Sensing someone at the doorway, the short-haired blonde proto knight subtly let her sleeve fall. A thin blade concealed against the inside of her wrist slipped into her hand. Not because she felt threatened. It was a habit.

With a hint of wariness, she asked, "Something you want to say?"

Rem, the western barbarian and Encrid's companion, leaned against the doorway, gazing at her. His eyes betrayed no particular emotion. He spoke matter-of-factly.

"Where'd you learn to use poison like that?"

The question came out of nowhere, but she quickly understood. The West, a barbarian, someone she had once saved—her thoughts had already made the connection. She also knew that her poisoncraft was unusual.

There was more than one kind of poison. Jaxon, for instance, used poisons extracted from plants, animals, and minerals alike. Arsenic, belladonna, poisonous mushrooms—he combined countless poisons to make compound toxins.

The short-haired blonde proto knight used something different: poison created through spells. The refining process was similar, as was the way it was used, but Rem thought to himself,

'The way it's made is completely different.'

She could not have used it without someone teaching her. Besides, it was a method he recognized.

The blonde proto knight thought the man before her had no sinister intentions, and remembered his feats on the battlefield. He had not acted for Oara's sake or the city's, but he had certainly helped. And spell-made poison was not even her primary technique. In short, she saw no particular secret in what he was asking.

"I happened to save someone who was injured. I learned it then," she answered calmly.

"Saved their life, did you?"

"Probably? A rather strange person, I thought. Barely survived, yet still so assured. I suppose you could call it impressive."

She recounted what she remembered of that encounter. Rem thought of someone from his own memories. That fellow would have been embarrassed to be rescued and spouted nonsense to cover it.

"That so? All right."

As long as the technique had not spread through some wrongful means, that was enough. He had known that was unlikely anyway. He had simply wanted to check.

Now that he had come and asked, Rem felt he understood exactly why he had done so. Finding traces of his homeland even here felt like a sign that it truly was time to return.

He had even gotten the bad luck out of the way before a major undertaking, as the saying went. That was what this battle had been. He had fought with half his life on the line.

'Honestly, more than half.'

His ribs still ached. The swollen bruise on his side had not subsided, making walking uncomfortable.

With no other reason to stay, Rem turned to leave. The blonde spoke to his retreating back.

"Thank you."

The sincerity in her words made him speak.

"She had a bright smile right to the end."

The blonde smiled too. There would be days when she shed tears, but from now on she would smile as much as she could. That would be Oara's wish.

After leaving her house, Rem looked up at the sky. The sunlight beat down fiercely. It was not warm so much as unpleasantly oppressive. The air had seemed to grow a little lighter, only to turn heavy again.

It was unlike the sunlight in the West. Despite yesterday's rain, everything was humid and clammy. On a day like this, even standing still was unpleasant, yet everyone was bustling about without complaint.

Rem walked through the city as an onlooker, taking in his surroundings. They certainly were an industrious lot.

With that thought, he reached the lodgings and found the most industrious bastard in the whole city. The words left his mouth unbidden.

"Well, well. What are you doing with your hands shaking like that?"

Encrid was swinging his sword very slowly. Rem could see the effort to control every last muscle fiber. It was a training method used chiefly to examine and dissect each individual movement.

Rem had tried it a few times, but it had not been much fun. Nor had he felt any particular need for it. For instance, though he had watched Oara fight, he had no need to learn anything from it. What was there to learn from such an obvious fight?

But Encrid would be different. He would have to chew thoroughly on everything he had learned and gained from it before swallowing. Rem knew that too, but the urge to needle him was almost instinctive.

"Review."

Of course, a little needling would never change Encrid. He simply answered absently and continued what he was doing. The Frog stood in front of him with her arms crossed.

"You ought to thank the one who built that body of yours."

After watching him all this time, Luagarne considered his body one of the foundations of the man Encrid was today. She too had seen him reproduce a knight's strike.

His muscles could have ruptured. Overusing his Will could have made him surrender to emptiness and collapse. Yet his body had endured. She found that endlessly fascinating.

But what of the expenditure of Will? The emptiness that came after exhausting one's willpower? Those questions arose as well, but...

'The curse of emptiness didn't affect him.'

