Chapter 358 - 358 - Stop!
Chapter 358 - Stop for a Moment
Catching a flying arrow mid-air could only be described as an extraordinary feat.
Even when anticipated, such an act bordered on miraculous. But here, the arrow had come out of nowhere, striking toward the back of Enkrid's head.
Yet, not only did he sense it, he didn't merely evade; he caught it.
It was the result of a harmony between refined instincts and an unwavering point of focus.
"...Wow."
"What... what was that!"
Two of the trainees gasped, their mouths hanging open.
The other three were too stunned to speak.
For them, just witnessing such a feat was overwhelming. One was amazed by Enkrid's impossible catch, while the other trembled at the idea of an unexpected arrow being shot at all.
Enkrid's gaze shifted to the outer wall.
There stood a figure on the narrow ledge of the wall, not bothering to conceal his presence. Only his face was masked.
Despite the precarious footing, the man seemed at ease, perfectly balanced—a testament to his agility and coordination.
His attire was simple: a loose-fitting shirt and cropped trousers ending near the ankles. The outfit was utilitarian, more suited for day than for stealth. Even so, he wore a mask.
Enkrid tilted his head slightly, puzzled. Despite attacking first, the figure didn't follow up. It seemed as though he was waiting for something.
"Well..."
The masked man began to speak, but Enkrid acted first.
With a snap, the arrow in his hand flew back toward the attacker like a dart.
The move was from the Valah mercenary style, aptly named 'Strike While They Speak.'
The arrow hissed through the air. The figure leapt sideways, narrowly avoiding it, and shifted horizontally along the ledge with nimble grace.
'Light-footed.'
Even as he noted this, Enkrid's hand moved again, throwing a second weapon—a whistling dagger.
The unique knife screamed through the air with a sharp, high-pitched sound, slicing through space with deadly precision.
Forced to react, the figure toppled backward over the wall to evade the incoming blade.
Enkrid's right foot slammed into the ground. His body coiled like a spring, absorbing energy into his crouch before launching upward.
The series of motions—ground contact, tension, and release—happened in a single fluid burst.
Boom!
The impact left a small crater in the training yard floor as Enkrid propelled himself forward with terrifying speed.
To the trainees watching, his movements blurred, leaving only faint afterimages in their wide eyes.
"That lunatic!"
A voice rang out from the other side of the wall, but Enkrid ignored it.
He reached the top of the wall in a single leap, grabbing the ledge with just the tips of his fingers and pulling himself up effortlessly.
Wearing light armor and carrying three swords, Enkrid's ascent seemed impossibly smooth.
To the trainees below, it was nothing short of sorcery—a defiance of natural laws.
"Magic?" one of them muttered, still in disbelief.
By the time they processed what they saw, Enkrid had already hoisted himself onto the wall.
On the other side, two men with short swords were waiting, their blades drawn.
As soon as Enkrid's hands appeared over the edge, they lunged, aiming for his wrists.
But Enkrid released his grip with one hand, letting himself hang briefly.
Whoosh!
The swords cut through empty air, missing their mark entirely.
Enkrid seized the moment. Gripping the ledge firmly with his remaining hand, he pulled his entire body upward in a powerful burst.
Thump!
His body arced high into the air, silhouetted against the sunlight.
From below, the two assailants were momentarily disoriented, their pupils wavering at the sudden shift in perspective. To them, Enkrid appeared as a dark, ominous shadow descending from the sky.
"Wait!" one of them shouted.
But it didn't matter.
Why should he spare those who had attacked him first?
In midair, Enkrid twisted his body, drawing the gladius from his right side and a dagger, Spark, with his left.
From the attackers' perspective, the light reflected in Enkrid's eyes seemed to blaze, casting a ghostly glow in the shadow of his figure.
The gladius swept right; the dagger thrust left.
Clang! Thud!
The first attacker barely managed to block the gladius, but the second wasn't as fortunate.
