Chapter 106: Dodge and Dodge Again
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 106: Dodge and Dodge Again
It happened back when he had parted ways with Leona Lockfried.
In front of the Border Guard’s wall, a guard named Mathis had instantly commanded the attention of everyone present. It was clearly intentional—a display of what experts called "presence."
"Killing intent can be forged into presence. Once your sixth sense awakens, it’s simple. Though, perhaps it’s still a bit much for you, Platoon Leader."
That crazy Sachsen bastard.
His tongue was always sharp, as if he’d forged it in a blacksmith’s shop. Every word he spoke cut like a blade. Not that Encrid particularly cared; he simply dismissed him as a lunatic and moved on.
After all, Sachsen had been right in the end.
His sixth sense had awakened.
Even though he had tapped into something akin to presence during the quest to catch the cat, making it second nature was a different story. But this time, he finally had a grasp on it. Once he relaxed his shoulders, the feeling came to him much easier than expected.
And in the end, hadn't he put it to good use?
When he had warned Torres and Finn to be careful, Encrid had spoken while projecting his presence.
And now...
"Split off to the side. I'll lure the rest."
"What?" Finn reacted first.
"What kind of bullshit is that?" Torres chimed in right after.
He hadn't known Finn for long, and the same went for Torres. They hardly seemed like the type to risk their lives for one another.
"Fuck that. A ranger doesn't abandon their comrades."
"Same goes for me," Torres added.
Yet here they were, being incredibly stubborn. Finn and Torres's eyes gleamed with fierce determination.
Right, you're both decent people. I get it.
He appreciated the sentiment, but...
"Now get lost. You're in my way."
Encrid was blunt. He didn't have the time to explain. He had tried explaining in other "todays," but both of them had clung to him like ticks.
"...Why does he have to look so cool saying that?" Finn muttered under her breath.
"This bastard..." Torres's veins bulged in anger, but they both got the message.
Encrid was dead serious.
"Wait at the edge of your vision, then regroup once it's over. I have a plan. We can all make it out alive."
His tone was practically a command. Having lived through this several times, showing absolute resolve was far more effective than trying to explain. Besides, there was no time for details.
"See you later," Torres said, his words loaded with double meaning, before slipping away to the flank.
Finn followed him, glancing back twice over her shoulder. Encrid watched them go, his mind racing. Even with the two of them gone, he needed every single one of the pikemen to chase him instead.
How could he guarantee that? He already knew the answer.
Encrid cast a quick glance backward and bellowed.
"Ro-ger! Take off your helmet!"
To anyone else, the words would have meant nothing.
"Ro-ger! You who executed your own hair and sent it to the heavens ahead of you!"
Like a bard reciting a grand epic, Encrid projected his voice across the field. Over the course of his seventy-eight "todays," he had learned exactly what kind of man Roger was.
Though Roger's grudge against Finn stemmed from a different matter entirely, Roger was known by the nickname "The Commander Who Never Unhelms." And the reason behind it was quite memorable.
From the crown of his head to his forehead lay a barren desert. It was his deepest, darkest shame.
"Do you carry a wasteland upon your brow, where not a single blade of grass dares to grow?!"
At first, he had wondered if such a childish taunt would actually work. But confirming it had been easy. In one of his other "todays," when he had been captured by Roger, he had managed to knock the man's helmet off by chance.
"So you were bald."
That single remark had made Roger completely lose his mind. Ultimately, Encrid needed to redirect all of Roger's hatred for Finn onto himself.
I do feel a bit bad, but...
Encrid ran a hand through his own hair for dramatic effect. His thick, luscious black locks slipped through his fingers, proudly displaying their existence.
"That... fucking bastard!"
Roger's eyes went completely wild. If Encrid got caught now, a quick death would be a luxury. Torture would be the bare minimum.
He absolutely could not afford to get caught.
Encrid bolted. Even as he saw Finn and Torres slipping away, Roger roared his orders.
"Get that bastard!"
Blinded by rage, twenty-nine pikemen charged forward. Roger might be screaming in a fit of fury now, but once he calmed down, he would undoubtedly split his forces to hunt down Finn and Torres as well.
Right about now...
The moment the thought crossed his mind, a monstrous howl echoed from the opposite direction.
Awoooooooo!
