Chapter 10: Stabbed
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 10: Stabbed
"Gack."
The Throwing Axe Guy let out a death rattle.
A poisoned dagger was buried in his flank, and a spearhead was driven through his throat.
"Gurgle..."
Blood frothed at his mouth as the light faded from his eyes.
That was it.
Encrid stared into the man's dying eyes for a moment before stepping back.
"Waaaaah!"
An ally right next to him let out a primal roar.
An enemy in front of him roared back in kind.
"Kraaaah!"
Both were massive. When they collided with a heavy crash, it sounded like two carriages slamming head-on. Locked in each other's grasp, they began to spin in a violent, grappling circle.
Watching them, Encrid backed away further.
What must one do to survive?
Having thrown his life away over a hundred and twenty times, he had learned more than a few lessons.
The best way to survive was to avoid fighting as much as possible.
Encrid played it safe.
"Die!"
"Fucking bastard."
Swords, spears, axes, and clubs lunged forward, accompanied by curses instead of battle cries.
"Don't you touch my brother, you son of a bitch..."
The last words of a dying soldier.
"Cut the crap. Even if you die, I'm not taking responsibility for your brother."
A soldier pretending to be unfazed by his comrade's death.
"Die! Die!"
A recruit who had lost his mind in the heat of battle.
"That crazy bastard."
"Leave him be. He's probably trying to play berserker."
A veteran looking after his squad members while watching the rampaging recruit.
"My name is Bar—gack!"
An enemy soldier dying mid-sentence while trying to show off by announcing his name. An ally sneered at him as he yanked out his spear.
Scuff.
The tip of a boot dug into the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Encrid could see the dust motes drifting lazily in the pouring sunlight. Beside them, an enemy soldier sprayed a fountain of blood. Right next to him, an ally lay fallen, his skull crushed.
Bits of flesh littered the ground, and blood soaked the earth.
No matter how much one tried to play it safe, it was impossible to survive in the dead center of a battlefield by doing absolutely nothing.
Inhale, exhale.
A short breath in, a long breath out.
Encrid regulated his breathing.
No sooner had he steadied his rhythm than a spearhead came thrusting through the dust cloud. Encrid held his shield loosely and caught the strike.
Clang!
The spearhead struck the shield and deflected to the side. Because he had kept his grip relaxed, he was able to shed the impact easily.
At the same time, a club swung in diagonally from the side.
Encrid ducked forward to dodge the swing and threw his body toward the wielder. With a heavy thud, he rammed his shoulder into the opponent's chest. As they tumbled down, he drew his dagger and drove it into the man's thigh.
Riiip!
The blade tore through thick cloth, carving a long gash into the meat of the thigh.
"You son of a bitch!"
The enemy screamed, shoving Encrid away.
Using the momentum of the shove to regain his balance, Encrid drew his sword and swung it in a horizontal arc.
A thigh injury severely hinders movement. The faltering opponent couldn't dodge, and the blade caught him right in the neck.
Thwack!
The blade bit halfway through. Encrid put his weight into the pull.
Grrrind.
The blade slid out, having severed muscle, nerves, tendons, and bone. As blood began to gush in torrents, the soldier clutched his neck with his palm. Naturally, pressing a hand against such a wound changed nothing.
Encrid didn't look back. He knew someone else would handle the spearman who had struck his shield.
"You goddamn bastard!"
It was Bell. Saving him hadn't been in vain. Once saved, he would hover around Encrid, watching his back.
He was a loyal friend.
Clang! Clang!
The continuous clashing of metal rang out.
Encrid lost interest in the man he had just killed and snatched a stone from the ground. He spun and threw it immediately.
Locked in an even duel, an enemy soldier faltered when the stone struck him square in the back.
Crack!
Bell swung his spear shaft and bashed the man's head. It was an excellent strike.
"I think that pays off my debt, doesn't it?" Bell panted.
"Do you really think so?"
Did he really think a life debt could be settled so easily?
"Well, maybe only half of it."
Bell scratched his helmet vigorously with a blood-stained hand, though it did nothing to relieve the itch. He slipped backward. Ever since he had been knocked down once, he had learned how to play it safe to some degree.
Encrid also shifted his steps, following the flow of the battlefield.
"Save me... Gurgle."
He saw a soldier begging for his life before frothing blood. It was a familiar face—the dice gambler he had seen die time and time again.
"I couldn't save you," Encrid said calmly.
He had tried countless times, but saving the man had proven impossible.
Thus, he trod upon the battlefield. Among the approaching enemy soldiers, he searched for the freak who preached mercy.
It wasn't difficult.
The moment he spotted him, Encrid drew his last remaining dagger and threw it in stride.
Thud, whoosh, zip!
Thrown with timing that almost anyone would fail to dodge, the dagger drew a fine line through the air.
Clang!
