His body froze only for a moment. But the awkwardness lingered. In a real, urgent battle, such an opening would have meant his neck being severed.
As Enkrid moved again, the one before him—the figure with snow-white skin and slit pupils—opened his mouth once more.
"Your place. You cannot… remove. Foot."
The words were still broken and strange, but a restraining force accompanied them.
'Refuse.'
Enkrid repeated it inwardly and dismissed the man's words. His Will surged, hardening into a wall. A wall built with the resolve to block anything.
He pressed off the ground with his sole, sword leveled forward. In that split second, accelerated thought measured the situation.
'When the one before me opens his mouth, a coercive force acts on my body.'
'It's similar to pressure, but different.'
'Easiest way to describe it—it's like water.'
A stone may roll and strike a wall but cannot pass through it. Water seeps between cracks, soaking the ground beneath.
'Can something like that be possible with just a word?'
No time for such questions.
Enkrid entered battle completely focused. Concentration converged to a single point.
Just before the man's mouth opened again, Enkrid's left hand swept across his chest—rather than Dawn Tempering in his right.
The ram-horn dagger, honed thinner than before by Aitri's craftsmanship, whistled through the air.
There was no sound—no, the sound lagged behind. The weapon's form would pierce his skull faster than any noise could catch up.
But the opponent suddenly shifted aside. The motion flowed like water, yet it was a speed far beyond ordinary eyesight—an evasion only possible for something inhuman.
Bwoo!
The belated sound followed after.
The throwing dagger, that weapon Jaxon loathed, split the air and stole away the chance for the man's mouth to open.
In that interval, Enkrid closed the distance. His Will burst, doubling his speed with Point Explosion. His thrust aimed at the man's flank—specifically, the place where his lungs should be.
As though sinking into a bog, pressure pressed down on his shoulders. Pushing through it, he entered a soundless world.
A realm of silence. His ears rang, his skull felt as if a giant pressed down with both hands.
The man's yellow eyes turned on Enkrid's face. He too had stepped into the silent realm.
As though to say—What's so difficult about this?
Boom!
An explosive leap and charge ripped the air. Along with it came the delayed noise of the horn dagger and the crash of clashing blades.
The strange-eyed man's blade turned Enkrid's thrust aside, catching it flat. Enkrid twisted, tried to drive the point back in—but failed.
The blade bent like a serpent, intercepting him again, draining the force of his strike into empty air.
Ting, shiiing.
Metallic notes rang as the blades scraped.
"I haven't used… properly, in long time."
The speech was still broken. And then his mouth opened again—this time too fast to block. It was just a single word.
"Stop."
The mere utterance carried something that restrained his entire body. It was as though a voice inside his head commanded him not to move, as if unseen hands clamped down on his limbs.
If there were gods, it was as though one had descended and urged him to obey.
Enkrid felt the intangible pressure binding his body. And he pushed forward the one constant that had always defied every pressure, restraint, and command. His Will.
Whether gods of fate existed or not, that was how he had lived. With meager talent, he had clawed his way upward.
The truths of the world, fate, gods—everything had urged him to give up. And yet he had resisted, endured, and built his today upon those days.
"Refuse."
At that answer, the coercion thinned and dissipated. The man was surprised, though he showed no fluster, only spoke again.
"Stop."
Enkrid replied the same.
"Refuse."
Even if a celestial god personally descended to test mankind's will, Enkrid's refusal would shock them.
Therefore, whatever power these words held, Enkrid could reject them.
His Will surged. A lifetime of belief, conviction, and stubborn faith formed a shield that repelled the man's magic.
What is knighthood?
It is code, it is morality. And among them, the strongest force is—
'To keep what one has spoken.'
Not every knight lived so, but Enkrid did. Stubbornly, even foolishly.
He never sought others' understanding, but walked his own path. He had lived so even before he became a knight.
Each time the man spoke, Enkrid's Will was consumed in chunks. It didn't matter. Enkrid's Will was Uske, an unending spring, an inexhaustible well.
"Stop."
"Refuse."
"Stop."
"Refuse."
"Stop."
"Refuse."
Thus their contest became an exchange of words.
Then, Rem—who had left his subordinates behind to find Enkrid—came upon the two and froze.
He saw Enkrid's back, and the strange figure who had appeared. More precisely, he saw the two crossing blades, exchanging words, and couldn't help but ask:
"Uh, what the hell are you doing?"
From the side, it would indeed look like a comedy.
Even with Rem's arrival, the figure blocking Enkrid paid no attention. He only asked:
"You… overcome word-command?"
This time he spoke clearly. Perhaps short phrases worked better.
