Chapter 101: Even If Luck Doesn't Favor Me (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 101: Even If Luck Doesn't Favor Me (3)
Persuading them to take the third path—disguising themselves as a merchant caravan to enter Cross Guard at dawn two days later—proved surprisingly easy.
"I have a bad feeling about this."
Encrid gave the exact same reason he had used when suggesting they scale the castle walls. Torres backed him up immediately, and Finn eventually gave a half-hearted nod.
"Well, I guess we’re staying here another night."
They settled back into their campsite, a series of dugouts they had carved into the earth. At the news, the soldier in charge of the cooking grinned.
"Should I bring that out for dinner, then?"
This was the forward scout unit led by Ranger Finn. Once deployed on a mission, they usually stayed in the field for an average of six months. Of course, if things went south, they might return in a month or two, but they had already been stationed here for eight months.
Having stayed out for so long, they had developed various ways to pass the time. One of their favorites was salting the meat of captured beasts to make ham.
"Then shall we have a drink to go with it?" Finn chimed in excitedly.
In a way, this was a unit that should have been more on edge than those on the actual battlefield, yet it was hard to tell if their nerves were simply dull or incredibly thick.
No, perhaps they are usually so sensitive that they know exactly when they can afford to relax.
They were meticulous about the smoke rising from their makeshift kitchen. They took frequent turns patrolling in wide circles to secure the perimeter, and two sharp-eyed squad members were always on watch, scanning the horizon.
Watching the scouts, Encrid recalled words he had heard in the past.
"If you are only rigid, you will snap. You must learn to bend when necessary."
Which instructor had told him that?
No, it wasn't an instructor.
It was a crusader from the Holy Order who had been on a pilgrimage through the local territories. Claiming he didn't have the time for proper lessons, the crusader had suggested settling things with a short, intense sparring session. With his hearty laughter and the way he stroked his thick beard, he had looked more like a bandit than a clergyman, but he was a respected priest and an outstanding warrior.
"Bending doesn't make you weak. If your core is firm, you won't break easily. Want me to put it simply? Stop screaming so much."
The man had told Encrid that he sounded like he was screaming every time he swung his sword.
Was that why? Encrid suddenly wondered how his swordplay looked to others.
Shring.
Following a sudden whim, he moved.
"...We're just trying to have a drink. What is his problem now?" muttered Finn, who had just received a hidden bottle of alcohol from a squad member.
Encrid stood up, drew his sword, and swung.
It had nothing to do with this repeating day, nor was it something he had recently learned. It was simply a stroke born of a question.
The crusader he had faced back then said Encrid screamed every time he swung his sword. He said it looked like a desperate struggle—a frantic refusal to break.
"You must know how to use your muscles fluidly for the sword to truly spring forth."
Behind the hearty, laughing face of the crusader, the faces of his teachers overlapped in his mind.
Hundreds of sparring matches. How was Rem during their bouts? His muscles were the definition of elasticity. At the foundation of his mastery over the axe lay a profound sense of ease. Was it because of his absolute belief that he wouldn't lose?
No.
The forearm and axe whipping like a lash, Rem's calm expression, the fluid movement of his muscles—everything blended together to yield an answer.
He used only as much strength as needed, exactly when it was needed.
What about Ragna? His gestures often seemed listless, yet they were woven with an absurd level of technical skill. It was the same for Sachsen and Audin. Contrary to his stiff demeanor, Sachsen always possessed a sense of ease. Audin would twist and bend Encrid's arms in all directions, teasing him, but he always offered genuine advice.
On the other hand, what about himself?
My shoulders.
He had fought with tension gripping his entire body. Even when connecting the "points" of his techniques, he was rigid. He believed that anything less than his absolute, desperate best was meaningless.
This was exactly what it meant to have too much tension in one's shoulders.
Encrid swung his sword through the empty air. Whoosh. Compared to his usual swings, it was so devoid of forced power that it felt almost empty.
This is just letting go of the tension.
Relaxing the body did not mean killing the power of the swordsmanship itself. The method, the path, the signposts—they were beginning to dimly appear.
Knowing it did not mean he could do it immediately. He knew his own level of talent all too well. He had merely realized that he needed to relax his shoulders.
