A superhuman's senses perceive realms beyond the reach of ordinary eyes. And now, Enkrid could be called a superhuman.

‘Frokk’s talent-detection eye.’

While not exactly the same in principle, Enkrid could do something similar just by observing.

Muscle structure, habitual posture, the gaze in someone’s eyes—everything became a basis for judgment.

Of course, unlike Frokk, Enkrid didn’t go so far as to declare whether someone had what it took to become a knight.

‘It’s visible.’

Through experience, honed senses, and intuition, Enkrid could clearly see Clemence’s shortcomings.

‘She’s trained evenly, so nothing stands out.’

She would likely overwhelm opponents weaker than her, but struggle against those stronger.

From the results, one could infer the process.

By gauging the extent of her training, he could deduce Clemence’s fighting style.

Kraiss had once said this sort of analysis was only possible for those with the brains for it, and not everyone had that kind of cognition.

Regardless, what mattered now was clear.

She should keep reinforcing her fundamentals—but what she needed to stack on top of that was technique.

Her solid foundation was evident even from the condition of her lower body.

‘The most important thing in physical training is to reinforce the lower body.’

Clemence’s legs looked rock-solid. He liked that. They bore the marks of persistent training.

“Shall we spar?”

At Enkrid’s words, Clemence’s eyes sparkled. Receiving instruction from a knight was a rare honor. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

And the man before her was not just any knight—he was a hero, a slayer of demons, the Ironclad Knight, captain of the Mad Order, the man who had led many to knighthood, the breaker of maidens’ hearts, and the Enchanted Knight.

Those last two titles were just associations that naturally arose—but that only proved how great he was.

“It’s an honor.”

Clemence replied like a proper soldier and drew her weapon.

Shing.

A thin, long rapier. Longer than a standard longsword, but much thinner. Clearly not a run-of-the-mill blade.

“Who made it?”

Enkrid asked, purely out of curiosity. Artisans capable of crafting such a weapon were rare.

“A dwarf smith from the standing army.”

“There was someone like that?”

“Yes. He was on the run from debt, got thrown in prison, and now manages the standing army’s forge under a ten-year labor deal.”

It sounded vaguely familiar.

It wasn’t an important memory, so it was hazy. But after a few mental steps, Enkrid recalled who it was.

‘The dwarf who was there when I first met Aitri.’

From Clemence’s words, it seemed Kraiss had gotten involved and sorted out the relationships and situation. The craftsmanship certainly reflected that.

Apparently, the dwarf had gotten his act together—this blade wasn’t bad at all.

“Each officer gets to receive one additional weapon apart from standard issue. I chose this one. I suppose you wouldn’t know since the knights procure their own weapons.”

Clemence trailed off mid-sentence and suddenly took two quick steps back in surprise.

The speed with which she pushed off the ground wasn’t bad.

Enkrid was pleased with how she raised her sword while retreating and braced her toes for the next motion.

“Pressure.”

He murmured. This was still just a sparring session.

Clemence then thrust, extended, slashed, twirled, and pushed her sword forward at full strength.

Enkrid picked up a training sword and responded.

‘She’s very upright.’

Despite being nicknamed ‘Fallen Clemence’, everything she did showed how desperately she was trying not to fall.

‘She minimizes mistakes, leans into favorable odds, and fights with calculated advantage.’

And yet, how did Clemence look while fighting that way?

She didn’t seem to be enjoying it. Did she train like this even alone? He wondered.

Her heart was fierce, and her body was solid—but her swordsmanship looked like she was flailing in water.

She floated, yes, but with so much tension in her body, she wasn’t moving forward. She could move faster, but she swam slowly.

‘She shows less than what she actually has.’

He identified the cause through the result, factoring in even psychological elements.

‘Too many people around her are better fighters.’

People not easily admired from afar.

Closest was Rophod, then a bit further out was Pell, and beyond that were the Mad Order—including Enkrid himself.

That both drove her ambition and crushed a part of her spirit.

Being called ‘Fallen Clemence’ and desperately resisting that label had taken its toll.

In other words—

‘She’s never been pushed to her limits.’

She had likely avoided those kinds of fights.

Only overwhelming defeats or overwhelming victories.

Why did that line from the Imperial Knight Valphir come to mind here?

The term flowerbed knight—if Clemence became a knight as she was now, would she be one who grew up like a greenhouse flower?

Thud, ting.

In the middle of the light spar, Enkrid’s aura suddenly shifted. Clemence’s pupils shrank into pinpoints.

Her survival instinct flared, heightening all her senses.

‘I’ll die.’

If she stood still, she would.

In a flash, memories and dozens of thoughts streaked through Clemence’s mind.

‘Fallen Clemence.’

After that nickname stuck, she desperately resisted falling. As time passed and her skills improved, her thinking narrowed into a single line:

‘I don’t fight battles I’ll lose.’

Rophod had helped form this idea, and Lua Gharne’s teachings had also blended in.

It might be fair to say Frokk’s tactical swordsmanship had devolved in her case.

Clemence didn’t engage in losing battles to begin with.

Meaning: unless the perfect opportunity presented itself, she didn’t swing her sword in earnest.

Even now, her blade waited only for that perfect opening. But her opponent was a knight. Of course there wouldn’t be such a chance. So all she did was probe and feint.

Maybe that’s what triggered it?

Clemence experienced death. Her neck was severed. The world spun. Then, darkness.

***

‘Her physical ability is excellent.’

Her muscles were flexible and resilient, not just focused on strength but honed in various ways over time.

The foundation was clearly Audin’s training method.

The regimen Audin used to train his forces had become the standard for the Border Guard’s standing army.

‘She incorporated only what suited her body from that foundation.’

