Chapter 119: Brawl
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 119: Brawl
‘Now it’s fifty-fifty.’
Encrid wasn't confident he could win against Mitch Hurier with his hands fully intact.
Having awakened to his talent, he had retraced the path his right hand had once walked, now treading it anew with his left. But did doing all this mean he could use his left hand as well as his right?
No.
Then, could he withstand Mitch Hurier's full two-handed power while holding his sword with only one hand?
‘Not a chance.’
He had already experienced this several times.
Furthermore, whatever the bastard had been doing, he had no bad habits. Even if Encrid wanted to read his patterns, it was incredibly difficult because his variations flowed seamlessly every single time.
Mitch’s foundation still seemed to lie in the Orthodox Sword and Soft Sword.
Encrid's foundation was the Heavy Sword Style. The disadvantage was still on his side, wielding a heavy sword with only one hand. Even though the other guy had lost his thumb, he was still capable of gripping the sword with both hands. If things went south, he could probably endure the pain and swing his sword a few times.
‘Nothing else for it, then.’
He wanted to cleanly slice Mitch's throat with his blade, but if that wasn't possible...
He had no choice but to show him the Valen-style Mercenary Sword: a brawl.
"I'm a little sorry."
"What nonsense are you spouting?"
Encrid was serious. He did feel a slight pang of guilt.
Mitch viewed him as an obstacle to overcome in order to move forward. He saw him as a rival and an adversary. It was only a few words, but Encrid felt it clearly. Mitch even remembered his name. He had even looked glad to see him, as if he had been waiting.
What he felt from Mitch was a fighting spirit—a desire to test everything he had built with his sword.
And so...
‘I'm really sorry.’
Encrid had already confirmed everything: Mitch's skill, what he had built, and his fighting spirit. That was why he realized his only chance of winning lay in a brawl.
Would it be right to repeat the day again just to defeat his opponent with his left hand using pure swordsmanship? Spending today over and over, not knowing how long it would take?
No, that wasn't it.
Encrid felt there was no meaning in lingering in today. His left hand needed a new catalyst to progress further. Mitch Hurier was a good opponent, but...
‘I think I've squeezed out everything I can get from him.’
He couldn't read his patterns, but he had memorized a few of his habits. For example...
"Still a strange bastard."
The fact that whenever Mitch's left eyebrow twitched like that, an attack immediately followed.
No sooner had the words left Mitch's mouth than he kicked off the ground with a sharp crack and lunged forward.
Encrid had anticipated—no, he had been certain—that his opponent would charge like that. The moment Mitch finished speaking, Encrid kicked the ground with the toe of his boot. A shower of gravel caught by his toe flew straight at Mitch's face.
Clang!
Mitch deflected the gravel with the flat of his blade. It made him falter slightly, but he kept pressing forward. His reflexes were excellent, as expected.
Encrid drove his sword into the ground, flicked his left hand toward his waist, and thrust it forward.
Screeech!
It was the Whistle Dagger.
"Pathetic!" Mitch snarled, twisting his sword a few times. His eyesight was terrifyingly sharp. Clack-clack. The Whistle Dagger was swatted away, useless.
In an instant, they were within striking distance.
Encrid yanked his sword back out of the ground and thrust. Mitch twisted his body aside and swung his sword. It was a diagonal slash so fast the blade seemed to bend. Tracking the trajectory with his eyes, Encrid pulled his sword to the side.
Clang! Screeech.
The moment their blades clashed, Encrid felt his lack of strength. He slid his blade down at an angle, aiming for his opponent's hand.
Mitch Hurier was swinging his sword with both hands, while Encrid had only one. The moment he began to lose ground, Encrid tried to deflect the force using the Soft Sword Style, but Mitch sensed it and pushed back with sheer power.
Encrid let go of his sword again.
As Encrid tried to close the distance by targeting his opponent's opening once more, Mitch's body blurred with a sharp thud of his boots against the ground, and he vanished backward.
He wasn't the type to fall for the same trick twice. Encrid hadn't expected him to, either.
Mitch, having retreated, brought his sword down again. Encrid kicked the sword he had dropped on the ground.
It was a calculated move.
Tap.
The grip caught on the top of his foot, and the blade shot forward, aiming straight for Mitch's neck.
Normally, one is taught never to lose their sword. That was the absolute basic of swordsmanship. Though occasionally, those who wielded the Illusion Sword would drop their weapons to initiate this kind of fight.
But kicking it? An anomaly to counter an anomaly.
"Ha!"
With a shout, Mitch gripped his descending sword with one hand and brought it straight down in a vertical slash, as if splitting Encrid's crown. At the same time, he blocked the tip of the kicked blade with the gauntlet on his other hand.
Thud.
He blocked and twisted the tip of the sword, deflecting it to the side. He was indeed Mitch Hurier. Although the back of his gauntlet was slightly gouged, there was no hole, and he didn't seem to have taken any significant impact.
