Rem, Ragna, and Jaxon exchanged looks, then nodded. They had reached an agreement.

Squatting in front of them, Luagarne nodded and said, "No disputing the result."

"As long as nobody pulls any bullshit," Rem said, sliding a whetstone along his axe blade.

"Just roll it," Jaxon added, holding a piece of wood in his left hand and a dagger in his right. Each movement of the dagger shaved through the green wood like butter, carving it into shape.

"Sometimes when I lost my way, I rolled dice to decide where to go," Ragna put in. The blond genius was warming up without even sheathing his sword. He looked as though he was waiting with something firmly in mind.

"That's why you get lost," Rem replied to that absurd remark.

"Who does?" Ragna asked calmly. Who got lost? He had no idea.

That what-are-you-talking-about tone and attitude grated on Rem's nerves.

"You."

WHUMMM.

The butt of the axe haft, opposite the blade, pointed at Ragna. As Rem spoke, he imbued a spell with determination and unleashed it, exerting an invisible pressure.

Ragna turned his sword hand slightly, angling the edge toward Rem. The determination in the blade cut through the pressure-exerting spell.

Neither had won or lost. It was a bit of idle horseplay. Of course, with these two involved, their horseplay amounted to a high-level contest, but that meant anything only to someone capable of recognizing it. Anyone who could would have shaken their head at their childishness.

"If you're jealous of my talent as a guide, diligent practice is your only answer," Ragna said.

"... Right. I could just kill you first. Here I was wondering why we were going to all this trouble," Rem replied without pausing for breath.

"If killing were allowed, this would have been over long ago."

Watching the two, Jaxon set his carving on the ground as he spoke. It depicted two figures with half-severed necks and dangling heads. One bore an odd resemblance to Rem, the other an uncanny resemblance to Ragna.

He had enough talent to have made a great success of himself as a sculptor. Though it was not simply a matter of talent: he had trained to find and strike the weaknesses of different races while honing his senses, and had spent years carving as a hobby.

As the three men's presences pressed down on the air with a menace that went beyond chilling to dizzying, Luagarne slapped the ground. The Frog's knobbly palm struck the earth.

THUMP.

"Focus."

Their presences subsided at her words. Unless they truly meant to kill one another, leaving the outcome in this Frog's hands was the sensible choice for now.

Once all three had withdrawn their presences, Luagarne gave a small nod and put her hand over the cup on the ground.

What contest best tested luck rather than skill?

The traditional game of rock-paper-scissors had failed to settle things between them. All three kept altering their hands in tiny increments, watching one another's changing shapes in real time and trying to change their own fingers accordingly. Absurd claims and trickery abounded.

The finishing blow had been Rem's declaration after he made a hand shape that was neither fist, rock, nor scissors. His thumb and forefinger were extended, while the other three fingers were bent so his palm remained fully visible.

"This is my clan's unique specialty: steel-bearing scissors, an even blend of scissors, rock, and fist."

Utter nonsense.

"My fist breaks anything wrapped around it," Ragna said.

"Isn't it perfectly obvious that scissors can cut rock?" Jaxon added.

There was no end to it.

In the end, the three sought an impartial witness to settle their contest. That was Luagarne. They agreed to use a die, and now the Frog lifted the cup containing it.

Her hand shot up.

But things did not always go to plan. The Frog's slippery skin lost its grip on the cup, and only her hand rose. Watching the three project their presences had made oil seep onto her hands.

"Ah, slippery."

They had chosen the wrong witness. Or the wrong game.

"You really have nothing better to do, do you?"

Krais, who had approached in the meantime, took over the cup. He put his old gambling-house skills to work. No one had time to stop him, nor did anyone want to.

Just shake the damn cup and show us the die. Those three pairs of murderous eyes said it all.

Krais grasped the cup and shook it vigorously.

RATTLE-RATTLE-RATTLE!

The die tumbled inside the wooden cup. It had six faces: Rem had chosen the highest two numbers, Ragna the middle two, and Jaxon the lowest two.

RATTLE, TAP.