Yet, the realization alone made his heart pound. Joy and ecstasy filled his body. It was the thrill that came from seeing the path open up, simply from knowing he could finally walk straight.
To Encrid, the sword was life, and life was the sword. It was his companion on the walk toward his dream.
Amidst that ecstasy, a single question arose.
Is a desperate struggle the only answer?
He had always resolved never to waste today for the sake of tomorrow. He had steeled his heart countless times. Enduring, persisting, and struggling desperately was not difficult for him—it was how he had always lived. But...
I don't necessarily have to do it that way.
With that thought, he brought his sword down.
Swish.
The sound of the blade cutting through the air was different. A faint smile played on Encrid's lips.
That strike just now. He felt a sense of nostalgia from that simple downward slash.
When had it been? It was back in the Tall Grass Field, when Andrew and Enri were still with him. The strike where, as they say, you feel no impact in your hand. The blow that those called geniuses executed effortlessly.
If an opponent had been before him just now, he would have cut them down without even feeling the resistance of their flesh. Despite repeating his training countless times to recapture that exact feeling, he had never been able to perform that "impactless strike" again.
And yet, here it is.
That very strike had just been delivered by his own hand. How could he not be delighted?
"That swing just now seemed a bit different."
"Indeed. It was an uncommon slash."
Finn and Torres spoke up, sitting side by side nearby. Both of them had a discerning eye.
Finn added, "But is he really okay? Why does he keep grinning to himself?"
"Don't ask me. I've only seen his face a few times myself. He's famous even in the main unit for being a bit... off in the head."
Encrid lightly brushed their conversation aside. He only wanted to swing his sword again and again.
Struggle, yes.
But what about a struggle with relaxed shoulders? Flailing desperately within this repeating today was not the only answer. Screaming in agony was not the only path.
What truly mattered? The steps toward tomorrow, the mindset, and gathering everything he could along the way. Realization. Enlightenment. New learning.
As he smiled in pure joy, Finn took a sip of her drink and sighed. "Ugh, with a face like that, I guess he can pull off a smile like that. Normally, he'd look like a complete lunatic, but why does it actually look good on him?"
"What about me?" Torres chimed in, completely lacking self-awareness.
He was promptly ignored. A few squad members chuckled and patted his shoulder. Though they had only met a few days ago, these people had quickly warmed up to Encrid.
While he vigorously swung his sword, Finn, Torres, and a few others shared a few drinks. There wasn't enough to get drunk, nor was it strong liquor—just cheap fruit wine common to the local territories. Paired with a few slices of the salted ham they had prepared, it was a feast.
"You seriously need to open a restaurant," someone said to the scout whose dream was to be a cook.
Encrid didn't touch a single drop of alcohol. He hadn't planned on drinking anyway, but even if he had, there was none left by the time he finished. While he was swinging his sword and washing up, the others had quickly polished it off.
"What? You want to drink with that handsome face of yours too?" Torres grumbled playfully.
It wasn't a time for loud laughter, but it was a moment of moderate relaxation. Of course, even now, a few remained as sharp and alert as if they had antennae raised. Finn was one of them. She had taken a sip or two, but she was responsible for everyone's lives.
The day passed, and night fell as they returned to their dugouts.
Originally, not a single person should have remained here tonight. Once Finn left, they were supposed to vacate the camp and regroup closer to the main unit. All of that had been derailed by the decision to disguise themselves as a merchant caravan, bringing about a night that originally shouldn't have existed.
The Dual Moon rose, casting a blue glow over the forest. Before entering his dugout, Encrid looked up at the sky. The large, round moon was the one always visible. The second, smaller moon only appeared during a full moon.
It's bright.
The surroundings were clearly illuminated. Even if he stayed up all night, today would repeat anyway. This was a lesson he had learned while digging under the shoemaker's shop. Therefore, struggling to stay awake was pointless. He decided to get some sleep to avoid accumulating unnecessary fatigue.
It was just as the deep night began. Compared to the "today" that had repeated yesterday, it would be around the time they would have arrived at the castle walls.
Awoooooo!
A howl erupted from nearby.
Encrid had roughly figured out why his sixth sense hadn't triggered when he died to the mage. The reason his sense of ill omen hadn't activated was because a spell had been at play. The mage—the one with the rose vines—had been right above them the entire time they scaled the wall. Because she had interfered, he hadn't been able to read the presence above. He hadn't heard a sound, nor felt a single warning.
