Chapter 116: Why the Death of Others is More Unpleasant
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 116: Why the Death of Others is More Unpleasant
"This is how you grip a sword."
The third-rate mercenary in the village where Encrid was born hadn't even known how to hold a blade properly.
That was the first lesson he had learned from his first real instructor.
How to press the blade with the thumb. How to grip it with the right hand in front and the left in back. The proper way to hold the pommel, and even how to utilize the ricasso.
Though he usually wielded his sword with both hands, he thought to himself:
Even with one hand... it should be possible.
Through the Isolation Technique, his already formidable strength had surged even further. He gripped the longsword with only his left hand and swung.
Whoosh.
The casual swing drew a wide arc. He didn't like the feel of it. But since it was possible, he kept going.
Thrusting, slashing, thrusting, and slashing again.
He cut diagonally, then horizontally. He even mimicked a bind. He pictured an opponent in his mind, but he knew he wouldn't last a single clash against Rem or his squad members like this. The issue wasn't one-handed swordsmanship itself; it was his unfamiliar left hand.
He changed his mental opponent. Someone faceless, but decent with a blade. As he visualized, a shadow similar to his past self appeared. Then, a piece of trash from his mercenary days—a man whose skill was as terrible as his personality—popped up. The bastard who used to shoot a thin blade like an arrow.
He held that image in his mind and swung.
Slash!
As he scraped the ground with his soles and swung the sword in a wide arc, sweat poured down him, droplets scattering in all directions. A pebble caught under his foot popped up with a sharp click. Reflexively, Encrid struck the airborne stone with the flat of his blade.
Tink!
Because the strike was imprecise, the deflected pebble bounced off the toe of his boot.
"If you're holding it properly, you must be able to cut exactly what you intend."
The instructor's words came back to him, one after another. Even cutting a dummy standing perfectly still was no easy task. Still, Encrid knew how to do at least that much—though it was incredibly difficult with his left hand.
It won't go where I want it to.
He was rebuilding from scratch. He had to walk the path he had trodden with his right hand all over again with his left. He needed the grueling process of repeated swings to find the rhythm.
What might have been tedious to someone else was not so for Encrid. On the contrary, he felt a surge of excitement. Retracing the path of his right hand with his left allowed him to notice everything he had missed before.
Before he knew it, Encrid closed his eyes. What he saw was not the present, but the past—his former self.
Deeper and deeper he went. He recalled his memories, wandering through the echoes of his life.
What if I had done that back then?
He performed the countless combat reviews he had accumulated over time. Battlefields, duels, monsters, demonic beasts, humans. The sword swung against everything—the blade, the hand, the person.
Tripping up, getting his head bashed in. Barely surviving against monsters. A time lived as if he had two lives. Encrid walked that path again.
A Single-Point Focus naturally enveloped his body, leaving him blind to everything but his own movements. But because the Beast's Heart kept him centered, he never lost control to his own excitement. Boldness and composure were among the most useful weapons in Encrid's arsenal. It almost felt like a helper supplementing his willpower.
He swung the sword once more. By repeating and reflecting over and over, he felt himself mastering the movements twice as fast as he had with his right hand.
Drip, drip.
He was drenched in sweat. The leather strap wrapped around the grip snapped. As his strength faded, he let his hand hang limp, and the tip of the sword tapped the ground. He hadn't exactly overworked his muscles, but he had used ones he normally didn't. His left arm felt slightly numb.
"You really are a madman."
Encrid's dazed gaze focused on the voice coming from beside him.
"Aren't you going out to the battlefield?"
Encrid's eyes cleared. He tilted his head as he looked at the speaker.
"Our platoon is in charge of camp defense. Hand it over."
It was Vengeance, the 2nd Company 3rd Platoon Leader. Encrid had felt his gaze long ago; he just hadn't bothered to acknowledge it.
Vengeance approached, took Encrid's sword, and began tightening the leather strap on the grip. His hands were practiced. He pulled it taut from both sides, wound it around, and secured it back inside the grip.
"I'm only doing this because it looks hard to do with one hand."
Since when was Vengeance this kind? Ever since Encrid saved him from the fire? Suddenly curious, Encrid asked, "Why did you hate me?"
At those words, Vengeance's lips twitched. He mumbled for a moment before speaking.
"Jenny."
"Jenny?"
Who was Jenny? Encrid blinked. His memory wasn't bad, so not remembering her meant one of two things: she was either someone not worth remembering, or a name he had never heard.
This time, it was the former. When Encrid continued to stare with a blank look, Vengeance's voice pitched higher.
"Jenny, the herb seller!"
Jenny, the herb seller? When Encrid maintained his clueless expression, Vengeance muttered a curse and barked, "I hated you because I didn't like your damn face!"
The guy's personality was all over the place. He had just helped fix his sword, and now he was acting like this.
"Anyway, I just don't like that slick face of yours."
Growling, Vengeance sprang to his feet. "Take care of your sword."
