“Your skill...”

The faint smile on Oara’s face dimmed slightly. She wasn’t someone who smiled all the time.

She wasn’t exactly startled, but the repeated blinking made it obvious to anyone—she was surprised.

It was only natural. It didn’t take many exchanges to realize how different he was now.

His inexhaustible Will—Uske—his swordsmanship, mindset, and how he wielded his Will.

The Enkrid she met back in the city that had been renamed from Thousand Brick to Oara, and the man standing before her now—were completely different.

Just moments ago, Oara had swung her sword down, and Enkrid had deflected it with a thrust.

Oara, /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ in turn, had stopped her pushed-back blade by sheer strength and footwork, dissipating the rest of the force.

The skill of the knight who renamed a city hadn’t faded. Enkrid confirmed that. And Oara recognized the man before her had clearly changed.

A faint smile appeared on her face again. Isn’t this more fun than I thought?

Seeing Enkrid changed like this, and crossing swords with him this way—it was perhaps the first time since her encounter with Balrog that a genuine smile had surfaced.

“Didn’t I once advise you to throw something away?”

She asked out of nostalgia. There was no particular motive behind it. Enkrid responded as if it wasn’t worth thinking about.

“Ah, I didn’t really listen.”

Oara chuckled as she answered his blunt reply.

“...This bastard’s got a real talent for provocation.”

And in that moment, Oara realized something else she hadn’t understood back in the city. This guy’s tongue was sharp as hell.

With that stoic face and calm demeanor, when he jabs at your nerves, it’s twice as effective. Oara, a veteran of the battlefield, knew that dynamic all too well.

Thud.

This time, Oara thrust, and Enkrid shortened his movement to cut downward. Their swords touched and parted with barely a spark. They swung, dodged, blocked, and deflected like it was a choreographed training session.

But this wasn’t Oara’s rhythm. She was moving to Enkrid’s tune.

‘So he’s improved enough to make it this far, but...’

Was it really to this extent?

Oara was surprised again and again. Originally, she hadn’t even intended to swing her sword today. She didn’t want to tire him out. Instead of sparring, she’d planned to talk. She only indulged him because he asked.

Even so, she knew this still wouldn’t be enough to surpass Balrog.

‘Not that I have any right to say so.’

Probably not. Oara moved, her eyes locked on his. Eyes as clear as a cloudless sky looked back at her.

Eyes that shone with a light rare in this place. Eyes that hinted at a determination that would not yield to anything. That’s why she couldn’t stop him. What right did she have to stop someone who chose to stand here and wield their sword with such will?

Even if the ending was already decided—even if the story was destined for tragedy—Oara had to read it through to the end.

‘It’s not enough.’

She knew because she had fought Balrog several times. He wasn’t just a monster with good technique.

As always, time was limited. Whether it was out there or inside the labyrinth, everything with a beginning has an end.

Oara now decided—it was time to begin, tragedy or not.

Thung.

Oara pushed off with her sword, as if saying the moment had come.

Enkrid was pushed back lightly and slid his sword into its scabbard. The movement had formality to it. One could almost imagine a military salute to follow. Oara thought to herself:

Yeah, he knows it’s time too.

Just as she was about to speak—

“Do you know any hand-to-hand combat?”

Enkrid cut her off.

Then, without warning, he threw a punch. Oara jerked back to dodge the fist aimed at her brow. This wasn’t a playful dodge like before. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

She twisted her hips, shifted her center of gravity, and snapped her neck to the side violently. At the same time, she extended a palm strike. These kinds of attacks can’t be avoided with dodging alone, hence the counter. A knight’s instinct and trained reflexes burst forth.

Thwack!

Enkrid aimed a left hook at her face, then followed with his right elbow, smashing into her extended palm. The impact was loud—it was a solid hit.

Oara’s blocked palm snapped back, and like a startled rabbit, she leapt two steps back. Her sword style revolved around nimble footwork—so even her retreat was refined. From a knight’s perspective, her weight shift and reflexes were remarkable.

“...What the hell?”

Oara asked, stepping back.

“Warm-up.”

Enkrid answered plainly.

“So I’m your warm-up?”

Oara realized once again how skilled this bastard was at getting under people’s skin. His tongue alone could piss you off more than battlefield trauma. The thought of Balrog momentarily vanished from her head.

“What now? No-smile Oara is third-rate? Pathetic? A hack? That sort of thing?”

And while the smiling Oara was a mentally tough knight, she was not the type to let provocations slide. Whatever was said, she was someone who crushed opponents with skill.

“That’s not exactly wrong.”

That calm, blue-eyed bastard said it with the most nonchalant expression. That serenity was the part that really scraped your nerves.

Oara responded, and Enkrid smiled. That smile, too, she took as provocation.

“Alright, let’s see you die.”

There was a time she had roamed the battlefield with just one sword. That was before she became a knight.

“Come at me, all of you!”

Her name became famous after she cut down ten renowned mercenaries by herself.

