Chapter 661: Flowing Sword

“Huh?”

“Should I call you lord or castellan...?”

It started with a fruit vendor.

“The castellan is Greyham. I’m the knight commander,” Enkrid replied casually to the merchant’s question.

He sounded perfectly used to this.

“Then, Commander, have one of these.”

The fruit vendor handed over two plums with a sly smile.

Enkrid popped one into his mouth and passed the other to the Ragged Saint beside him.

The saint, eyes milky with cataracts, blinked and received the plum, then took a bite.

Crunch—

The flesh split with a juicy crackle.

A tartness gave way to hidden sweetness, filling his mouth with its ripeness.

The scent hit the tip of his nose.

It was an exceptionally ripe plum.

“Sweet,” Enkrid said.

“Indeed,” the Ragged Saint agreed.

It was a luxury afforded by the large orchard recently established within Greenperl.

In fact, there were nobles managing orchards near the royal capital of Naurillia just to enjoy such fruits—so calling it a luxury wasn’t an exaggeration.

As they passed a cluster of peddlers, another merchant running a street stall called out to them.

“I’m with the Lockfried Caravan now.”

This was no ordinary merchant.

A giant, who introduced himself as a peddler, made the statement.

Enkrid lifted his arm and showed the cloth wrapped around it.

“This stuff’s sturdy.”

It was a cloth gauntlet, padded inside with thin leather to hold its shape—made from the fabric he’d bought from the giant previously.

“It would be. I don’t sell anything shoddy,” the giant replied, recognizing his own product.

Oddly, his voice was louder than usual.

The Ragged Saint, with no reason to butt in, stood quietly to the side and simply watched.

“What are you selling today?” Enkrid asked.

“This and that.”

The giant showed off various items laid out on his stall—among them were charms and ominous-looking rings.

“They say it’s cursed—causes nightmares every night, but in exchange, it’ll protect you from one stroke of misfortune.”

The giant's booming voice caught the attention of passersby.

Enkrid studied the items the giant showed him.

He could feel a faint presence now—something he hadn’t sensed before.

‘Must be thanks to my training with Esther.’

That, combined with the experience of cutting through Walking Fire spells, must have honed his perception.

Just as the giant said, the ring carried an aura.

A faint black mist clung to the ring’s surface—but only Enkrid could see it.

As you wander across the continent, you’ll sometimes come across frontier villages smaller than a proper city.

Some are fortunate enough to be in monster-free zones, but others persist while fending off minor monster attacks.

Among those villages are a few that trade directly with nearby mages or witches.

This ring was likely one of their products.

It wasn’t hard to guess.

Sure enough, the giant gave a short but clear explanation of the item’s origin, though he sounded oddly talkative.

He hadn’t been this forthcoming before.

Something about the way he acted felt unusually friendly.

‘Has he always explained things like this?’

“I don’t think I need it,” Enkrid said plainly.

If he ever needed something like this, he would’ve just asked Esther.

“I figured.”

“Then why explain it?”

The giant, even while sitting on the ground, was nearly at eye level with Enkrid.

He leaned forward and whispered.

“For everyone else to hear.”

His appearance and race kept most people from approaching, so selling things wasn’t easy.

Spotting Enkrid gave him an opportunity to draw attention.

So that’s why his voice had been so loud.

‘He’s become quite the merchant.’

Of course, the giant still wouldn’t break the principles he’d set for himself.

That was just the kind of person he was.

“You’ve gotten shrewd,” Enkrid said with a quiet chuckle.

The giant nodded.

“You can go now.”

“Sure. I’m off.”

Even after that, Enkrid encountered quite a few people he seemed to know.

To the Ragged Saint’s eyes, he even seemed to be on close terms with the innkeeper near the city center.

“What brings you down here? If you haven’t eaten yet, have a bowl before you go.”

It was Allen, the innkeeper.

His dream was to one day create a soup better than Vanessa’s pumpkin soup.

