Chapter 115: Aren't You Guys Sleeping?
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 115: Aren't You Guys Sleeping?
His session with Rem was High-Speed Sword Sparring.
With Ragna, it was Sword Stance Response Sparring, where their blades only lightly clashed in a dance of precision.
With Audin, it was a grueling exchange of bare-handed strikes and joint locks.
When the sparring finally came to an end, Rem was the first to speak.
"You're finally taking baby steps."
Baby steps. It might have sounded like a slight to anyone else, but Encrid knew better. A faint smile played on Rem’s lips—an expression of thorough satisfaction.
"Your wasted movements have decreased," Ragna chimed in.
This, too, was a backhanded compliment at best. But while his words were plain, an unprecedented fervor burned in Ragna’s eyes. This was a man who usually drifted through life with his eyes half-closed, indifferent to the world. The look he gave Encrid now was born of absolute respect for their exchange.
A cold heat radiated from Ragna’s gaze.
"You’ve kept up with your sensory training," Sachsen offered, his praise calm and measured.
"You have taken another step closer to God," Audin remarked cryptically.
Encrid chewed on those words for a moment. Realizing the implication was rather ominous, he stared blankly at Audin. Before Encrid could retort, Rem beat him to it.
"Isn't that basically praying for him to drop dead?"
"Not at all, brother. It is a blessing."
How on earth is that a blessing?
In any case, the sparring was over.
"Is that the Troublemaker Squad Leader everyone’s talking about?"
"He’s the Mad Platoon Leader now, you bastard."
"What the hell is that title?"
"So that’s him..."
"They weren't kidding when they called him a training-crazed madman."
Whispers drifted over from the onlookers—soldiers who had watched the display in stunned silence, their mouths agape.
Encrid’s shoulders heaved as he gasped for air. His right wrist throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and fatigue weighed heavily on his limbs, draining his strength. Yet, he didn't feel bad at all.
Only...
It’s a pity.
Because of his injured wrist, everyone had held back. That was deeply disappointing. Even so, he had learned something.
His recent experiences—the trials he had faced after scaling the walls of Cross Guard, and even his duel with Frok after his return—it felt as though he had poured the entirety of those experiences into this single moment of sparring.
And on top of that, there were the new insights he had gained today. He wanted to savor them. In other words, he wanted to keep fighting.
"Hold your horses. If you push it any further, your wrist is going to snap completely," the quick-witted Rem warned.
Encrid knew he was right. He knew that rest was as crucial as effort; he had learned that lesson long ago. He caught his breath and gave a reluctant shrug.
The onlookers began to disperse. A few acknowledged Encrid as they passed.
"You're back?" It was the Vengeance Platoon Leader. Since they were now of equal rank, the greeting was casual.
"Yeah." Encrid was actually a couple of years older, so the informal speech came naturally.
"Good to see you."
Why does he look so embarrassed?
After exchanging nods with a few others, including Bell and the sewing genius, Encrid finally headed into his tent.
"Alright, spill it. What did you do out there?" Rem asked abruptly.
He was genuinely curious. What on earth could this dull, effort-only man have done to improve this much? When Rem said someone was taking "baby steps," it was his way of acknowledging that they had finally broken through a wall.
Even though they had held back during their clashes, Rem had felt a distinct change. Encrid’s slashes had whipped out like lashes, repeatedly and relentlessly.
Did he have conviction in his body, his weapon, his arms, and his hands? Or did he not? That was the difference between the Encrid who had left for Cross Guard and the Encrid who stood here now.
Conviction. An absence of hesitation.
Some might call it experience. Others might say the techniques had become second nature. It felt as though everything he had accumulated over time had finally been refined into a singular edge.
Rem felt it would be well worth hearing the story. Just what kind of "fun" had Encrid been having in his absence?
Ragna sat down, looking equally curious, while Sachsen and Audin took their places. Andrew, Mac, and Anri leaned in to listen as well.
"I feel like a storyteller," Encrid muttered, looking at his platoon members huddled closely in front of him.
A story? That wasn't hard. Encrid recounted the events plainly. He told them about falling into the trap, the spearmen in front and archers behind, and Ranger Finn’s sharp eyes. He spoke of the lycanthrope, the mage waiting atop the castle wall, and finally, his battle with Frok.
Except for the part about repeating the day, he spoke with complete honesty, occasionally adding that he had simply been lucky. It was a succession of wild, death-defying events delivered in an utterly flat, nonchalant tone.
"Are you cursed or something? Every time you almost die, you get stronger," Rem asked with a chuckle.
To him, it certainly seemed that way. Every time Encrid faced a brush with death, his skills spiked. Was the platoon leader actually a genius? No, absolutely not. Rem had taught him firsthand; he knew better than anyone.
