Chapter 118: Leap
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 118: Leap
"Come at me!"
Clang, clang, clang!
Sword and spear clashed in a rapid exchange.
Vengeance was wild and powerful. No matter how much stronger Encrid’s muscles were compared to the average person, his opponent was still a seasoned, trained soldier. It was impossible to overpower him with sheer strength using only one hand.
Then, how?
Encrid processed the thought mid-combat, immediately putting his ideas into action.
Deflect.
He parried the heavy blows, thrusting into the resulting openings. He visualized a line connecting point to point. Finding the optimal path, he lunged with his sword, gauged the reaction, and stepped back.
His feet moved with frantic precision. Whenever he spotted a gap, he brought down a heavy strike, channeling the core essence of the Heavy Sword Style.
Screeech!
Vengeance blocked the blow with his spear shaft and immediately tried to sweep Encrid’s leg. But this was the kind of fight Encrid was far more accustomed to. Had he not sparred with Finn and her Eilkaraz-style Martial Arts countless times? On top of that, he had mastered Valaf-style Martial Arts, making him intimately familiar with ground techniques—what some jokingly referred to as "bed skills."
With a sharp thud, Encrid kicked Vengeance’s foot away. Seizing the opening, he swung his sword with all his might, striking the spearhead.
Clang!
The spearhead was instantly knocked aside. In that split second, Encrid pressed his blade against Vengeance’s neck. He felt a sickening pop from the muscles in his left forearm, but it didn't matter.
He had won.
"Your left hand..."
"I’ve always trained it," Encrid lied smoothly. "Often when no one was looking. It was my trump card."
A well-prepared excuse is a thing of beauty. Having repeated this day so many times, he had become an expert at fabrication.
"Damn it."
"Why the sudden spar?"
"I don't know. Watching you just made me want to go a round."
But I was only practicing the basics? Encrid wondered. Had he shown any particularly impressive movements? It was just footwork and the repetition of thrusts and slashes. Was there something else?
Vengeance had no reply. He already knew Encrid was a cut above him—in both skill and character. Ever since Encrid had saved him during the medical tent fire, he couldn't bring himself to hate the bastard. He had wondered why Encrid was training with his left hand, but...
Why is he so good with his left hand, too?
Still, something felt off.
"It’s, uh... strange."
"What is?"
Damn it, how do I even explain this? Vengeance cursed himself, racking his brain. He rolled the thoughts around until they finally tumbled off his tongue. "It feels like a dead sword."
That was the best he could do. Trying to explain further would just result in a string of clumsy words. Besides, what more could he say to a man who fought better than him?
Looking at the situation, it was actually quite ridiculous. He had challenged the man, lost, and was now criticizing his technique.
"No, I mean..."
"Hold on."
Encrid cut him off, his gaze turning vacant as he stared into space. Though his eyes were open, his mind was clearly elsewhere.
Vengeance felt a bit defensive. He hadn't stepped forward out of jealousy or envy; in that moment, his intentions had been pure. It was just like when he had first picked up a spear—the excitement of joining the army, killing his first demonic beast, and swinging his weapon day and night.
Encrid had reminded him of those days. His blood had boiled, and he simply couldn't stand still.
Here was a man whose right wrist was completely wrecked. According to the rumors, he was a man who had returned from a brutal mission, sparred with his squad members, and then collapsed into sleep. That was the kind of man Encrid was. He was injured and exhausted, yet he continued to push his body to the limit.
And why was the bastard smiling?
Because there was no room for jealousy, Vengeance’s blood surged with pure, vicarious excitement.
"Thanks."
Suddenly, Encrid spoke, snapping out of his trance. He looked at the stunned Vengeance and asked, "What are you doing?"
Vengeance blinked. "Nothing."
But what is he thanking me for? He really is a weird bastard.
A training-crazed madman—it was a fitting nickname. It was certainly better than "Charming Platoon Leader."
Encrid had realized something from Vengeance’s words.
Clumsiness.
It was the dissonance he felt as he retraced his past and walked his old path once more. Instead of sensing what was wrong and searching for a solution, he had been too busy simply swinging his sword every day because he hadn't known any better way.
