Chapter 672: You Brought Another Woman?

“Are you insane?!”

Anne, who had been treating Magrun while watching the sparring match, turned pale. Not just disturbed—ashen.

To her eyes, what had unfolded was a parade of madness.

Naturally, she couldn’t follow the flow or techniques of the fight—but the result was clear.

Enkrid’s sword had come to a stop halfway embedded in the blond man’s shoulder. A little deeper, and no amount of holy power or medicine would’ve saved that collarbone.

“I stopped it, Freckle Sister.”

Audin spoke with his backhand still resting where Enkrid’s blade had struck. He wasn’t wearing any protective gear, but the golden sand trickling from his skin had kept it from tearing open.

Even so, the sight of blood dripping from his hand was enough to prove one thing—Enkrid had shown zero hesitation.

“...Ah. I almost killed him.”

Enkrid’s voice, though, was flat—calm, almost indifferent.

“Losing an arm won’t kill you.”

And the one who took the hit was equally unfazed.

What the hell is wrong with these lunatics?

Anne was a healer. She hadn’t become one because she wanted to kill—she had become one because she wanted to save. She chose this path so that no one else would die from meaningless illnesses.

So what was this talk about “not dying”?

If an arm gets severed, you bleed. It would pour out like a waterfall.

Severe blood loss leads to hypothermia, she reminded herself.

The more detailed the symptoms, the worse it got—first came anxiety, then pallor, followed by a cooling of the skin.

Pulse increases. Breathing gets shallow.

As body temperature continued to drop, the pulse would weaken or become erratic. Skin would turn mottled blue. Then came dizziness, confusion, fading consciousness.

Even a knight wouldn’t withstand that forever.

Being a knight didn’t mean you were immortal.

Let arrogance take hold, and you’d collapse just like anyone else. Trusting too much in your body's energy could get you killed.

Anne had studied under her master and learned a great deal—often by sneaking peeks at his research logs.

That’s how she knew—

Unless you were Frokk, you couldn’t just regenerate a lost arm.

That was the conclusion. But then, another thought nudged into her mind.

Wait... is it possible?

What if someone had archbishop-level holy power, one of the rare few?

Maybe it’s doable?

Still, treating wounds like that wasn’t about pouring divine energy into them blindly. Over the past few days, the Ragged Saint had taught Seiki while throwing Anne the occasional tip.

Thanks to that, she’d been working hard on creating potions imbued with divine energy.

Through that effort, she’d come to realize—

Even holy power requires technique.

Like sewing flesh with a heated needle, using divinity took skill.

But how many people could wield divinity with such finesse? And even if you could, how many years would it take to master it?

One had to treat countless wounded to even begin developing such control—learning not just to heal, but how much to use and when.

“The Saint once asked—‘What would you do if you grew a third leg? A tail?’”

That was how the Ragged Saint had put it. It was like growing a new limb. You had to get used to moving it—training it. It wasn’t just power—it was learning.

And for that, someone had to teach. Someone experienced in both power and technique.

And by chance, we have both.

There was the Ragged Saint for technique. And Seiki—worthy of being called a Saint herself—for sheer holy output.

And then there's me.

Anne couldn’t heal wounds with divinity directly, but she could assess them and determine what could be done—whether to feed the patient a regeneration potion or go in with a scalpel herself.

She’d been sewing up corpses since she was young. Her stitching could shame most tailors.

“...As long as he’s not dead.”

Rem spoke from behind.

“Still, this is too much,” Anne muttered, hands already in motion.

She scattered white powder to stop the bleeding and examined the wound.

Should she stitch it? Or apply medicine?

She did have a new ointment. It was made from fairy spring water and morning dew—meant for topical application.

Maybe it’d be best to sedate him? ...No, just sew it and apply the salve.

He was a knight. That should be enough.

“I lost by half a point this time. Won’t happen again.”

Odinkar muttered. He’d suffered a wound that could’ve killed him, but he was still alive. Enkrid had already assessed him:

Reckless.

It was clear how someone like him had survived this long. His innate talent was strong enough to transform recklessness into boldness.

“Yeah. Next time you’ll just die.”

Enkrid stated it as a simple fact.

“...You said all that at the start to get the psychological upper hand, didn’t you? You’re sneakier than I thought. There’s a bit of a fox in you. And the way you kept ‘calculating’ during the fight...”

Enkrid wiped the stream of blood from his nose with the back of his hand. It was true—he’d used the same method as when he’d faced Grida.

Calculation. Seeing every situation in terms of probability.

He’d learned this from Jaxon. But it needed refinement. Maybe it could even evolve into its own sword style.

“And yet you still hit like a brute. It’s wild.”

“Wild, huh?”

“It’s fun.”

Odinkar grinned.

The white powder had stopped the gushing blood. Finally taking a look at his wound, he said:

“Impressive healer.”

You could tell by how she handled the injury.

“If you realize that, then kindly shut up. He needs rest.”

“I’m a knight. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Frokk wouldn’t recover from this overnight.”

Anne muttered while studying the wound, gauging how much stitching was needed.

