Chapter 680: A Night of Realization and Killing Intent

“If I sit around just because the shop collapsed, who’s going to buy my bread? I’m not sending my daughter off to be married empty-handed. Or are you going to take her instead?”

It was when the sixth sense opened.

The shoemaker, despite having lost his workshop, never stopped moving his hands.

It had left an impression, one deeply etched in memory.

It wasn’t anything grand, but the craftsman had shown his work, and Enkrid had watched.

Lifting the tanned leather, hammering, sewing, applying adhesive—forming the structure and locking it into shape, each step flowed like water.

What had he thought while watching that?

“How long must one do something to become that skilled?”

He had definitely thought that.

And then he figured that if he swung his sword without rest, he too could become that proficient.

As always, those days were filled with endless struggles over how to move forward.

He then recalled Aitri swinging his hammer.

“Was there ever hesitation in that hand?”

Not once.

Even when sharpening blades on a whetstone or striking red-hot iron, Aitri’s hands never paused.

If it’s a path you've walked hundreds or thousands of times, you'd be able to find it even with your eyes closed.

That was Aitri’s work with steel.

What about Frokk, who had been beside him?

The way Frokk stubbornly nailed down trinkets with slippery hands—was there awkwardness in his touch?

Not at all.

Not even a hint.

Before dawn, he would wake, pick up the tools suited to his body, melt silver, attach gold, and mold metals of all kinds—eager to bring his vision into form.

There was no room for clumsiness in something repeated daily without a single day of rest.

Even when mistakes occurred and failures piled up, his hands moved naturally to the next.

He hadn’t seen everything, but he could tell from the fluidity of motion—they had been doing this for a very long time.

Snap!

One day, Jaxon had suddenly snuck up and snapped his fingers.

Startled by the sound, Enkrid quickly turned his head.

“How did you turn your head just now? Did you think about turning it? Did you recognize the sound, determine the direction, and then turn? Or did you just react?”

Jaxon said he couldn’t explain it any simpler.

At the time, Enkrid didn’t understand.

He had some vague notion, like how using Will worked—but he couldn’t feel it.

The giant merchant would naturally spread the word about his goods.

The woman roasting jerky would instinctively control the heat and spice.

Did any of them show signs of hesitation or uncertainty during the process?

No.

Hadn’t he admired that sight—jerky being roasted in front of the Ragged Saint?

A seamless chain of precise movements, without a single misstep.

Did the Ragged Saint groan when using divine power?

No. Just natural.

Seiki had said it was the same when taught.

That divine power should be released naturally—tossed, played with, like a toy.

Something Seiki had once told him:

“I’ve known how to handle divinity since I was young. I just didn’t realize I could actually use it until later. My older brothers were the same.”

Audin had said it too.

“You just do it. It’s not that you can’t, it’s that you don’t.”

Ragna used to say while half-asleep,

“Just like I trained the slashing motion with my sword over ten thousand times, I use Will reflexively. I’ve always done it that way.”

So if Aitri could do it, then so could he.

If the jerky-roasting woman could do it, then so could he.

While they struck steel and grilled meat, he had swung his sword and moved his Will.

Thanks to the inexhaustible well inside him, he had more concentrated time than anyone.

He had used it, over and over, repeating today.

And yet he had thought he couldn’t do it.

Why?

Because Will is willpower, and therefore one must first intend to act—that’s what he believed.

“Why can’t you do it? It’s an obsession. You crazy captain. Will only moves when you intend to use it? Will and willpower are the same? You actually believe that?”

Isn’t Will derived from intent?

Yes.

But Rem said Will and intent are not the same.

At the time, Enkrid hadn’t understood.

But now—he did.

It wasn’t even a grand revelation.

He simply remembered the hands roasting jerky.

And now, Enkrid could naturally wield Will with his sword.

It had started as an attempt to showcase techniques other than his signature moves, but he’d found his answer too.

“Just make all of it your specialty.”

To swing the sword naturally meant there was no need to separate techniques into categories.

Maybe not everyone did it this way—but he would.

That was enough.

“No, Audin draws wide circles, but when needed, he becomes a sharp awl.”

An awl pierces through circles.

But it also breaks easily.

“Adaptability.”

That was the requirement beyond the rank of senior knight.

One had to be both circle and awl—able to use either at will.

Now that he thought about it, he realized just how many monsters he’d gathered in his squad.

“Even after I caught up once, they all developed adaptability and surpassed me again.”

Enkrid himself had spurred that change.

But whether he realized that now—or even wanted to—was uncertain.

Just being among such monstrous people filled him with satisfaction.

How lucky was he to have such people by his side?

He recalled a story Marcus once told about the former battalion commander who had gathered this band of troublemakers.

A self-serving opportunist, concerned only with his own safety?

“I kind of want to meet him now.”

He almost felt thankful.

“Ha.”

Lost in thought, a new idea sparked in his mind—expanding a concept.

Not about swordsmanship.

Was Will the exclusive domain of knights?

A new idea stirred from a corner of his mind:

“Ordinary people use Will too.”

Naturally, using it wasn’t easy—and even if they did, it might not show.

But they did use it.

It wasn’t a suspicion. It was certainty.

He had seen it with his own eyes. Just now, too.

The woman roasting jerky, Aitri forging steel—they used Will unconsciously.

That meant those regarded as true masters in their craft were, in a way, users of Will.

“No, if the source is the same, maybe it’s not Will but mana?”

Or perhaps they needed their own term for it.

Regardless—skills alone weren’t everything.

He recalled the dwarf who had once visited Aitri.

At the time, that dwarf had better metallurgy skills than Aitri.

But Enkrid hadn’t felt any aura of authority from him.