Encrid wasn't surprised; he had already envisioned this entire sequence. His true target was the next move.
It was the moment when the vertical slash lost its power and speed. After all, a two-handed strike had turned into a one-handed one.
The moment Encrid kicked the sword, he charged forward again. In terms of timing, it was practically dropping the sword, kicking it immediately, and then sprinting forward.
In response, Mitch had retreated, swung his sword in a vertical slash, and then blocked the incoming blade with the back of his hand.
Thud.
Mitch's sword struck Encrid's right shoulder. He sacrificed his flesh.
At the same time, he thrust his left hand forward. Encrid held the advantage in grip strength. As Encrid tried to grab his throat in one fell swoop, Mitch threw his head back. No, he bent all the way back at the waist, creating distance.
Encrid silently thanked Torres. There was no better training for developing the senses of his left hand, and it had allowed him to target his opponent with this single move.
With a twist of his wrist, the muscles beneath shifted, and with a soft click, a dagger slid out. The blade, emerging from his wrist, slipped right into Encrid's hand.
At that moment, Encrid looked into Mitch's eyes. Widely dilated pupils, trembling eyes.
Encrid slashed the dagger toward those eyes.
Slash!
The sound of metal tearing through flesh followed.
"Argh!" A groan, swallowed down against the pain, burst out.
"Mmh." A small groan escaped Encrid's lips as well.
And with good reason. The dagger in Encrid's hand had sliced through Mitch Hurier's eye. To be precise, it had carved a line from his cheek up to his forehead, right over his eyebrow.
Even as he lost his eye, Mitch Hurier kicked Encrid in the stomach and pulled his sword inward. After striking Encrid's shoulder, Mitch's snagged sword dragged across, slicing through the leather breastplate underneath and leaving a deep gash on his shoulder.
Hot, yet freezing cold. The sensation of cold steel parting his shoulder.
His right wrist was already a mess, and now his shoulder was slashed too.
‘This is bad.’
Thinking that, Encrid threw the dagger.
With a sharp whoosh.
This was a bastard who had counterattacked even while losing an eye. Mitch swung his sword, trying to swat the dagger down. But the dagger embedded itself straight into his forearm.
With one eye gone, his depth perception would be completely shot for the time being. Which meant this was his chance.
The Valen-style Mercenary Sword: a brawl.
It meant closing the distance no matter what, fighting to win even if it meant biting the opponent to death in the end. Using everything at his disposal, whether dirty or underhanded.
Encrid did exactly that.
Throwing his sword again, he lunged forward headlong. The kick to his stomach earlier had taken a toll, and his shoulder was bleeding, but his heart hammered wildly, pumping blood through his body.
Now was not the time for composure, but for audacity. Encrid charged forward with reckless abandon.
"Aaargh!" Mitch swung his sword, letting out a sound that was half-scream, half-battle cry.
‘I can see it.’
Then he could dodge it. It was just like back then, when he saved Leona. Like when he dodged the flying daggers.
Activating Single-Point Focus.
Predicting the trajectory of the blade by instinct, he slipped inside.
Thud.
His calculations were correct; instead of the blade, he took a fist holding the sword hilt to the face. However, he had tucked his chin tightly and lowered his forehead. The impact was minimal.
"If you're going to take a hit, take it well. If you take it well, the next opportunity belongs to you."
Those were Audin's words. The method of taking a hit that he had learned from him was always useful. The moment the distance closed to that extent—
"Fine, come at me! Just what I wanted!"
Mitch dropped his own sword as well and grabbed Encrid's shoulder with his hands. The wound tore open, and a wave of pain rushed in, but it was far better than dying. Above all, the wound was shallower than Encrid had thought. The leather breastplate worn beneath his clothes had done its job even as it was sliced open.
Their hands tangled together. The two panting men began to roll across the gravel field. As they did, Mitch, boiling with rage, spat out:
"You filthy bastard, did you think you could win by wrestling?"
‘Yeah.’
He did think he could win. He knew it after exchanging a few blows.
It was something he had felt while sparring with Finn of the Eilkaraz-style after learning Valaf-style Martial Arts. In this discipline, talent was one thing, but one had to invest an immense amount of time. These were techniques that had to be drilled into the body so deeply they would appear in one's dreams.
Encrid was confident. Once they grappled, the advantage was his. He hadn't hesitated to turn this into a brawl for this very reason.
Crunch.
Encrid attempted to snap his arm, and when that failed, he bit down hard on Mitch's ear.
"Aaargh!" Mitch screamed.
Encrid immediately grabbed his opponent's ankle. He pulled Mitch's foot, wedged it under his armpit, and pressed down on the instep. Wrapping his legs around one of Mitch's legs, he twisted the foot by pressing down on the instep.