Lately, he had been serving a chicken broth soup—one his grandmother used to make whenever she had a cold—and was selling it with that nostalgic story printed on the menu.

Thanks to that, business was going well.

Of course, it didn’t sell as well as Vanessa’s famous pumpkin soup, pumpkin pie, or pumpkin juice.

But Allen wasn’t unhappy with how things were.

Thanks to the Safe Road initiative and Lockfried’s new commercial city, supplies had grown abundant in Border Guard.

Allen was reaping the benefits.

‘And now they’re even farming in Greenperl.’

The Ragged Saint had heard things.

Even with his clouded eyes, being this close—and within their group—allowed him to see things more clearly.

He once described himself as someone who paid more attention to small branches than the main trunk.

In other words, he cared more about the lives of the people in the city than the city’s political standing.

‘Very prosperous. Extremely so.’

That was the saint’s impression.

The end of skirmishes with Azpen had played a big part.

Now, they could use the vast plains for farmland without monster attacks.

The regular patrols through the Pen-Hanil mountain range had helped, too.

And the expansion westward via the Stone Road.

All of it had contributed to the city’s current wealth.

But where there’s light, there’s also shadow.

The Ragged Saint understood this truth about the world better than most.

And now, that shadow had begun to stir.

Frokk were a species capable of regenerating their skin.

So seeing one with a scar was rare.

And now a particularly menacing Frokk with a white scar on his neck was approaching.

Was he looking to pick a fight?

Or was he eyeing the saint’s adorned body with greedy intent?

Maybe he was a bounty hunter after all.

‘Or is he a blade sent by the Holy Nation?’

He wasn’t.

“Been a while.”

The Frokk greeted him casually.

Enkrid studied him for a while, then said, “...Melon?”

“It’s Meelun. Already forgot my name?”

“Ah, right. Meelun.”

Despite Enkrid getting his name wrong, Meelun didn’t look even mildly annoyed.

The Ragged Saint found that surprising.

But for Meelun, it was normal.

If he tried to fight, he’d die from one sword strike.

Forgetting a name was no big deal.

Meelun was a Frokk, and Frokk lived by their instincts.

He only needed a taste of victory or a sense of accomplishment to be satisfied.

So he was happy with his life now.

Following him, a bald man stepped forward—clearly the type to flex his muscles in back alleys.

He emerged from a narrow, shadowy alleyway nestled between closely packed houses.

Sunlight glinted off his head.

“Commander.”

He approached and called out to Enkrid.

“Gilpin,” Enkrid responded immediately.

“Why do you remember his name?” Meelun muttered.

Not that anyone paid it any mind.

“Looking for something?” Gilpin asked.

“No. Just out for a walk.”

Only then did the bald man glance at the Ragged Saint.

His clothing was flashy enough to tempt any pickpocket, but there wasn’t a trace of greed in the man’s eyes.

The Ragged Saint had poor eyesight, but his hearing was keen.

Not quite echolocation, but developed enough to hear whispered voices from afar.

That sensitivity also helped him read people through intuition.

While observing Enkrid, he also gauged Gilpin.

There wasn’t even a sliver of malice or greed in him.

At a glance, he looked like someone who worked for a crime guild—or at least something close.

The Ragged Saint’s long years of wandering told him that much.

But Gilpin had no interest in him whatsoever.

“All’s quiet?”

“With Commander Venzance in charge of security? What could go wrong?”

Despite the words, Gilpin had plenty of responsibilities.

The intelligence guild Kraiss had set up was under his control, and he managed the city’s internal safety.

Because of that, he’d even lost weight—his cheeks were sunken.

The kind of outcome you'd expect when working under Kraiss.

The price wasn’t small, but Gilpin was satisfied with his life.

The Ragged Saint couldn’t fully understand it.

Which made the current situation all the more peculiar to him.

‘Strange. Very strange.’

After wandering through the city for a while, Enkrid eventually headed toward a tented military camp.

