Chapter 107: If It's One-on-One
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 107: If It's One-on-One
Encrid knew his plan had succeeded.
The battlefield had descended into utter chaos. Looking at the carnage now, it was a perfect setup—the most successful "today" he had experienced across all his repeated loops.
It had become a complete disaster for his enemies.
It worked.
He had incited a melee, and thanks to that, a slaughter of lycanthropes was well underway. Though several soldiers had fallen, the rest—fighting in small groups with at least a basic formation, no matter how haphazardly they had charged—still held the advantage.
The soldiers will win.
While Encrid caught his breath on the outskirts of the chaos he had engineered, Roger lunged at him. The commander charged without hesitation, thrusting his spear with such speed that its tip appeared as a mere dot.
It was a terrifying thrust.
Encrid didn't waste energy on large movements; he simply twisted his body slightly. His gambeson was already in tatters, but he trusted the sturdiness of the leather armor beneath it.
Swoosh. Scrape.
The spearhead grazed his flank. There was no sharp pain, meaning his armor had held. Encrid immediately clamped the spear shaft under his arm.
"Hmph!"
Roger grunted, putting his full weight into the weapon as he saw Encrid trap the short spear. He intended to yank it back in one violent motion, tearing through his opponent's arm and flank in the process.
Catching my spearhead with your ribs? I'll rip you to shreds.
Whissst!
The moment Roger exerted his strength, a bizarre sound rang out. A chilling sensation brushed his forehead, forcing him to snap his head back. He didn't stop there; he arched his waist backward in a desperate bridge.
It was an incredible display of reflexes and agility.
Damn it.
With a sharp ping, a blade grazed his hair and the forehead of his helmet. It was a throwing knife—the Whistle Dagger. The flying blade drew a silver line as it sliced through the darkness.
Of course, Roger couldn't actually see it. He had only sensed it through sheer instinct.
The chill of near-death quickly flared into rage. As Roger used that fiery anger as fuel to pull himself back up, he felt the weight of the spear in his hand suddenly vanish.
"Time to see that hair of yours."
The voice rang out, and simultaneously, a shadow loomed overhead, blotting out the sky.
It was Encrid. Before Roger could process the movement, Encrid had leaped and was falling from above.
This bastard... how is he so fast?
It was an agility that defied his bulky frame. A blade plunged straight down—that was the last afterimage left in Roger's eyes.
Crack!
His crown split open. The helmet that had encased his head—hiding his lack of hair—split right along with it. Brain matter and blood burst forth, flowing together from his ruptured skull.
Thud.
Landing softly, Encrid checked his condition. Trapping the spear, throwing the Whistle Dagger at the opponent's forehead, leaping forward, and executing a vertical slash—it was the exact sequence of movements and results he had envisioned.
Not bad.
He wasn't seriously injured, though his flank throbbed from trapping the spear earlier. He poked around his ribs with his fingers.
Not broken.
Then it was fine. It would just be a bit bruised.
"Fuck! Captain!" an enemy soldier screamed.
Some of the spearmen witnessed Roger's death, but there was nothing they could do. Just because their eyes were bloodshot with rage didn't mean they could abandon the lycanthropes they were fighting to charge him. The wolves targeting them were still baring their menacing fangs.
Regardless, this single strike shifted the tide of the battle in a strange way. It felt as though the spearmen had lost their momentum with Roger's death. Though they still held the upper hand, they were beginning to fall to the lycanthropes.
Just like now.
While a soldier, agitated by his hairless commander's death, was momentarily distracted, the One-Eyed Lycanthrope—who had been hiding his massive frame—sprang out and bashed the man's head.
Crack!
The One-Eyed used his fist, not his claws. Instead of relying on animal instinct to use claws and teeth, he was throwing calculated punches. One had to be at least this capable to be called a colony leader. It wasn't as if just anyone could lead a monster pack.
Yet, he didn't only use his fists. He made excellent use of his natural weapons as well. Facing several soldiers, the One-Eyed swung his claws with rapid clack-clack-clacks, parrying spearheads and snapping shafts. After killing two men, he vanished behind his pack once more.
