Chapter 1: My Dream Was to Be a Knight
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 1: My Dream Was to Be a Knight
The instructor who taught Encrid the way of the sword was a kind man, rarely one for harsh words.
"You."
Leaning against his sword—which he had planted vertically into the dirt, still sheathed—the instructor called out to him.
"Go back to your village. If you don't want to farm, join the village watch. You’d probably end up as their captain."
If Encrid had listened to the instructor—a man who had spent his life living by the blade—things might have turned out a little better.
But he hadn't.
The problem was a single remark he had heard in his childhood.
"Enki, you're a genius."
He had sparred with a neighborhood troublemaker three or four years his senior using wooden swords, and he had won handily. He was eleven years old then, and it was the first time anyone had ever called him a genius.
He didn't realize it then. He didn't know that the other kid had simply been pathetic with a blade.
At fifteen, Encrid sparred with a village adult and won. After that, his confidence soared. In the small village where he was born, no one actually knew how to use a sword properly. The only exception was a former third-rate mercenary—a drifter who had lost a leg and settled in their village.
He taught swordsmanship to the local children, and Encrid was his star pupil.
"You're a genius."
At fifteen, he heard those words for the second time. If the first time had been from an ignorant villager, this time it was from a mercenary who claimed to have abandoned his knighthood and lost his leg for the sake of a lady.
I really am a genius.
That was what he believed. He harbored a dream: he would become a knight. A knight who would serve the lord destined to unify the war-torn continent. A knight who would bring an end to the bloodshed.
Around that time, a bard's song spread across the land. It traveled so far that it eventually reached Encrid's tiny village. The lyrics were simple, but the melody was captivating, and the final verses shook his very soul.
The knight who brings the war to its knees!
The knight who stains the battlefield in twilight!
Behold, the Twilight Knight!
The Knight of Ruin!
The Knight of the End!
The one who shall bring the final peace!
The song set the hearts of young boys and girls ablaze.
That will be me.
Encrid was no exception. At eighteen, believing there was no one left in the village who could match him, he left home. He had no parents, no siblings. He had a few friends, but having been obsessed with the sword since childhood, there were very few people he was truly close to.
Amidst that solitude, the boy grew up and departed.
And so, he began his life as a mercenary.
His skills weren't bad. His work ethic, in particular, was commendable. But two months were more than enough for him to realize he was no genius. He was thoroughly beaten by a nameless, third-rate mercenary.
"You're still green," the man had told him.
Encrid believed all he needed was a better teacher. He saved every copper. He worked himself to the bone. He fought bandits, putting his life on the line time and time again. With the money he earned, he sought out training halls. In the larger territories, there were usually a few schools of swordsmanship.
He learned. He practiced. He wasn't entirely unlucky, for his instructor there was honest and conscientious.
The man told Encrid to lay down his sword.
"No. I won't," Encrid replied. He did not give up.
"You really are diligent. So diligent."
Everyone who saw Encrid said the exact same thing. He had to be. He believed that effort never betrayed you. His palms tore, and his muscles trembled, but he repeated the forms countless times. Among those of his own level, he did well enough.
Encrid was an exceptionally hard worker. Saving money and wandering from one training hall to another, he spent his twenties in a blur of steel and sweat. By the time he passed twenty-five, his experience and skills had accumulated enough for him to make a modest name for himself as a mercenary.
Even so, it was only in small territories that people would occasionally recall him and say, "Ah, that guy? He's decent with a sword."
Even then, he still held a sliver of hope—hope that he would eventually surpass his limits.
Then came the spring of his twenty-seventh year.
Encrid realized just how pathetic his talent truly was. It happened during a random scuffle he’d been dragged into. Within five exchanges, his sword was sent flying, and a hole was pierced through his stomach. Pressing his palm against his bleeding abdomen, Encrid asked:
"How... old are you?"
"Twelve."
Twelve. He couldn't even bring himself to laugh. This was what a real genius looked like.
"Sorry, it was my first real fight," the boy said. He wasn't a noble, nor even a commoner, but the child of a serf. He had only been holding a sword for six months.
"He went too far. Use this for your treatment."
The boy's master tossed a pouch of coins. It wasn't a fatal wound; his organs were intact, and the puncture wasn't deep. Still, he took the money.
From the age of eleven until now, he had swung his sword for sixteen years until his palms were nothing but leather. Yet, he had lost to a twelve-year-old who had trained for half a year.
To say he wasn't depressed would be a lie. But he didn't let himself drown in resentment. There was no reason to live such a dark, gloomy life.
It's not like my limbs were chopped off.
Encrid knew he wasn't a genius, but that didn't mean he had to quit. He continued his life as a swordsman. He had spent a decade as a mercenary. He might never become an outstanding knight, but he could become a seasoned soldier.
Encrid quit the mercenary life and enlisted for military training. It was the best choice available to him. He couldn't exactly go back to farming at this point.
A third-rate swordsman of mercenary origin—it was a fitting description.
"Do you think the army is a joke? You think they just take anyone?" some mocked.
"Hang in there," others said, patting his shoulder.
He received recognition at times and fell behind at others. And just like that, he turned thirty.
Kingdom of Naurilia, Cypress Division.
4th Regiment, 4th Battalion, 4th Company, 4th Platoon.
Otherwise known as the "Four-Four Platoon"—that was where Encrid belonged.
Right below the platoon leader, Encrid held the rank of Decurion.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The night watchman struck a piece of iron, waking the entire barracks.
"...What a damn unsettling dream," Encrid muttered.
