“Are you saying you want to fall out of the sky, crack your skull, and die?”
Rem said it.
“Ho ho, brother, if you wish to behold the War God, there’s no need to take the hard road. There are plenty of easy ones.”
Audin picked up the line.
“Mm, even for you, that’s...”
Even Crang’s pupils trembled.
“He’s someone who’ll come down eventually, so why bother?”
Ragna spoke with a yawn. He was interested in what Enkrid did, but he did not interfere much. He had always been that sort.
“If he were the sort to listen when told to stop, I wouldn’t have fallen for him.”
Lua Gharne said it. She puffed her cheeks with a little kuruk—a Frokk’s cheer. Whatever anyone said, Enkrid thought of her words as cheering.
“Are we riding together?”
Shinar wanted to ride double on Enkrid’s stunt.
“You’re serious. Dead serious. Your Will is exactly as it is.”
Temares could only marvel again.
In the histories, it’s conjectured that Dragonkin rarely showed emotion, a cold race with chill in their blood—but seeing one in person, it wasn’t like that at all.
He constantly did tactless things like reading others’ insides, seemed quite interested in humans, and often showed his admiration. Of course, all of that was limited to the human named Enkrid.
“That one smells nice.”
Dunbakel had no interest in whatever Enkrid said. She approached Odd-Eye and sniffed. Odd-Eye stood without a care.
Was Enkrid the only one who counted Odd-Eye as a comrade? No. They too saw Odd-Eye as a member of the Order of Knights. And because of that, Odd-Eye would think of them as comrades as well.
“Cool wings, you brat.”
Which was why Odd-Eye answered Dunbakel now with a Neigh—.
“May the Lord watch over you.”
Teresa left a prayer.
“You say the kind of thing that would get you called crazy, and you say it like it’s nothing.”
Pell muttered it and let it pass.
“Rem got dragged off by some bird before and came back alive, so it’ll be fine, right?”
Rophod showed faith.
“Boss. If you’re thinking it’s fine because you’re looking at me, that’s a bit different. I came down by calling the Eagle’s Soul. You don’t know how to do that.”
He’d never learned any shamanism, so that was true. Rem said that much and met Enkrid’s eyes.
“Tsk, those eyes aren’t the kind that listen when told.”
That was true as well.
Enkrid wasn’t disappointed that they couldn’t recognize his cleverness. More than that—you could call him amused.
“Unless you try it, you can’t know what you’ll pull off.”
Enkrid spoke a maxim. At those words, they all stared blankly at him. There was no blame or criticism in those gazes.
Whatever they said, what they showed was faith. What they revealed, quietly, was trust.
Naturally, Enkrid had done the math, and because the angle was set, he said he would do it. But to someone, what he said would sound like crap.
Thanks to today’s repetitions, it now felt like long ago, the day when many had shaken their heads at him for showing recklessness.
Having come through all those days, Enkrid smiled.
“If I die, hold the funeral grandly.”
A fairy tagged along to the line that crossed the line.
“If you die, I’ll die with you, so we must go together in a joint funeral.”
The Dragonkin added, eyes shining.
“I mean it as well.”
Between them, the Ferryman’s apparition spoke.
“He’s just showing off because he knows if he dies, he repeats.”
Was that a bit of the worry in his heart slipping out? Or was the Ferryman struggling, trying to assert his own Will?
Whatever it was, the Ferryman’s words were wrong. If he had lived with Regression in mind, he could not have dreamed of tomorrow. He could not have moved forward even a step. He would have stayed in whichever “today” the Ferryman wanted. Therefore, he did not listen to the apparition’s words even with the back of his ear.
“Well, if you want to do it, you should.”
Ragna’s words held boredom. Leaning on a convenient wall, he idly toyed with Sunrise’s grip.
His face aside, he seemed to feel a thirst born of a desire for struggle.
They had stuck together so much that now you could glimpse their inner weather from more than expressions—from posture as well.
“If he won’t listen when we try to stop him, we should at least cheer him on. If you die, I’ll go up there to those floating in the sky and pop each one’s head, one by one.”
Rem added it with a giggle.
“What’s your name?”
Simlak asked.
Even with the whoom, whoom of gryphon wingbeats spreading out, a knight could well hear the opponent’s words. Knowing that, he threw the line.
Enkrid had been exchanging various words to match rhythm with Odd-Eye. Even so, he did hear, and he lifted his head.
“Enkrid of the Border Guard.”
Simlak knew that name. In truth, among those on the continent who fancied themselves decent with a sword, it would be strange not to know it.
“The Madman?”
The one who had piled up fame in a short span, as much as Cypress, the one known by the epithet “Madman.”
“So you’re the guy who, fairy or whatever, is busy seducing any woman you see? The demonic rake, right? They say you can’t tell front from back when you see a woman?”
