"You think this is fun, huh."

"You're enjoying this? Right now?"

"You live like you'll die today."

Enkrid had met quite a few swordsmanship instructors, and most of them tended to say similar things.

But what could he do? He was enjoying himself right now. It was fun.

"...Why are you laughing?"

Asked the one he'd recently taken on as his sword instructor.

He had lost the twin blades that summoned fire and now wielded two identical swords—except this time, their blades exuded a chill that froze flesh on contact.

As he spun them round and round in his hands, the cold wafted out in waves.

Perfect for summer, Enkrid thought.

They were that kind of weapon.

The spinning blades pushed away the heat, chilling the surrounding air.

'Is it not emitting cold, but rather absorbing the ambient heat?'

If you wanted to use a relic or a spell object, you had to understand how the weapon functioned. If you didn’t know its structure or operating principle, the only way to learn was to use it over and over.

That’s what his opponent had done.

“A spec object used improperly is a double-edged sword that cuts the wielder.” That was something Jaxon often said. Instructor Rino handled that double-edged sword with ease. He had the exceptional skill of cutting only his opponent without harming himself.

'What can I learn from this teacher?'

A dull student fails to absorb anything their teacher offers, while an average one might barely grasp one lesson from one teaching.

But a clever student? From a single lesson, they comprehend five, ten things.

And when it came to learning, there was no one on the continent like Enkrid.

Across all races, he was the most gifted.

He even stole lessons his teachers didn’t want to give.

'Is deception his specialty?'

That’s what it looked like on the surface, but when it came to psychological tactics—the war of words—there wasn’t much to learn from Rino. That part was clumsy. Instead, it was a few specific movements that stood out.

What makes them special?

Rino spread his arms wide like a great bird. The twin blades in his hands stirred up cold air as they moved.

It was like watching Balrog lash out with his wings. Balrog had once even weaponized his wings.

And these blades—just brushing against them would freeze flesh.

'It’s like Balrog combining Surtr and his wings.'

A natural line of thought.

Surtr, which summoned black fire, was a weapon one couldn’t even graze.

What Rino was doing now fully embodied the nature of his weapons.

They looked like wings because his motions were broad.

That movement, which seemed needlessly exaggerated, actually lowered the surrounding temperature.

No—lowering wasn’t the end of it. It froze the air.

Enkrid felt a thin frost forming on his forearms before he’d even realized it.

It was still just a faint chill, but if that sloppy-looking dance in front of him kept up, it would soon become enough of a hindrance to restrict his movements.

He didn’t even need deep thought—he realized it on instinct. No need to retrace the process.

There was more to learn here. As expected, Instructor Rino’s specialty wasn’t psychological warfare.

“Go on, keep laughing.”

Rino spoke, and Enkrid kept smiling.

How could he not?

They said a clever student could grasp ten from one. But Enkrid—the madman—enjoyed learning. He found this just as delightful as fighting and moving forward. What’s more, he’d gained a new kind of insight.

'Perfect utilization of a weapon.'

Not just knowing how to slash or freeze, but changing the surrounding air itself to work in his favor.

'The twin blades that blind were the same.'

His original pair of swords emitted heat and fire when swung quickly. By clashing them together with the right amount of force, he could trigger a flash.

Blinding the enemy that way—that was a technique unique to Instructor Rino.

'Remarkable. Again and again.'

That’s how he felt, inwardly. But that didn’t mean he was going to just sit back and take it.

Enkrid moved before the cold could sink into his bones. He kicked off the ground and swung his sword, carving a sky-colored crescent through the air.

It was a simple, clean strike—but the instructor dodged it. He kicked sideways and propelled himself along the ground, leaving afterimages in his wake. Enkrid had seen it many times before. It was a superb step.

A lateral high-speed movement where he briefly crossed both legs to boost speed.

Enkrid had already seen it plenty, and even practiced it himself on the ferryman’s boat. The madman trainee now moved after his teacher’s shadow.

The blade, tracing a crescent, suddenly shifted in mid-swing and moved sideways.

"...!"

The instructor’s eyes widened in shock as he raised both of his frost-laced swords to block.

That was a mistake.

Clang!

Dawn Tempering was a sword that, when needed, could hit heavier than most greatswords.

The sky-colored blade snapped both of the frosted swords and left a long slash across the instructor’s chest. From that slash, black mist began to seep out in tendrils.

“You—!”

