Chapter 62: Chapter 227 - Sparring, Training, Testing
227. Sparring, Training, Testing
How did he come this far?
The rapier fencer was no stranger to teaching. It was second nature to him, and his keen eyes went beyond familiarity—they were masterful.
Unlike the natural talent of Frogs, who could instinctively perceive potential, the fencer's insight stemmed from personal experience and refined skill.
By those eyes, Enkrid had undoubtedly improved.
It was almost unbelievable that he possessed no Will. Occasionally, his attacks gleamed with intensity, unleashing a whirlwind of strikes that cornered even himself.
"Orthodox forms."
He had woven heavy sword techniques into his repertoire, steadily forming a cohesive whole.
The fencer had initially held no expectations for the black-haired man. His talent and skills were middling at best. Yet, he had never been so wrong in his judgment.
This realization stirred something in the fencer, tugging at his heart and compelling him to act.
Sparring. Instruction.
That was his intent from the start.
He had once pursued the path of a knight but abandoned it when his talents fell short. Even so, he had never lost to someone without Will. Not before, and not now.
But Enkrid had grown.
It was remarkable and praiseworthy, yet the fencer's judgment was firm: the man standing before him could not yet match a true knight.
The clashing of swords erupted in a flurry, sparks flying with every strike.
Through the relentless exchange, the fencer's sharp blue eyes assessed every detail.
"Even his footwork…"
It was exceptional, clearly surpassing human limits.
Against complacent opponents relying on mediocre talent?
Enkrid would prevail.
As for his fight with Jevikal?
Having witnessed that clash and now facing him directly, the fencer understood the difference.
Jevikal fights to kill. Enkrid fights to challenge. For him, sparring comes first.
That was the fundamental gap. Jevikal had fought to end lives, while Enkrid sought only to test himself.
And yet, the margin between them was paper-thin.
If Jevikal had noticed this subtle distinction, the outcome might have been different. But he hadn't.
Enkrid's rapid progress was undeniable, surprising even the fencer.
It was this unexpected growth that had prompted him to unsheathe his sword and spar.
He didn't need to fight at full strength to teach. But he did wield his blade swiftly and powerfully, mixing his rapier's elegance with fluidity. His strikes flowed like water—hitting and slipping, slipping and hitting.
He wanted to show Enkrid that such swordplay existed.
At the same time, he engaged in a battle of wits.
Encouraging mastery of a single style was a flawed approach, he believed. While specializing was natural, a swordsman should at least dabble in all five forms.
Why?
Because only by understanding them can one defend, evade, or counter effectively.
This was why the fencer emphasized variety in swordsmanship. He wanted Enkrid to see that strategy wasn't confined to orthodoxy.
For instance:
"Let it flow."
As he moved to deflect, Enkrid's eyes lit up. A feint.
Enkrid responded with a vertical slash, the kind of strike that seemed capable of cleaving anything in two—a thunderous attack.
But the fencer sidestepped at the last moment, redirecting the blade with finesse.
A rapier technique: deflection without contact.
The thunderous slash tore through empty air, the sound of its passage clear and sharp.
It was a demonstration of advanced, even masterful, swordsmanship.
The fencer followed with a precise thrust, disrupting Enkrid's stance.
From that point, victory was his.
He pressed his advantage slowly but steadily, employing a technique akin to boiling a frog.
Starting from cold water, the heat builds gradually—until the frog cannot escape.
The essence of this method was pressure.
Through his sword, the fencer conveyed a single message:
"You cannot surpass this point. This is your limit."
He drove Enkrid into a corner, trapping him. Not even Enkrid's monstrous strength, evasive instincts, or learned techniques could breach the wall before him.
Was he disheartened?
Hardly.
Enkrid simply continued to swing his blade, unwavering.
The fencer found this both admirable and disappointing.
The duel had not gone as he had hoped.
In the end, the fencer saw no brilliance, no spark.
"Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe he isn't a prodigy I overlooked."
Otherwise, how could this growth be possible? Yet, why was there no glimmer of genius? Why was his potential so dull?
He had expected the frog to leap from the pot, at least to stretch its legs—but it merely withered.
"This is enough," the fencer said at last.
"Hah… hah… an excellent lesson," Enkrid replied, bowing in gratitude.
It had been a spar worthy of respect. This opponent had no interest in Enkrid's life or reputation. He had simply appeared and taught him.
"Now, it's my turn," the half-giant said, stepping forward with sword and shield.
Unlike the duel just now, this one demanded no rest. Enkrid nodded and prepared himself.
The fight was as intense and brutal as their first encounter, mesmerizing to those who watched.
If Jevikal's battles felt like mortal combat, where a single mistake could mean a fatal wound or dismemberment...
Then the half-giant's fights felt like they would crush or shatter something at any moment.
Enkrid endured.
He sustained injuries similar to those from their first duel.