The freak twisted his body, catching the dagger with his shoulder. The blade, striking at an angle, deflected off his pauldrons. Despite being a purely reflexive action, it was a near-perfect defense.
Encrid felt a glare lock onto him.
To pinpoint the thrower's location and look this way the instant he blocked the dagger? He thought it again: that Stabbing Freak was no ordinary opponent.
The freak charged. With every rapid step he took, bloody soil kicked up behind him. The distance between them was only a few paces.
This meant it was time to test everything he had learned from his repeated "todays." His physical condition was better than ever.
Preparation was complete.
The freak brought his sword down vertically. Encrid raised his shield.
Thwack!
A heavy force resonated from the blade as it struck the oiled wood.
"The basics of swordsmanship? It's strength."
One of the sword instructors had said that.
"Overcoming strength with technique? Hah, don't make me laugh. Why don't you try beating Frok using nothing but technique then? Do you have any idea how many bastards have died trying to pull off fancy deflections against the Giants? The foundation of swordsmanship is physical strength. Strength! So get rolling."
Thanks to that teacher, he had been able to build his body properly. Holding his shield, Encrid was not easily pushed back. In terms of pure strength, he was a match for his opponent.
"Hmph!"
The Stabbing Freak snorted. While the shield blocked Encrid's vision, the freak kicked at his ankle.
Encrid blocked the toe of the boot with his shin guard. An iron-plated boot was a weapon in its own right.
Thud.
A sharp pain shot up his shin, but it wasn't broken. That was enough.
Shoving his shield outward, he drew his sword and swung from bottom to top.
Whoosh!
As if he had anticipated this, the Stabbing Freak had already stepped out of the sword's reach. Then, he lunged forward even deeper than the distance he had retreated. It was a charge exploiting the opening left by the sword swing.
"Hah!"
Encrid let out a shout, putting all his strength into swinging his shield like a blunt weapon. The charging Stabbing Freak tucked his chin in tight.
Crack!
Struck in the head, the freak tumbled sideways. Just as Encrid was about to swing his sword again, he leaped backward.
Whoosh.
Even while fallen on the ground, the freak had drawn a dagger and slashed diagonally. Had Encrid rushed in blindly, he would have taken a blade right above his shin guard. In that brief split second, the freak had spotted the position of the guard and found the opening.
The world would call such a thing talent.
To achieve that, Encrid had to die over and over again to learn what they called the Beast's Heart. But his opponent had not.
However, the freak lacked the seasoned experience of rolling through countless battlefields. Even Encrid could see it. His opponent was either a recruit or a soldier with little battlefield experience. Otherwise, he wouldn't have charged so recklessly.
It had been the same when they first met. Encrid had almost fallen to his thrust. He had zero experience, yet his innate talent was brilliant.
Even so, Encrid didn't envy him.
I can take him.
He could do it. Confidence welled up. He felt it in his bones that all his past "todays" would not be in vain. It was time for the effort he had forged through death to pay off.
"You bastard."
Venomous eyes glared at him. The freak scrambled to his feet, and in the meantime, another ally cut in between them.
Without hesitation, the Stabbing Freak ducked and struck the ally's shin with the hand holding his sword.
Crack.
The sound of a snapping bone.
Whenever an ally intervened, it was always that same pattern. Stabbing the ally's neck with a dagger immediately afterward was all part of a single motion. A fluid, seamless attack pattern.
A pattern he already knew.
The Stabbing Freak thrust the drawn dagger forward. The startled ally could do nothing but stare with wide eyes. Just before the blade could pierce his neck—
Whoosh.
The soldier's body was yanked backward.
Slash, scrape.
Instead of piercing the neck, the blade grazed the cheek, swept past the temple, and scraped against the helmet.
"Gasp!"
The startled ally tumbled backward. He was so shocked that he could only sit on his rear, panting heavily, unable to utter a word.
Clenching and unclenching the hand that had grabbed the ally's collar instead of his sword, Encrid stepped in front of the soldier.
"Get back."
This was his fight. This was his opponent. The target against whom he had to prove his achievements.
Thump.
His heart pounded. Encrid felt a complex swirl of emotions. From whether it was right to move past this "today" right now, to the doubt of whether he could actually defeat his opponent, to a sudden, unbridled competitive fire. And even a baseless intuition that he had to surpass the opponent before him to move forward.
"I'm not holding back," the Stabbing Freak said.
Look at that. What a pathetic display. It was proof of his lack of experience, regardless of his talent. If he were truly serious, he should have shown an opening instead of talking. Since he had been hit, he should have feigned weakness to launch a counterattack. If he wanted to win, that was what he should have done.
So, Encrid did it instead.
"Huff, puff."
He deliberately breathed heavily. He flinched at the slightest movement of his opponent. The opponent's eyes, which had seemed red at certain moments, were actually a dull brown.
Those brown eyes gleamed. The Stabbing Freak strode forward and slashed his sword.