Then was it that the threat of death stimulated something dormant inside him? Either way, it was incredibly bizarre, but Rem didn't truly care. What did it matter?
"Well, it was an entertaining story, at least."
The others nodded in agreement, but Andrew, looking utterly soul-crushed, asked, "You survived a place like that and just... came back?"
Could everything they had just heard really be chalked up to mere luck? The same went for the spar earlier. Before, Andrew had thought he could at least hold his own against Encrid. When had the gap grown this wide? Had he been slacking?
No, absolutely not.
Just keeping up with this pack of madmen made every single day an agonizing ordeal. His skills had grown in proportion to that suffering. Even Mac had admitted it: "I hate to say it, but credit where it's due. Rolling around with that bastard Rem actually makes you stronger."
So Andrew had done his best. He had immersed himself in training like never before. And yet, the gap had only widened.
"I was lucky," Encrid said.
It was his usual answer. Andrew had nothing left to say.
Encrid suggested they head to sleep and checked the state of his wrist. Somehow, it felt even worse than it had right after his fight with Frok.
"With that wrist, you're staying in the tent tomorrow," Sachsen said.
"It's not bad enough for the medical tent, but combat is out of the question," Krais agreed.
"Obviously."
"I want to rest too," Rem and Ragna added.
Encrid had expected this. Since his wrist had worsened, they would naturally force him to rest. If the higher-ups asked why he had sparred with a ruined wrist, Rem would probably give some smart-aleck response like, "That's our platoon's tradition. Didn't you know?"
Regardless, rest was vital. His wrist had been mangled after fighting Frok. He might be able to swing a sword a few times, but pushing it now would ruin it permanently.
"Have you abandoned the shield?" Ragna asked as he headed to his bed.
Encrid nodded. "This is more comfortable."
As he spoke, Encrid drew his Guard Sword. The blade was slightly chipped and there was a dent in the middle, but it was still usable.
"Everyone has things they just can't get used to," Ragna noted with a nod.
It was the night of his return. As they all lay down on their cots, Rem spoke up into the darkness.
"Let's not lose to the likes of Frok."
Isn't it incredibly weird to refer to Frok as 'the likes of'? Encrid thought.
"Indeed. We must train harder. There is much to do," Ragna added.
Sachsen sent a silent, cool gaze through the shadows.
"Brother Platoon Leader, with training, anything is possible," Audin chimed in with his devilish tongue.
"If we fight again, I'll win," Encrid replied boastfully, drawing a round of chuckles.
"Well, love the confidence," Rem spoke for the group.
As they settled back into the silence to sleep, the voices started up again.
"Once your wrist heals, let's have a proper go at it."
"Once it's fully healed, I have a lot to teach you. We need to fix some of those bad habits."
"There is no end to training, brother."
"There are still things left to do."
From Rem to Sachsen, they all spoke up once more. Learning new things. Moving forward. Walking the path, and then walking it again. It was exactly what Encrid had yearned for.
Though for now, he had to focus on recovery. His wrist felt incredibly stiff.
It feels like they're trying to keep me off the battlefield.
It was a strange feeling. The people worrying about him were certainly an eccentric bunch. In any case, since he wouldn't be going out, would Rem and the others fight a bit harder tomorrow morning? There was no telling. Encrid still didn't know exactly why they followed him so fiercely. He could only guess.
And he didn't particularly want to drag it into the realm of certainty. He figured it was better to leave things as they were rather than stir up trouble by poking around. If they needed to, they would speak up on their own. He just had to treat them the same way he always had.
"Let's do that," Encrid replied, truly intending to sleep this time. But...
"Seriously, the likes of Frok..." Rem muttered, sitting halfway up and slicing his hand through the air. "You block like this, and strike like this. Faster than him. Just wait until your wrist heals. I'll engrave Frok-slaying into your very bones."
"There is a process of mastering other Basic Sword Forms besides the Heavy Sword Style and making them second nature," Ragna added.
"You must maintain the Isolation Technique while excluding your right hand, brother," Audin suggested.
"...How not to let your guard down," Sachsen murmured.
Not a single member of the platoon would shut up.
"Aren't you guys sleeping?"
If he left them be, they would keep talking all night. What was this? Were they doing this because they were glad to see him? Or had they just lacked someone to torment? Though if that were the case, Andrew’s eyes wouldn't be so swollen and bruised.
"I'm sleeping. I was tired anyway," Rem grumbled, having the last word. Finally, the tent fell silent.
Meow—
Esther, who had been hiding in a corner, crawled into Encrid’s arms. Lying there, Encrid reviewed his fight with Frok and today’s sparring. Today’s sparring had been incomplete. Yet, his blood still boiled.
