Chapter 708 - The Sword That Reverses the Field
What looked impossible on the surface was a sword technique born from efficient transmission of power.
The proper width of stance needed to generate force, the way to grip the sword, and how to deliver power from ankle to waist, shoulder, and wrist—swordsmanship began with the study of posture that transmits strength, and it evolved by refining the act of swinging a sword within that posture.
The family head swung his sword as if demonstrating the very foundation of swordsmanship.
He stepped forward with his left foot and swung the blade from right to left.
That alone—just a strike grounded in the basics—made everything around him change.
Sound vanished.
The rushing wind and rain were sucked into the trajectory of the sword and then dissipated.
Watching the family head’s strike, Enkrid heard the alias.
Piiiii—
It was a sword strike that swallowed everything, whether storm or thunder.
A single point of focus activated instinctively, slowing everything around him.
He could distinctly see the movement of both the family head and the charging beasts.
His insight pulled fragments of near-future reality into the present.
The family head’s sword traced a single arc.
The line drawn from right to lower left was thick and overwhelming.
It felt like a wild brush had slashed the sky itself.
The two beasts, trapped within that trajectory, would be split apart and die.
And as they died, their claws would stab into the family head’s shoulder and side.
Their tactic was obvious—one from above, one from below.
Boom!
The ringing alias ended with an explosive sound.
Enkrid let out a hum—something between a groan and an acknowledgment—and nodded.
The future he’d seen through insight had twisted.
But that wasn’t surprising.
It was outside prediction, sure, but wasn’t this much expected from the family head of Yohan?
His sword was faster than the beasts charging in.
The two were cut down and sent flying through the air.
With dull thuds, their carcasses—bleeding dark blood—slammed onto the muddied ground.
The family head retracted his sword, letting it hang loosely, and then spoke.
"Come out, Hescal. You must answer for your sins."
Ssssshhh—
Amid the falling rain—a path venerated by those who worship the sword, a pilgrimage trail said to honor the god of the blade—beneath that sacred path, monsters lined up in formation came into view.
All of them stood side-by-side, forming a battle array.
The family head surely saw it too.
No one would think today’s battle would be easy after seeing that.
A man who knew Yohan’s true might stood there as their enemy.
Naturally, he must have come fully prepared to win.
And yet, with just one swing of the family head’s sword, the entire atmosphere reversed.
Schemes?
Traps?
What are those supposed to be?
Do they become shields capable of withstanding my sword?
That’s what the family head’s sword seemed to declare.
"Ask, then."
Opposite him, Hescal stood among the monster ranks and responded.
He was unaffected by the pressure the family head exuded, or by the mood he had created.
His presence made itself known to all.
Standing before the family head, unwavering, he made it clear:he was the one orchestrating everything that was happening here.
Their gazes pierced through the narrow curtain of rain and locked.
The falling rain felt colder somehow.
A thunderclap tore through the dark clouds—as if it were physically splitting the two apart.
But the one who broke that silence wasn’t Hescal, nor the family head.
"Hescal."
From the stalemate, someone stepped forward, limping.
His pupils trembled ceaselessly, but not more than his heart must have been shaking.
"Ah, Riley. I thought the family head would lock you away.Then again, the family head is a smart man.Even while doubting you, he brought you here—probably to shake me."
Ssshhhhh—
The rain carried neither malice nor kindness.
No emotion.
Hescal’s tone and demeanor were the same—void of malice, and yet leaving behind no trace of goodwill either.
"Did you use me?"
Riley clenched his teeth as he asked.
So hard that blood seeped from his lips, only to be washed away by the rain.
No one would have noticed unless they were right next to him.
But Enkrid was there—he had ended up right beside Riley.
Not intentionally, just by chance.
’This is a good spot.’
It was because Riley stood at the center of Yohan.
From here, one could survey the field and steer the situation.
"Were you deceived by an illusion spell?Or was it blackmail? Maybe you were drugged and needed an antidote?"
Riley continued to mutter as if in denial, but every word he uttered was riddled with contradictions.
If it had been anyone else, perhaps they could be swayed with a threat to their life.
But not Hescal.
He wasn’t the sort to turn his back on Yohan, even if it meant death.
That was the weight Hescal’s name carried, built over decades within Yohan.
There was no hesitation in Hescal’s eyes.
He stood tall, shoulders squared, his gaze fixed ahead.
What radiated from him was nothing but dignity and conviction.
"Could I ever do that?"
He denied it in his usual gentle, affectionate tone.
"Then why!"
Riley’s voice pierced through the rain.
He looked calm on the outside, but inside, he was screaming.
Hescal didn’t click his tongue, nor did he blame him.
He simply looked calmly to the head of the house and asked,
"Lord, do you truly think I’d waver over something like this?"
"One tries anything they can."
The lord did not deny what he had done.
He admitted that one of the reasons for bringing Riley here was to shake Hescal’s resolve.
"Give up now. It’s already over."
Hescal repeated.
Enkrid, meanwhile, remained still, eyes locked on the horde of monsters.
He was roughly gauging their density and estimating their numbers.
A little over a thousand, perhaps?
A proper scout should know how to assess enemy strength.
Enkrid could do at least that much.
What surprised him most was that the monsters weren’t moving an inch.
’Were they trained? Or is it some kind of mental control?’
Either way, the fact remained—they were a dangerous enemy.
Without even a trace of agitation, the monsters stood in perfect formation, resembling a proper army.
A force that has undergone repeated drills is called elite.
While their individual strength may play a part, from a commander’s perspective, elite troops are defined by their discipline and obedience.
In most battles, untrained or inexperienced soldiers often freeze, flee, or hide.
Some charge in blindly.
But if a unit can maintain formation and fight, they are worthy of being called elite.
