Chapter 398 - Strikes and Thrusts
The adjutant wielding the spear finally faltered and retreated. The opponent didn't give chase, as if signaling they would only fight those who dared to come at them.
Silently, the opponent flicked the blood from their sword and returned to their original position.
The horse that had brought them there neighed once, standing nearby. It was a steed of remarkable size and presence, its gaze anything but ordinary.
The adjutant, taking it all in, retreated hesitantly to where he had started.
Watching the retreat, Rievart raised his sword, standing beside his horse.
"You should have fought to the death instead."
Crack!
The adjutant's skull split in two as Rievart swung his sword.
A gush of blood trailed the blade as it was pulled free.
"Foolish Zalban."
A cold, clear voice mocked the fallen man.
It was Banat, a fairy warrior. Her short-cropped golden hair gave her a masculine air, while her tone betrayed no trace of emotion, colder than mere indifference. It was her signature—cutting remarks delivered with an icy lack of sentiment.
"He was the weakest among us. I'll handle it."
Banat stepped forward, but Rievart shook his head.
"I'll go."
Sending someone as weak as that to bolster morale? If that's their plan, then I'll be the one to crush it.
Rievart, second only to Count Molsan in rank, had no need for anyone's approval.
Banat nodded with her usual unreadable expression. It was impossible to gauge her thoughts from her face.
Maltan, as always, remained silent, while Benukt gave a disinterested shrug.
"Let him have his fight," Benukt said.
Benukt carried the blood of giants and didn't bother suppressing his bloodthirsty urges.
"When you kill that man, we'll charge all at once."
That's how it would go. Rievart nudged his steed into a trot, heading for the spot where two corpses now lay.
Glancing briefly at Zalban's body, he dismounted and adjusted his gear.
He secured his sword belt, strapped on a short sword, and carried a machete with a thick, single-edged blade at his back—a magical weapon, no less. His left arm bore a kite shield, plain and unadorned.
This shield, fixed to his gauntlet rather than gripped, was smaller but heavier than most. Only someone with considerable strength would opt to wield it.
Rievart's every movement caused a clattering of metal; his plate armor over a gambeson was the source.
Once fully prepared, he advanced.
The opponent simply watched him approach, unmoving.
Rievart found the opponent's calm gaze irritating.
"Your name?" he asked.
"Enkrid," came the reply.
"Rievart," he introduced himself.
It was Enkrid's first time hearing the name. Though the Five Fiends of the Count were infamous within their territory, they rarely ventured outside, leaving them unknown to most.
Enkrid, on the other hand, was far more widely recognized.
"Looks like I've already won."
Rievart frowned. "We haven't even started."
"I meant my name is more well-known."
What the hell is with this guy?
Of course, Enkrid wasn't truly mad. It was a calculated provocation, designed to shake his opponent's psyche.
Everything about Rievart—his measured walk, meticulous preparation, even initiating conversation—pointed to a formidable foe.
"Madmen Unit, indeed," Rievart muttered.
"Jealous?" Enkrid replied.
Rievart was momentarily at a loss for words.
Jealous?
Who wouldn't crave fame and recognition, even if they weren't driven by ambition?
And Rievart was an ambitious man, one who immediately recognized he'd been baited.
"You bastard."
"I'm tough to chew through."
Is that his way of saying he's hard to kill?
Rievart, known for his wit, understood the jab instantly, which only fueled his irritation.
"Fine. I'll kill you."
Rievart advanced with a diagonal slash. Enkrid observed that while the strike wasn't particularly fast or complex, it left openings. Exploiting one, he made his move.
With a flash of Will, he thrust out a Spark.
The fiery point of light shot toward Rievart's sword arm, but Rievart intercepted it, raising his shield.
Clang!
The Spark failed to penetrate. The shield's material and the skill of its bearer were anything but ordinary.
As Enkrid pulled back the Spark, Rievart countered with a straightforward thrust.
It wasn't a sudden acceleration or a technique to disrupt the opponent's rhythm—it was calm and precise.
Enkrid bent backward, narrowly avoiding the blade as it passed over his neck.
Anticipating a downward slash next, Enkrid readied his Silver, but Rievart withdrew his sword and reset his stance behind his shield.
Even if charging in would have given him an advantage, Rievart refrained.
Why?
Rising from his evasive posture, Enkrid studied the visor of Rievart's helmet, catching a glimpse of his eyes.
'Is he testing me?'
No. Rievart was serious.
The path of a knight is never uniform. Each one forges their own way, and Rievart's was unyieldingly cautious.
Encased in heavy plate and armed with a shield, he only attacked when the opportunity was perfect. He avoided risk altogether.
Even if there were a stone bridge over solid ground, Rievart would circle around rather than cross it.
His mastery lay in blending defense and calculated offense, a style reinforced by sharp wits and a silver tongue.
After his initial taunt, Enkrid had grown silent.
Rievart's defenses were formidable—Spark couldn't pierce them, Silver couldn't cut through, and the Whistle Dagger he'd thrown was deflected by Rievart's helm.
It wasn't just the armor. It was how Rievart wielded it, turning his defenses into a seamless extension of himself.
That was something remarkable.
Rievart kept talking, persistent as ever.
"Your dream is to become a knight, isn't it?"
Enkrid retrieved Spark and gripped Silver with both hands.
This was The Pressing Sword, a technique designed to suppress with sheer force. As he swung down with pressure, Rievart raised his shield to meet the blow.
Thunk!
It wasn't the sound of an overwhelming clash but a dull, muted impact.
Silver's blade struck Rievart's shield. Enkrid pressed with strength, applying The Pressing Sword to drive his opponent down. Rievart adjusted the angle of his shield, deflecting the blow to the side.