Word-command—uttering words imbued with power. If Will's coercion pressed through presence and force, word-command was different.
It struck at the will itself through resonance. Not simply an expression of intent, but a structure.
And what he had just used was of two kinds.
The first, Overwriting Will—overlaying his intent atop another's.
The second, Overwhelm—crushing the other's will beneath his own.
That was the intent. Yet the man before him had withstood both. Was that common?
No. Not once in his life had it happened.
"Salamanders were human-like all along? Though those eyes… yeah, they're just like a lizard's."
Rem's observation was sharp. From the man's eyes, stance, and bearing, he doubted his nature. Perched atop a tree branch, he crouched down.
To an outsider it might look idle, but Enkrid knew Rem was prepared to leap in at any instant.
Strength was already gathered in his soles pressing into the branch. And besides that, Rem had a knack for handling "projectiles." Enkrid shifted his left foot, showing his back to him as he answered.
"No idea."
Rem frowned, displeased by the way Enkrid's back blocked his view.
This positioning was a declaration of will. For any human with possessiveness, claiming what one desired as one's own was only natural.
Enkrid did the same.
The man before him wielded strange techniques. But what provoked Enkrid even more was—
'I can't gauge his ability.'
That alone made his blood stir.
It wasn't mere intoxication from the thrill of battle. Was a salamander truly as threatening as Balrog? Why had such a monster suddenly awakened?
These miscellaneous questions aside, Enkrid's duty was clear. He knew his place, his obligation.
Whatever blocked him, he would cut through, to protect those behind his back.
And behind him now stood the Border Guard.
Within them was the woman who sold marmalade, and the innkeeper who saved krona to buy books.
The marmalade seller was about to marry.
Venzance's family lived in the city too. His love had finally borne fruit.
He smiled at his child in his arms, smiled at his wife. Many others did the same.
And—
'Vanessa's Library.'
That was the name of the public library being built in Lockfried.
"Since I was young, I always wanted to build something like this."
Enkrid had once heard Vanessa say, and had asked her in return:
"Even if it drains every krona you've saved?"
Vanessa, owner of the largest inn at the crossroads—now the pride of the Border Guard.
Her pumpkin soup had made her inn famous.
Enkrid knew Allen, the innkeeper across from her, and thus had long been acquainted with Vanessa as well.
In fact, she had known him first.
Dark-skinned, liver-spotted hands, plump frame, yet with a warm smile—
She was a strong mother who had raised four children alone after losing her husband young.
Only one of them was her blood, yet all four had grown diligent and upright. Proof enough that her resolve rivaled any bearer of Will.
There's a saying—that raising children is as hard as destroying a colony.
Even if he had no such experience himself, anyone knew to respect a woman who had fulfilled the role of mother.
Vanessa was one such old bond. And Enkrid had always found it easy to form bonds with such people from his youth.
She had once recalled Enkrid's past after he became a knight.
"Building a library won't empty my pockets, soldier."
The first pumpkin soup he ate in that city had been unforgettable.
"If you didn't join the army to die, then lift your face a little."
That was on the first day he entered the city. She had told him such words.
Had his expression been that grim? His life had been one of struggle without hope, knowing no surrender.
Swinging his sword till his palms tore, grinding his teeth until his gums bled—yet his strikes never improved.
Those were the days when it all weighed on his shoulders.
Perhaps it hadn't even shown outwardly. But Mother Vanessa had seen through the young man far younger than her.
Even if he had spent different days, repeating the same today, there were things he couldn't forget.
'Coming to the Border Guard.'
Enduring to enlist, then ending up entrusted with the Mad Platoon—he couldn't forget the path.
Conviction and resolve.
Belief and principle.
Between them slipped expectation and joy.
The thrill of battle was part of him too. As long as he didn't drown in it, it was fine.
It was zeal greater than the demon of struggle, which made the armor of Balrog's combat instinct meaningless.
Dawn Tempering's blade gleamed blue. The engraved weapon responded to the flow of Will.
The opponent also raised his sword. That long rod-like weapon shone pure white. He tilted it, waiting.
Not aimed head-on, its tip pointed at the left side of Enkrid's head. A peculiar stance.
Enkrid knew how to give up, to compromise. Even if he had not done so himself, he had seen others live that way countless times.
Enkrid knew how to retreat.
He had the mind to calculate what would be advantageous without even thinking.
Yet he did not retreat. Call it recklessness if one liked, but the boldness filling his heart demanded it.
And so, facing an opponent whose ability could not be gauged, Enkrid smiled as he always did.
Thus, with that smile, he surged in. Like a wave that would not stop even if the heavens split. Like a storm that never broke, never ceased.