CHAPTER 650: CHAPTER 650 - EVEN IF TALENT SPEAKS OF LIMITS, THE HEART DOES NOT

Chapter 650 - Even If Talent Speaks of Limits, the Heart Does Not

The road back was smooth.

There were, of course, no bandits in sight, and monsters or beasts appeared only rarely.

A group of migrating fairies followed Enkrid and his companions from far behind.

The two groups moved with half a day’s distance between them, and after passing a few hills, they were no longer within each other’s sight.

Even if this was merely an advance party, it was still part of a city’s migration.

Even if only a fraction, the scale was large enough that even at a slow pace, Enkrid’s group was bound to gain some distance.

After all, when people gather, their pace naturally slows.

By the second day, when it came time to set up camp, Luagarne once again witnessed Enkrid’s strength.

It was a spar with Fel.

"Bridal thief!"

Fel attempted a crude provocation.

Naturally, it had no effect on Enkrid.

Instead, Enkrid seized the moment when Fel opened his mouth to taunt and struck first, throwing him even further off balance against an opponent he would have lost to even in a normal fight.

’His tactical execution has become even cleaner.’

It was as if someone had locked him up and refined him through years of rigorous training.

Moments like these were always fascinating to witness.

Regardless of talent, there were times when his skill would suddenly and noticeably surge.

But this time, there was something even more surprising.

’Hmm.’

It was a fast-paced spar.

Fel couldn’t even find a moment to speak.

Naturally, all he could do was move his hands and feet in silence.

Enkrid wasn’t even using his pressure.

Without exchanging a word, they had, at some point, entered a match of pure strength and technique.

It was all orchestrated by Enkrid.

’No, by now, even technique is absent.’

It was pure strength and speed.

That alone was enough to drive his opponent into a corner.

If one possesses overwhelming strength, there is no room for half-baked techniques to slip in.

They say softness can deflect strength.

A heavy, straightforward sword, when caught in a flowing motion, easily veers off course.

But what if that sheer force was so overwhelming that it disregarded the flow altogether?

That was exactly what Enkrid was demonstrating now.

Fel had just barely avoided a blade grazing his neck, yet he had no room to even process it.

One wrong breath and he would die.

It was a different kind of crisis than the threat posed by a feinting sword.

It felt as if a cold-blooded lizard was running its frigid tongue along his spine.

Fel poured all his strength into a single swing.

He had no choice.

Enkrid’s seemingly reckless swings carried lethal trajectories and crushing force with every strike.

It was a relentless series of close calls, as if he were a prey animal moments away from having his throat torn out by a beast.

Fel consciously infused his will into his sword.

A single misstep would mean falling into the abyss.

He was barely holding on, his fingertips gripping the edge of a cliff.

If his fingers lost strength, he would plummet.

Fierce winds occasionally swept through.

He had to tighten his core—losing balance meant death.

The sunlight stung his eyes.

Yet even a single mistimed blink felt like it could cost him his life.

’I’ll die.’

Fel instinctively knew.

And Enkrid swung his sword without a hint of hesitation.

Bang!

Fel did not let go of his weapon.

His arm was merely pushed back by the force of Enkrid’s deflection.

Taking advantage of the moment, Enkrid stepped in and pressed his free hand lightly against Fel’s chest.

"I win," Enkrid declared.

It was an obvious outcome.

"...Hah."

Fel finally exhaled.

He had been completely overpowered, not with technique, but with sheer force.

The fact that his crude provocation had failed was expected, but—

’This monstrous bastard.’

Something had changed.

The way Enkrid wielded his sword, the way he used his will—it was different from when they first arrived here.

Which meant, once again, he had broken past another wall in a short period of time.

No one needed to say it aloud—Fel could tell.

He let out a slow breath, acknowledging the wound to his pride.

If this was enough to break him, he wouldn’t have lasted this long.

’I’ll catch up somehow.’

For the first time, he had a resolve he had never possessed before.

Fel’s eyes burned with determination.

Meanwhile, Luagarne was deep in thought, replaying what Enkrid had just displayed.

’He tailored the fight to Fel.’

In other words, Enkrid had the luxury to do so.

What had changed?

A Frog’s eye for talent perceived not only a person’s movements and posture but also their innate potential in its rawest form.