He retreated into the shadows of the trees, behind the enemy soldiers, behind where the other lycanthropes were rampaging. He hid by any means necessary, biding his time for another surprise attack. He had been using this hit-and-run tactic for a while now, slipping into the darkness to gouge at any opening.
Encrid gave up on searching for the beast hiding among its pack and quietly caught his breath. Meanwhile, a pikeman charged at him.
"Vengeance!"
Keep dreaming.
Your captain died trying to take me on one-on-one, and you think you can do it alone?
These were opponents Encrid could have beaten from the start if they had fought him individually. That was exactly why he had created this chaotic mess.
Encrid deflected the incoming spear shaft with the flat of his blade, pushed off the ground, and slid his sword along the wood.
Shhhhk.
Shaving the bark off the spear shaft, the blade slid forward until it reached the pikeman's neck.
Squelch.
The well-honed blade sliced through the enemy's throat. Blood erupted like a fountain from the half-severed neck. Following the motion of the decapitation, Encrid used the centrifugal force to spin around, raising his sword directly in front of him.
I wondered when you'd show up.
Behind Encrid, near Roger's corpse, a crouching lycanthrope came into view. It was the leader of the pack, who had stealthily crept up behind him. The beast had slipped into his blind spot before he knew it.
The One-Eyed Lycanthrope.
Its yellow eye gleamed as it locked gazes with Encrid.
"Are you coming first? Or should I?"
The lycanthrope leader was indeed a trickier opponent than Roger. However, Encrid had never spent any of his seventy-eight "todays" idly. Just because he had relaxed his shoulders didn't mean he had stopped fighting desperately.
Therefore...
"Let's make this quick."
He didn't think killing this beast would be all that difficult either.
In the split second where claws tore through the air, blade and bone clashed with a series of sharp clacks. After a few exchanges of offense and defense, Encrid's sword severed the One-Eyed Lycanthrope's arm.
The advantage of a superior weapon.
He had never felt it so keenly as he did now. The sword he had invested krona to forge truly shone. It repeatedly smashed the beast's swinging claws to pieces. Seizing the opening, he sliced through the arm, grasping victory.
The One-Eyed Lycanthrope swung its remaining claws upward with a swoosh, tearing vertically through the space where Encrid had just been standing. Encrid sidestepped with his left foot to evade, then spun his body.
Shifting his weight along his central axis—from the crown of his head to his crotch—and channeling the centrifugal force from his toes, knees, and waist, he added his physical strength to unleash a heavy strike of the Heavy Sword Style.
The spinning, extending sword sliced through the moonlight and the lycanthrope's neck simultaneously.
Swoosh.
A strike that left no resistance in his hand. The sword had struck the target perfectly, severing the head cleanly.
Slice.
The sound of the sword cutting through the air and the lycanthrope's head flying off happened in a single instant.
Silence did not descend, for there were very few left to witness the fight. Had the pikemen charged in formation, it would have been Encrid who died. It would have been a similar story if the lycanthrope pack had swarmed him.
But in a chaotic melee, if it was one-on-one...
I won't lose.
That was why he had engineered this situation. Furthermore, he had experienced the habits and fighting styles of both the commander and the One-Eyed Lycanthrope multiple times. Of course, knowing their habits was only meaningful if one had the skill to back it up.
Because he had extended his sword while spinning half a turn, it created an illusion as if the moonlight were swirling around him. Of course, it was merely an illusion.
Encrid quietly stepped back. Now was the time to catch his breath. Besides, "today" was not over yet. The wall still remained.
*
Uh, isn't that a bit strange? Was he always like that?
Though he was rushing over thinking it was an emergency, Torres couldn't just cross the middle of the battlefield, so he was taking a wide detour around the flank. He had seen Encrid swing his sword to cut down Roger, and he had seen him slice off the One-Eyed Lycanthrope's head.
And a thought occurred to him.
He's changed.
They had sparred over a dozen times on their way here. The Encrid of back then and the Encrid of now were different.
What changed? Did his skills improve by leaps and bounds? I don't think that's it. His swordplay seems a bit colder, though.