But now, he knew. It was a difference in sensation. For a right-handed person, there was a vast difference in every sensation—from the fingertips to the shoulder—between the right and left hands. That had to be addressed first.
Starting with meals.
He would start by using a spoon and fork with his left hand. Conveniently, he also knew a training method that utilized both fingertip sensation and arm muscles simultaneously.
The Hidden Knife.
Good. This would be the path.
"Captain!" Krais’s voice rang out.
"Grrr." Esther growled, bristling with hostility.
"Oh, shit," Vengeance cursed.
"I thank God for allowing us to meet again."
Mitch Hurier, who seemed to have become deeply religious—unlike in previous loops—stood blocking their path, dripping wet.
Even if Encrid ran, the day would only reset. This was a wall he had to overcome with his left hand alone. What need was there for words? Gripping his sword and fighting was the only answer.
Encrid fought in silence. He swung his sword. He swept legs. He focused on memorizing his opponent’s patterns.
And then, he died.
Pain, darkness, the abyss, death.
After waking up once more, he began living solely with his left hand from the very next morning.
"What are you doing?" Krais asked, tilting his head.
"Filling my stomach."
"Did you injure your right fingers too?"
"No, I’m just trying not to use it. It needs rest to heal."
"That seems a bit excessive."
Yeah, it’s just a half-assed excuse.
Twenty "todays" passed since he began living left-handed. During that time, Vengeance requested a spar a few more times. He had the face of a soldier who purely yearned for the martial strength that made his blood boil.
"Good."
Only today, after twenty repetitions, did Vengeance finally stop calling his sword "dead."
Thanks to you.
Once again, Encrid swung his sword and died. He died, died, and died again.
It was on the ninetieth "today" that he felt a true change.
It’s different.
Would walking the path of the left hand, which he had already walked with his right, just be a repetition of the exact same thing?
No. The Encrid of back then and the Encrid of now were far too different.
Single-Point Focus.
Immersion—the training of drawing his sword while sinking deep into his own psyche. A body transformed through the Isolation Technique. Immersion and a transformed body, coupled with the Beast’s Heart, which kept him from losing his composure.
The movement of his body—where the swaying blade was heading. How much his body moved in response. Repetition, repetition, repetition.
In the midst of this mind-numbingly tedious training, Encrid encountered a moment he had never experienced before.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
It went beyond the blade simply moving according to his will. He felt no hesitation as he mimicked the basic forms of Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu.
Accurately, heavily, quickly, smoothly, and bizarrely.
His body moved on its own.
What was talent? It couldn't be defined in a single word. It required physical dexterity, but even the ability to forget everything and focus was a part of talent. He didn't even have the spare capacity to feel pleasure. The sword found its own path. His body moved of its own accord.
He didn't even need to look around. Even as he moved like this, he could feel the gazes of those watching him. This was what happened when a meager talent was completely overhauled through acquired effort.
It was a first-time experience—something he would normally never have felt in his entire life. He was adding sensitivity to the balance maintained by immersion, physical conditioning, and composure.
Encrid felt his swordsmanship leap forward dramatically—not over a long period of repetition, but in a single day.
"Phew."
At the same time, he saw his shortcomings. Precision. What did he need to do to fill that gap? It wasn't something that could be solved simply by swinging a sword. These were things visible only through his newly opened talent.
Beyond just living left-handed, he felt he needed to completely master the Hidden Knife until it became second nature.
So, it was back to repetition. Just because his shortcomings were clearly visible didn't mean the work was finished. He repeated it again. Though the days were tedious and often painful, Encrid felt joy as he retraced his steps one by one with his left hand.
Is this really happening?
Watching himself grow—nothing fired him up more than that.
On this "today," having sharpened his senses even further and feeling prepared, Vengeance challenged him as expected.
"Let’s have a spar."
By now, he was practically a friend who challenged him every single day. The fight didn't last long.
Clang, clang!
Deflecting the spearhead, Encrid whipped his sword upward, the blade seeming to bend like a snake. The steel stopped right at Vengeance’s neck.
"Shit... and you’re using your left hand."
"I’ve always trained it."
At the excuse, which was identical to every other "today," Vengeance fell silent. He was simply dumbfounded. How can he do this with his left hand?
But he didn't lament. He had only asked to spar out of pure admiration.