Krais's hand stopped, and the die came to rest on the ground beneath the cup.

"What are we doing this for, anyway?"

Old habits resurfaced. Remembering how he used to build anticipation before revealing the result, Krais made as if to lift the cup, then stopped to ask.

"Just lift it, brother. You'll get yourself killed."

That kindly advice came from Audin. The three pairs of eyes fixed on Krais's hand were already burning into him. Even a robber holding a blade in his face would have seemed less menacing than those eyes.

Krais lifted the cup. The die showed five.

"I knew Mother Bear would help me."

Rem grinned. Jaxon shook his head, and Ragna gave a thoughtful hum and glared at the die. Should he split it in half right now and pretend this had never happened? He was considering it.

"I think that's enough."

Encrid's words from one side of the training ground made Ragna abandon the idea. Splitting the die would mean deciding the order all over again. They had kept Encrid waiting too long for that.

It was yesterday that Encrid had awakened and they had confirmed his knighthood.

["Just give me a day to refine things."]

Rather than ask to spar, Encrid had shaken his head. Audin had helped him with that refinement.

["Hit me."]

They had begun the training known as the striking method.

THUD.

It started with light punches.

WHAM!

Later, the punches carried a measure of genuine force.

["You must tell me if it gets too much, brother,"] Audin said.

Encrid kept taking the blows from noon until shortly before evening. Audin was drenched in sweat, and Teresa's eyes trembled as she watched.

'Can anyone safely take those punches like that?'

Knight or not, it was astonishing that he could endure them. Audin had planted himself in a proper stance, adding rotational force that traveled from his ankles through his knees and waist into each punch.

Besides, the surface of Audin's fists was like steel. Repeated training had made his hands not merely thick but hard. Calling them maces would not have been an exaggeration.

In other words, Encrid was enduring the equivalent of a strong warrior swinging a mace with all his might. And not a single groan escaped him. Not after one blow, nor after dozens upon dozens.

["Ironclad."]

Watching, Luagarne exclaimed in admiration. Croak after croak rang out, her cheeks vibrating with more excitement than if she had found rain after days away from water.

["How is that possible?"]

Luagarne muttered it to herself, not to Encrid. She had decided she first needed to observe and understand his present state herself. She had even told him separately that she would ask if she had questions. Until then, he was to leave her be and let her watch.

Everything about Encrid now piqued her curiosity. Before, it had mostly been anticipation; now it was something beyond that. Even at this very moment, one thing after another was shattering her expectations.

She did not want to satisfy all that curiosity with a few answers.

Frogs had their peculiar ways of satisfying their desires, so Encrid more or less took it in stride. He had plenty to do himself. He was trying all sorts of things to check his capabilities.

That was how he spent the entire day.

["Aren't you exhausted?"]

It reached the point where even Teresa had to ask, yet Encrid remained unruffled. A moderate sheen of sweat, bruises scattered over his body. Mere bruises, one ought to say. After all, the tools that had made them were the fists attached to Audin's body—a body God must have made by mistake.

["Not too bad. I'm managing,"] Encrid replied.

He seemed absorbed in some thought, but Teresa did not notice. What was happening before her eyes was too astonishing.

["If you withdraw your Will and endure with your body alone, you will grow tougher, brother."]

Audin was streaming with sweat as he spoke. Teresa thought she had never seen him sweat so much. That was how much effort he had put into his punches. More astonishing still, Encrid was sweating less than he was.

Even after taking those blows. Those fists.

Small wonder she was amazed.

That was how Encrid had spent his day. From dawn the next morning, Rem, Jaxon, and Ragna had argued over who would spar with him first. Rock-paper-scissors had collapsed under absurd tricks and claims, bringing them to the present.

There had been no rain lately since the seasonal rains ended. The earth had dried, and even a small breeze sent dust drifting.

RUSTLE.

A few fallen blades of grass off to one side blew away on the wind.

Krais, who had been squatting in a corner of the training ground to roll the die, moved back, naturally leaving an open space. Encrid stood holding Aker.

"How deep are we going?"