Thinking of aura brought his thoughts to Crang.

Crang was both a sharp awl and a shining star.

No matter where he stood, he would stand out.

Even dressed in rags, his aura could not be hidden.

“What gives Crang his worth is within.”

And what resided within?

He was beginning to understand why Crang’s words captivated people.

His dignity, his aura, his presence—all must be manifestations of Will.

“Many people unconsciously use Will, bit by bit.”

It was the privilege of those who poured their everything into their work, who invested time and care.

Or those born with it.

As these thoughts ran through his mind, one of his senses awakened and sent a signal.

Enkrid felt the wind.

He caught a scent. It began with the nose.

His nostrils twitched as he separated and distinguished each aroma.

The sweat from their forced march, the medicinal herbs Anne carried, Ragna’s faint scent of blood, Grida’s perfume, the metallic tang from everyone’s weapons—all familiar.

But cutting through those familiar smells came something different.

A faint reek of blood and something fishy.

Next came sound.

The wind rustled through the underbrush.

Shff shff shff—but layered atop that was a distinct noise.

Last was touch.

His body hairs stood on end as heightened sensitivity surged.

Enkrid, in an instant, felt and scanned his surroundings.

The five senses—normally distinct as water and oil—merged into a sixth sense, expanding his domain of perception.

A chill ran up the back of his neck.

He turned his head and subtly shifted the position of the Three-Iron Sword in his hand.

The tip of the sword, in his right hand, tilted upward.

That small motion caused Ragna and the three from House Zaun to react.

Ignoring their reactions, Enkrid turned and looked toward the upper left from his stance.

If one could see killing intent—what would it look like?

His sharpened sixth sense and the recently grasped natural use of Will fused together—and visualized it.

It looked like a short, pointed needle flying from afar to stab its target.

His maximized senses flipped open a page of the future.

And on that page, he saw black soot embedding into Anne’s skull.

He didn’t know what it was.

Only that it was an unmistakable murderous intent.

The Three-Iron Sword drew a smooth arc.

Enkrid shifted his left foot aside, spreading his weight across both legs, and swept the sword upward from below.

Because he acted the moment he sensed the killing intent, it looked to anyone else as if he simply raised his sword and followed through.

Smack!

A loud sound followed.

The ripping and bursting of flesh.

Screeeeech!

A shriek not unlike that of a «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» wild beast.

Enkrid saw blood raining down above Anne’s head.

The blood was pitch-black.

“Ragna.”

He called out while swinging, and Ragna responded.

Springing up, Ragna drew his greatsword and slashed diagonally through the air.

He swung with full weight already behind the strike—despite just having straightened his knees.

It seemed like he slashed at empty space, but Ragna’s instincts told him something was there.

Squelch!

Screeee!

The sound of flesh tearing and an unbearable scream followed.

Enkrid confirmed what he’d cut down—a bat-type beast.

Its fangs were several times longer than what could be seen on a regular bat.

Split in two, it spilled blood and organs—it was already dead.

Ragna’s kill came into view too.

An owlbear.

These beasts, resembling owls, earned their nickname as “night hunters.”

They were notorious for being difficult to detect when hiding their presence.

“But for them to get this close unnoticed—that’s something else entirely.”

It reminded him of when Jaxon had snuck up on him.

Even if bats and owlbears were adept at hiding, this was excessive.

Beyond just their killing intent, Enkrid had picked up something else.

Thanks to cutting down Walking Fire and training with Esther.

He smelled a spell.

No need for comparison, but—if Esther under the night sky smelled like dry firewood...

Then this reeked of crushed fruit—cloyingly sweet.

Oddly distinctive.

Strong—but only detectable by those attuned to it.

Even Enkrid had barely caught it.

And he felt something off.

The bat and the owlbear had the same target.

“Why?”

His eyes shifted toward the freckled woman—startled, frightened, but not screaming.

Strong-willed.

“Why are they targeting Anne?”

Do monsters and beasts have that level of cognition?

Or was it coincidence?

“Magrun.”

Before Enkrid could finish the name, Grida was already shouting, turning to the surroundings.

“Odinkar, watch the perimeter. What the hell were those things?”

The group had been sitting around the campfire.

“What the hell is this about?”

Magrun approached, scanning the area.

It might seem ridiculous to react like this over some beasts—but their ambush had triggered everyone’s alertness.

Just because you’re a knight doesn’t mean you’re immune to poison.

You can still bleed when stabbed.

And these creatures often surpass humans in raw ability.

Can a regular person shatter a log barehanded?

Owlbears can break trees in place with just an arm swing.

Their claws are that strong, their arms that powerful.

So proper knights—if anything—overreact rather than let down their guard.

So did these.

Enkrid included.

His sixth sense still bristled like a thorn.

The stench still lingered faintly at the edge of his nose.

The kind of smell you only noticed when your focus was razor-sharp.

Like sniffing a withered petal right under your nose—move it even slightly, and you’d lose it.

“Do these creatures use magic?”

Enkrid asked, keeping his senses sharp.

“What the hell are you talking about? We’re not even in our own territory yet. And this isn’t Imperial land either.”

Indeed, this wasn’t the Border Guard’s domain either.

They were northeast of Count Molsen’s territory—still not yet atop the Pen-Hanil Mountains.

An unclaimed region.

And yet they were ambushed.

“I don’t feel any more killing intent... but the scent remains.”

“Where is it?”

How do you find an invisible enemy?

Enkrid’s gaze swept over the environment.

Using terrain is the foundation of tactics.

He reached for a log from the fire.

Only half-burned—perfect for a handle.

Fwoosh—the log flared as embers danced into the dark with the wind.

The flames flickered, and Enkrid’s shadow swayed like waves.