Unable to withstand the force behind the strike, the instructor rolled backward before stopping. He dropped to the floor on both hands and knees, raising only his head to speak.

Rino knew the wound was fatal. But that was only back when his body had living blood. Now, things were slightly different. He could still talk. He could still move.

But that didn’t mean he could leap back into battle. He wasn’t about to charge forward again.

Still, his gut twisted.

That footwork from earlier—it was his own creation. And this guy just copied it? After seeing it once? No—he hadn’t even fully watched it. He copied it from just a glimpse.

“You stole my technique?”

It was obvious to anyone watching. Rino’s pupils trembled violently.

'He saw it once? No—he didn’t even get a full look, and he copied it right in front of me?'

It wasn’t just simple footwork. It was a method of channeling Will. Could someone really replicate that from one look? He didn’t even watch the whole thing and still copied it.

Even with expanded cognition, it didn’t make sense.

There was no such genius in this world. A series of impossibilities. At least, from Rino’s point of view.

But Enkrid—he’d watched countless times in a time unknown to Rino. He’d repeated the movement over and over, getting scolded by the ferryman and practicing atop the boat.

“Trying to fall into the river again? Training here? Never seen a bastard like you before.”

He’d heard things like that and still practiced it hundreds of times.

“In any case, it’s unfair.”

Even as the light in his eyes dimmed, the instructor muttered. Enkrid nodded. He agreed.

“...Despicable bastard.”

Rino summed up Enkrid in a grand old phrase—and killed himself. At some point, a short dagger had appeared in his hand. Kneeling, he held it up and stabbed it into his own throat.

The instructor turned to black mist and vanished.

Which meant—today’s first lesson had ended.

'His specialty isn’t deception. It’s utilization.'

Words from the past echoed again in his head.

“Your skill depends on how you handle your weapon.”

To a mercenary, a weapon is another life. That’s what his old mercenary commander once said.

'How to truly handle a weapon...'

Zzzzng.

While he thought, Dawn Tempering let out a low vibration.

Flaaap.

The fairy cloak flapped of its own accord, catching the wind.

The air inside the cave was dead still, yet the cloak fluttered.

'Have I ever really used my weapons properly?'

He also had several horn-blade daggers, Penna, gauntlets wrapped in cloth, and the inner armor woven from fairy leaves. That armor had even received Esther’s breath.

Organizing his thoughts, Enkrid moved toward the second lesson. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

“My name is Donapha!”

A teacher who gets excited easily and enjoys settling things in one blow. This next fight wouldn’t drag on for long.

Donapha carried no weapons other than a thick axe, the armor on his body, and a phantom steed.

“An extreme disposition.”

He considers nothing beyond a single axe strike. That’s why Donapha swings an axe stronger than his actual ability. It resembled the sword strike Roman once showed during his time as a quasi-knight. Back then, Roman had, just once, swung his sword like a true knight despite still being a quasi-knight.

The reason Roman came to mind was because the opponent before him moved in a similar trajectory.

If Instructor Rino taught him how to utilize weapons, then the lesson from the second teacher, Donapha, was far more explicit.

“Simple thinking.”

He used simplicity as a weapon in place of complexity.

That simplicity was more violent than one-point concentration. Like a horse fitted with blinkers, charging forward with only the path ahead in view.

Blinkers are tools used to block a horse’s peripheral vision so it only sees what’s ahead, eliminating all distractions and allowing it to reach its destination [N O V E L I G H T] faster and more efficiently.

'Donapha’s other senses were probably dulled as well.'

The complete opposite of the perfect Jaxon. Which is why, when Donapha swung his axe, he often tossed aside his own head in the process.

Complex and multi-angled thinking might be helpful in calculations, but during the process of concentration, it becomes an impurity.

Donapha rejected all such impurities. He might not fully understand the mechanics of this labyrinth, but by now, it was clear that these beings were once knights.

Donapha, this Dullahan, must have maintained that attitude even when he lived with blood in his veins.

It was as if his entire life had been attuned to axe swings.

But there was no need to absorb all of that.

'That would be regression.'

Enkrid stole and learned from his instructors, yes—but he also digested their teachings in his own way.

Because he was always in a position to crave learning, his posture, attitude, and cognitive ability had all drastically improved. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to call it evolution.

'Simplifying the mind only in the necessary moment.'

It reminded him of the way Ragna always seemed so loose and limp. He was a terrible verbal explainer, but he had been a good teacher nonetheless.

