
It barely looked like his feet left the ground, yet he moved out of sword's reach.
Should he just let that go and watch?
Of course not.
As soon as he blocked, Enkrid bent and straightened his knees and ankles.
Thud.
He burst forward, slamming the ground.
It was a step he had reconstructed in his own way based on what he'd learned from Luagarne. If the opponent simply thrust his sword straight out, Enkrid's torso would be skewered on the blade—a straightforward, linear charge. Gelt reacted to this. In the middle of retreating, he suddenly shifted his weight onto his heels and thrust the longer of his two swords toward Enkrid. The sword sliced through the air with a whoosh, powered by Enkrid's charging speed, and became a point swifter than any arrow he'd ever faced. But as he charged, Enkrid already had his sword raised, and he struck at that point with the flat of Samcheol's blade. At the moment of impact, relying on nothing but his acute sense of touch, he twisted his wrist.
Ting!
He responded partly by instinct, but partly by anticipating the timing of the strike.
'Even with Flowing Sword, you can't just rely on your senses.'
With enough experience, insight always follows.
The Sword of Chance is driven by both instinct and experience—in perfect tandem.
Parrying the attack as he charged in, Enkrid turned the thrust aside as he pressed forward. His opponent should have been caught off guard, but instead, Gelt suddenly let go of the sword he'd just thrust and swung his fist. Enkrid ignored the punch, released his grip on Penna, and grabbed Samcheol with both hands, swinging it down. It was as if everything had been calculated for this single strike. With intention embedded in his sword, the follow-up blow carried a blinding speed. His thoughts streamlined, reaching a conclusion in an instant—and that conclusion immediately manifested in reality.
Slice, splatter!
"Damn it."
At the last moment, Gelt abandoned his attempt to punch and leapt to the side. In exchange, he lost his left arm. If he hadn't, his head would've been split in two. Enkrid flicked the sword he'd swung vertically through the air.
Blood spattered from the blade onto the ground. Some of it even splashed Enkrid's cheek. The severed arm flopped on the ground like a freshly caught fish. There was no need for a drawn-out fight; the outcome was clear. Was the Empire's swordsmanship so different? Some of the techniques might have been unfamiliar, but the core was the same: Cut down your enemy and don't get cut yourself. Just as Enkrid had done now.
"Who raised this monster, anyway?"
Gelt muttered as he pressed the flesh of his forearm together. He controlled his muscles to stop the bleeding—a remarkable skill. He did it effortlessly, and Enkrid took mental note of this as well.
Gelt, gripping his sword in his remaining hand, glared at Enkrid.
Watching him, Enkrid was starting to get a sense of what Imperial swordsmanship truly was.
'A perfect circle, without any irregularities.'
An all-encompassing elevation of every technique.
Enkrid couldn't say if this was all there was to it, but based on his experience so far, that's how it seemed.
There was clear evidence that Gelt relied on fundamentals—and that he had honed them to a razor's edge.
The core concept of those fundamentals, however, was different from what was found elsewhere on the Continent.
This was an insight that even Ragna, Rem, Audin, Jaxen, or Shinar would have trouble recognizing at a glance.
Was it luck that led him to this realization?
No—it was inevitable, the result of the time he had invested to walk a new path.
Enkrid was in the process of creating his own swordsmanship, setting a new milestone with it.
What's more, he had recently watched and learned from Yohan's techniques.
Not in a cursory way, either—he had fully immersed himself, delving deeply into them.
Yohan's school was a place open to those who wanted to enjoy and learn.
'So what about the Empire?'
Knights nurture other knights.
There must be countless established traditions that have come from that process.
Among them, Imperial swordsmanship itself seems to aim for one thing:
'Bringing the extraordinary down to the level of the ordinary.'
Manifesting Intimidation as a physical form is a skill that only a handful can pull off at Yohan's school.
Even across the Continent, Intimidation isn't something every Junior Knight can wield.
'But the Empire is different.'
You could feel the difference in your very skin—the temperature was distinct.
No amount of theorizing or guessing could prepare you; instinct alone formed the answer and anchored it in his mind. You can't truly understand Imperial swordsmanship just by watching it. Unless you've personally gone through the process of training to master such extraordinary techniques as if they're routine, it's impossible to anticipate or grasp its nature. And a knight of the Empire who surpasses even that mold will end up with abilities on a completely different level than the knights of the Continent. So should one despair, then? Because their starting point is different? Or should one just reel in awe of the vast distance? Perhaps an ordinary person might react that way, but Enkrid wasn't ordinary. Couldn't this serve as a kind of guidepost?
After all, it was much better than wandering a path with no direction at all.
He takes the answer the Empire has found and mixes in his own. Enkrid, learning yet another new thing, couldn't help but smile.
"Does this guy have a habit of grinning when cutting limbs, or what?"
Gelt noticed and asked.
It was a complete misunderstanding. But Enkrid had no reason to correct him.
Balmung had been surprised watching the fight no less than six times just moments ago.
The first thing that caught him off guard:
'He's no ordinary swordsman.'
That was the true depth Enkrid had shown.
At this rate, maybe he'd even be able to face Tempest Yohan on equal footing?
Of course, Yohan has his infamous 'single strike.' Even Balmung himself wouldn't be able to block that. If you want a real shot at winning, you have to make sure the fight never enters the range of that sword technique. Setting that aside, Enkrid might more than just hold his own—he might actually win.
'That's how skillful he is.'
Gelt always slips some trickery into his initial attacks. Balmung had seen plenty of people avoid those.
'But I've never seen anyone turn it around on Gelt before.'