Her cognitive skills and agility were outstanding. She saw clearly and reacted accordingly. Her endurance was just as commendable.

Her body bore the marks of long-term training.

‘Mentally, she’s stable too.’

Aside from her unwillingness to charge recklessly, she never panicked and made good decisions.

Enkrid even peeked into her hidden Will.

He hadn’t literally seen it, but in a symbolic sense, he felt something. Whether it would awaken was another matter.

‘That’s not my choice to make.’

He could open the path, but walking it was up to her.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.

Even so, faint as it was, Enkrid sensed Clemence would move forward.

His instincts were usually accurate.

‘What’s missing is creativity and the drive to win.’

Fighting not just to avoid defeat, but to learn how to win—that’s what Clemence needed now.

When she first recoiled from his pressure, Enkrid’s thoughts had already reached this point.

His multifaceted thinking, honed instincts now in the realm of the superhuman, and a wealth of accumulated experience all came together.

As he broke down what Clemence needed, he reaffirmed what he himself possessed.

Probably, this was a process to be repeated countless times—as long as one didn’t give up before dying.

‘There’s no end to mastering swordsmanship.’

And that made it all the more enjoyable.

Whatever he did now, it wasn’t the end.

This time, it was just a refinement of something he’d previously defined—but in the process, he forged a new swordsmanship.

Wavebreaker Sword Style trained the orthodox blade.

Balafian martial techniques—optimized for mid-weight blades.

Optimized cognition led to the lightning-fast sword called Flash.

The flowing sword combined Jaxon’s sensory skills with experience and evolved into a style called The Accidental Sword.

What remained was the deceptive blade.

‘One step beyond the Valen-style mercenary sword.’

The deceptive sword existed solely to win. To survive and win, one had to do whatever it took. That was the Illusory Blade.

‘With a mix of Lua Gharne-style tactical swordsmanship.’

Tactical swordplay sought to seize advantageous positions. Enkrid took the best from both styles and recombined them into something new.

“Is this heaven?”

Clemence murmured as she opened her eyes, having fainted from the pressure and light impact.

“Not yet.”

“Ah.”

She blinked, quickly understanding where she was.

She wasn’t dead. She was alive. She’d fainted in disgrace.

Watching her bolt upright, Enkrid thought: rather than clumsily spurring her creativity or competitiveness with words, it was easier to speak through swordsmanship.

And from his lips flowed the name of the style he’d refined and completed.

“This swordsmanship is called Enkrid-Style Orthodox Swordsmanship.”

Clemence caught her breath a few times, then asked,

“Excuse me?”

“Learn it.”

The meaning of the style was deception, plain and simple.

The training method involved creatively devising techniques of trickery.

Its application: every act meant to seize a tactical advantage. A desperate gambit by the weak to defeat the strong.

That’s why even the name was a deception.

The techniques were built on deceit, but the name was Orthodox Swordsmanship.

“The logic is simple. The rest, think for yourself. I’ll show you a few basic moves.”

Judging by the condition of her lower body and her stance, anyone would expect Clemence to fight conservatively. Her fundamentals were that solid.

“It’s called the Illusory Step.”

Enkrid taught her a few techniques borrowed from the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship. Clemence listened intently, then asked again.

“Do you really fight like this?”

She wasn’t a fool. She understood why Enkrid spoke through the sword rather than explaining it.

“Yes.”

Enkrid told her: survive disgracefully and win disgracefully. Clemence accepted.

Then Enkrid oversaw the training of the royal guard—his direct unit.

‘Aren’t their basic fitness levels a bit lacking?’

His standards were extremely high, so he might’ve been overcritical. He was only there to observe anyway.

“Let’s go for a run.”

With that one line, the guard began running sprints all the way to Martai and back without rest.

It was a distance that took a long ride on horseback, not something easily covered on foot.

The aftermath? Martai’s gatekeeper nearly had a heart attack, and Odd-Eye, possibly bored, joined in running alongside them.

After the run, they learned ‘Feigning Defeat’, ‘Pretending to Draw the Sword While Kicking’, ‘Double Blade Kick’, and ‘Illusory Step’.

And even through all that, Enkrid emphasized the basics most.

“To fool your opponent well, you need to know how to fight properly.”

That’s why fundamentals mattered.

No matter what path one took, it should always aim upward.

Better to do something than hesitate or stagnate. To do that, one had to live. Because only the living have tomorrows.

Enkrid-Style Orthodox Swordsmanship ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) soon became the official style of the royal guard.

Clemence understood the essence of the style, and Rophod helped halfway through.

“Swordsmanship only means something when it’s built on fundamentals. No matter how sharp the blade, it’s meaningless if a seven-year-old’s swinging it.”

Rophod, in turn, mastered the style and passed on what he’d learned.

Enkrid then conveyed this latest realization to Aitri.

“Do all five lead toward knighthood?”

Enkrid’s five core styles.

Aitri, grasping the essence, asked. Even while hammering metal all day, he never stopped talking when Enkrid visited. The back-and-forth sharpened his insights.

“I hope so.”

Enkrid’s answer was simple. His eyes turned to the metal Aitri was hammering.

Its shape was changing. A long rod.

Aitri repeatedly folded and pounded it flat—then folded and pounded again. It was the third day of this process.

His eyes were brighter than ever, but his skin was dull, and his body emaciated.

As if he were pouring all his vitality into the hammering.

“Come back tomorrow.”

Aitri said. Aside from overseeing the royal guard’s training, this was all Enkrid did.

It had been fifteen days since Aitri first spoke up. Even Rem hadn’t questioned whether it was time to leave.

Everyone in the Order knew: Enkrid was forging his engraved weapon.

And all waiting has an end—so now, it was time.