"What kind of dream makes a man wake up like that?" the subordinate next to him asked, sitting up from his cot of layered cotton and shoving his feet into his boots. He had a casual, lazy attitude, but his skills were actually superior to Encrid's.
"My life story."
"How ominous. Tsk. Ah, a bug." Finding a beetle inside his boot, the subordinate shook it out, put the boot back on, then spat on the bug and crushed it under his heel. A sticky smear of fluid and spit remained on the dirt floor.
Encrid got up and began donning his gear. A breastplate with throwing knives slotted near the heart, vambraces, and greaves. Underneath, he wore inner armor of thick, layered cloth. Over that, he donned his leather armor. It was several layers thick, but it wasn't particularly sturdy; a well-honed blade could slice right through it. At least his vambraces, reinforced with oiled wood, were slightly better than the standard issue.
"I heard the previous Decurion had a dream like that before he kicked the bucket," Encrid muttered, recalling a camp rumor.
"Are you fated to die today, then?" The subordinate grinned, earning a light smack on the back of his head.
"I'm not dying. Stop talking nonsense."
Encrid stood up, poured water into a pot, and tossed in a few pieces of jerky and some wild greens. It was breakfast.
"Any plans for a skirmish today?"
"Who knows," Encrid replied.
He was just a low-ranking Decurion. Above the four Decurions was a single platoon leader, and even he likely didn't know the high command's plans. Encrid's swordsmanship was mediocre and he lacked noble blood, which kept him at the rank of squad leader, but his sheer experience on the battlefield surpassed that of most company commanders. Knowing this, his men respected him.
"So, what did you want to be when you grew up, Boss?" the subordinate asked, sauntering over.
"A knight."
"...Will you hit me if I laugh?"
"I won't."
"Pfft! Hahaha!"
"You're actually laughing? You cheeky bastard." Encrid kicked him in the rear.
The subordinate feigned pain. "Come on, a knight?"
What was a knight? A knight was a monster capable of facing a thousand men alone. A hero who could change the tide of a battle single-handedly. Furthermore, the very division they belonged to was named after one: the Cypress Division, the army of Sir Cypress.
And he had dreamed of being such a man.
"Well, it's nice to have ambitious dreams."
"Dreams are supposed to be ambitious, you punk," Encrid replied casually as he gathered the dishes.
It was his turn for chores. In Encrid's squad, all duties were shared equally. Being a Decurion only meant receiving and passing down orders. Usually, the role went to the best spearman or swordsman, but Encrid was the exception. His raw combat prowess was weaker than his squad members', but he possessed the ability to unite the troublemakers and outcasts who had been kicked out of other units.
Other squads referred to them as the "Sasa-sa Squad"—the "Four-Four-Four" troublemakers.
"I'll help you."
"Then shut your mouth and follow me."
"Sure thing." The subordinate chuckled.
Encrid never asked about his subordinates' pasts, and they liked that about him. He didn't pry, he didn't judge, and he didn't demand the impossible.
As the dishes clattered, the subordinate splashed his hands in the stream. "Why did you want to become a knight anyway?"
Would he laugh if Encrid told him it was because he fell for a bard's song? Encrid thought for a moment.
"I wanted to be good with a sword. I figured if I was going to do it, I might as well go all the way."
"Quite the romantic at heart, aren't you?"
"I told you to shut it."
"Is that why you dance around with your sword every morning and night?"
"Because effort never betrays you." His palms were thick with calluses from a lifetime of practice.
"So, even now?"
Do you still want to be a knight?
How could he? He knew better than anyone that it was impossible. But he didn't give up. He simply endured in silence. Encrid wasn't blind to reality; it was just that his dream had fallen silent in the face of it. He had become a soldier who lived by the blade, nothing more.
"If you're done playing in the water, let's go."
"Sure."
They headed back to the barracks. Whether they would clash with the rival kingdom or hunt the bandits targeting their supplies, he didn't know.
The air is heavy.
The atmosphere of a battlefield was always oppressive, but today, the feeling was stifling. The wait was long. With nothing else to do, he considered practicing his forms but decided to take a nap instead. There were days when the spirit was simply weary.
It's hard to push myself like I used to.
Relentless effort—he had given it his all. And this was the result: a Decurion with the skills of a third-rate mercenary.
Only when the sun had dipped low in the west did the platoon leader finally shout.
"4th Company, assemble!"
It was time.
The company gathered, forming the flank of the army. Encrid's squad took their positions. A cold tension wrapped around his chest. Encrid grasped the amulet necklace he had obtained during his mercenary days before tucking it back inside his shirt.
Did that old woman say this would save my life?
It was likely nonsense, but soldiers were prone to superstition. If anyone asked if he believed in it, he’d just shrug. He had simply been moved by the desperate look in the old woman's eyes when she gave it to him.
Nothing to lose.
This amulet was the only reward he had received after a mission where he’d nearly died. He had killed a beast half by luck; a hair's breadth away from death. It had been a perilous subjugation for a tiny, impoverished village. They had no money, only tears, as they begged him to save them.
How ridiculous.
Risking his life out of pity was madness for a mercenary. Yet, Encrid did not regret it. Because that was what a knight would do. Though his dream had been devoured by reality, its traces remained in his heart.
He had wanted to be a knight. He had wanted to be a hero.
But now, he was just a soldier.
"WAAAAAAAH!"
A roar erupted. Encrid roared with them, the veins in his neck bulging. A wave of steel surged from the front. Shattering the twilight glow, both armies charged.
Encrid ran forward to meet the tide.
"Let's fight and stay alive!" his subordinate shouted, dashing ahead.
Soon, the air was filled with the sound of iron tearing through flesh. Today, the battle would be fought in the mud, blade to blade.