The night was bright under the glow of the Dual Moon. The moonlight provided excellent visibility, clearly illuminating the monsters charging from the other side. They were wolf-headed beasts sprinting on two legs—Lycanthropes.
"Whew."
Encrid exhaled slowly to steady his breathing, then came to a halt. This was the turning point. He had to draw both the pikemen and the Lycanthropes to himself.
Look at me.
How to project presence: It meant filling your entire body with the intent to kill. It meant truly believing you could slaughter every single soul present.
Shhhring.
He gripped the hilt of his sword and drew it slowly, the blade gleaming as it caught the moonlight. Encrid took half a step forward with his right foot, his entire posture speaking for him.
Take one more step, and I will cut you down.
Presence, killing intent, fighting spirit. An intangible pressure—which could only be described by those three words—rippled outward. It was an aura so overwhelming that both the charging pikemen and the rushing Lycanthropes completely forgot about Torres and Finn.
Drawn by that sheer force of will, the werewolf pack and the pikemen converged on him. And at the very center of it all stood Encrid.
To any onlooker, it would have looked like pure suicide.
*
Roger was growing increasingly irritated. What should have been a simple task—catching that wildcat of a woman—had become strangely complicated.
But could he just let her go? No. He wanted to tear her apart with his own hands. She was the bitch who had murdered his brother, after all.
"Fuck, after them!"
The moment he resolved to hunt down the woman, Encrid's voice boomed across the field. From "take off your helmet" to "barren wasteland."
His heart hammered. Rage surged, making his blood boil.
"That fucking bastard...!"
He swore to himself right then and there. When he caught that son of a bitch, he wouldn't let him die easily. He would make him beg for death. His reason evaporated as he screamed at his men to pursue.
Just as Roger himself began to sprint, the howl of a monster shattered the air.
Awoooo!
The moment Roger saw the pack of Lycanthropes emerging from the opposite side, a wave of intense irritation washed over him.
Goddammit.
How the hell had things gotten so messy? It was all because of that bastard who had mocked his hair as if reciting some twisted poem. That mockery had completely shattered his composure.
"Son of a bitch."
Roger spat out a curse at the sight of the Lycanthropes, trying to regain his calm, but it wasn't that simple. What now? He didn't hesitate for long.
I'll kill them all.
Whether that bitch Letsha treasured them or not, they were just monsters. As long as they maintained formation, they could easily handle a colony-class pack of Lycanthropes.
But just as he made up his mind and opened his mouth to bark orders, the man they were chasing exhaled slowly, stopped in his tracks, and gripped his sword.
He held his sword, and his entire body spoke. His presence spoke. His killing intent spoke.
Take one step closer, and I will cut you down.
In Roger's eyes, the surrounding landscape faded away, leaving only the man with the drawn sword. If even Roger felt this way, how much worse was it for his soldiers?
Formations were forgotten. Swept up by that overwhelming presence, the battle erupted. Since no order to halt had been given, the vanguard pikemen did what they always did—they fought the enemy in front of them. It was their only instinct.
Just like that, a spear thrust forward with full force.
Whoosh!
Awoo!
Clash!
The claws of a Lycanthrope deflected the incoming spearhead. The wolf's howl, the scraping of claws, and the clashing of spear shafts created a chaotic discord. That sound finally brought a cold splash of reason back to Roger's mind.
Dammit.
They had charged without even establishing a proper formation. He had been too impatient. No, it was because the enemy had mocked his weakness. And that presence... that presence had been the real trigger.
Everything had spiraled out of control. It was the beginning of a chaotic melee.
*
Whoosh.
The first to reach Encrid was a Lycanthrope. Its claws swiped at his neck. Watching the wide arc of the beast's arm, Encrid stepped back.
"Whew."
He steadied his breathing. He couldn't afford to pant if he wanted to survive. From this moment on, he was walking a tightrope over a bottomless abyss. A single moment of carelessness, or even the slightest mistake, would mean death.
What did he need right now?
Boldness, and...
The Beast's Heart beat within him.
Thump.
The charging Lycanthropes, the pikemen closing in from the flanks—he was surrounded by enemies on all sides, but there was no reason to panic. After all, this was a battlefield of his own making.
Now, what's next?