"What are you thinking about so deeply?" Encrid asked.
Vengeance spoke his mind honestly. "I was thinking that once we go back, I need to work harder."
At those words, Encrid stared blankly for a moment before offering a gentle smile. He really did have an enviably handsome face.
"Sure," Encrid said. "Then maybe Jenny will finally fall for you one day."
"You son of a bitch!"
How did he manage to get so worked up every single time? Jenny was Vengeance’s trigger. Encrid laughed and pushed him away, and Vengeance let out a chuckle too.
I have to make sure he gets to confess to Jenny.
In that case, he couldn't afford to die here.
Preeeeeet!
The whistle blew. The hundred and twelfth "today" began.
Crunch.
Stepping on the gravel, Mitch Hurier appeared.
"Captai—in!"
Krais was a bit late today. Just because the day repeated didn't mean everything was identical. Of course, whether Krais was late or not didn't matter.
Encrid wore his scabbard on his right hip and gripped the hilt with his left hand.
"Well, now. Should I call this good luck?" Mitch Hurier muttered, eyeing Encrid.
Encrid didn't listen. At some point, the sound of the whistle, Mitch Hurier, Vengeance, Esther, Krais... even himself, he forgot it all.
He held only the sword in his mind. The sword and the opponent; the line connecting point to point.
What was speed?
Shriiiing!
The blade shrieked against the scabbard. Before the sound could even fade, the drawn sword traced the optimal path, descending toward Mitch Hurier’s forehead.
Ping.
A sound like that echoed in Encrid’s ears. A preemptive strike unleashed with full force, splitting the seconds in a state of absolute immersion. This single strike was arguably better than what his right hand could currently produce.
And then—
Clang!
Mitch Hurier’s sword was drawn as well.
Clash!
Blade met blade. With their swords crossed in an X, Encrid pushed forward with sheer strength.
Screeech!
Mitch’s feet slid backward. If he lifted his feet now, he would fall. He held his ground, and Encrid closed the distance, giving him no room to pull back his sword. He closed in until he didn't even need to extend his arms.
Encrid let go of his own sword and grabbed Mitch Hurier’s hand, which was still gripping his weapon. He squeezed the hand with all his might.
Crack.
A satisfying crunch of bones echoed.
"You crazy bastard!"
Thud!
Mitch Hurier drove his knee into Encrid’s thigh. Encrid tried to hold onto his opponent’s hand despite the blow, but a follow-up punch caught him near the cheekbone, forcing him to step back.
His punches are damn heavy.
"Esther!"
As he retreated, he shouted, and the quick-witted panther leaped forward.
"My sword!"
I’m not telling you to attack, you silly panther.
Encrid’s thoughts reached her perfectly. Esther, who had been shaking her head at this ignorant human’s antics, sprang forward at the sound of her name. At his subsequent shout, she clamped her teeth onto the grip of Encrid’s sword and tossed it backward.
Esther had to put everything she had into this single action. Today, her magic was out of commission, and her body was far from normal.
Whoosh, clatter, thud.
The sword flew low and landed a step in front of Encrid.
Thunk!
A spear flew and pierced the ground where Esther had just been standing. It was an enemy soldier from behind. As the man tried to kick Esther, Clang! Vengeance blocked it.
"Where do you think you’re going, asshole?"
The enemy soldier snorted, and the two began trading spearheads, shafts, fists, and kicks. Encrid used the distraction to retrieve his sword.
"Is your hand alright?"
Encrid was the one with a splint on his right wrist, so it wasn't exactly a fitting question for him to ask.
"You bastard."
Mitch Hurier curled his lip and glared. His thumb had been broken in the clash just now. Without a thumb to support the force, he wouldn't be able to grip his sword properly.
Mitch glanced at his broken thumb, then looked at his opponent. Now that he looked closely, this guy, Encrid, was holding his sword in his left hand.
Was he originally left-handed? He didn't think so. When they had fought before, Encrid had used his right hand.
"Sorry, but I’m ambidextrous," Mitch Hurier said, shifting his sword to his other hand. His left hand.
Encrid, naturally, was already holding his sword in his left.
"Yeah, me too," Encrid replied. "Starting today."
It wasn't a lie. Through the repeating "todays," he had become quite accustomed to it.