That instinct sparked several realizations in Luagarne’s mind.

’He wielded a heavy and swift sword with ease.’

Not just once or twice, but consistently.

He adjusted to Fel’s pace while regulating his own intensity.

Simply put, it was like a seasoned lumberjack, armed with every skill he had mastered, swinging his axe in an unbroken rhythm.

And all of this was done without any need to steady his breath or compose himself.

’It was only possible in a state of extreme concentration.’

By heightening his focus, he poured everything into each swing.

He must have referenced what he learned when capturing walking fire.

Then, if Enkrid were to unleash his full power now, what could he achieve?

’Prolonged high-speed combat.’

When they had stopped the Demon One-Killer, Enkrid had rebuilt his understanding of swordsmanship.

’And that’s not all.’

To construct a sword art means to fully grasp both its meaning and its execution.

Naturally, this would affect the wielder as well.

’Beginner, intermediate, and advanced, was it?’

By the system Enkrid had structured, he had now ascended beyond intermediate.

His individuality had become unmistakably clear.

’Urke.’

A swordsmanship built upon an inexhaustible well of will.

Luagarne’s insight was precise.

Since leaving the fairy city, Enkrid had gained clarity on what he was capable of.

Prolonged high-speed combat, with stamina as his foundation.

And why had this happened?

His accumulated experiences had shaped his present self.

Both Rievart and Knight Jamal specialized in battles of endurance.

’He was influenced by them.’

And Enkrid had no hesitation in admitting it.

There was nothing wrong with that.

In fact, it even felt as if something within him had reached completion.

With this, it felt as though he could defeat anyone.

At the same time, he felt as if he had reached a wall.

A limit.

The way forward was obscured, as if there was nowhere left to climb, nowhere left to advance.

And yet, something within him refused to accept that this was the end.

Talent always speaks of limits.

But the will held within one’s heart knows no such bounds.

’Once again.’

As he defeated Fel, Enkrid organized his thoughts.

By reflecting on what he had, he came to understand even more.

No one needed to tell him—he simply knew.

For example—

A knight’s skill and mindset are a reflection of the life they have lived.

And thus, will is everything.

This was why the knight he met in the Holy Knights had such a flimsy will.

One could become a knight purely through talent, but the blade forged from such shallow resolve would be no different from a block of cheese full of holes.

’There is no knight without an oath.’

And this was why oaths and convictions were essential to knights.

Because they were the foundation upon which will was sustained.

This must be why Oara’s will shone so brightly.

Not every dream needed to be grand.

And oaths, too, must all be respected.

This understanding aligned perfectly with Enkrid’s own beliefs.

"Are human talents all the same color? No, they are all different. We can see the limits of talent, but we cannot see its color. That’s why we have to experience it firsthand—and that was a great pleasure."

Of course, it wasn’t as entertaining as watching someone like Enkrid break past his limits.

The pursuit of the unknown, the desire to uncover mysteries—Lagarne was particularly driven by such urges, even among the Frogs.

Naturally, this led to an accumulation of vast knowledge.

After all, the desire to understand the unknown makes learning enjoyable.

"Some follow the color of their talent, putting their full force into a single strike like that guy over there, while others, like the fairies, are influenced by their racial traits and wield their swords in unique ways."

***

Not far away, Fel and Zero were engrossed in training, swinging their swords through the air.

Their blades traced distinct trajectories, yet the result was the same—slashes and thrusts.

However, their approach was vastly different.

Fel delivered a single decisive strike against an imagined enemy, while Zero struck six times in succession.

Enkrid mulled over Luagarne’s words.

As he thought about it, a conversation he had with Fel a few days ago came to mind—one where they joked about bride kidnappers.

’Fel’s moves are easy to read.’

That was because he didn’t feel the need to hide them.

But why?

That was simply the kind of person Fel was.

A memory from the fairy city flickered through Enkrid’s mind.

’Ermen completes deception by choosing silence.’

There was a refinement to it.

Why was that?

Most fairies shared a similar nature, yet Ermen seemed especially exceptional.

It felt similar to Krais.

Again, Fel preferred improvisation.

So did Rem.

Ragna, despite appearances, enjoyed strategy.