This time, the half-giant demonstrated a new trick—wielding her blade like a blunt weapon by gripping the edge. She also used his shield for deceptive feints.
Enkrid countered by combining heavy and orthodox sword techniques, seemingly applying lessons from the earlier duel.
The fencer, observing from the sidelines, remained unimpressed.
"He hasn't improved."
However, Enkrid barely made the cut as an average fighter.
That annoyed him.
The swordsman's eyes naturally narrowed into a scowl.
"That's it for today. If you're bored, take on a request to clear some nearby beasts. The rewards are generous, and it might help you vent your frustrations," Krais said.
"Sounds good," Jevekall replied.
Jevekall's face lit up at the suggestion. His hands were itching for action.
More than anything, the two opponents he'd observed today were no pushovers.
One was his natural nemesis, while the other seemed to be hiding their true skill.
"Troublesome bastards," he thought bitterly.
Still, he couldn't simply walk away. Fleeing without a proper reason might even prompt the Black Blade to send an assassination squad after him.
He'd abused the gang's resources freely until now, and the time to risk his life had finally come.
Besides, his bloodlust was simmering, making him crave the sensation of his blade piercing through soft flesh.
But he couldn't just kill anyone—not a vagrant in the city, only to be mobbed and beaten to death in return.
Especially with these sharp-eyed, highly skilled comrades nearby, watching his every move like hawks.
"Bad luck, all around," he grumbled internally.
While he hadn't expected things to go smoothly, the situation had grown far more complicated than he'd anticipated.
"Guess I'll just cut down some beasts," he concluded. It was a reasonable decision.
Krais nodded and gestured for a nearby soldier to lead Jevekall away, marking the end of today's sparring.
***
Enkrid, on the other hand, had to be half-carried back. His thigh muscles trembled so violently that he couldn't even walk.
"This is nothing; I'll be fine after a little rest," Enkrid said.
"Yeah, sure," someone muttered skeptically.
"You might recover now, but if this keeps up, you'll cripple yourself. Brother, faith is admirable, but overconfidence should be avoided," Audin added, quoting a teaching from the sacred scriptures. The message was clear: trust your body, but know your limits.
"Yeah, got it," Enkrid nodded. Of course, it wasn't a promise he intended to keep.
"Once we're back at the quarters, let's practice blade-hand techniques," Ragna suggested.
"Sharpening your senses makes it easier to predict the opponent's moves," Jaxen chimed in.
Everyone seemed to have something to say, especially since Enkrid had been on the receiving end of today's beatdowns.
Was it different from when they were the ones dealing the blows?
Enkrid didn't care. What did it matter?
There was so much to do, and his training still wasn't yielding immediate results. But that was how it was.
Step by step, he would keep moving forward.
At least his body was no longer stagnant as it once was, which in itself was a significant improvement.
Brushing aside idle thoughts, Enkrid returned to the quarters and began blade-hand training with Ragna.
"Unbelievable. Training in that condition?" Finn remarked, clicking her tongue at the sight.
Recently, Finn had been busy as well. She often whispered with the fairy commander and frequently disappeared at dawn.
"Where have you been sneaking off to these days?" Rem asked out of boredom.
"Moonlit dew is supposed to be good for the skin," Finn replied casually, not even looking up as she organized her belongings.
"...Is she messing with me?" Rem muttered.
Enkrid silently agreed but sided with Finn.
"You're being paranoid. You have a habit of taking people's words the wrong way."
It wasn't revenge for the times Rem called him "broken" in the head. Definitely not.
"Hmm?"
As Rem frowned, Ragna nudged Dunbakel forward.
"Go. Do your job," Ragna ordered.
"What job?"
Dunbakel reluctantly approached Rem.
"Oh, right. Time for training. Been slacking off lately, haven't we?"
Lately? They'd only cut back from two beatings a day to one—and that had been just for two days.
Slacking off?
Dunbakel shot him a venomous glare, to which Rem grinned approvingly.
"Yes! That fire in your eyes—that's what I like. Let's have a spirited... training session today!"
Dunbakel wanted to cry, but her pride wouldn't allow it.
The pair left for their session while Enkrid resumed his sparring matches.
Once his body recovered, he grabbed whoever was available at the inn and sparred with them.
Jevekall was a master of sharp strikes and unpredictable, unconventional attacks. Even from him, there were lessons to be learned.
The half-giant wielded her sword and shield with immense power, blending heavy swordsmanship with shield techniques.
While her style incorporated orthodox elements, the deeper the fight went, the more versatile his attacks became.
The shield charge that had initially caught Enkrid off guard remained a constant threat.
Even the slightest opening would be mercilessly exploited, driven by monstrous stamina and overwhelming strength.
While Enkrid's endurance wasn't lacking, his opponent's sheer size made her a walking weapon.
The rapier swordsman? Predictable as ever.
He repeated the same tactics over and over.