Rumors get distorted.
Especially since southern Rihinstetten and central Naurillia are enemies who constantly wage small-scale battles and keep each other in check. Not a truce, but active fighting—would the renown of the opponent sound good?
It was enough for malice to paint over the facts. Only, having gone through several similar incidents, Enkrid made a mistaken assumption.
“Is that a rumor the fairy spread? It can’t be, but it’s not a rumor from the magicians’ side, is it?”
The Golden Witch and the Black Flower.
Even within the Border Guard, jealousy toward Enkrid—who had won the two beauties—was rampant.
Some thoughtless nobles, seeing Esther and Shinar going in and out of the city, fell for them and spread wild tales about Enkrid.
Meanwhile, he’d often seen Shinar and Esther enjoy that and twist the rumors further, and he knew Jaxon secretly helped for fun.
“What are you babbling? Is that thing a female too?”
Simlak spit out what flashed through his head and felt satisfied with his provocation. With this, the enemy’s psyche would roil. Isn’t it that kind of slur—that he lusts after beasts if they’re female. A sharp taunt: are you an idiot who feels desire even for beasts and gets dragged by lust?
Now—show me trembling pupils.
With expectation, Simlak stared straight into Enkrid’s eyes. His specialty was sensing the opponent’s wavering momentum.
‘No wavering?’
Not even the slightest quiver, let alone upheaval. The one named Enkrid patted Odd-Eye’s head and opened his mouth.
“Whoa, no. I know you’re a man. If you react to every word coming from over there, you’re second-rate. Soothe your heart. Use that feeling when you fight.”
Simlak narrowed his eyes. He let it pass calmly? That composure isn’t bad.
It was a trick of pretending to converse with a horse while soothing his own insides.
It sounds silly, but when knights fight, it’s rare that they keep their mouths shut and only swing their blades. Personal attacks to secure even a slight edge are tactics within the bounds of common sense. He opened his mouth again.
“You’re conversing with a horse? Trying to imitate the legendary Dragonkin?”
It was a most apt provocation again. If he asked, “What’s a Dragonkin?” he’d brand him an ignorant fool; if he knew, he’d scold him as a poser full of clumsy bluff.
The plan was perfect. As a rule, everyone makes a plausible plan. Until they get smacked.
Enkrid opened his mouth.
“I don’t particularly want to copy a Dragonkin.”
He was sincere. There weren’t many who would want to live like Temares.
He couldn’t get along with people and often got cursed for it. Of course, Temares the Dragonkin was always unruffled even when cursed. It was rare for emotion to fill those eyes cleaved vertically.
Only when he marveled did light come to his eyes; normally, they were little different from the eyes of a frozen fish.
No liveliness and a faint resolve. You could call him the existence on Enkrid’s opposite side.
“As expected, not my style.”
Enkrid kept denying and stared closely at the opponent. It was a first meeting. When you don’t know each other, provocation isn’t easy. In such times, going simple is right. You have to speak from what you can see.
The opponent wore a helm. A helm with wings sticking up beside the ears. It covered the head, but the ear sections were open. It looked like a device to mitigate the dulling of senses that comes from wearing a helm.
Any knight would have experienced dulled senses when a helm covered the ears, so it seemed designed with that in mind.
Was it a knight’s exclusive piece? From the finish and shape, it didn’t look mass-produced. Well, a knight usually had custom gear.
“Do you wear that on your head out of a desire to be a fairy?”
The wings sticking up on the helm recalled pointed ears. It was a light provocation. If it didn’t land, he would let it go, but it was a topic worth poking.
“...What?”
Watching the reaction, Enkrid continued.
“With that face, it’s impossible. I go to the Fairy City often, so I know—absolutely impossible. Not happening. Give up on being a fairy. Aim for Frokk instead. That much you can do.”
Rem and the entire Mad Order of Knights all say Enkrid’s manner of speech oddly scratches at people’s insides.
The reason? His manner is so calm and his voice’s tone so weighty that if you listen without thinking, it sounds as if it’s the truth.
Even knowing it’s a provocation and knowing it’s nonsense, it makes a neat little crack across your calm. That was the true nature of Enkrid’s provocations.
“This helm is the pride of the Amethyst Order.”
Simlak said it. He tried to seem composed, but his eyebrows quivered ever so slightly.
High above, at a distance you’d barely reach by stretching out two long lances, he could still see. Also, didn’t he have the habit of unconsciously sensing a fairy’s slightest changes of expression?
Compared to Shinar, reading the expression changes of the opponent seated on a gryphon was far, far easier.
“Right, you’re desperate to become a fairy, so you’re wearing it.”
“When did I ever say that?”
“Becoming a fairy is hard. Even if you beg like that, it’s impossible. With that face, it’s impossible.”
“I have never wanted to become a fairy.”