The dagger pierced his left shoulder cleanly.
He was lucky it wasn't worse.
Enkrid had refined the technique during his recent teachings, melding his observations into his strikes.
Still, it wasn't enough.
His right hand channeled Unyielding Will into the descending strike, while his left sought precision with the dagger—a balance between overwhelming force and surgical accuracy.
Every skirmish, every opponent, was a lesson. And with each step forward, the path ahead grew clearer.
When Enkrid landed with a heavy thud, one knee to the ground, he looked up, a smile creeping onto his face.
Was there a limit to learning?
Every moment, everything encountered could teach something new.
Krang had taught him the weight of raw presence. Andrew's refined techniques blended swordsmanship with grappling. Even the various methods of his comrades—Ragna's speed and strength, Dunbakel's adaptive blade work, and Teresa's masterful shield handling—offered insights.
There was no end to what could be absorbed.
For that alone, he felt his journey to the capital and Crang's escort had already paid off.
Such was Enkrid's nature.
But from the perspective of his foes?
To see a man leap over a wall, strike one target, stab another, and then land grinning amidst the chaos—it was nothing short of madness.
"That bastard's insane!"
One of the assailants screamed.
Enkrid, however, was uninterested in their chatter.
Who were these men?
It wasn't merely intuition—he was certain.
'Are they any different from the ones before?'
There wasn't much difference.
And that was enough. He would cut them down all the same.
These were assassins, like the countless others he'd encountered on his way here. Skilled, but ultimately no match.
Enkrid pressed forward, his intensity leaving no room for hesitation.
"Stop!"
The desperate cry came from his opponent, but it was predictably futile.
These people were already marked as enemies.
Whung.
Enkrid closed the distance. His speed made it almost impossible to track his movements—the moment his foot touched the ground, he was already upon them.
Simultaneously, a sharp streak of light arced through the air above their heads.
There were three attackers in total. The only one unharmed was the first who had fired an arrow from the wall.
That same unharmed man shouted, "Stop!" but before the words had even finished echoing, a blade descended toward his head.
To the attackers, it seemed as though the space between them suddenly disappeared, and Enkrid's sword materialized midair.
"Damn it!"
There wasn't even time to curse properly.
The man drew his swords at lightning speed, lifting them to intercept the strike.
In his hands were two curved blades—a signature weapon that identified him as a key figure in an assassination syndicate.
'Block and deflect.'
The moment he made up his mind, his curved swords rose to meet the incoming light.
"I've got it!"
But then, strangely, the moment of contact seemed to stretch endlessly.
It was as though time itself bent, giving him ample time to reflect, though not to question. His focus was sharper than ever, devoted solely to the act of blocking.
'Fast.'
Realization dawned on him.
The angles, the grip, the force—everything about the strike revealed flawless execution.
'So, that's how it's done.'
His body instinctively recalled techniques for swinging a weapon and applying force.
Yet something was wrong.
Why hasn't the impact hit yet?
The streak of light seemed to descend ever so slowly, unwavering and impossibly precise.
Finally, his curved swords clashed with the blade of light.
And that was as far as his thoughts carried him.
Bang!
Crunch! Crack!
Enkrid infused his strike with the Will of Momentum, amplifying its force.
What does speed truly stem from?
"Explosive strength comes from muscle control," Rem had once explained.
"Muscles, brother," Audin had added.
Controlled and well-utilized muscles, from the thighs, core, shoulders, arms, to the grip, contracted explosively. Twisting the waist and ankle added centrifugal force, driving the blade downward.
The result was a strike akin to lightning—a reimagining of Ragna's signature Thunder Strike.
It was an attack only a knight-level opponent could hope to block.
This was the Thunder Fang, not of a thrust.
Predictably, the thunderous blow overpowered the enemy's dual blades.
The initial explosion came from the clash of steel.
The following crunching sounds were the attacker's bones fracturing, his hands and arms shattering under the strain.