Just observing his usual demeanor offered plenty to learn from.

'That slack posture is a way of emptying the mind. The transformation that comes when gripping the sword—that’s the shift in thought that summons Will.'

It’s enough to adopt that simplicity through a shift in mindset. Concentration only when needed.

'One point of focus is all it takes.'

To be precise, it was a deeper immersion into that one point. How? By cutting off all branches of thought and discarding the impurities.

That was what he learned from Donapha’s single-minded axe strike.

The blue that comes from indigo is said to be bluer than indigo itself.

Like how a spark born from a small campfire can spread into a great blaze.

“Ah?”

Donapha’s strike cleaved through empty air. That was right after Enkrid had focused on blocking and dodging that simple thought pattern.

Enkrid’s sword sliced through Donapha’s waist. Outwardly, it looked like a Dullahan riding a phantom steed flung his head back and charged, and Enkrid, standing opposite him, moved his feet and also charged, crossing paths with him in a single instant.

In that motion, Donapha’s axe cut air, while Enkrid’s Dawn Tempering cleaved through the waist of the ghostly knight.

Slice.

Dawn Tempering could be as sharp as Penna when necessary. This was a horizontal slash that took advantage of that edge.

“I lost, huh.”

Donapha’s upper body slid and thudded to the floor. His voice came from somewhere far from the rest of his fallen body. As always, he spoke from the head.

He faced defeat head-on and accepted it without hesitation. As simple as his thoughts, his shift in stance was just as quick.

Enkrid advanced toward his third instructor.

All of this, of course, was the result of long training. And also the fruit of the effort he’d put into swinging his sword on the ferryman’s boat.

“Are you trying to fight me now?”

The ferryman had once asked, watching his swordplay. Of course, he hadn’t meant it seriously—just sarcasm.

The One-Edged Sword Wielder narrowed her eyes the moment she saw Enkrid. She was clearly no ordinary opponent. The pressure gently radiating from her body formed a visible shape—it looked like a massive fortress wall.

“So you got past Donapha.”

Her specialty was the explosive power that came from maintaining offensive momentum. That explosiveness revealed her true talent. Her rhythm was exceedingly long.

That long rhythm was her greatest strength.

However, it only shone when she was on the offensive. Once she switched to defense, her flow broke, her breathing faltered, and her movements—hands and feet—lost their sharpness. Offense and defense created a noticeable disparity.

'A fatal weakness.'

She could fight joyfully when attacking, but when defending, her heart wouldn’t follow.

Even as she spoke, her nose exhibited a distinct breathing pattern. She inhaled long and thin breaths of air.

And even that—watching, learning, and internalizing it—was endlessly entertaining.

Even in spare moments, like aboard the ferryman’s boat, he had often practiced that breathing as if it were mental training. It wasn’t out of urgency. It was simply that learning and mastering from these beings was too much fun.

“Why are you practicing breathing here?”

Of course, the ferryman had grumbled repeatedly.

If you let the One-Edged Sword Wielder take the initiative, she would launch a flurry of attacks. Watching that, he learned how to breathe like her.

Then, when the moment came where her breathing broke, he would shift from defense to offense and strike.

Not just strike—he did so by practicing her style.

“You, you—how did you...?”

Apart from Donapha, these two were quick on the uptake. They realized what Enkrid had done and were always shocked.

“Just well.”

He gave a vague answer, and the One-Edged Sword Wielder’s eyes dimmed. Ordinary people might often meet those more talented than themselves, but so-called geniuses rarely encounter someone who surpasses their own talent.

That’s why moments like this shake them even more.

What’s more, the One-Edged Sword Wielder’s mind couldn’t be whole.

Living a life trapped in the labyrinth, held by Balrog—how could she possibly be whole?

Enkrid struck her down and moved forward. He met Oara, exchanged words—and then faced Balrog.

It was the 154th "today."

In all that time, he had never once shattered the crystals on Balrog’s chest. He could destroy one, but never all three. Charging in was pointless. To break even one crystal, he would have to disregard his own life.

Such a fight was no different from suicide—never the path Enkrid would choose.

Still, he had struggled and fought.

And yet Balrog remained like an impenetrable wall.

Then, before the arrival of the 155th “today,” the ferryman, unable to bear it any longer, finally revealed a way to escape this repetition.

“Listen to me.”

As if saying: Fine, I admit defeat.