Chapter 732: Come to the Empire

The Sword of Chance is the best technique to draw when you know nothing about your opponent. After all, it weaves every chance into your intention.

His senses, refined through sensory skill and experience, read the air.

“In Imperial swordsmanship, giving form to Oppression is basic.”

His mind disassembled Valphir’s words.

Imperial swordsmanship. Basic. Oppression. Form.

Those words unfolded before his eyes, and somehow, it didn’t feel complicated at all.

“Tempest Zaun’s Oppression was natural in form.”

He had reached that realization while training with the sword.

But the man before him was different. When Valphir said it was the "foundation" of Imperial swordsmanship, he must have meant that they deliberately trained to give shape to their pressure.

So why would they train in it?

“One—it's to impose a clear pressure on the opponent.”

Second—by revealing only a portion of their swordsmanship through its form, they subtly conceal their other techniques.

What Gelt was doing now was hiding himself behind the blade.

It looked like a stance focused on defense...

“But I can’t confirm that.”

Breaking down and reorganizing a sword form happened in an instant.

The moment it seemed he was hiding behind his sword, Gelt closed the distance.

“Silent footwork.”

It was a mix of knightly techniques, one of which was Assimilation.

A metallic scent reached his nose. The half-open mouth brought a sour taste to his tongue.

And his sense of touch responded—body hair rising.

There was no sound, and visually, it was a clean slash—but that wasn’t all.

Enkrid twisted his waist and shifted power to his left big toe, swinging Three Iron along the smallest path necessary.

The blade curved downward in a smooth arc and then straightened horizontally, slashing across Gelt’s midsection.

It was almost acrobatic in its precision.

Clang!

A shock rippled from the midpoint of Three Iron down to his grip.

Gelt, having drawn a blade two palms shorter than the one he held visibly, struck from his hidden right hand.

It clashed against Three Iron.

Even though he had blocked an ambush strike, Enkrid’s instincts didn’t settle.

“It’s not over.”

Before the thought could even finish, his hand moved.

He dropped his left hand from Three Iron, drew Penna, and slashed upward.

It caught Gelt’s descending follow-up—a second hidden strike.

Ching!

Penna rose cleverly past Three Iron, parrying the falling blade.

With both of his attacks blocked, Gelt retreated using the same ghostlike steps.

Shff, shff, shff.

His feet barely seemed to leave the earth, yet he moved to a range beyond sword’s reach.

Should he have been allowed to?

No.

Enkrid dropped his stance and launched forward.

Boom.

He struck the earth and charged. It was a step re-forged from Lua Gharne’s teachings.

A direct charge—simple and deadly. If Gelt just extended his sword, Enkrid’s body might get skewered.

And Gelt did react.

He halted his retreat, anchored his heel, and thrust the longer of his two blades.

The sword tore through the air—turned into a point by the momentum of Enkrid’s charge. Faster than any arrow he had faced.

But Enkrid had already raised his sword.

The tip struck the flat of Three Iron. And at the moment of impact, his hand twisted by reflex.

Ting!

Half instinct, half prediction of the timing.

“The Sword of Chance isn’t just about instinct.”

Experience gave birth to insight.

The Sword of Chance ran on twin engines: sensation and experience.

He deflected the attack, flowed forward, and thrust in return.

Any ordinary opponent would have faltered—but Gelt dropped the thrusting sword and swung his fist.

Enkrid ignored the punch, dropped Penna, and gripped Three Iron with both hands.

It was all calculated for this moment.

A sword within intention. A single slash carrying the speed of lightning.

His thoughts reached their peak clarity and landed on a conclusion—executed immediately.

Slice! Splatter!

“Son of a—!”

Gelt abandoned the punch and leapt sideways—but lost his left arm.

Had he not moved, his head would’ve been split in two.

Enkrid gave a light shake to the sword, and blood scattered across the ground.

Some sprayed across his cheek. The severed arm twitched like a freshly caught fish.

There was no need for a long fight. The result was clear.

Was Imperial swordsmanship so special?

Some techniques were unfamiliar, but the core was the same.

Kill the enemy. Stay uncut yourself.

Exactly what Enkrid had just done.

“Who raised this monster...?”

Gelt muttered while clutching his stump. He stemmed the bleeding by controlling his muscle fibers—a skillful feat.

He did it like it was nothing.

Enkrid observed that too, storing it in his memory.

Gelt, sword still in his remaining hand, glared at him.

Watching him, Enkrid felt like he had finally grasped what Imperial swordsmanship was about.

A perfect circle without break.

A harmonized elevation of all techniques.

Maybe this wasn’t everything, but based on what he’d experienced—so it seemed.

They were grounded in fundamentals and had polished them thoroughly.

Only, their definition of fundamentals was different from the continent’s.

It was something even Ragna, Rem, Audin, Jaxon, or Shinar might not fully grasp.

Was it luck that he encountered this?

No. It was the inevitability born from the path he had walked to forge his own swordsmanship.

He had learned from the Zaun family as well.

And not lightly. He had immersed himself deeply.

Zaun welcomed those who wished to learn and enjoy.

“What about the Empire?”

Knights guided other knights. Countless principles must’ve formed through that.

Among them, Imperial swordsmanship seemed to aim at—

“Bringing the extraordinary down to the level of the ordinary.”

Forming Oppression into shape was something few in Zaun could do.

On the continent, even using Oppression was beyond many lesser knights.

“But the Empire is different.”

The sensation in his skin confirmed it. Beyond guesses or theories—his instincts fixed the answer into his mind.

Imperial swordsmanship couldn’t be understood just by watching.

You had to undergo the process—that grueling training that made the exceptional feel ordinary.

