"I'll go get the recruits in order. Just a moment."

Roford turned away. He had work to do, too. Today was the day he picked out any recruits who wanted to challenge him and sparred with them—a reward at the end of their grueling training.

"I gave you my word, didn't I? Anyone who beats me gets to serve directly under the General."

Roford stepped before the platform to speak. Water pooled along the edge of its roof spilled down, wetting his hair.

Behind him, Rem complained.

"Did all those bastards catch on and run?"

If either Ragna or Jaxon had foreseen that Rem would recover his spells and attain knight-level strength, they ought to be holding crystal balls, not swinging swords. So of course they hadn't run.

Encrid looked toward Roford after hearing what he had said. He hadn't authorized this, but the whole business had Krais's touch. Audin was the best at working recruits into the ground, but motivating them was another matter. That required knowing how to handle people, and by any measure, it wasn't Audin's forte. Encrid knew that from learning the Isolation Technique under him.

["Lift it."]

["I've got no strength left."]

["Yes, you do."]

["My arms won't move."]

["Yes, they will."]

That was Audin's approach.

Would Roford be any different? He, too, had spent almost his entire life in a knight order. He wasn't unaccustomed to dealing with rough swordsmen, and he had probably dealt with his fair share of criminals. But managing and leading people was a separate skill.

That was what training was about. It built stamina and strength, but fundamentally, it was also a process of finding out what kind of person someone was. That meant pushing them at times and giving them appropriate rewards at others.

Encrid took the situation to mean Krais had been involved. Big-eyes might not be a seasoned mercenary, but when it came to the basics and principles of managing people—ordinary people in particular—Krais would know best.

* * *

Those gathered here had been drawn by Encrid's name, but some refused to believe in his abilities on rumors alone. There was plenty of talk, yes, but who knew how good he actually was?

Marco was a spearman whose skill had earned the recognition of a renowned spear master in a western trading city. Frankly, he believed you couldn't trust even half of what rumors said. Otherwise, those supposedly great figures in the West—the Harpy Slayer, the Colony Destroyer, and the like—would have amounted to more than they did.

That was why he had come all this way, naturally burning to prove himself. Only to hear that the so-called hero who had ended the civil war was away.

No training, no chance to spar? Fine. He had trained and followed their instructions thus far, but he was reaching his limit. His grievances were piling up.

This Roford fellow certainly looked formidable, but his intended opponent was the Demon Killer.

'Should I really show my techniques in advance?'

That would put him at a disadvantage of his own making. Most martial artists on the continent believed revealing their techniques first disadvantaged them. Marco was no exception, and he wanted to take all that fame for himself in a single match. So he had held back, again and again. Until today.

If Audin hadn't gone off to fast and pray, if Ragna hadn't gotten lost, if Pell had been sociable enough to be here, Marco would never have entertained such thoughts.

He wasn't looking at Roford. His gaze was fixed on Encrid. His curly hair, rain-soaked into strands like limp seaweed, obscured his vision, and he swept a hand across his face.

"Grrr."

A gray-haired beast was grinding his molars behind Encrid, but Marco didn't spare him a glance. Some recruits watched Roford. Marco's gaze hadn't wavered from the start.

'Encrid.'

General. Hero. Ender of the Civil War. Demon Killer. Savior of the Kingdom. Guardian of Border Guard. The King's Dear Friend. Destroyer of the Gray Demonic Realm. The man's epithets went on and on.

Seeing him in person, he certainly didn't seem to be some half-trained fighter, but...

'Would I definitely lose if we fought?'

Surely not. Marco was confident. He had learned spearmanship from books, yet even as a child, no one around him could match him. As an adult, whenever he met anyone of roughly comparable skill, a month at most was enough to catch up. He had sought out teachers of swordsmanship and spearmanship, but none had satisfied him. He didn't win every time. But he had never let a defeat be the end of it.

Marco exhaled. Autumn might be arriving with the rain, but the air was still warm. Everything felt unpleasantly sticky, but what did that matter? Showing his skill was what mattered, and now was the time.

Encrid had felt the gaze on him for a while. With no reason to avoid it, he stared straight back.