Back then, those ten had set an ambush targeting her alone. In a war where elite small-unit tactics were becoming the norm, they thought killing her—even if they lost the battle—would win the war.

“I’ll make you crawl under my crotch.”

The one who spouted that was the first to have his crotch sliced open. Oara didn’t tolerate provocations. Why did she remember that now?

Shaking off the fragmented thoughts, Oara grabbed her sword. Laughter, her engraved weapon, was gone. But the me who once wielded that sword still remained.

Whether that was a piece of her soul, a leftover memory, or just a shard of will—she didn’t know.

He had asked about hand-to-hand combat, but she ignored that completely and reached for her blade.

Srrng.

The drawn sword flowed naturally. Her sword was an unbroken line. A wave that never stopped.

Oara’s blade drew a diagonal path—and Enkrid’s sword met it on a mirrored diagonal. A reversed strike, like watching a reflection.

The two blades met midair.

Thang—!

Sparks scattered.

That meant both of them had swung with full force. Oara wore loose sleeves, but the clash just now had shoved her sleeve up to her elbow.

Muscle strands beneath rippled like waves.

‘Smooth.’

In that brief moment of blades meeting, Enkrid recognized the nature of Oara’s sword.

It wasn’t due to any disparity in skill. It was because he had known her for a long time and had trained using parts of her technique as a standard.

He pressed forward, pushing her sword to the side with sheer strength—a heavy, deliberate shove.

Kagagang!

Just before their swords locked in a bind, Oara realized she was losing the diagonal clash—and withdrew instantly. But just as quickly, she sprang forward and slashed again diagonally.

Tatak!

The sound of her feet pounding the ground was followed by a dull-colored blade sweeping down the same slanted arc.

If the earlier strike had been soft, this one was forceful. Enkrid lifted his sword and gently redirected it.

Keekeeging—

Their blades crossed and traded places. A moment ago, it had been Oara with the fire at her back—but now it was Enkrid, the bonfire at his rear.

The torchlight was distant, and the campfire near. Between them, their overlapping shadows flickered. As their blades and bodies intersected, so too did their gazes.

His expressionless blue eyes remained unwavering, clear, and pure.

And in that moment, Oara understood why those ten mercenaries had come to mind earlier.

She had known about the ambush all along. Their tactics weren’t exactly sophisticated.

But she had played along anyway—just like now.

This was a sparring match by mutual agreement. Oara knew that if she fought seriously, she could leave at least one wound, even if this was just a shard of Will. But she didn’t.

“You’ve really improved.”

“Thanks to ignoring your advice back then.”

“...Did you always talk like that?”

“Oh, must’ve gone over your head, Dame Oara. I’ve always been like this.”

If there were a continent-wide championship for infuriating speech, this bastard would be the undefeated champion.

Oara had wanted to help Enkrid through this bout—pass on some of the experience she’d gained fighting Balrog.

‘...Why do you already know everything?’

How to use wings. How to slip free from pressure. The surprise kicks that fly in from outside the range of calculation.

‘You know it all.’

It was only natural—Enkrid had fought Balrog over a hundred times recently. But from Oara’s perspective, it still felt odd.

Not something she could question, though.

From that point on, Oara understood what Enkrid truly wanted. Even without words, just crossing blades let their intentions connect.

She stopped defending and simply swung. Enkrid blocked, deflected, and flowed around every strike she threw.

A battered iron sword with chipped teeth remained gripped in Oara’s hand.

Their duel went on and on. So long, in fact, that even a band of madmen would have time to track down their equally mad leader.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

Oara finally pulled back after a long bout. Enkrid naturally lowered his sword and regained his stance.

There was no time to exchange words.

Oara’s body flew sideways—snatched away like a puppet on a string.

Then, from the shadow where she had stood, a crimson foot burst out.

At some point, their positions had reversed, and now Oara had the fire to her back. Their shadows had overlapped—so the kick had come from right in front.

Enkrid’s mind stretched time. The air pressed down heavily on his shoulders. His vision exceeded human limits as he recognized what had emerged from the shadow.

Even without seeing it, he would have known. The insight born of experience told him what had happened.

Balrog’s foot had erupted from the darkness. Even in stretched time, that foot left a hazy afterimage. No matter how far his thoughts stretched, the trajectory and speed were unavoidable.

And it wasn’t just the foot—there was pressure embedded in it.

Shapeless pressure, manifesting as burning chains, gripped his limbs.

Boom!

Enkrid was kicked.

His body shot backward, looking like it would crash straight into the wall—

But it didn’t.

Thud.

A massive hand—bear-like in size—caught his back mid-air, redirecting the force to the side.

The giant figure that caught him spun as it did, dissipating the strength that could’ve smashed through a wall.

A buzzing echoed in Enkrid’s ears. He’d protected his body with Will, but the sudden impact caused a ringing.

It faded quickly—thanks to the resilience of his body.

And the one who had trained that body to this point...

Was now the one supporting his back.