Rem offered no explanation, but Encrid understood perfectly. If ten meant fighting in earnest, how far would they go?

"Five," Encrid answered.

If they sparred in earnest, one of them could die.

"I don't have good control yet. Be careful."

Rem grinned at Encrid's warning.

"Who are you talking to? Lost Boy? The alley cat? Or our baby bear, depressed because he's the only one left behind?"

For someone who revered Mother Bear, Rem had no trouble tormenting another bear. Since his return, he had even taken to calling Audin the youngest.

Well, Mother Bear and wild bears were different. Making distinctions was Rem's specialty. That was why he had been able to live with spells since childhood without trouble.

Learn to distinguish things properly, and you would not do anything as foolish as get drawn in by wraiths. Fail to distinguish them, on the other hand, and you would do something fucking idiotic like take a demon into your body and spew ten thousand wraiths.

"Mine's an ancestral weapon. A half-baked magic sword won't cut it. This one's got a mind of its own."

Sentient weapons: the general term for weapons with a consciousness of their own. They belonged to the distant reaches of legends and histories, but they did exist.

Rem's ancestral weapon had emotions, and the power it released varied somewhat with the intensity of those emotions. Advantages came with disadvantages. Its inconsistency as a medium for spells was a drawback. The advantage was that when it erupted, it went utterly wild.

At such times, he honestly felt confident of taking on three knights at once. Knights as he understood them, of course. Not all knights were alike.

There were people like Oara, and people like the knight from Aspen. Both had attained the same rank, but viewed dispassionately, there was a gap between them.

Still, you never knew how a fight would go until you fought it. Best not to make absolute claims.

As Rem held out his axe, these thoughts passing through his head, Encrid said something strange. To Rem, it sounded like nonsense.

"Yours too?"

"What do you mean, mine too?"

"My sword talks, too."

"It talks?"

If it went beyond expressing emotions to actually speaking, shouldn't it be called a demon sword? Or perhaps a divine sword?

Whether that was fortunate or not, it was neither. From a conversation with the sword half a day earlier, Encrid already knew that the Aker in his hand was a very unusual weapon.

"Yes. Mostly nonsense, though."

-Hey, what do you mean, nonsense? You think swords with the thoughts of a knight from a past generation bound inside are common?

Right on cue, Aker hummed, sending words through Encrid's mind that only he could understand.

"Let's talk later," Encrid muttered.

Sentient sword or not, now was the time to fight Rem.

"Fair enough."

Rem agreed with the words Encrid had addressed to his sword and dismissed his own stray thoughts. When fighting, you should think of nothing but the fight. Worry about how to escape or what to do afterward, and you would not show even half your true ability.

His opponent was his Captain, who had awakened and mastered Will. He would not let his guard down.

Show me how much you've changed.

Without a word to mark the start or any signal, Rem swung his axe. Encrid swung his sword to meet it.

Rem's axe was a little faster, but Encrid was barely behind. Their speeds were so close that even an attentive observer would have struggled to tell the difference.

CLANG!

Sparks flew where Aker met the axe, and Encrid's blue eyes traced long streaks. He stepped in, closing the distance, then brought his sword up in a rising cut. It was a follow-up strike that slipped between breaths. Rem brought his axe down at precisely the same moment.

CLANG!

A second clash. Then Aker and the axe met and parted, met and parted, countless times. Like a pair of lovers seething with fickle passion.

After dozens of such meetings and partings, Rem stepped back.

'What the hell is this?'

He was astonished once more. Encrid's shoulders rose and fell slightly. Rem had deliberately kept their weapons clashing, forcing more collisions.

He had a purpose. Ragna or Jaxon would probably have done the same. Controlling the sense of omnipotence was all well and good, but afterward there was something more important to grasp: the limits of Will.

When did it run out? You learned your limit, then regulated your use accordingly. Rem considered that the next step. Spells were much the same.

But...

"Aren't you tired?"

"Worn out already?"

Encrid's body was screaming, yet the Will within it remained exactly as it had been at the start. Like a spring that never ran dry, its waters seemed to well up without end.