Lastly, the crack came as the blunt edge of his own blade struck his collarbone, shattering it.
In a single blow, Enkrid had demolished his opponent.
"Huuh..."
Enkrid exhaled deeply, steam rising visibly from his lips as the heat of his exertion radiated from his body.
The remaining two attackers hesitated, their courage evaporating.
One of them, holding a poison capsule labeled Ten Breaths, froze, unable to act.
Enkrid, standing against the shadowed wall, addressed them coldly.
"Stop? Wait? Do you have something to say?"
The attacker who had been fending off Enkrid's gladius, now nursing two broken fingers, gritted his teeth as he straightened himself.
"We came to warn you."
"Warn me?"
Was this a warning? It felt more like they had come to be beaten senseless.
Enkrid gestured for them to continue.
The man with a punctured shoulder spoke next.
"This isn't a place for you. Turn back. That's all we came to say."
"You're the ones who attacked me first."
"It was a warning level attack," the man muttered.
"Ridiculous. After all this, you'd be lucky if I don't take your heads right here."
Even as he finished speaking, the injured attacker tossed a smoke bomb to the ground.
Pffft!
Thick smoke enveloped the area.
Watching the scene, Enkrid sighed.
Do they really think this would work on me?
Withdrawing the fire from his weapon, he swung his gladius in a wide arc. The blade's flat side whipped up a powerful gust that scattered the smoke like a gale.
Whung!
At a certain level, pure physical strength was no different from magic.
The dissipating smoke revealed... nothing.
The attackers had fled.
They caught me off guard.
Enkrid admitted to himself that he hadn't expected them to retreat.
"What's going on?"
Andrew arrived belatedly, armed and followed by five trainees and Mack. Despite his shift to household duties, Andrew's disciplined appearance suggested he hadn't neglected training.
He surveyed the scene, noting the corpse and remnants of the encounter.
"Who's this?" he asked.
"A fool who attacked and took a fatal blow," Enkrid replied.
The man's arms and ribs were broken, and his clavicle shattered. The blunt edge of his weapon had crushed his heart, sealing his fate.
"In broad daylight? Over the estate walls? Not even under the cover of night?" Andrew muttered, a mix of anger and disbelief in his tone as he examined the body and the lingering smoke.
Meanwhile, Enkrid pieced together the situation.
The attackers were part of an assassination group.
Why strike now?
Jaxen is away. Everyone else is scattered.
This was likely the best timing imaginable.
But what did that imply?
"They're watching," Enkrid concluded.
Beside him, Andrew ground his teeth in frustration.
"Damn them!"
Andrew's pride was clearly wounded, and anger boiled beneath the surface.
Meanwhile, Enkrid casually wiped the blood off his sword before sheathing it. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind elsewhere. The events earlier hadn't been entirely bad. He had gained insights, after all.
For someone like Ragna or Rem, breaking and surpassing barriers multiple times a day was the norm. For Enkrid, however, achieving such breakthroughs required a rare convergence of luck and repetition.
Then a sudden thought struck him.
'Can't I somehow make my own luck?'
To do that, he needed clarity on the current situation.
"Where are the knights or knightly orders?"
It was a pointed question that got straight to the core of the issue.
Andrew's lips twitched slightly before he hesitated to respond.
"What defines a kingdom's strength?" Enkrid pressed.
"Knights," Andrew answered after a pause, almost reluctantly.
If a nation lacked knights or the means to train them, it was only natural for a power like Aspen to exploit the weakness. The matter wasn't about skirmishes. If Naurilia's military might had faltered even slightly, Aspen would have already mobilized its full strength to breach the border.
The only reason they hadn't crossed the Border Guard was because of the knights and their unyielding presence. If Aspen had calculated a loss in an all-out conflict, they would avoid such risks.
Understanding the present and predicting the future—that was what mattered now.
'This is Big Eyes' forte,' Enkrid thought wryly.