He blocked and retreated, resisting the crushing pressure. His stance and technique were as solid as his armor.
"Are you satisfied with the path you've walked so far?"
Rievart's words cut through the moment, but Enkrid moved without response, preparing his next attack.
If the pressing failed, then came The Capturing Sword, a technique meant for tactical duels. However, no matter how intricate his moves, Rievart's armor and shield endured.
A faint glow emanated from both, clearly enchanted magical equipment.
"Would cutting it apart work?"
If seizing control didn't shift the tide, then raw power would. What if he infused his strike with the intent to cut through anything?
Though Enkrid couldn't fully channel such will, he could mimic its essence with the raw strength of his Heart of the Beast.
Acting on instinct, Enkrid executed a strike layered with Ragna's techniques.
Combining it with the rotation of a greatsword style, he planted his feet firmly on the ground, twisted his torso, and poured his strength into the swing.
But just as the attack was about to unleash, Rievart charged with surprising speed, despite his heavy armor, attempting a shoulder tackle.
If Enkrid continued his swing, he'd barely graze Rievart's arm near the recasso.
He stepped back, his stance briefly unsettled, but Rievart didn't pursue. Instead, he reset his posture, gripping his shield firmly.
His knees bent, lowering his center of gravity, and his piercing gaze never left his opponent. His sword remained poised to thrust or slash at any moment.
A formidable foe.
"What will you do if the path you've chosen turns out to be wrong?"
Rievart's voice broke through the tension again.
Enkrid analyzed him carefully.
His skill was comparable to Enkrid's, but he focused entirely on defense. The current situation spoke volumes.
Enkrid understood the strategy.
"The road to knighthood is treacherous," Rievart continued. "It's a path of thorns, a leap off a cliff with brambles in your arms. A single misstep, and you'll never reach your ideal. Every jump must be perfect."
Even as he spoke, his breathing remained steady.
Rievart was playing the long game, nullifying attacks with his armor and shield while maintaining composure. His words sought to destabilize his opponent mentally.
A tactic befitting someone nicknamed "The Weapon."
Yet, it was undeniably threatening.
Rievart's shield and armor seemed like an unyielding steel wall.
That was his intent.
And his ceaseless words aimed to unnerve, probing for weaknesses to exploit. His attacks came with both words and sword.
"Each wrong step diminishes your talent and saps your strength. Talent alone cannot make a knight. So, how far do you think your so-called talent and luck will take you?"
He talked. A lot.
This verbosity came from a practiced hand at verbal dueling. He wielded his tongue like a weapon.
"A knight? That's a fading dream. Like a painted grape—visible but untouchable. Wishing upon a star doesn't make it yours. Fairy tales don't come true in reality."
Rievart's words struck like swords and spears.
Enkrid, instead of responding, repeated his earlier attack.
With Spark, he thrust forward, accelerating in an instant. But the shield still held.
He tried The Pressing Sword, but Rievart endured like a mountain.
The Capturing Sword also failed. Rievart disrupted its flow with his shield, refusing to engage in the tactical duel Enkrid sought. As he blocked, he continued to speak.
"Walk barefoot on a path of thorns, and you'll lose your feet. Why take such a road when you could choose another? Why?"
Rievart's persistence knew no bounds, speaking even when met with silence.
Enkrid finally replied.
"You're annoyingly loud."
His opponent grinned. "Am I loud, or do my words sting? If you hear the truth, then you've already acknowledged it deep down."
"You're like a wannabe sage," Enkrid retorted, stepping back and resetting his stance.
He placed his left foot forward, the right foot back, raising Silver's tip skyward. A fundamental posture.
"What will you do if your chosen path is wrong? I've said it before—if you lose your talent, you'll lose your way."
The feigned concern was almost convincing.
"I'll just try again," Enkrid said simply.
Rievart blinked.
Wasn't the impossibility of retrying the entire point?
The exchange repeated a few more times—thorns, lost talent, and the futility of chasing knighthood.
"I'll just try again."
A battle between offense and defense had extended beyond swords to their words.
With the blade, Enkrid attacked while Rievart defended.
In speech, Rievart attacked while Enkrid remained unshaken, calmly repeating his resolute answers.
"I'll just keep trying."
"And try again."
"Getting lost is part of the journey."
"Shortcuts aren't necessary."
"Starting over is always an option."
There was something harder than Rievart's shield or armor—Enkrid's unyielding will.
This wasn't about repeating today's fight.
Even when there was nothing, Enkrid moved forward—through each day, each battle.
Had he always been sure that his path was right?
No.
Yet he swung his sword until his palms bled, walking forward nonetheless.
Every morning felt like a new start, with lingering traces of past dreams.
If he'd had three more such mornings, he might have surpassed even junior knights.
Through countless repetitions, he reached this new stage.
And so, as Enkrid swung Silver from its raised position, mixing The Capturing Sword with The Pressing Sword, his attacks gained finesse.
Using his left hand for quick thrusts, he split his focus to coordinate simultaneous movements.
The strike was powerful enough to burden his right arm's muscles.
Clang!
Before the echo faded, Spark darted forward.
Thud!
Though Spark struck Rievart's shoulder guard, it failed to pierce. Silver, too, was deflected by the shield.
But that was fine.
Enkrid repeated the process.
A long-game strategy implied confidence in endurance. Enkrid was no different.
He invited his opponent into the breathless realm, a World Without Breath, and continued.
Strike, thrust, strike, thrust.
Rievart blocked, endured, blocked, endured.
The battle of attrition became a test of will.
Silence fell.
In the midst of the battlefield, only the clang of steel and the muted thuds of impact remained.
Even the horns and drums had stopped, replaced by the sound of clashing blades.
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