The curse of emptiness meant the loss of motivation caused by excessive expenditure of willpower. Despite wielding power beyond his capacity, Encrid had not succumbed to it. With nothing left to burn, the condition was also called depletion or burnout.

'Normally, he should have collapsed.'

Even Roman, who was accustomed to reproducing that strike, had slumped to the ground, gasping. After crushing the bipedal spider monster with that brutish, club-like greatsword, he had stopped, utterly defenseless. Had Aesia not mustered her strength to stand before him, he too would have had a place at this afternoon's funeral.

Yet Encrid was fine. Fine enough to get up and swing his sword like that as soon as the strain on his body eased. How could she not find it fascinating? Luagarne doubted anything could interest her more.

* * *

Encrid spent half his time swinging his sword and half in meditation. At present, he needed meditation, so he had plopped down on the dirt outside the lodgings. To passersby, he looked as though he had nothing to do but stare blankly at the sky.

His eyes did follow the clouds. The billowing masses were thicker than usual today. To one side, dense gray clouds hung so low they seemed almost to touch the ground. It looked as though it might rain in the afternoon.

His gaze rested blankly on the sky, but his mind worked without pause.

'How did she block that?'

The balrog fragment lowered its stance and charged. An unexpected move aimed below the knee. Encrid would have prioritized dodging, but Oara continued the sword stroke aimed at its crown downward, cutting off its move.

The blade dropped straight down to split the balrog's skull. Sensing it, the balrog returned to its original position—just as quickly as it had charged.

What the balrog fragment had shown was astonishing, but Oara's swordplay was even more so. How had she made that cut? Before, he could not have understood it. Now, he could catch a glimpse.

The experience of imitating a knight's strike through willpower had given Encrid a new perspective. He could understand if he broke her movements down.

'It's the same as before.'

Footwork linked point to point through sword strokes. A sword that reacted instantly at any moment. Like reaching for a cup, changing one's mind halfway, and pulling one's hand back. It was an acceleration of that reaction speed.

'Reach out without deciding on a destination. Just react as things happen.'

Bring the sword down as in practice, then alter the movement to match the opponent's. Could one prepare for that and still swing with full force? Oara had done it.

Whether it was possible or impossible did not matter. Had he not already seen someone do it right in front of him?

Encrid did not know it, but that was the essence of Oara's technique. Her sword did not follow predetermined lines. Instead, it marked the most efficient point at each moment and drew a line to it.

It was swordsmanship that rendered a Righteous Sword Technique master's game of moves and countermoves meaningless. The key was to draw upon whichever aspect of The Oniak Sword Technique she needed, precisely when she needed it.

It was possible only with a knight's physical abilities and the absurd reflexes afforded by Will. In other words, only a knight could wield such swordsmanship. She had devised it after becoming one. Until then, Oara would have defeated her opponents with fundamentals alone.

In a way, it resembled Rem's techniques. Encrid thought he understood why Rem said there was nothing to learn. It was simply drawing upon what the body had absorbed in the realm of instinct.

The clouds wove and tangled, moving like Oara's sword. Before them, Encrid struck out with a sword of his own. The clouds changed again. The gray clouds became the balrog fragment, swinging its red rod in unpredictable arcs and angles.

The heat in that rod, which could scarcely be called a sword, seared his skin. The clouds kept changing. Before he knew it, they became Ragna's sword, then the spear thrust forth by the Mercenary King of the East.

["Experience it."]

The Mercenary King had said that. It truly was excellent advice.

Encrid knew what he needed to do.

"Master everything I have, completely."

The words slipped out as though he were talking to himself.

"Having some nonsense dream?"

He must have closed his eyes at some point. When he opened them again, he saw a gray-haired western barbarian. Rem stood three paces away.

A fellow who washed quite often for a barbarian, and a member of his unit who split the skulls of uncooperative nobles with an axe. He had told Encrid about Velopters, Dusky Sky, the place where a black meteor had fallen, a tribe that worshipped strength through cannibalism, a river of sand from which none returned, and the origins of spells—yet carefully left out his own story. He had deliberately avoided talking about himself.

"You said you're heading west. When are you leaving?" Encrid asked.

"Might die if I go in this condition. No, I'd probably die unless I got lucky."

"Were you going around splitting skulls there too?"