He sharpened his senses, pushing past the five senses and into the realm of the sixth sense. He had to dodge claws and spearheads coming from his blind spots.
And so, Encrid did.
Stepping forward with his left foot, he swept his sword to the side. It wasn't a powerful strike, but it was enough to deflect the claws of the Lycanthrope lunging from his side.
Clink!
Pivoting on his left foot, he executed a Northern-style Passing Step. Normally, the proper follow-up would be to use a heavy sword style downward strike to shatter the arm or weapon of the enemy trying to stab his back, but...
Forward again.
Instead, he ducked low.
Whoosh!
A Lycanthrope's claws swept harmlessly over his head. Before he knew it, Encrid's eyes were half-closed. His focus was intentionally diffused and hazy. To an observer, he would have looked like a dead fish washed ashore.
Focus.
Instead of focusing on a single opponent, Encrid chose a different path to survive this chaos.
Wider.
He expanded the blade of his concentration, extending it to the entire radius of his sword's reach. Victory in battle was determined by judgment, distance, time, and positioning.
Judging in a split second. Measuring the distance to his opponents. Calculating the time it took for a foot to move versus the time it took for an enemy's weapon to strike. Estimating the exact moment his own blade would reach its target. Mapping out where he stood now and where he would step next.
Guided by these calculations, Encrid danced alone amidst the carnage.
Clack. Clack.
Occasionally, a Lycanthrope's claws clashed against his blade. A spearhead grazed the side of his gambeson. Claws brushed past his throat. An enemy tried to stomp on his foot.
Yet, Encrid did not strike back. Even when an enemy got too close and almost stomped his foot, he merely nudged them away with his shoulder. And yet, that simple nudge...
"Gack!"
...led directly to a soldier's death rattle. A Lycanthrope sank its fangs deep into the neck of the soldier who had been pushed back. Blood sprayed, painting the beast's face crimson.
It wasn't entirely intentional. He dodged, and dodged again.
Growl!
When a Lycanthrope lunged to tear his shoulder apart, he dropped low to evade.
Snap!
Hearing the beast's jaws snap shut on empty air, he stood back up and shoved it away. And that shove...
Thud-thud-thud!
Yip!
...resulted in a spear plunging straight into the belly of the Lycanthrope that had been targeting him.
He focused entirely on evasion, not offense. By circling the outer edges of the battlefield rather than the center, he gradually slipped away. Left behind, the Lycanthropes had no choice but to tear into the pikemen, and the pikemen had no choice but to defend themselves against the beasts.
From their vantage point not too far away, Torres and Finn watched it all unfold.
"...Look at him."
"He's insane. Absolutely insane."
Torres and Finn muttered in disbelief. Forgetting their own situation, they stood frozen, their eyes glued to the movements of a single man.
Encrid dodged and dodged again. Though he was occasionally struck by a spear shaft or grazed by claws, he managed to avoid any fatal blows. More than anything, look at what he had achieved with just a few words and a burst of presence. He had turned a clash between elite soldiers and monsters into a chaotic, free-for-all brawl.
"Looks like the humans are going to win, though."
But elites were elites for a reason. Though their formation had shattered, the soldiers quickly grouped up in threes and fours to watch each other's backs. They managed to catch their breath, recovering some of the stamina they'd lost while sprinting. Forming small defensive pockets, they blocked with shields and thrust with their spears.
It was working. And then, Roger made his move.
Fighting off three or four Lycanthropes on his own, he drove his spear straight through one of their skulls. Wielding a short spear instead of a long spear, he fought like a wild tiger.
"If we leave him be..."
Roger was heading straight for Encrid. Finn didn't need to see Roger's face to know his eyes would be burning with pure malice. He always lost his mind whenever anyone mocked his hair.
"Crazy bastard."
"I have to go help him."
Torres declared resolutely. In that brief moment, Roger charged like a demon, thrusting his short spear straight at Encrid.
"Ah!"
Finn let out a sharp gasp. From where she stood, it looked as if the spear had pierced clean through Encrid's side.
"Fuck. No, he dodged it!"
Torres yelled. He was right; it had been an optical illusion. Encrid had caught the spear shaft under his arm. In the middle of dodging, he had clamped down on the weapon using his forearm and ribs.
It was a razor-thin escape, a desperate gamble for survival. At least, that was how it looked to Torres.