"May I choose my own opponent?" Marco asked.

Some soldiers came to Border Guard for the high pay, but many came to measure their abilities. Encrid knew the type well. The look alone said it all. This one would challenge him.

He had neither the intention nor the desire to avoid it. More importantly, he had learned a few things on the way here and needed a good opponent to test them on. Some were still too rough to use against Rem.

"Would you mind?"

Encrid never turned challengers away. That would hold true even now, fresh from a long journey. At Roford's question, he nodded and set down his pack.

He considered drawing Aker, then went down with only his gladius. Perhaps from rough use, its scabbard had loosened, leaving the blade rattling inside. He would need to visit a smith in the city and have it seen to when he had time.

The recruit, Marco, brought out his weapon: a short spear a little longer than he was tall. The way he aimed it, hands spread wide along the shaft, was no ordinary stance. By a soldier's standards, anyway.

People outside knight orders described themselves as proto knights or squire-level fighters. By that measure, Marco could be called a proto knight. Having actually encountered such people, however, Encrid found that label, well, nonsense.

'They all die if you stab them, but there's a clear difference in skill.'

However he considered it, he couldn't imagine Roman, whom he had met in Oara, or Aesia, who would have returned to the palace by now, losing to a fellow like this.

"I don't think I can afford to hold back," Marco said.

Kind and honest, too. He was warning Encrid that he would attack in earnest, though his stance and presence had already said it all. Eyes That See One Step Ahead—the intuition and perception that would probably be called foresight once Encrid became a knight.

Encrid tossed his gladius lightly into the air and caught it in a reverse grip.

"... Is that your only weapon?"

At Marco's question, Encrid simply extended the fingers of his sword hand and beckoned.

Clenching his teeth, the seaweed-haired man cut through the rain. He was at least good enough to make his spearhead appear as a mere point.

Would he be a match for Roford? Encrid didn't know. For the old Roford, yes, but he didn't know about the man as he was now.

With that thought, Encrid swung his reverse-gripped gladius.

CLANG.

As he struck the spearhead aside, he closed in and drove his bare hand into his opponent's abdomen. He had devised the strike after watching Rem's kicks slam home like hurled spears. A stamp of his foot against the ground, then an extension of the arm powered by muscle alone, with no particular twist of the body. The short windup made it all the faster.

THUD.

"Ghk!"

The blow lifted Marco's feet briefly off the ground. Even then, he didn't let go of his spear. Sent a short way diagonally through the air, he flopped to the ground, his eyes drained of their vigor. He wasn't unconscious, but for a moment he looked as though his soul had left him.

He'd held on to his spear through all that, Encrid noted. If this had been a test, he would have declared him passed.

In any case, viewed simply, it had been nothing more than a series of basic movements: block, evade, strike.

SHHHHH.

The rain grew heavier.

"Ghurk."

Marco crawled along the ground. Encrid had controlled his strength, but that didn't mean the blow had been light. A full-strength strike might have ruptured his organs, leaving blood and pieces of his innards spilling from his mouth.

"... What was that?"

"I couldn't even see it."

A few recruits muttered. The difference in skill was unmistakable.

"Anyone else want to challenge him?" Roford asked.

Every recruit looked up. The meaning in their eyes was clear. Who would challenge him after seeing that?

Roford smiled brightly in the rain.

"Have a round with me, too."

With Ragna away, he had been itching for a fight lately. More importantly, there was something he had wanted to show Encrid when he returned.

Roford raised his blade into a high guard. Encrid gripped his gladius again.

"Now that's a welcome I welcome."

He had been curious about how Roford had changed anyway.

Roford focused. He split each moment, stretching time. His sustained, burning concentration made him forget his surroundings—the falling rain, the situation, time itself. Only the sword in his hand and his opponent remained in his awareness.

He had kept honing what Luagarne taught him and endured relentless beatings from Ragna. Through it all, he had gained something new. He called it the Eagle's Eye.

When he focused all five senses on his opponent, it felt as though he were watching them from high in the sky.

Encrid stood perfectly still. Roford watched through the Eagle's Eye, waiting for him to move.

Then Encrid moved.