Whoosh!
The speed was on a completely different level than before.
Thump.
His heart beat. There was no panic, no closing of eyes. For the Beast's Heart was always bold.
"Just watch it until the very end, then dodge—swish."
Rem had always said that. He had thought Rem was teasing him. But he wasn't.
He could see it. Putting weight on his ankles, he twisted his body.
Zip.
The blade grazed past his shoulder. Immediately after dodging, he slashed his sword horizontally.
Clink.
The opponent raised his dagger vertically. Encrid's sword and the freak's dagger formed a cross.
Screeech!
As they ground against each other with force, sparks flew from the friction of the blades. The freak tilted his dagger at an angle, deflecting the blade to the side. Encrid aborted his thrust and pulled his shield close to his body.
Clang!
A blade struck the edge of his shield. Sparks flew from this side as well. The Stabbing Freak had already pulled back his sword and swung again.
Had he only faced this once or twice? The pattern was deeply familiar.
He whipped his head around, but the enemy had already vanished from sight. Without hesitation, Encrid raised his sword vertically and drove it into the ground.
The freak, who had been lunging in low, came to a halt.
Thud.
The tip of the sword sank into the blood-soaked earth. The freak, bent over awkwardly, merely lifted his head. The murderous intent in his eyes was chilling.
"Cheap tricks..." he spat, grinding his teeth.
Cheap tricks are skills too, you bastard.
Encrid didn't reply. Instead, he kicked dirt toward his opponent with the tip of his boot.
Fling!
"Ugh!"
The freak swiftly blocked his face with his forearm. Blocking that with raw reflexes again. Not that it was his first time seeing it. It was nothing major.
"You bastard!"
When he had the upper hand, he would bluff and talk about mercy, with a despicable joy in his eyes. But once cornered, he easily lost his temper. Encrid had long since figured out his personality.
Scrambling up, the freak charged once more.
Clang! Crack! Thud!
As he blocked the relentless barrage of strikes with his shield, the wood soon began to creak. Closing the distance amidst the onslaught, the freak thrust with his dagger. He was aiming for the flank.
Previously, Encrid had been hit by this, gasping for breath until he died.
Encrid raised and braced his elbow.
Thud!
The blade was stopped by the tough leather guard. At the same time, Encrid thrust his forehead forward.
A Valen-style Mercenary Sword close-quarters technique: a headbutt.
Crack!
"Argh!"
He had slammed his head with all his might, making his own vision spin. Normally, at this timing, there would be a guy swinging a club from behind. But not today. There was no Throwing Axe Guy either.
Instead of those two, he had Bell.
"Fuck, I'm helping!"
At Bell's shout, Encrid said, "Just block anyone trying to interfere."
He's my opponent.
Suppressing the urge to vomit, Encrid regained his balance and heard his venomous opponent mutter, "You crazy bastard."
Yeah, if my head is spinning, yours must be spinning too.
The dizziness quickly passed.
"I'll watch you squirm as you die."
The Stabbing Freak took a stance. One foot forward, the other back. A stance like a charging cavalryman. What began from that stance was a thrust as fast as an arrow.
Tension squeezed his heart. He released his constricted heart through his breathing.
Be bold.
Could his repeated "todays" overcome the wall known as talent? It was time to find the answer.
The freak moved. It was just a dot. That was all it looked like. He had experienced it countless times, but it was still the same. The dot soon became light, then a blade, piercing Encrid's body—no, he barely dodged it.
Zip.
The blade grazed his flank. Anticipating the target by reading the stance, and dodging in sync with the blade's movement. Encrid's body faithfully followed his thoughts.
A burning pain followed as his flank was grazed. He ignored it.
Instead, left foot forward, sword hand back. He pulled his right elbow back with all his might. Like an arrow notched on a bowstring. He shifted his center of gravity, putting weight on his left foot.
He had learned by watching. He had learned by being stabbed. And he had perfected it through sparring with Rem.
Tap.
When moving forward, focus on balance rather than raw power. Imbue the blade with will.
Thrust.
As his steadfast will was channeled into the sword, he released his tightly coiled muscles and thrust his sword forward.
Thud!
The tip of his sword, which he had sharpened relentlessly on a whetstone, pierced near the freak's heart. It tore through leather and thick cloth armor, reaching the heart.
A sense of fulfillment washed over him, as if the sword, hand, and arm had become one. It was a moment to savor the sense of achievement, the reward for his efforts.
"Hey!" someone shouted.
Encrid didn't even register the shout. Before he could even revel in the joy of victory—
Whack!
A colossal impact erupted from his left flank, and he felt his body lift into the air.
Huh?
What was this? This was a situation he had never once experienced in his hundred and twenty-five "todays."
"Frok!"
Whether it was Bell or someone else, he heard that shout.
That was Encrid's last memory. He blacked out.