And those who surpassed even that process...

Would possess a skill set far removed from anything continental knights could imagine.

Should one despair at that? Be daunted by the different starting point?

Maybe for most people. But not Enkrid.

That was a road sign. Better than wandering a path with no markers.

He would blend the Empire’s answer with his own.

And so, another new insight bloomed. Enkrid smiled.

“...Does this bastard always smile when he cuts someone’s arm off?”

Gelt muttered bitterly.

A misunderstanding—but Enkrid saw no reason to correct him.

***

Valphir had been surprised at least six times watching that fight.

The first thing that got him was simple—

“Not ordinary.”

The level of power Enkrid displayed.

At this point... could he even go toe to toe with Tempest Zaun?

Granted, Tempest Zaun had his One Strike.

Even Valphir wouldn’t be able to block that.

You’d have to fight outside the radius of that technique to even have a chance.

But aside from that...

“He might win.”

That’s how well he fought.

Gelt always used feints in his first attack.

Valphir had seen many who didn’t fall for it—

“But no one who turned it against him.”

Enkrid drew a second blade, shattered Gelt’s rhythm, seized momentum—and then finished with an all-in charge.

It wasn’t just about strength, reflexes, or speed.

He knew how to fight.

Valphir, being a former mercenary, could see that.

You couldn’t reach that level without scraping through death hundreds of times.

“A man with no talent, clawing his way up a cliff by force.”

A weed that survived and thrived under a hailstorm of fortune.

That image came to mind.

Valphir’s hobby was painting. When he got back, he thought he’d try drawing that.

A cliff and a weed—something that didn’t belong together, yet he wanted to make them match.

And there was something else that amazed him.

“Even in that fight, part of his focus was on me.”

Why?

Because he didn’t trust Valphir completely.

That had been true throughout their journey together.

Even when they shared conversation, meals, or training.

Gelt was an Imperial knight. On the continent, he could’ve handled three or four of their flower knights with ease.

“And yet while fighting him, Enkrid kept part of his awareness on me.”

Even while making that reckless charge.

Who wouldn’t be shocked?

“He’s a monster.”

Valphir scratched his cheek—an old habit when troubled.

And whenever he did that, the scar there would itch.

What would happen in a real fight?

“Would I lose?”

It was hard to predict.

Just like Valphir had hidden things, Enkrid certainly had many secrets.

He didn’t lean toward any of the five sword lineages. That meant he might do something Valphir hadn’t even considered.

Schmidt had undersold him.

“Hot-blooded and cold-blooded at once.”

Instinctual, yet calculating.

Traveling with Valphir was likely just a whim.

But in that whim, he never stopped observing and analyzing.

He moved on a whim, but used everything around him.

A person like that didn’t come along overnight.

“What has he lived through?”

The thought really intrigued him.

A successor...?

Part of him wanted to pass the torch.

But even without gut instinct, he knew—

“He won’t take orders from anyone.”

Stubborn to the core. Mad, too.

Valphir unlatched the clasp on his weapon.

Click.

The hexagonal handle slid perfectly into his callused palm.

“Hey.”

He called, projecting his presence.

Enkrid turned. Now with Gelt on his left and Valphir on his right.

Valphir stepped forward, lightly kicking the ground.

Enkrid turned to face him fully.

A sign of respect.

“No hesitation in his reaction.”

His judgment was impressive.

Valphir’s smile twisted into satisfaction.

Enkrid pointed his sword.

At Valphir.

Not as a threat—but in perfect rhythm. No words, but the intention was shared.

Gelt, sensing the shift, tried to bolt.

Right then, Valphir hurled his weapon.

BOOM!

It tore through the air and struck Gelt’s head like a boulder from a castle wall.

CRACK!

His skull exploded like a smashed pumpkin—bone, brain, and blood spraying out in a radial burst.

The weapon that crushed his head hovered in the air for a moment... then dropped with a thud, landing perfectly upright, handle pointed skyward.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Valphir said as he walked over and retrieved it.

He’d projected a bit of killing intent at Enkrid—just enough to trick Gelt.

That’s why Enkrid had diverted part of his focus.

And Valphir used that. The moment Gelt flinched and tried to escape, he finished it in one move.

It was the easy way.

And Enkrid had sensed it and played along.

The more he watched him, the more Valphir liked him.

“Come to the Empire.”

He said it sincerely.

***

“No.”

Enkrid didn’t even need to think about it.

“You said you wanted to erase the Demon Realm, didn’t you?”

Valphir asked. Enkrid nodded.

“Whether that’s possible or not—if that’s what you want, the Empire is where you need to be.”

A definitive statement. Enkrid didn’t answer—just looked at him, silently disagreeing.

“Yeah. Figured you wouldn’t listen. You’ve got the most stubborn streak I’ve ever seen.”

He’d heard that before.

Back when he was weak, and again once he became strong.

All that time had now become his Will.

“Stubbornness. Vows. Belief. Will.”

He now understood the source of his Will.

“Will is born from will.”

What Esther said about its origin being similar to mana... made sense. It was probably a variation.

He’d have to write that down someday.

“I killed Gelt, so I’ll be going now. Enkrid of the Border Guard.”

“It was good to meet you. Valphir of the Empire.”

“Until next time.”

“As enemies?”

“Better as allies. Don’t make the Empire your enemy. Nothing good will come of it.”

Was that a threat? A warning? A piece of advice?

“Let me worry about that.”

“Cocky bastard.”

Valphir searched Gelt’s body, took some identifying tokens, and left. Their journey together ended.

And Enkrid... would return as well.

The road had ended.

And now he was alone.

But then again—even with Valphir, it had felt like being alone.