"Not that. Well, there are reasons."

Encrid looked up at him. Ordinarily, he would not have been curious. But just now, Rem, the lunatic axe murderer, seemed to have shown something faintly resembling fear.

Rem? That Rem?

It thoroughly piqued his curiosity. Enough that even Luagarne, chewing on a bug to one side, lifted her head a little.

"Croak."

Her cheeks moved. In human terms, it would have meant something like, "Oh?"

"Can I come along?"

Even Dunbachel showed an interest. She had been engrossed in training her body off to the rear. This was what happened when that fearless bastard Rem showed hesitation.

"Have you all half lost your minds? Why would you want to follow me?"

Rem looked displeased.

"Let's take a look around. I've never been to the West."

Encrid made it final.

"Aren't you busy?"

There was nothing to be busy with. Border Guard would be safe unless Aspen made a move. Krang had given no particular warning, so there should be no immediate problems.

Besides, would Krais have sat still if there were anything urgent? He would have caught a hawk and sent it. Or sent a person. No such news had arrived. That meant they were eating well and doing fine.

His only concern was something the squire Lug had mentioned before: whether Ragna might have beaten Roford to death. Or perhaps Pell of the Shepherds of the Wastes was getting beaten for acting up. There was nothing else to worry about.

Ragna now possessed a knight's might.

'At this point, even getting lost shouldn't matter, should it?'

Even if he got lost and crossed the Aspen border right now, Aspen, not Ragna, would be the one to worry about.

"I'm not busy."

That was Encrid's conclusion.

"Did I ever say I'd come back after going west? Don't think I did."

It sounded downright like a threat. If Encrid wanted him to return, he should quietly back off. Those words stirred Encrid's competitive streak.

"I'll just stop by."

He had to see what Rem was hiding. He kept that thought to himself as he spoke.

"You're really going to follow me?"

Rem sounded almost angry, then shook his head.

"Do what you want."

Whatever he was thinking, instead of refusing, he soon nodded. And so Dunbachel and Luagarne would be going west as well.

The group rested another three days and were now fully recovered. It rained twice more in that time, but the weather had grown clearer than before, perhaps because Oara had killed the Demonic Realm's core.

It was a clear day, with a high, cloudless sky. The sunlight stung as fiercely as ever. The knight Oara was at peace, yet the sunlight over the city of Oara felt harsh and savage.

Encrid packed his belongings and stepped outside. Rem, Luagarne, and Dunbachel followed. Aesia joined them on the way.

"Leaving?"

"Time to go."

"Said your goodbyes?"

"More or less. Yesterday."

He had visited Roman during the night to tell him he was leaving. Actually, he had intended to leave two days ago, but Roman had insisted he stay.

["Stay just one more day."]

There was no reason to refuse. He was still in no hurry. Besides, a light drizzle had made it a poor day to leave.

["All right."]

He had agreed, stayed another day, and now it was morning.

After warming up with the Isolation Technique, he had checked the equipment he had brought. Not a single whistle dagger remained. He had thrown them all during the fighting. He had tried to retrieve them, but the blades were too damaged to use again.

Wouldn't it be nice to find a few decent knives somewhere? The thought had occurred to him, but there was nowhere to get them at present. He had visited the smithies, only to learn they had all agreed to close.

["I told you, there's nothing for sale. Not a single thing to sell you."]

The stubborn craftsman's words lingered in his mind. It had sounded less like there was nothing to sell than that he was not allowed to sell anything.

As they set off, Aesia suddenly said, "I'd actually half given up."

"On what?"

Oara matched the rhythm of his steady footsteps.

"I thought it'd be enough if my younger sibling and I could get by on one meal a day. But I don't think that's right anymore."

What she had given up was the determination to go further. Now, Aesia said, she had found that determination, that spirit, again. When he asked why, she answered,

"Because I saw Dame Oara's back."

As he left the knight Oara's city, Encrid reflected anew that her death had affected everyone on that battlefield.

Then they reached the gate. Roman stood in their way, his greatsword resting on his shoulder.

"I still don't understand."

His determination was unmistakable as he spoke: for now, they would not be passing through the gate behind him. At his back stood a unit of soldiers, Milio among them, along with the short-haired blonde proto knight.