However, he also knew when to abandon tactics and simply overpower his opponent.

Each had their own nature.

Enkrid reconstructed and refined his understanding, categorizing traits beyond just the realm of knights.

’Forms are shaped by individual temperament.’

That was what it meant for Frogs to see the color of talent.

"A long time ago, a certain Frog arbitrarily classified talents with names like Mole Cricket, Mayfly, Chrysalis, and Caterpillar."

LUagarne’s words made sense now.

Enkrid had just added a few concepts to his mental framework.

The way one wielded a weapon and their natural disposition affected how they internalized combat systems.

That meant both instruction and learning should vary accordingly.

If individuals understood their own nature, it would be even more effective for them to train and hone their skills.

’Lethal Strike, Sustained, Versatile.’

Three broad categories were enough.

As he had learned before, completion was more important than perfection.

Fel was a Lethal Strike type.

Ropord was Sustained.

They were entirely distinct.

Some possessed both from the beginning—the Versatile type.

’It seems advantageous to have both rather than just one, but in reality, it’s far less efficient.’

Being versatile wasn’t always a good thing.

Pursuing two paths required twice the time and effort.

Following Luagarne’s logic, talent was like a well with a finite amount of water—dividing it between two buckets didn’t increase the total amount.

The total didn’t change, but the division made it weaker.

Against those who specialized, they would be at a disadvantage.

Among fighters, there were those obsessed with training their bodies (Physical Type), and those who delved into techniques (Technical Type).

’Physical Types suit heavy swords or quick swords.’

’Technical Types suit light swords and illusionary blades.’

Martial techniques were classified and refined, with each person adding their own style.

Enkrid had done the same.

He also realized that knowing oneself was crucial.

’I’m a Sustained Type.’

At least for now.

With Uker, he had endurance as a strong suit.

Coincidentally, both Rievart and the knight of Aspen specialized in prolonged battles, so he had ample opportunity to observe and learn from them.

’Ultimately, shouldn’t one incorporate both Lethal Strike and Sustained approaches?’

He couldn’t see the full picture yet, but he could faintly sense the forward and upward path.

Within the knight order, there was one individual who stood out.

Jaxen.

He was both Lethal Strike and Technical Type—perhaps a Lethal-Technical Hybrid.

A rare case.

Normally, Lethal Strike would align with Physical Type.

’No, there’s no definitive answer.’

If one predefined an answer, only fakes would emerge.

That was likely how the Holy Kingdom had produced their counterfeits—forcing individuals down predetermined paths.

"Aah."

A rush of exhilaration surged through Enkrid.

The joy of not just learning, but creating.

A thrill ran from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.

Looking up, he saw two red-stained moons in the sky—Twin Blood Moons.

Night had fallen before he realized it.

Lost in thought as he walked, he had momentarily forgotten he was even moving.

Though he had been aware enough to avoid stumbling, he was only now fully registering his surroundings.

Lifting his head, he saw an unwelcome guest.

"I’ve been waiting, Enkrid of Border Guard."

A voice rang out in the moonlit night, without a trace of presence.

Enkrid’s eyes caught a black curtain materializing and then vanishing before him.

’Perception Disruption Spell.’

A spell that prevented one from recognizing the veil’s presence until it disappeared.

However, having encountered it before, he sensed a vague discordance before it was too late.

That brief moment of dissonance snapped his thoughts into focus, allowing him to grasp the situation.

As the perception-blocking veil lifted, a group emerged.

One clad in pitch-black armor.

Two others wearing robes instead of armor.

At the center stood a man gripping a long pole.

At the end of the pole was a circular iron frame, jagged spikes protruding from its edges—it seemed to symbolize something.

"We are from the Holy Land of the Demon Realm, the Church of Return."

Under the crimson moonlight, their presence was unmistakably formidable.

"We have brought the remaining Apostles."

The moment he finished speaking, Enkrid’s instincts flared.

Beneath his feet, the earth splintered as sharp iron spikes shot up—targeting his abdomen, Luagarne’s heart, Zero’s head, and Fel’s throat.

Enkrid’s thoughts accelerated.

For a brief moment, everything seemed to freeze.

As though submerged in dense, pressurized mud, time itself slowed.

Within that space, Enkrid did what he had to do.

***

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