The Ragged Saint silently followed, observing him.

Then, he spoke bluntly.

“I look after war orphans. Would it be alright to establish a monastery in the city for that?”

It might’ve been a difficult request.

But for Enkrid—who’d recently facilitated the fairy tribe’s migration—it wasn’t anything troubling.

“Go ahead,” Enkrid answered without hesitation.

“It’ll cost money.”

“Weren’t you planning to sell all that stuff you’re wearing?”

“How about you pay for it?”

“Fine, sure. You know Kraiss, right? Big eyes, gets cranky if you ask for krona. Go talk to him.”

“What if I were someone who buys and sells kids for a few gold coins?”

“Then you wouldn’t be building a monastery. You’d just sell them off to the highest bidder. Especially with lunatic cults trying to turn children into saints and martyrs.”

‘What the hell is this kid?’ The Ragged Saint blinked his cloudy eyes.

This one had a sharp tongue—and knew how to use his head.

“Those bastards have hurt a lot of people.”

“Then maybe it’s time to act.”

“That’s beyond my ability.”

“Fine. Build your monastery.”

The conversation bounced back and forth, but every point landed.

The Ragged Saint found it oddly satisfying.

Within ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) the trimmed-down exchange, their intentions had come across clearly.

What was this feeling?

The Ragged Saint had come to see the nest Audin had chosen.

He knew the boy he considered a son would walk a thorny path.

He also knew the boy wouldn’t easily be swayed.

And he knew Audin carried wounds inside.

To say he wasn’t proud of a son who overcame all of that and stood firm would be a lie.

Still, one thing nagged at him:

Why hadn’t Audin returned to the temple?

Why stay here?

‘Enkrid.’

This was the answer.

He’d heard stories during his stay.

From Seiki, stories of the man who saved her.

From others, stories of someone who never wasted a single day.

From still more, stories of a knight who cried out for the end of war and slayed demons.

The Ragged Saint didn’t know Enkrid’s beginnings—only his present.

But from what he saw, this man was chasing a grand purpose.

And yet... seeing him in person was different.

He wasn’t like anyone else he’d ever met.

‘What’s different?’

His thoughts. His will. Even the way he walked.

“What is it you want?”

All his curiosity condensed into one question.

Enkrid didn’t need time to think.

“For now, I want to use my technique like flowing water.”

“What?”

The Ragged Saint blinked, confused.

“I’ve developed a framework, and I finally have a specialty. But I want to go further. I can see what I need to do, but I lack talent—so I need to do it one step at a time. Right now, yes, I want to swing my sword like flowing water. Hmm, saying it aloud helps. After the Wave-Blocking Blade, comes the Flowing Blade. Not like ‘Flowing Blade’ as in the dried-up well kind, but a stream that never stops.”

The Ragged Saint didn’t understand a word.

In his youth, he’d trained a bit, but nowhere near this level.

So it all flew over his head.

“Huh?”

“It helped. Audin said not to treat you badly—that you’d be helpful if I was troubled. And he was right.”

Enkrid kept speaking like he was intoxicated by clarity.

“Huh?”

“I guess there was a reason I ended up teaching Seiki.”

“Ugh...”

They had already reached the barracks.

Enkrid immediately began swinging his sword.

At that point, there was no point interrupting him—he was fully immersed in his own world.

The man known far and wide as the Ragged Saint, cloaked in trinkets meant to be sold for orphan care, simply stood and watched Enkrid train.

A moment later, Audin approached and asked, “Did you have a good walk?”

The Ragged Saint paused, then asked back, “What’s wrong with that boy?”

“Did something happen?”

“He suddenly started talking about some kind of stream or whatever and then started swinging his sword.”

“Oh, that’s normal.”

“Normal?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

As someone who wandered the world, pushed by and pulling others, the Ragged Saint finally grasped a small truth.

Madman.

Now he understood why the platoon bore that name.