“If you want to fix your face, I can introduce you to a skillful witch, but no matter how much magic seeks mystery, hmm.”
Simlak’s looks were not outstanding. But neither were they the kind that made you frown at first glance.
If he groomed himself moderately, he was passable. In one view he was ordinary, in another he was clumsy. If you pressed the point, within the Order he was on the decent side.
“I have never coveted a fairy’s looks.”
Simlak said it again. He’d never done that. It was true. But it’s natural instinct for humans to pursue beauty. When one sees a fairy, one feels it’s beautiful. Simlak was no exception to that category.
He found the opponent hard to grasp. Suddenly spouting such drivel? Riding in on a winged horse?
“Fail.”
Next came words with no beginning or end. He was just staring closely at Simlak’s face while saying it.
The opponent’s hair shone even with all of it swept back by the wind. A born face. He disliked the eyes, nose, and mouth of the guy who was judging his looks.
Why was he angry? Was there any need to parse it?
“I’ll hack you to pieces.”
There was no subject, but the meaning carried.
“My face? No. That won’t do.”
Enkrid used a theatrical tone, flipping the other’s insides one more time. A blue vein bulged in the center of Simlak’s forehead.
“Hey, your vein’s up.”
Enkrid ran his mouth once more there. If Rem saw it, he’d marvel that yes, that bastard really was the Madman captain.
Saying that, the one who actually moved first was Odd-Eye.
Odd-Eye beat its wings, dipped its head forward, and closed with the gryphon. Enkrid tightened his thighs, fixed his posture, and swung Dawn. It was a cut from below to above. If things went wrong, he meant to split the gryphon’s beak vertically.
Separate from the horse, within accelerated thought he read the enemy’s numbers. The enemy did the same.
Even as anger surged, Simlak opened cold, chill eyes. He steadied his heart in an instant. He should indeed be called a formidable opponent.
At the point where the two insights crossed—Clang!—iron met iron with a thunderous crash. What Simlak thrust out was a long, slender spear.
From the point where blade and spearhead met, a shock wave rose. A fierce wind kicked up, scattering Enkrid’s hair as if tearing it loose, and the dark-green cloak shortened and shed the wind.
Flutter!
“Wearing a cloak on top of that—too at ease, are you?”
“Cloaks suit my face.”
Whatever you say, he ends it with his face. Simlak evened his breath. If he fought {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} with words, he’d lose. If he fell for provocations, he’d start by surrendering the edge. So he shut his mouth.
Instead, Simlak took the spear in one hand and a sword in the other.
He used multiple weapons—sword, spear, axe, and more. Simlak’s epithet was the Knight of Variability.
He handled any weapon above a certain level, and in any environment he displayed solid combat ability. In adaptability alone, he surpassed anyone. Therefore, he was called “Variability”—a knight who fit himself to the form or the conditions.
That was why he rode atop a gryphon. Even if the enemy targeted him in the sky, in this environment there would be no one who fought better than he who had already finished adapting.
If there were more time, who knows, but if today was the opponent’s first fight in the sky, Simlak held the advantage.
He knew it, the captain emphasized that part, and the three down there knew it as well.
In conclusion, Simlak’s belief was correct. If the opponent hadn’t been one hell of a madman, that is.
The opponent on the winged horse swung his sword exactly twice, then opened the distance.
Simlak grasped the opponent’s edge. He recognized the difference in mounts.
‘More freedom of movement than a gryphon.’
To be exact, it was faster. The winged horse flapped less and circled around and around.
The gryphon was different. It was more skilled at moving in all directions, but in exchange it had no knack for sudden acceleration to build speed.
On the other hand, the ceaselessly moving wings themselves served as an element that hampered the enemy’s approach.
‘A horse is vulnerable to my spearhead, but a gryphon’s wings become armor that blocks a sword.’
Along with a knight’s insight, he possessed excellent adaptability. As Simlak was grasping each side’s strengths and weaknesses, Enkrid suddenly flew up over the bastard’s head.
“What are you—? You crazy bastard?”
Simlak’s mouth opened of itself.
It was the stunt that, when hearing Enkrid’s idea, everyone had called insane. Odd-Eye flew over the gryphon’s head, and Enkrid jumped. Which is to say, he dropped as if to fall straight onto the top of Simlak’s head.
Simlak had cause to see it and be shocked. There was no time to order evasive maneuvers to the gryphon. In the first place, this thing wasn’t the kind of monster that obeyed well. It was not like a warhorse that served like hands and feet.
Simlak finished an instantaneous judgment and thrust his spear upward.
What he overlooked was this: the power loaded on a spearhead thrust from a seated position with lower-body strength excluded is markedly different from the weight loaded on a sword that receives, whole, the force of a body dropping from overhead plus the throwing force of a horse.

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