“There’s no need to provoke me just to make me do my best.”

Aisia forced the words out through clenched teeth.

“...Provoke?”

Enkrid drew his sword, Dawn Tempering—called simply Dawn. The refined blade shimmered with a sky-like glow, as if all the battles it had endured were nothing.

'The way of cleansing with flame.'

Aitri had once said that if possible, it was best to heat the blade before oiling it. Following that advice, Enkrid had gone straight to the royal forge, heated it once, and then spread the seed oil he had brought from the East.

“It’s like a woman whose beauty is hidden behind roughness.”

The meaning was that, though simple in design, the care within it was extraordinary.

The royal family had many master smiths. One had said this. Another, however, had said differently.

“No, it isn’t hidden. It’s revealed. It looks simple, but the lines are graceful.”

“And those graceful lines are covered by roughness.”

“No, look at the leather wrapped around the grip. And the steel mixed in. This is art.”

“Art? A sword is a tool, a weapon to kill. Nothing more.”

“And because it is faithful to that, it is art!”

“You crazed art-monger!”

“Your utilitarianism is nonsense!”

Enkrid had watched three smiths in the royal forge argue this way over Dawn. These were the greatest artisans in Naurillia.

They clashed with words, raising their points, yet none dismissed the others.

'To acknowledge is to move forward.'

They knew this. Though their veins stood out on their foreheads, their faces red from blood rushing to their heads, once cooled they would expand their thinking in different directions.

'Truly outstanding craftsmanship always attracts countless opinions.'

Just as countless theories had arisen around Leonecis Oniac’s five sword concepts. Some had been recognized, others discarded, and still others developed into new paths. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

So it was with Ki Swordsmanship—a style not fitting into any of the five but carving out its own way.

It was a swordplay that fixated purely on skill above all, beyond the concepts of heaviness, correctness, deceit, speed, and softness.

'Eastern Ki Swordsmanship.'

At one time it had been called “Eastern” because warriors from the East often used it. An acrobatic sword style, it was Ki Swordsmanship.

Likewise, the South was said to excel in Illusory Swordsmanship, but now that rumor held little weight.

'A true knight uses all five styles—blending them, mastering them all.'

One should specialize in one, yet not neglect the others. In that sense, Ki Swordsmanship was peculiar—so much so that it had once been nicknamed the Suicide Sword.

Its true origin was unknown, but seeing its results, Enkrid could guess.

'The shepherd’s craft.'

From Pell he had glimpsed traces of it. Eastern Ki Swordsmanship had likely come from shepherds of the wilderness. It was only conjecture, yet intuition told him it was the answer.

And if not, no matter. It was only idle thought about swords.

In any case, Dawn was too fine a blade—that was why the smiths fought.

Now that blade was pointed at his comrade. Knight versus squire. There was no need for wooden swords.

“Yes, provoke,” Aisia repeated, raising her blade. Her sword carried a strange force in it—intimidation mingled with steel.

Balrog had fought by scattering his pressure like a storm, but Aisia refined hers, wielding it deliberately. She could not use it unconsciously as a knight might, yet even so, her presence was far from ordinary.

'She’s like Roman.'

Just as Roman once mimicked a knight’s strike, Aisia was carving her own path.

“It isn’t provocation. It’s truth,” Enkrid replied calmly.

Her soft, gentle eyes sharpened with a dangerous light.

“Ohh, truth as violence,” Rem murmured in awe from behind. Such provocation was worth remembering, so he repeated it a few times to himself.

The soldiers training nearby began to gather, forming a circle. Among them were Rem, Audin, Shinar, Rophod, and Pell.

Jaxon had already dragged a chair to one of the pillars and sat, carving a piece of wood with a dagger while staring straight ahead. Though his eyes never left forward, the wood split neatly, thin shavings dropping below.

Only Ragna swung his sword off to the side, seemingly indifferent. To most eyes, it °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° looked careless, but those who knew his genius saw it differently.

“That bastard’s off playing stick games again without a clue,” Rem said, of course.

Aisia shut out all such noise. She closed her mind to them, focused wholly on the man before her.

'My opponent is a knight.'

A single mistake, and not only would she lose, she would not even manage to resist. That, she refused. She had trained, carving herself apart for this.

“Wasn’t that enough already?”

Her younger brother’s voice echoed in her memory, weary, but she had not been satisfied. She had even enjoyed it.

Only after her palms had split open again and again had she remembered why she had swung her sword night and day as a child.

'Because it was fun.'

If it hadn’t been, she could never have done it.

'The best strike.'

Her seemingly mild eyes narrowed. Her focus honed, Aisia’s blade moved.

'Confinement.'

She unleashed everything she had.

From the descending sword, Enkrid read the shape of pressure that twisted into ropes binding his limbs.

It might have been startling, but to him it felt natural. His intuition was sharper than that of most knights.

'Aisia had always favored pressure.'

He recalled their first meeting.

“Me? Aisia.”

She had shown pressure like an invisible blade against her own throat. Later, when they clashed, she had used swordplay derived from it—forcing her opponent to see only the tip, restricting their movement.

Now it had grown stronger. The descending blade bore a will to bind his whole body.

She had refined her innate gift.

'A sword that carries pressure—the will itself.'

It wasn’t stronger than Balrog’s, but—

'The direction is correct.'

Boom!

Enkrid brushed aside her swordsmanship with will alone, without even needing the Wall of Refusal, and struck her blade away. Rain splashed outward from the impact, scattering around them.

Aisia did not give up because one strike had been stopped. She pulled back her blade and moved her feet.

She shifted her step, mixing in feints, preparing to thrust. Enkrid read every one of her attack points.

'Five.'