He didn't like him, yet he was worrying about him? Watching Vengeance turn around and stomp away, Encrid chuckled, resting his chin on the back of his hand.
"I wasn't interested in her. She was the one interested in me. My only interest was in the herbs."
How could he not remember after all that? Encrid used to visit the territory quite often. When he did, there were occasionally women who said they liked him just for his face. It was the literal fantasy of a delusional maiden from a frontier territory.
Hearing "Jenny, the herb seller" did bring back the memory. He had only pretended not to know to tease Vengeance. The guy's reaction was just too amusing. This must be why Rem enjoyed teasing the soldiers around him.
"Like I care!" Vengeance yelled back.
He was a surprisingly endearing fellow. But he couldn't be dismissed as merely cute; he was quick-witted, decent in combat, and took good care of his subordinates.
The type who wouldn't die easily unless his luck ran out.
Meow.
As he was thinking of finding a stream to wash off the sweat, he heard Esther's cry.
"Why are you so listless? Are you hungry?"
Hiss.
At Encrid's question, Esther narrowed her eyes in a glare.
"Are you sick?"
As he spoke, he stroked and groomed Esther's fur. She soon closed her eyes, purring. There was only one reason Esther was tired: she had absorbed the fatigue built up in Encrid's body throughout the night into her own.
Ignorant human.
Though she cursed him inwardly, Esther didn't particularly dislike Encrid. A desire for self-improvement that knew no surrender—wasn't that just like her? Though she had ended up in this state while exploring the Spell World, her own drive for improvement was no less than this man's.
Esther lowered her head and tried to sleep. Fatigue had definitely accumulated. The mage was closed for business today; she had absolutely no energy. In the first place, drawing upon a portion of the Spell World with this small body was nothing more than a makeshift trick.
Preeeeep!
Just as she was drifting off, a sharp sound jolted Esther awake. The hand of Encrid, who had been scratching her head, stopped abruptly. Looking up, Esther saw Encrid's chin as he stood up.
"Captain!"
Encrid set Esther down on the ground. He saw Krais running toward him from the side. Another sharp whistle followed.
Preeeeeeeeep!
It was a long, sustained tone—the signal for danger. The Naurilian army used whistles as part of their signaling system. A blast like that meant only one thing: an enemy raid.
"Which way..."
Encrid started to ask Krais, but shut his mouth. The voices of their allies, echoing immediately after the whistle, struck their ears first.
"Ambush! Enemy! Enemy!"
"Don't back down!"
"Fuck, we're screwed!"
It was a discord born of panic and crisis.
Clang, clang, clang!
Amidst the chaos, the din of clashing metal erupted. Soon, blood sprayed.
"Argh!"
Death screams mingled in the air. And then, the attackers came into Encrid's view. Their stride was neither fast nor slow.
Clack.
A step that announced itself with the crunching of gravel. A stride that gave the impression that the man alone existed in a different flow of time. The spring rain had stopped, a warm breeze blew, and the sun-drenched gravel field held onto the heat.
The opponent stood there, crunching the gravel underfoot. He had broad shoulders, thin yet sturdy leather armor, and the distinctive helmet of the Azpen Principality that covered the head down to the forehead, leaving only the ears exposed. Water dripped to the ground from his faded brown hair, which spilled out from beneath his helmet.
Behind him, two enemy soldiers wielded short spears, their skill far from ordinary.
Clang, clang.
Thrust! Stab!
Just watching them block, strike, and thrust made it clear: they were highly refined elite soldiers. He had met elites of this caliber before. Gray Dog, the special unit of Azpen nicknamed the "Persistent Lover." It was a unit perfectly suited for this kind of ambush.
And they had done exactly that. They had launched an ambush, utilizing the unit's specialty. On top of that, the bastard leading the unit walked over, step by step, until he stood right in front of Encrid.
Grrrrr!
Esther, barely awake, bared her fangs.
"Esther, get back."
Encrid shielded Esther with his body.
"So you didn't die."
He recognized the face. It was an Azpen commander, a platoon leader of Gray Dog. He had been easily provoked before, and Encrid had run him through the chest with his sword.
His name was Mitch Hurier.
Perhaps because he had crossed the river, his entire body was soaking wet. He was clearly not in normal condition. Running through the night to close the distance, crossing the river, and then launching an immediate ambush—this was the result of pushing his physical limits to the brink.
However, Encrid's condition was even worse.
Will my wrist hold up?
He didn't know. Mitch Hurier caught his breath. Then, tilting his chin up slightly, he looked at the sky and murmured, "My thanks."
It was a prayer of gratitude to his god.
"I wanted to meet you again, Encrid."
He lowered his gaze.
"I'm honored you remembered my name, but..."
"Then..."
Shring.
He drew his sword. The moment Encrid saw Mitch draw his blade, he sensed his own death. Mitch would have been a difficult opponent even with a healthy wrist. The insight Encrid had gained as his own skills grew allowed him to gauge his opponent's strength accurately.