In a way, it was supposed to be a process of validating what he had done so far. So why did it feel like a new path forward was opening up? Between the combat review, his stray thoughts, and the warmth of Esther on his chest, sleep naturally washed over him.
A moment later.
"You said my talent would be recognized anywhere," Andrew whispered with a heavy sigh.
Mac, listening beside him, had no words. By any normal standard, Andrew was a brilliant prospect. His growth was visible by the day. But this platoon...
Well, this is... quite something.
How could people like this be common? They couldn't be. This was a first for Mac. He had never seen a gathering of such absurdly skilled fighters. Even their platoon leader, Encrid, was the same. His skills had improved beyond recognition. Even before, he had been formidable enough that Mac had warned Andrew not to pick a fight with him.
But now, it felt as though he had crossed a certain threshold.
At a loss for words, Mac simply said, "Instead of comparing yourself to others, swing your sword one more time."
He spoke in accordance with the spirit of this mad platoon. At those words, Andrew let out a hollow sigh.
*
Morning came, and Encrid opened his eyes.
Did I oversleep?
Meow.
He saw Esther rubbing her cheek against his chest. Reflexively, he raised his right hand to stroke her head, but quickly winced and switched hands. His right hand was completely unusable, bound in a splint. He stroked Esther’s fur with the tips of his left fingers. Esther let out a pleased purr.
She overslept too.
Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the tent. As Encrid sat up, Krais entered.
"Are you awake?"
"I overslept."
"It's only natural. A day or two of rest won't wash away the fatigue of everything you've been through."
Krais had heard the full report the previous night. He knew his platoon leader’s stamina was monstrous, but if he didn't feel tired after such a grueling march, he wouldn't be human.
"Let's get you some food first."
Encrid got up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and ate. Breakfast consisted of well-cooked potatoes and thinly sliced, salted grilled bacon.
"The food quality is quite good."
"They're looking out for us. Oh, and the rest of the platoon went ahead to the front line," Krais said, pointing toward the battlefield.
Did this mean expectations were high for this platoon? Was that why they got special rations? Rem and the others had already moved out? They had probably moved quickly to give him an excuse to rest his wrist.
But would his platoon members actually move according to the commander’s intentions? He wasn't so sure. Even when he tried to soothe them himself, it rarely worked. Maybe they would fight hard for just today. If it was the price for letting him rest, they might. Rem usually said he’d kill three men; today, he might kill five.
That was about as much as he could expect. He also didn't know how necessary his platoon would be in the grand scheme of strategy. His thoughts stopped there. He had never learned large-scale tactics anyway.
The commander would do his job. Warmonger Marcus would live up to his name.
After finishing his meal, Encrid trained using the Isolation Technique just enough to avoid straining his right wrist, and then began his combat review. It was a process of reflecting on and chewing over what he had learned—a continuation of his daily routine.
Did I make any mistakes?
If so, where? He must not repeat them.
Every experience gained from a life-or-death struggle is an asset.
An instructor he had met in a small fishing village during his wandering days had told him that. Those words remained with Encrid. As he reviewed his battles alone, his body began to itch for action. Unable to sit still, he stood up, but with the splint and bandages on his right wrist, he was in no position to properly grip a sword.
Standing there with his eyes half-closed, Encrid drew a picture in his mind.
Audin, Ragna, Rem.
Starting with yesterday’s sparring in reverse order, he went through Frok, the night he faced the mage, the moment he was surrounded by the lycanthrope, and the moments he broke through the elite soldiers.
Luck.
Luck had played a part. Of course, since it was luck pulled from repeating the day, it could also be called calculated luck.
He thought repeatedly and moved his body. As he did, his blood naturally began to boil. He simply couldn't resist swinging his sword.
A training-crazed madman.
Had someone called him that?
It actually fits me incredibly well.
At the end of his stray thoughts, unable to hold back any longer, he drew his sword.
Chiring.
Since his right hand was ruined, he used his left instead.
I originally used a sword with one hand anyway.
He felt he could make it work. What if he built up more physical strength? Thinking continuously, he gripped the sword with his left hand and swung it down.
Whoosh.
It was a clumsy strike. Even he could feel it. It was completely different from when he used his right hand.
It feels like starting over, but...
It was still several times better than doing nothing. Right now, he needed an outlet for his boiling motivation and desire.
"That guy is completely out of his mind. His right hand is injured, so he's doing that shit with his left," Vengeance, who had stayed behind for rear defense, muttered as he watched Encrid from a distance.
Of course, Encrid didn't pay him any mind. He couldn't even hear him.
Absolute immersion.
Encrid retraced the path his right hand had taken with his left, seeing the things he had missed.