Then, what about now?
"Shit! Wake up! Emergency! Emergency!"
It was the shout of the scout on watch.
The wolf's howl, the soldier's warning cry, and then the sound that followed: Patter! Patter! Patter!
The sound of something sprinting.
Monsters silhouetted against the moonlight appeared. There was a race called beastmen who lived at the eastern end of the continent—a unique demi-human race blending the traits of humans and beasts. The monsters appearing now were those called the "failed creations" of those beastmen. Because they were failures, they always craved blood and hated humans.
Awoooo!
Their ankles protruded backward as if they were standing on tiptoes. Their bodies were covered in gray fur, and their beastly yellow eyes gleamed. Their snouts protruded sharply, revealing flashing, razor-sharp fangs.
The name of these monsters was Lycanthrope. Werewolves.
Because they were not of the beastman race, they could not be reasoned with. The one in the lead was one-eyed, a jagged scar running across its left socket. The creature scanned its surroundings with its single remaining yellow eye and opened its maw.
Kaaaaah!
The monster's screech erupted. To Encrid's ears, it sounded like a command to charge.
"Get a grip!" he shouted reflexively.
How would today end? He had thought it was a fifty-fifty chance. Either it would be a stagnant day where he made no progress, or something else would happen.
The result was the latter.
Werewolves—and not just one or two. Excluding the leader, the others scattered in all directions. Despite the bright moonlight, it was difficult to spot them. Only shadows cutting through the darkness remained, accompanied by the rapid pattering of paws. Between the trees, yellow eyes gleamed like streaks of light.
The beasts leaped out under the moonlight, circling the gathered humans. They ran so fast they left afterimages.
"Damn it."
Encrid realized something else. Why hadn't he felt any foreboding? Why had Finn's sentry, a veteran, noticed the approach so late?
They must have used some trick.
Which meant a mage was involved here as well. The very fact that the werewolves had gathered in such numbers was bizarre. He didn't know what spell the mage had used; only the result was clear. Even at a rough count, there were over ten of them.
"There are more than ten. This is bad," Torres said, pressing his back against Encrid's.
Encrid drew his sword. Shring.
Back-to-back with Torres, he decided to think later. He had decided to struggle with moderation, but that didn't mean he would just quietly lie down and die.
I can't do that.
As always, he would take a step toward tomorrow. Encrid steeled his resolve and raised his sword.
The Lycanthrope was a monster with mana dwelling in its heart. They were difficult opponents, incomparable to man-eating ghouls. Normally, a trained squad was required to take down a single werewolf. If Lycanthropes formed a pack, it was advised not to engage them even with a full platoon.
But looking at them now...
"Ha, there must be over twenty."
In just a brief moment, their numbers had grown. On this side, there were ten scouts. The werewolves numbered over twenty. Moreover, as if proving Encrid's suspicion of a mage's involvement, the pack was surrounding and attacking them with unnatural coordination.
Werewolves were difficult enough when they ran wild on instinct. They were even more powerful on nights when the Dual Moon was in the sky. And on top of that, a coordinated ambush?
"We're dead," was Torres's self-deprecating reply.
There was no way out.
Encrid fought desperately. He killed three werewolves and severed the arm of a fourth. In the midst of the chaos, he threw his Whistle Daggers, planting two new "eyes" into the face of the one-eyed leader.
It was, quite literally, a desperate struggle.
Torres fell before Encrid, but he managed to take down two of them. Finn killed one and was taken down while facing a second. The other squad members were slaughtered.
Encrid, dripping with blood, let his mangled arm hang limp. Intending to deliver one final blow, he turned his foot, only for his toe to catch on something.
It was a head. The head of the squad member who had wanted to become a cook.
"This is getting a bit annoying."
Even though he knew today would repeat once he died, seeing such a sight was never pleasant.
"Krooo!"
Six werewolves pounced on Encrid all at once. Survival was impossible.
It was his first time dying by having his entire body torn apart. It was, of course, excruciating. The moments of agony passed. How much time had gone by?
When he opened his eyes, the pain was gone.
Before him lay the silently undulating Black River, the ferryboat floating upon it, and the ferryman waiting in the mist.