"Thanks to you, my eyes have been opened."
There was no need to understand what he meant. Mitch hadn't spoken expecting Encrid to understand, either. It was merely a statement born of his current joy. He had come to plunge the enemy's morale—already shattered by the camp raid—into the abyss. But here, he had caught a big fish.
The opponent he had wanted to meet so badly. The opponent he had wanted to cut down so desperately. Meeting him again, he had to prove himself. Only by defeating and overcoming this man could he move forward.
Mitch Hurier's sword moved. A vertical slash from top to bottom.
Clang!
Encrid switched the sword to his right hand and met the blow.
Crack.
A single clash was enough. The splint he had applied snapped, and the strength drained from his right hand. His wrist throbbed with a sharp, numbing pain. His fingers trembled.
"You're injured."
Would he show mercy? Not a chance. Encrid wouldn't have either. What did it matter if the opponent was injured? This wasn't a place to discuss honor; they were in the middle of a war. Even if it were a duel, he wouldn't have held back. Exploiting a weakness during combat was something to be encouraged.
"Unlucky bastard."
Mitch showed a bitter smile. He had wanted a proper fight, but since things had turned out this way...
Clang, clang.
Encrid barely managed to block the blade that came at him with casual ease.
I'm going to die.
It was the moment he realized he wouldn't be able to block the next attack.
"You son of a bitch!"
Vengeance, drenched in blood from head to toe, rushed in and thrust his spear at Mitch Hurier's back.
Whoosh!
The tip of the spear was remarkably sharp. Without even looking, Mitch Hurier moved his feet. Pivoting on his left foot, he spun his body to evade the spearhead, then brought his sword down diagonally.
Crack!
His blade struck the middle of the spear shaft. Even so, Vengeance did not let go. Instead, he swept it upward, attempting to strike Mitch's chest with the shaft.
But it was a futile struggle. The moment his blade struck the shaft, Mitch Hurier's feet moved. From a half-turned stance, Mitch Hurier had already spun completely around, his sword slicing through the air. As the trajectory drawn by the sword aligned horizontally with the ground—
Squelch.
Vengeance's throat was slashed. Sensing the danger, Vengeance had barely managed to pull back, but he was too late. His neck was already half-severed. Dropping his spear, he clutched his throat.
Ah, you idiot. You could have just run away.
Vengeance fell to his knees. Standing beside the kneeling man, Mitch Hurier looked at Encrid.
"I will cut your neck just like this."
Slash!
He slashed the half-severed neck once more. Vengeance's head rolled across the ground.
What was this feeling? Even though he knew that dying would only bring back today all over again, he felt absolutely like dog shit. It was infuriating. It was goddamn miserable.
Hiss!
The blue-eyed panther watching also tried to pounce, but she was blocked by a soldier wielding a short spear.
"A mere beast," the enemy soldier muttered, brutalizing Esther. She, too, would die soon if she didn't run.
"Run, Esther."
As Encrid spoke, Mitch Hurier closed the distance and raised his sword high. Mitch Hurier was a liar. He had said he would cut his neck, but in the end, he thrust his blade into Encrid's chest.
"Now that I think about it, this was where I was stabbed."
His tone was flat. His sword pierced Encrid's heart. Encrid couldn't even dream of throwing his remaining Whistle Dagger. With his right wrist in this state, it was utterly impossible.
"It's a pity we couldn't have a proper fight, but farewell."
As he spoke, Mitch Hurier pulled out the sword.
Squelch. Grate.
As the blade that had torn through his chest was withdrawn, red life force gushed out, spilling onto the ground.
Gurgle.
Foaming blood at the mouth, Encrid collapsed forward. In his fading vision, he saw Vengeance's severed head and Esther, who had been flung to the side.
Hiss!
This feeling is truly... fucking awful.
It was strange. To think that witnessing the death of others was far more unpleasant than his own. The moment of death arrived. He had experienced it countless times by now, so he should have been used to it. Yet, far from familiarity, it was an abyss that only engraved pain, suffering, and fear into his mind.
Even though he knew that after wandering the abyss, morning would come again when he woke, it was a darkness that made him desperately wish not to die.
He did not dream. Therefore, there was no Ferryman either.
Encrid opened his eyes once more.
Meow.
Esther rubbed her face against his chest. An oversleeping, the start of a morning without his squad members. And.
This is fucking dog shit.
Encrid truly thought the situation was fucking dog shit. His right wrist was broken, and his squad members weren't here. Before afternoon, the enemy's elites would raid the camp. And that bastard Mitch Hurier was among them.
Running away won't solve anything.
It wouldn't. Even if he survived, he would only return to the same day. Unless he overcame this wall, he could never escape today.
Then, how was he supposed to overcome it?
Encrid's gaze fell downward. It drifted toward Esther, who was rubbing her face against his chest. More precisely, he looked at his left hand, which was stroking Esther's fur.