Enkrid spoke to Odinkar.

“Welcome to the Border Guard.”

“Bit early for that, isn’t it?”

“No, that was your real welcome.”

He gave Penna a little twirl—the same blade that had cut into Odinkar’s shoulder. Sunlight reflected off its bloodstained edge. It was Odinkar’s blood.

Just as Lua Gharne had said—Enkrid was hungry to learn the Zaun Family’s system.

Could he just ask them outright? Maybe not. And if not, he’d learn it by stealing if he had to.

For now—

Technique.

His win over Odinkar had mostly been luck. If that luck hadn’t aligned, he might’ve lost.

But that made it all the more thrilling. So the rest could wait.

The three from the Zaun family decided to stay. Enkrid would have to rest the next day.

“Not until your treatment is done,” Anne said, dead serious. “Otherwise, you’ll just die and end up as one of my test subjects.”

And she wasn’t joking.

Enkrid’s condition wasn’t normal either. Even with the vitality of a knight, his overuse of calculations had left his head pounding.

It took two days to recover fully.

During that time, he watched Audin spar with Grida—and later, Rem spar with her.

Grida was the only one of the three Zauns who didn’t seem to care about winning or losing.

“Isn’t it unfair to coat yourself in holy power like that, Jaxon?”

“If you don’t know my name, please don’t call me anything at all.”

Even after hearing Audin’s sharp reply, Grida remained unfazed. He was one of her trickiest opponents.

By Enkrid’s standards, Audin could draw wide arcs—he was a holy knight, after all.

Holy power was defensive.

That golden sand covering his body was a divine gift—an armor no average attack could pierce.

“This is cheating! Rem!”

“That’s my name.”

Even when Rem, who was watching, pointed it out, Grida just threw names around at random. The only one she didn’t mention was Enkrid.

Audin won the duel. It wasn’t overwhelming, more of a light spar. Grida accepted the loss.

Her match with Rem was more intense.

At a glance, Rem had many visible weaknesses—and that was her strength. She used her openings like bait.

Grida was skilled at slipping into those gaps. And she did.

And she lost.

Rem moved her axe with just a flick of the wrist—a trick she’d once used to mess with Ragna.

The weightless axe zigzagged through the air, deflecting Grida’s strike.

Clang!

The moment the weapons clashed, Grida saw her own death.

Witchcraft.

If holy power was a holy knight’s armor, then witchcraft was a barbarian’s blade.

That blade—sloppily wrapped in cloth—could turn on its wielder if misused. But Rem handled it with complete mastery.

“...You hit well.”

Grida smiled despite the loss. Aside from her face-blindness, she was the most sociable and easygoing of the three.

“You’re Lua Gharne, right? We’ve got a Frokk like you in our family too. I think one of his ancestors helped design some of our sword styles.”

As she got friendly with a few, Rophod and Pell increased their training intensity—clenching wooden bits in their teeth as they endured beatings.

Magrun, meanwhile, stayed quiet, observing and scribbling notes. The Zaun family didn’t produce simple knights.

They had a hierarchy.

First were the Pioneers—those who used their talent to explore the unknown. Odinkar was one.

Second, the Researchers. Also called the Delvers.

They were enchanted by swordsmanship itself—creating techniques, then developing counter-theories.

They sometimes obsessed over useless things—but they were the backbone of the Zaun system.

Magrun was one of them.

Lastly, the Observers or Guardians—like Grida.

They cared little for winning or losing. Their duty was to watch everything and preserve the family system for the next generation.

To sustain a structured system, you needed a structured order.

That’s how the Zaun family worked.

“Is it okay to be telling me all this?”

Enkrid asked.

Grida just smiled. The seasonal rain had finally come—a thunderous downpour.

ShwaaAAAA.

Her voice rang clear through the curtain of falling rain.

“Anyone who visits the Zaun family will learn all this. And besides—you want to know more, don’t you?”

They stood beneath the wide eaves. Past the water-mist of the storm, Grida’s brown eyes gleamed with curiosity.

Enkrid nodded.

“I’ve got nothing to offer you in return.”

He said it plainly. He had nothing to barter.

And if what she wanted was romance, well—he’d have to deal with the Golden ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) Witch first.

“You brought another woman?!”

That was what Shinar had shouted at dawn the next day after the duel.

Thankfully, the misunderstanding was cleared. But she made sure to say this to Grida:

“There’s already a long line. Your turn’s far off.”

“...Sure, let’s go with that. You’re the Black Flower, right?”

Grida replied, confirming her own identity.

Strange, how someone with fairy-gold hair would be called the Black Flower.

She had a talent for reading people—but couldn’t remember their faces.

How did she ever get accurate information across?

It was questionable... but, well, not his problem.

Spring was capricious. Two days of rain, then two days of sun dried the soaked ground.

It was the season when flowers bloomed and fruits formed.

The seasonal rains had passed.

But Ragna still hadn’t returned—even after fifteen days.

During that time, Enkrid spent a lot of time with the Zaun trio—learning, absorbing.

It was a fleeting period—but a valuable one.

And so the day passed. Another day. Time surged forward.