But since Krais wasn't here, the responsibility fell to him. When tools are absent, one must improvise.
"Do you know the current state of the kingdom?"
Andrew pondered for a moment, then countered with his own question.
"Do you?"
Enkrid's answer came swiftly.
"No idea."
His blunt honesty was disarming.
Andrew, observing him, felt a flicker of admiration. Perhaps this was why Crang held the Madmen Commander in such high regard. How many people could admit ignorance without hesitation? Straightforward. Resolute. Imposing.
And then there was his skill.
'A monster, really.'
Andrew glanced at the lifeless body sprawled on the ground. The man's faint smile in death was unnerving.
Enkrid's attack had been so decisive that, in his final moments, the assassin likely experienced a strange revelation.
Andrew didn't dwell on it further.
"There are no knights left in the capital right now. Let's continue this inside."
It wasn't a conversation the trainees should overhear.
"Mac," Andrew called as they turned to head indoors.
"Yes, I'll handle the cleanup," Mac replied, his expression grim.
Even without details, Enkrid could feel the weight of the situation.
'This is shaping up to be an uphill fight.'
Anyone with half a brain could see it. From Crang's perspective, it was a continuous risk. Perhaps it would have been wiser to gather strength externally before returning with reinforcements.
"What happened here?"
Rem returned before sunset, his tone as casual as ever.
"No good finds," Dunbakel remarked, accompanying him.
Shortly after, Ragna arrived.
"Why does he keep insisting he knows shortcuts when it's his first time in the capital?" complained the attendant trailing behind Ragna, sweating profusely despite the mild weather.
Sending someone along had proven to be a wise decision.
Finally, Jaxen made his entrance.
"Where do you keep wandering off to?" Rem asked, casting a glance at him.
They were gathered in the lounge on the first floor, a space often used as an informal meeting room.
Ironically, Rem had done his share of wandering earlier but seemed to have forgotten all about it. Typical Rem.
Jaxen ignored the comment entirely. He neither looked at nor acknowledged Rem's words, which was not unusual. However, this time his indifference felt different—he seemed preoccupied, detached.
His gaze eventually landed on Enkrid, who greeted him with a curt, "You're here."
Jaxen nodded in response.
To Enkrid, Jaxen's demeanor suggested he was wrestling with some internal struggle. It was subtle, almost imperceptible—something only intuition could pick up on.
"Something on your mind?" Enkrid asked.
"No."
The response came instantly, which in itself was odd. Normally, Jaxen would deflect or counter with a probing remark.
'Why would there be?'
Or.
'Shouldn't I be asking you that question instead?'
But this time, he dismissed the inquiry altogether.
Why?
Enkrid was curious but knew better than to push. Jaxen wasn't one to easily share his thoughts.
For now, there were more pressing matters.
"Andrew, continue," Enkrid said, shifting focus.
Understanding the bigger picture took precedence.
Eternally Regressing Knight
The move was from the Valah mercenary style, aptly named
'Strike While They Speak.'
In midair, Enkrid twisted his body, drawing the gladius from his right side and a dagger,
Spark
, with his left.
His right hand channeled
Unyielding Will
into the descending strike, while his left sought precision with the dagger—a balance between overwhelming force and surgical accuracy.
Enkrid infused his strike with the
Will of Momentum
, amplifying its force.
The result was a strike akin to lightning—a reimagining of Ragna's signature
Thunder Strike
.
crunching
sounds were the attacker's bones fracturing, his hands and arms shattering under the strain.
Lastly, the
crack
came as the blunt edge of his own blade struck his collarbone, shattering it.
One of them, holding a poison capsule labeled
Ten Breaths
, froze, unable to act.
Andrew, observing him, felt a flicker of admiration. Perhaps this was why Crang held the Madmen Commander in such high regard. How many people could admit ignorance without hesitation?
Straightforward. Resolute. Imposing.
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