This friend Enkrid broke his opponent's rhythm by drawing his second sword, seized control of the flow, and then immediately succeeded with a reckless, all-or-nothing charge. In other words, he understood how to fight—not just with athleticism, strength, agility, or instinct, but with true combat sense.
'His experience is exceptional.'
Balmung could see that clearly, being a former mercenary himself. That sort of skill isn't just innate; it has to be backed up by experience. On the surface, it looks like he's survived hundreds of brushes with death.
'A talentless man clawing his way up a cliff against all odds.'
It brings to mind weeds that thrive in a relentless downpour of misfortune. That came to Balmung's mind as well. His hobby is painting. When he returns, he'd like to try expressing such a scene on canvas—cliffs and weeds, capturing harmony in unlikely things. There was more that surprised him, too.
'Even in the thick of battle, part of his attention is always on me.'
Why? It's because he can't fully trust me. That's been the case this entire journey. Enkrid and Balmung's partnership has always carried a quiet undercurrent of mutual wariness. Even as they talked and worked side by side, it was there. And Gelt—he's an Imperial Knight. If he ever goes to the Continent, he could probably handle three or four ornamental knights at once.
Even while facing off against Gelt, he managed to keep some of his attention on me.
And he did that while making a gamble of a charge, too. How could that not be shocking?
What a monster.
Balmung scratched his cheek—a habit of his whenever he was troubled. At times like this, the scar across his cheek always seemed to itch.
What would happen if we actually fought for our lives?
Would I lose?
It's impossible to say who would win. Just as he hides things, Enkrid the Border Guard must be hiding a lot as well.
He doesn't lean toward any of the five sword schools, so he no doubt has some unpredictable tricks up his sleeve. He's even better than what Schmidt told me.
Hot-blooded, yet cold.
He follows his instincts, but he's also calculating. Traveling with me might have been a whim, but he never neglected to study and assess me. He acts on impulse, but he knows how to make use of everything around him. You can't make someone like that overnight.
What on earth did he have to live through?
That made me even more curious.
"Heir, huh."
Sometimes, I think I'd like him to be my successor, but I know better, even without having to listen to my instincts. He's not the type to obey anyone's words. He's stubborn as hell, and I'm sure his madness matches that. Balmung unfastened the metal clasp that secured his weapon.
Click.
The hexagonal hilt fit perfectly into his calloused hand.
"Hey."
Balmung spoke, releasing his fighting spirit into the air. Enkrid sensed it and turned his body toward him. Now, Gelt stood to Enkrid's left and Balmung stood to his right. Balmung opened his mouth, kicking at the ground as he stepped forward. Enkrid, seeing that, turned his whole body to face him. He must have decided Balmung was not someone to ignore. That's exactly why Balmung had displayed his presence.
"No hesitation in his reaction."
Even his judgment pleases me. The corners of Balmung's mouth twisted. A satisfied smile appeared on his face Enkrid stopped smiling and pointed his sword—at Balmung. In other words, even without a single word exchanged, he was matching Balmung's rhythm.
Gelt, sensing the tension in the air and realizing the two were raising their fighting spirits, suddenly turned to run away.
At that moment, Balmung picked up his weapon and threw it.
Boom!
The hunk of metal tore through the air and flew in a straight line, striking Gelt squarely on the head.
Whack!
His head burst open like a pumpkin dropped from atop a castle wall. Shattered bone fragments, brain matter, and blood sprayed out in all directions. The chunk of metal that smashed his skull paused in midair for a moment, then landed heavily on the ground. Somehow, it dropped straight down so that the handle ended up pointing toward the sky.
"Where do you think you're going."
Balmung said with a grin as he walked over and retrieved his weapon.
He had spread a bit of killing intent toward Enkrid to fool Gelt, but this had been his plan all along. Since Enkrid was allocating part of his attention to Balmung, Balmung took advantage of that. The moment Gelt noticed and tried to escape, he struck him down instantly.
That way, he could kill him easily.
And his friend Enkrid had picked up on that, matching his movements.
The more he saw, the more he liked the guy.
"Come to the Empire."
So he spoke with genuine sincerity.
"No."
Enkrid didn't see any reason to hesitate about something like this.
"Didn't you say you wanted to erase the Demonic Domains?"
When Balmung asked, Enkrid nodded right away.
"Whether it's possible or not, if that's what you truly want, then the place you belong is the Empire."
He spoke with certainty. Enkrid just stared back, giving no response. That silence made it clear he disagreed.
"Yeah, I figured you wouldn't listen. You really might be the most stubborn person on the entire Continent."
He'd heard that plenty of times before—back when he had no strength, and even after he'd found it. All those moments had become the Will within him.
'Stubbornness, oath, conviction, will.'
Now he understood the source of the unending Will.
'Will is born from intent.'
What Esther said about the origins being the same probably refers to mana taking a different form. It'd be good to organize these kinds of thoughts later on as well.
"Since Gelt is dead, I'll be off now. Enkrid of the Border Guard."
"It was good meeting you, Balmung of the Empire."
"Let's meet again."
"As enemies?"
"It'd be better if we meet as allies. Don't make the Empire your enemy. There's nothing for you to gain."
Is that a threat?
Or a warning?
Maybe just advice.
"I'll decide for myself."
"You cocky bastard."
Instead of checking Gelt's ruined head, Balmung searched his belongings and took something that could serve as proof.
With that, he left.
Their time traveling together had come to an end. For Enkrid, this road, too, would end once he returned.
Now alone, the chances of sleeping comfortably were slim.
'Not that it was any easier even with Balmung around.'
***
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