To be precise, five potential lines of attack. All revealed within his insight.

'Smothering the embers.'

Enkrid’s left foot tapped lightly against the back of her right knee. That motion snuffed out every possibility.

Aisia instinctively drew back the leg he touched and swung her sword again. In that instant, her attack points multiplied and shifted. This time she aimed to bring the blade straight down from above, vertically.

In her mind’s eye the strike had already landed. But in reality—

It could not.

Ssak—

This time her inner elbow was cut. Dawn had slipped in and brushed her lightly, its edge slicing past before she could react. Her protective gear was shredded, leather soaking in the rain until it fell to the ground like wet paper.

Aisia did not yield, and Enkrid showed no mercy. Every attack of hers was broken, torn apart.

“Relentless.”

Rem spoke. Ragna, who had been swinging his sword halfheartedly, stopped as well to watch.

“He’s not even letting her start.”

Ragna added a comment of his own.

Those with sharp eyes understood the situation. To those without, it looked like a circus act.

One side swung a blade only to stop mid-motion, the other blocked with light taps of foot or sword—yet together their movements aligned as if rehearsed.

“Hm.”

Among the spectators was Rearvart. His insight was not at a knight’s level, but he believed Enkrid was no man to waste movements. No—more than belief. It bordered on blind faith.

If the Church of Enkrid were founded right then, he would have been among its first converts.

So he thought hard about what meaning was hidden inside, and that itself became good study for him.

There were others like Rearvart, too—those who treated the spar itself as study. Because they had not been idle in training, they were prepared, and they possessed the resolve and desire to learn anything without prejudice.

The sparring match did not last long. Aisia landed no true attack, and Enkrid did not once swing Dawn in earnest.

“Damn it.”

When the exchange halted and both stepped back, Aisia’s lips parted. She lowered her head, shoulders trembling.

To an ordinary soldier’s eyes, even a squire was a monster. Knights were beings beyond even that monstrous category—unmeasurable, unbounded. That was what knights were.

'Calamities.'

There was a reason for the name.

Some saw her shaking shoulders and thought she was crying. Too frustrated, unable to hold back tears. That was what they believed.

But Enkrid knew better.

When Aisia lifted her head, her gentle eyes were the same as always—but within them her will was unmistakable.

“I won’t give up either.”

Were these words of grim resolve? No—they sounded more like words of one who was enjoying the moment.

“Mm. Then if you miss now, you’ll die. You might lose an arm.”

Enkrid spoke casually as he moved. From the stance where he had yielded the first strike, he now attacked first without hesitation.

Aisia’s sword rose diagonally, clashing against Dawn’s edge.

Kang.

Steel met steel with a note of greeting.

From then on, neither spoke nor even gave a single shout. Aisia couldn’t spare breath for it, and Enkrid had no need.

Aisia felt as if she had struck a wall. She could not control distance as she wished, and at any moment Enkrid’s blade could pierce her throat.

To survive in that constant threat, there was nothing to do but struggle with everything she had. And so she did—clinging to the cliff’s edge with only her fingertips, enduring. Her abs cramped, her forearms felt ready to tear.

The spar continued for half a day.

“Why is it every time I show up, you two are fighting?”

Marcus arrived and muttered to himself—then nodded.

“Well, hm. I suppose that is your natural state.”

The Mad Order of Knights weren’t called mad for nothing.

“Uu, huu, uu.”

At last, Aisia collapsed from exhaustion. A few soldiers who knew her hurried to carry her away.

“You topple women one after another, don’t you?”

Shinar threw out a dry jest.

As she was taken away, Aisia cast Enkrid a look of farewell—her arm slung over a fellow soldier’s shoulder. In her gaze was thanks, mixed with other emotions. Enkrid nodded slightly, falling into brief reflection.

'Will it be possible?'

He had seen her potential, opened the way, aided her. But whether she could become a knight—he could not guarantee it.

'Now I understand how lucky Rophod and Pell were.'

Looking at Roman, then at Aisia, he knew he couldn’t predict their futures. He could drag her up to squire level at least. Considering that even among squires there were vast differences, if he forced it—

'To the level of Lord Greyham, perhaps.'

He might be able to haul her up by the scruff of her neck. That was far more likely than her reaching knighthood. But beyond that?

'No one knows.'

He had opened a path for Roman too, but perhaps he would remain there forever. Opening a path did not mean someone would walk it.

It was the same for Aisia.

Becoming a knight was always this arduous.

“Enki, I’ll need you to guard His Majesty tomorrow.”

Marcus approached as the rain finally began to cease.

“Me?”

“Aisia was to do it, but in that state she’ll hardly be fine by tomorrow, don’t you think?”

True. It was because Enkrid had sparred with consideration—that is, pushing her until she learned, until she climbed a step higher. Thanks to that, not a single limb of hers would be without bruises.

That was Enkrid’s way of consideration—not a gentle spar where the body stayed sound, but one that cornered the opponent and forced them up the next step.

“Very well.”

With no reason to refuse, Enkrid nodded.

And the guard Marcus spoke of concerned King Crang’s inspection of the capital.

In other words, the king would tour the city.

Even if unrest and dark currents lurked, the work could not be postponed. That was the will of Crang.

“I’d like to spar as well.”

Rearvart, emboldened, spoke from the watching crowd. And after him, one by one others stepped forward who had caught some insight.

“If Old Eyeball were here, he’d be fleecing us for a few gold coins per match,” Rem chuckled. Then he turned his eyes on those who had watched the earlier spar and learned nothing.

“You lot, come here. Your minds aren’t hardened enough.”

What good was it to show something worthwhile if they lacked the eyes to see?

And so, the training yard soon echoed with cries of lament.