Edin Molsan also kept challenging him but failed to make any significant progress. After being knocked out during their third sparring session, he stopped coming as frequently.
Instead, his bodyguard stepped up to take his place.
"What's your name?"
"You don't need to know."
He was a blunt and prickly man.
Enkrid didn't care. He wasn't concerned with why this person was finally stepping forward either.
All that mattered was that now there was another suitable opponent, and that made him happy.
He smiled at the thought.
"Definitely not normal."
The bodyguard spoke, but Enkrid didn't pay any attention.
The opponent's swordsmanship was based on the "Flowing Sword Style," a technique that aimed for openings, swiftly slipping the sword in when the opponent let their guard down.
Enkrid was familiar with this style. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it. It wasn't a mistake either.
He'd replayed and analyzed this style countless times, never forgetting it.
'This...'
It was the same technique used by someone from Aspen.
More specifically, it was the style of someone he'd once struck down with his left hand. The name of that opponent, Mitch Hurrier, was one Enkrid could never forget. The Hurrier family symbolized Aspen's military might.
So, was this person an agent?
Enkrid didn't care.
As long as they were a worthy opponent, that was enough.
And so, they clashed.
The fight was even, neither side yielding easily. Enkrid didn't focus on winning, though.
"If I really wanted to kill you, I could've done it a hundred times over."
Rem, knowing that Enkrid wasn't just a simple swordsman, mocked him.
"What's the point of killing someone?"
This wasn't a battlefield. They were here to test their skills against each other.
When it came to swordsmanship, they just wanted to test their limits.
"He's smiling again? You actually find this fun?"
Jevekall often smiled. His grin deepened, and his tone grew sharper.
He too often mocked Enkrid's smile.
It wasn't just a simple sparring match for Jevekall anymore.
From that moment on, only Enkrid occupied his mind.
He was consumed with thoughts of killing Enkrid, no room left for any other impulses.
It was a new experience for Jevekall.
The half-giant, too, had a similar experience, though she felt something else instead of murderous intent.
'Why does he keep coming at me?'
She knew she was superior. That much was clear. If Enkrid had truly wanted to kill her, he could have, but it wasn't that simple.
Jevekall likely had hidden moves, and if they fought seriously, the odds were fifty-fifty.
That was her judgment.
But was there anything to gain from this sparring?
And yet, why was he so delighted?
"Alright, it's your turn today."
Despite taking a beating, he seemed pleased, and she couldn't understand why.
With a faint smile, Enkrid raised his sword, and the emotion on his face was all too clear.
Even she, not particularly adept at reading emotions, could see it.
He looked like a child.
A child experiencing an incredibly joyful moment.
A joy so pure it felt like a birthday celebration.
She had heard Enkrid wasn't particularly young.
So why did he look like that?
"Let's start."
How could he say it so cheerfully?
She didn't know, but one thing was certain: everything about him made her blood boil.
It was a mix of fighting spirit and pride, stirring the giant's blood within her.
At this moment, she was no longer a follower of her teachings but a warrior.
For the first time, she felt she wanted to be a warrior, not just a disciple.
It was the first crack in the indoctrination that had been drilled into her since childhood.
The teachings of the cult, the orders—everything was cast aside as she recognized a deeper desire within her.
All the feelings she had never outwardly expressed, things no one, not even the bishop, had ever known—those emotions now twisted in her heart.
"You're really a strange one."
The half-giant spoke up.
Her words were clumsy, but the meaning was clear.
"I told you from the start. Something's wrong with you."
From behind Enkrid, a gray-haired subordinate of his spun a finger around his temple.
At first, that attitude had been something she ignored, but now it made perfect sense to her.
"Yeah, you're wrong in the head."
The half-giant agreed. And so did she.
Enkrid, uninterested, extended his sword.
"Let's fight."
He only craved the fight. He displayed his desire for it. He relished the moment.
The half-giant also, almost unconsciously, found a faint smile curling at the edge of her lips.
To enjoy fighting for the sake of fighting—this was a first for her, a new experience.
She felt something stir within her. Each swing of the sword, meaningless in itself, brought her a sense of fulfillment.
And so, she smiled too.
Thus, countless sparring matches followed.
Each opponent had over a dozen rounds.
There were moments when Enkrid was seriously injured.
Other times, it ended with only minor wounds.
But in the end, after all the duels, the rapier swordsman shook his head.
"Guess not. This is the limit. Though, I might have misjudged, so I'll give it one last test. I wonder, can you actually win? That's the only thing I'm curious about."
Muttering to himself, the rapier swordsman faced Enkrid.
Before Enkrid could even process what was happening, countless blades erupted from the swordsman's body.
Enkrid had faced something similar before.
It was from a red-cloaked knight named Aisia.
Willpower, formed into intangible blades, pressed in on Enkrid, overwhelming him.
It was pure intimidation.
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