The explanation was long, but the action took only a split second.
Crack. Snap!
A gruesome sound. The pain must have been excruciating. Only those who had experienced it would know. It was an area that hurt terribly even if it didn't break. He had pinned it against his ribs and crushed the heel of the ankle with his hands.
Moving immediately to the other leg, he wrapped his legs around it, cradled the foot in his chest again, clasped his hands, and twisted his body like a whirlwind.
Creeeeak-crack!
This time, the knee joint was twisted and snapped in the opposite direction.
"Aaaaaaargh!"
A horrific, agonizing scream erupted. Drool spilling from his mouth, his eyes bloodshot, Mitch somehow drew a dagger and stabbed at the back of Encrid's neck with the jagged blade.
Encrid twisted his body to dodge. The dagger plunged deep into his forearm before being pulled out. Encrid let go of his opponent's leg and rolled backward.
That was the end of it. The other man was already incapacitated.
"Phew."
Encrid exhaled deeply. His own body was far from fine. Forcing joint locks took a toll on one's own body as well. On top of that, his arm had been stabbed, and the shoulder wound from the dragging slash was no joke either.
Before he knew it, half of his clothes were soaked. It was undoubtedly all his own blood. Even so, Encrid's condition was several times better than Mitch's.
"Krais, my sword."
Though he was a non-combatant, Krais apparently couldn't just run away; he quickly picked up Encrid's sword and approached. As Encrid gripped it with his left hand, blood surged from his forearm. This wound was deeper than he had thought.
"Damn, I thought I was going to die, Captain."
He didn't have the energy to answer Krais. Encrid approached, sword in hand. Though his arm and shoulder were injured, his legs were perfectly fine.
"Platoon Leader!"
At that, a few of the ambushing enemy soldiers reacted. They lunged forward upon seeing Mitch Hurier fall. But they were far too late.
None of the enemy soldiers had imagined their platoon leader, Mitch Hurier, would lose. He was a genius. A man born with natural talent. The genius who didn't need to try.
Whatever the man who once bore that nickname had experienced on the battlefield, he had swung his sword day and night since his return. He was not someone who should die like this. He was a star that had only just begun to shine.
This wasn't even a clash of swords; he had been hit by a thrown dagger, and now both of his legs were shattered.
What was this? This wasn't the fight their captain wanted.
Fight with a sword! Settle it fairly, blade against blade, in a duel!
Most of his subordinates felt this way, but...
"This... this isn't what I wanted."
Mitch felt the same. Meeting the eyes of Encrid, who held his sword tip pointing vertically down toward the ground, Mitch managed to speak.
"You... you..."
"This is a battlefield."
Encrid spoke and drove his sword down.
Thud.
The blade, piercing through the back of his neck, emerged from the front of his throat, grinding against the pebbles with a harsh screeech.
Mitch Hurier collapsed to the ground, his eyes wide, coughing up blood. With the blade impaling his neck like a gruesome ornament, his head soon slumped to the side.
"...Kill him!"
A few enraged enemy soldiers rushed at Encrid.
"Idiots."
Encrid cursed them. Having repeated this day so many times, he had realized something. Their commander wasn't an idiot; could he really have failed to anticipate an enemy raid of this scale?
Of course not. Rather, he had been waiting for this.
Of course, the enemy might have come knowing all of this as well. For the battlefield was inherently a game of predator and prey. Wasn't tactics simply the art of deception and lies?
The point was, he only needed to buy time.
Clang-clang-clang!
None of the remaining enemy soldiers possessed Mitch's level of skill. The sword in Encrid's left hand slid smoothly out of Mitch's neck, fluttering like a butterfly as it deflected and blocked the incoming spearheads.
It was a sword wielded with delicate precision. A blade that strangely blended the Heavy Sword Style, the Soft Sword Style, and even the Swift Sword.
"Regroup! Wipe them all out!"
Vengeance had survived as well, his shout echoing from behind. The enemy were elite soldiers, but even they couldn't overcome a numerical disadvantage. Above all, once archers were thrown into the mix, there was simply no answer.
"Fire."
A platoon-sized force of forty crossbowmen began turning the remaining enemy soldiers into pincushions. Someone had rallied the archers and brought them over.
With that, the battle was as good as over. He knew it all too well from personal experience—that no one could deflect or dodge a volley of arrows fired by a gathered unit of archers.
Encrid watched until then, then collapsed to the ground. He truly felt as if his body was falling apart.
‘It's damn exhausting.’
But he had gained something. His left hand.
A smile spread across his face, filled with a deep sense of pride. He was the one who had survived through a dirty brawl.
Surviving, moving past today. Advancing toward a new path.
A feeling as if someone had clumsily stitched together a torn and faded dream—that was what Encrid felt in the middle of the camp turned battlefield, where the spring breeze blew.