’They’re about on par with the Border Guard standing army.’
The monsters gathered looked as though they’d undergone formation training.
It was only right to consider them formidable foes.
"Why, damn it, why!"
Riley’s heart was breaking.
It spoke to how deeply Hescal had rooted himself within him.
His murmuring body trembled.
When the heart shatters, the body soon follows.
Could it be said that his soul had been cut?
In that case, Hescal was a masterful swordsman.
He had not even drawn his blade, yet he had cleaved a person’s soul.
Enkrid instinctively sensed the auras and emotions of those around him.
Luagarne once said:
"Is there anything more foolish than a commander who doesn’t even know the condition of their own troops before entering battle?"
Knowing the enemy helps, but if you’re ignorant of your own situation, it’s meaningless.
That was the Luagarne style of strategic thinking.
Enkrid had heard and absorbed that perspective from her over and over.
He echoed it now.
The sorrowful, the stoic—each exuded a different emotion.
Among them, the most unusual was the giantess, Ana Hera.
She was excited.
Her breaths came out forcefully through her nose.
She looked ready to burst into action at any moment.
Fingers twitching on the grip of her sword—it was clear that, left unchecked, she would fully unleash the savage power of her giant bloodline, known for its thirst for red blood.
Enkrid placed Ana Hera outside the standard mental categories he was using, then mentally divided the others by emotional state.
Those who grieved could probably still fight.
But those who were panicked—throwing them into battle would only increase casualties.
Those who could fight now.
Those who needed time.
Those better suited to holding the rear.
’And there’s even a warlock among the enemy.’
Even if mages were set aside, shamanic arts were particularly dangerous because they exploited the cracks in one’s spirit.
It’s said that curses seep into the hearts of the weak.
Rem had said that once—and his experience backed it up.
Enkrid’s mind was clear.
His judgment unwavering.
He stood alone on this battlefield, painting the strategy in his mind.
"Ah, Enkrid of the Border Guard. I’d thought you would return, and yet—why stay? What more is there to gain here, I wonder?"
In the midst of it all, Hescal spoke up.
He didn’t come close—he just shouted from a distance.
It looked cowardly, but to be fair, it was less cowardice and more smart positioning.
If the family head and his wife seriously set their sights on him, Hescal would be dead.
He simply left them no such opportunity.
"What was your dream? You said you’d tell me, and now I can’t leave without hearing it."
Enkrid shouted back in return.
Even with the rain falling between them, their voices reached one another clearly.
"Were you always this curious?"
"Anytime I didn’t know something, I couldn’t sleep, ever since I was a kid."
That wasn’t a lie.
At least when it came to swordsmanship, it was true.
Everything else, he could ignore.
"You really are an interesting fellow."
Hescal said this with something like emotion showing for the first time.
What flickered in his voice was interest.
"Behind me is someone who wants to become a god. You’ve probably heard of the alchemist Dmule."
It was a name etched into the continent’s history—a legend in his own right.
If Anne were here, she would’ve immediately questioned how that could be possible.
Dmule was her teacher’s teacher and the one who created the seeds of the plague—a mad alchemist who dreamed of genocide.
Even if he were dead, he should’ve been dead long ago—a ghost of the past better left buried.
But Hescal calmly shared his dream.
"As he crafts divinity, so too shall I craft divinity."
He was serious.
The content might sound ridiculous, but then again, isn’t that the nature of dreams?
Things that seem impossible, hopes that are hard to realize, wishes born from desperation—we’ve come to call all that a dream.
That said—
’He’s not telling the whole story.’
Crafting divinity could be a means or a tool.
What would he do once he became a god?
If he feared death, he would’ve spoken of immortality.
If he wanted to revive a lost son, he would’ve mentioned resurrection.
But Heskal said nothing else.
He only dropped that his dream was to become a thief of divinity.
That’s probably all he wanted to reveal.
Just those few words bought him some time, and in that brief moment, a few people showed exactly the kind of response Enkrid had been hoping for.
"Freaking lunatic."
Riley Yohan made his stance clear with just those words.
He was a sword of Yohan.
The hesitation in his eyes, once youthful and uncertain, had lessened.
The waves might still be rough, but if the man on deck steadies himself, the shaking feels less severe.
Riley Yohan had done just that.
’Not bad.’
Enkrid took that change as a good sign.
A few others had silently finished preparing to fight.
Not everyone, of course.
Even excluding Riley, many here owed Hescal a kind of debt.
Which meant many were still being tossed around by the waves of doubt.
Those people couldn’t be relied on in combat—at least not yet.
’The family head, his wife, Rhinox, me, and Ragna.’
Aside from them, there were two others who could be placed somewhere between knight and semi-knight.
One was the giant Ana Hera.
The other was the man who had clashed with Riley Yohan and stood at the head of the opposing group.
He had once earned Rhinox’s recognition but lost his way after seeing the talents of others.
Though it wasn’t as if he’d disappeared for ten whole years, his wandering wasn’t exactly trivial either.
Everyone has their own hell, and everyone walks the path they choose.
For him, that wandering meant spending a few months in a village of retirees.
Or maybe he’d even passed through the hunters’ village and the broker’s village too.
In any case, he returned from that journey a swordsman once more, his heart steady.
He was at about the same level as Ana Hera.
And in actual combat, he was probably even more effective.
That man—who had opposed Riley and wandered for a time—was Kato Jaun.
He used all kinds of bizarre techniques.
He even knew a bit of Eil Karaz-style martial arts and had armed his body with hiltless blades.
Hence the nickname:
Kato of the Blade Armor
Aside from them, Yohan had around seventy fighters capable of combat.
More people stood in the back than at the front—this was the total strength of Yohan.

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