He also seemed much more composed.
"Is he usually... uh, that good at fighting?" Finn asked from beside him.
It was a rare level of skill. Anyone who saw it would likely think the same.
"He fights incredibly well."
Admiring him, Finn's eyes flashed sharply. She suddenly took a long stride with her left foot, planted it, and flicked a stone upward with her other foot. Catching the stone that had popped up from her instep, Finn threw it sideways while running.
The stone flew with a thwack and struck an enemy soldier square in the back of the head. The moment the soldier ducked his head from the impact, a lycanthrope gouged his back with its claws.
Thud!
A single strike didn't punch a hole through his back—his armor was exceptionally sturdy. However, as the price for leaving an opening, the soldier had to roll aside to evade, which threw their formation into disarray. Two lycanthropes lunged into the gap. Once the formation collapsed, the lycanthropes held an absolute advantage.
Torres glanced in that direction before looking away. Though Finn, who threw stones in the middle of all this, was a strange woman, Torres found Encrid incredibly strange right now. It felt unnatural. A bizarre sensation pricked at his chest.
He couldn't quite put it into words. It was just strange. Extremely, deeply, utterly strange.
Why?
If he chewed it over, everything was strange, but a few things stood out.
First, his skill. Torres had no desire to fight a lycanthrope drunk on moonlight right now—at least not alone. Sure, he might win, but he could also die. What if he tried to stab its neck with a dagger, only to get caught by its claws?
Ugh.
Goosebumps broke out all over his body. It was a pointless imagination. Then what about Encrid?
Is his heart made of stone?
His boldness went far beyond mere courage. He was performing evasion acrobatics between a pack of lycanthropes and a group of enemy soldiers who had been thoroughly riled up. He had killed the enemy commander in a single stroke.
And he just sliced up that One-Eyed Lycanthrope, too.
He had clashed with its claws a few times, then cut its throat just like that. The sheer skill of it was enough to make Torres's stomach drop. The sword, extending as it spun, almost looked as if it had bent like a whip.
What kind of monster is he?
Ah.
Only then did Torres realize the difference between the Encrid he had sparred with and the Encrid before him now.
His mastery is on a completely different level. His mastery.
I definitely thought there were awkward and clumsy parts to his movements. That's why I advised him that the more we fought, the better he could patch up those openings while I poked at them.
Yet, before he knew it, Encrid seemed to have reached a state of complete mastery. At least, that spinning slash just now certainly looked that way.
In just a few days? Was he a genius?
No, Torres knew better because they had hung out together. Encrid's physical talent was mediocre at best. To be perfectly honest, he was clumsy to an embarrassing degree compared to anyone else.
Wow. This is just...
He was literally killing a beast or a man with every swing of his sword. Even after he killed the commander and the One-Eyed, lycanthropes and enemy soldiers occasionally lunged at Encrid. But their heads were shattered by his sword as he stepped and brought it down with brute force.
His deliberate horizontal slashes, instead of trying to cut through armor, struck with heavy, bludgeoning force, shattering ribs and rupturing internal organs. Just because the blade didn't penetrate directly didn't mean the impact vanished. It was a horizontal slash that perfectly demonstrated what the Heavy Sword Style was all about.
Aren't those guys scared? If Encrid were my enemy, I'd be terrified to fight him.
Of course, Torres wasn't the only one who thought so. The commander and the leader were dead. On top of them, three or four more had fallen. After that, no one dared to attack Encrid.
Even the lycanthropes, driven mad by the full moon, began to treat Encrid as if he weren't even there. They passed him by even after spotting him. They took wide detours around him.
I'd do the same.
With that, only the clash between the enemy soldiers and the lycanthropes remained. And that battle was also nearing its end. Standing alone, bathed in the solitary moonlight, only Encrid remained untouched.
And it didn't even look awkward. With a familiar composure, Encrid caught his breath under the moonlight and calmly watched the rest of the fight.
The moment he saw that, goosebumps erupted all over Torres's body. The sight of lycanthropes and enemy soldiers avoiding a single human was astonishing enough, but it was also because another question had arisen. A sense of incongruity continued to plague Torres.