A blade suddenly filled Roford's vision. Encrid had thrown his gladius without a windup. No, there had been a windup, but it was so fast that Roford's response came a little late. He slashed down in an instant.

CLANG!

The gladius spun away.

CRACK!

Heaven and earth rang out. That was how it felt to Roford. At the same time, lightning flashed before his eyes.

'Huh?'

Why was the world spinning?

Roford collapsed.

"You ought to choose your opponents more carefully."

Rem, his excitement cooled, spoke from the platform.

"Looks like you've finally had a little taste of success. You've still got a long way to go."

His tone was bored.

"Ah."

Seated in the muddy water, Roford let out a short exclamation. He had thought he'd caught up a little. Watching Encrid strike the recruit, he had thought his sword might be a match for him.

Not even close.

"So this is how hard it is to catch up with a genius," Roford said.

Ah. That explained it. Every recruit watching agreed.

Roford shook his head from side to side. His skull still rang. Encrid had thrown his sword while closing the distance, then delivered a high left kick to his jaw. Every movement had simply been performed at a speed beyond common sense. The shock of that single blow still lingered.

The recruits fell silent. Encrid had nothing much to say to being called a genius. It neither pleased nor offended him. It was simply what it was. If that was how the other man saw him, fair enough. Roford himself would know that words like genius and talent couldn't encompass everything a person had built.

"I'm heading inside."

Leaving behind the squire he had struck down as soon as he arrived, Encrid picked up his pack and crossed the training ground. Roford's voice rang out behind him.

"All right! If we work hard, we can be like that someday, too!"

Somewhere along the way, Roford had become a man of remarkable spirit.

"He dreams big."

"Not everyone can become that. That's why the world is unfair."

Rem and Luagarne spoke in turn.

"Were you always one to laugh at other people's dreams?" Encrid asked Rem.

"You didn't know? I've been laughing ever since you first said you'd become a knight, Captain."

He had indeed laughed.

"If someone inspires dreams, someone else must remind people of reality."

Luagarne spoke like a sage living in hiding on a hill behind the village. Though someone hiding on a nearby hill rather than deep in a forest or mountain was usually a charlatan, not a sage.

Still, she wasn't wrong. If a dream broke under words like that, no one could force it back onto its feet.

Encrid walked on and found their quarters unchanged. First, he would put his things down and wash. Then it would be nice to have a proper meal for the first time in a while, rather than camp food.

He opened the door.

Blue eyes, long black hair, and the same black clothes, with glimpses of skin showing through her robe. The mage sat in an antique chair she had acquired from who knew where. Legs crossed, she met his eyes.

"You're back?"

She spoke as though she had seen him only yesterday.

Beside her was a Fairy with an office desk—an even more absurd addition than the antique chair. She set down the object she had been working on with a carving knife and raised her head.

"You've returned, my betrothed."

The Fairy humor hadn't changed.

Esther left it at that, but Sinar didn't turn away. Her gaze was remarkably clear and direct.

SHHHHHH.

Rain poured outside, and the door closed with a soft thud behind him. The brazier in the middle of the room burned brightly. With its fire behind her, Sinar asked,

"Where is my gift?"

It wasn't as though he'd been on holiday. Why was she asking for gifts? Thinking that, Encrid set down his pack and started to say he had none, then closed his mouth.

Come to think of it, he had something for each of them. For instance, the dagger with an invisible blade for Jaxon. The magical items he had happened to bring along for Esther. And the broken sacred relic for Audin.

'Can I call these gifts?'

Probably not. Even so, he handed something to the Fairy asking for a present.

"It's a dagger that wards off calamity."

It was the Dagger of Sacrifice, useless to him but perhaps useful to someone else.

Sinar caught the dagger neatly, gave it a once-over, and tucked it away inside her clothes.

"Something's changed. Let's spar when the rain stops."

Then she chose the words that would please Encrid most. In that respect, she was a very thoughtful Fairy.

"Not a bad offer."

Encrid washed, ate, and sorted his belongings. Even so, rather than feeling he was home, he felt something was missing. Probably because all the fellows who ought to be here were away. They would return soon, but for now, yes, it felt a little empty.