Let's put his skill aside for a moment. Then what about this situation?
There's more than just one or two strange things. Starting from how the lycanthropes and the Gray Dog unit crossed paths. And how he kept asking if there was something behind us at the dog hole. How did he even know the commander's name? That really makes no sense. You can't just write that off as a coincidence.
Once doubts began to surface, they tended to snowball. That was exactly what was happening to Torres. As he kept muttering about how strange it was while they ran along their detour, Finn spoke up.
"What keeps being strange?" Finn asked. Her eyes scanned their surroundings as she ran. She was reading the flow of the battlefield. No matter which side survived, wouldn't they have to wipe them all out anyway?
At first, the humans had the advantage. But looking at it now, it seemed like the lycanthropes might win. The lycanthropes had long since avoided the nightmare that was Encrid, but the humans hadn't. They had targeted Encrid a few more times, and as a result, their numbers had dwindled even further.
This entire situation? It was all engineered by a single man. Encrid, some independent platoon leader, a man with a fine body and a handsome face.
What, is he some kind of tactical genius? Finn thought to herself.
"Just everything. It's all strange," Torres kept muttering nonsense. He was staring at Encrid with a look of pure bewilderment.
"Get a grip. We have to clean up the survivors," Finn said. As if she had made up her mind, she drew the axe at her waist and threw it. It was right after she made eye contact with an enemy soldier.
Whoosh!
The handaxe spun through the air and slammed into the soldier's chest with a heavy thud. Struck by the axe, the soldier took a step back and collapsed.
"Hurts, doesn't it, you bastard?" Finn muttered as she ran.
Beside her, Torres kept murmuring about how strange it was. Thus, the two of them joined Encrid. It had taken some time because of the detour, but they had ultimately kept their word to stay within line of sight before joining up.
"Let me ask you something."
Torres had to ask. He needed to know what this situation was and how it had come to this. Putting aside his strangely altered skills, he started with the most pressing matter.
"How did you know the commander's name?"
There was no way he could have a plausible excuse for this. Encrid remained nonchalant, as if to say, What does it matter?
"By chance."
"By chance?"
"Krais once mentioned there was a strange guy among the enemy forces."
It was a lie. But could they verify it? No. And it sounded plausible enough.
"Ah."
"He mocked him, saying he was famous for hiding his head."
He wasn't a territory-class powerhouse, but he was still an enemy. Plus, his behavior was peculiar. It was entirely possible to hear rumors through various channels. Even in Azpen, a few people would know the name of the Border Guard Captain.
If so, it was possible. Barely, but possible.
"Then you intended for this situation to happen?"
"Of course it's a coincidence. Who could have predicted a pack of lycanthropes would show up here?"
His look asked why Torres was even questioning something so obvious. Though that deeply annoyed Torres, Encrid continued.
"Does that matter? I just thought of a plan."
Finn listened intently, wondering if Encrid was some kind of natural-born tactical genius. Torres felt uneasy at the strange composure in Encrid's tone, but both of them kept their ears open.
"Let's scale the wall. Right now, no one would ever expect anyone to climb over the castle wall."
The dog hole was obviously a trap set by the enemy. They had barely escaped from there. If they secretly scaled the wall before the enemy soldiers returned to their territory?
"That's brilliant," Finn was the first to agree. It made sense.
The plan had been forged through his repeated "todays." It would be stranger if it weren't flawless.
"Tsk."
Torres clicked his tongue, but he had to agree. In any case, the operation was still underway. What Encrid had just proposed would undoubtedly become an incredibly sharp dagger—a dagger that would plunge into the enemy before they even realized they were being stabbed.
"Let's go."
Thus, even before the clash between the lycanthropes and the enemy soldiers had concluded, the three of them moved out.
"Shit, they're running!" a soldier thrusting his spear into a lycanthrope's head shouted.
But they couldn't give chase. The number of remaining soldiers was a mere twelve. They might be able to fight in formation, but honestly, none of them wanted to fight the man who had just split Captain Roger in half.
"Damn it."
So, they could only curse in frustration as the three shadows vanished into the night.