Chapter 121: Let's Recover First
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 121: Let's Recover First
Ting.
A clear ring echoed as Encrid flicked the blade with his finger.
Held up to the light, the metal shimmered with a faint blue sheen. It had clearly been forged from a unique ore.
'It doesn't seem to be Valerian steel.'
This was the sword he had snatched immediately after killing Mitch Hurier. One look was enough to tell it was a high-quality, top-tier, and expensive weapon. There was no way he was leaving such a prize behind.
In any case, would Krais know what it was?
Encrid turned his head.
Three paces away, Krais sat staring intently at him. His large eyes were blank, yet he looked as if he were bursting with questions.
Relenting, Encrid asked, "What is it?"
Before inquiring about the iron used to forge the sword, he felt he should address that strange look first.
"It’s just fascinating," Krais remarked.
"What is?"
"Your left hand."
Krais glanced down at Encrid’s left hand. Had the man always been that proficient with it? Krais didn't think so, and it wasn't as if they had only spent a day or two together.
That left hand—it was truly a marvel. Was this what people called a genius? Since Krais had no talent for swordsmanship or the physical arts, he couldn't tell just by looking, but...
'Wasn't he ordinary until now?'
Aside from his eccentricities, Encrid's actual skills had seemed rather average. When Encrid had first saved him—risking his life for a stranger—Krais had wondered what kind of crazy bastard he was.
'Risking your life to protect someone else... it makes no sense.'
Saving someone just because they were in the same squad? At the time, they hadn't even known each other for a week. The gap between his skills then and now was massive.
The enemy commander who had launched the ambush was clearly no ordinary opponent. Yet, Encrid had parried the blade of such a formidable foe with just his left hand.
"I've been practicing steadily," Encrid replied nonchalantly.
Krais nodded, accepting the answer for now, before pressing further. "Then, uh, what about killing that commander?"
Was the left hand even the main issue? What on earth had that battle been? It was a scene where raw intensity and sheer peril intersected. If things had gone even slightly awry, the platoon leader would have died. If that had happened, the platoon leader named Vengeance, Krais himself, and even Esther would have crossed the river of death together.
Yet, in that terrifying situation, Encrid had remained perfectly calm. He had faced his approaching opponent as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"A brawl," came the nonchalant answer once again.
Krais sighed internally. 'Let's just call him a late-blooming genius.'
His talent had simply awakened late. Krais decided to leave it at that. There was no reason or need to dig deeper. Curiosity aside, it was obvious he wouldn't get a straight answer anyway. Even if he wanted to suspect something, he lacked any real clues.
A grand secret? What could possibly warrant that here? It wasn't as if the platoon leader was some fortune-teller who could foresee the future and knew exactly what would happen in every moment.
'That makes no sense.'
No prophet could predict a situation with such meticulous detail. Besides, Krais believed most fortune-tellers were just scammers desperately trying to make a quick buck.
'The world runs on crona.'
It moved for crona, and it crumbled for crona. As far as he was concerned, there was only one reason Naurilia and Azpen were fighting: the Greenpearl Plains. Whichever kingdom claimed that land would essentially gain a second granary.
'Even I would fight to take it.'
Therefore, the war between the two nations was inevitable. In an era of struggle, taking up swords and spears for profit was only natural. Thus, he could stop worrying about Encrid's genius, which wouldn't add a single crona to his pockets anyway.
"What kind of iron do you think this is?"
At the end of his stray thoughts, Encrid thrust the enemy commander's sword forward.
He actually brought this along in the midst of all that chaos.
"Good iron."
"Do you think I asked you just to hear a useless answer like that?"
Of course not. Krais didn't need to ponder long.
"There's a famous iron ore source in the Azpen Principality called Demp."
"Demp? Demp... I've heard of it. The hidden village between the river and the mountain?"
Encrid nodded, muttering to himself. He had his own fair share of experience wandering the continent.
Krais nodded. "Yes. I heard that iron from Demp has this peculiar hue. They say it starts as a pale blue, gets darker, and the highest quality iron eventually shows no color at all."
It was merely hearsay, of course. However, one thing was certain. A sword made of Demp iron would be more expensive than Valerian steel. It would be pricier than Noir wrought iron, too.
This meant it was an exceptionally expensive sword.
"If you sell that..."
"I'm not selling it."
"Huh? Are you changing your sword?"
For those on the battlefield, nothing was more important than a weapon they were accustomed to. This was common sense, a fact even Krais knew. There was no way the platoon leader would swap out his familiar blade.
"What if I use both?"
This wasn't directed at Krais; Encrid was merely muttering to himself.
A spring breeze, carrying warmth instead of a chill, ruffled Encrid's hair. Through his fluttering locks, his gaze remained fixed on the sword.
Krais looked into his platoon leader's eyes. How could he describe that look? It was a brightly shining gaze, brimming with life—like a young boy who had just received an unexpected gift. Seeing that expression, Krais couldn't bring himself to urge him to sell the sword any further. The platoon leader's blue eyes—lake-like eyes that resembled Esther's—looked truly excited.
Encrid didn't care whether Krais was watching him or not. He didn't need to make up some grand excuse for his proficiency with his left hand. In truth, there was no excuse he could make. It wasn't something that could be explained.
Saying "I've been training all this time" was all he could do. It might make him sound like some kind of genius, but there was no other way.
Above all, Encrid had felt something akin to talent this time—a sensation of leaping forward in a single bound. It was an experience where his skills improved exponentially, realizing with just a few swings what would normally take a hundred.
'It's fascinating, but...'
Would it happen again? He didn't know. In fact, he didn't even need to know. He just had to keep doing what he was doing, silently walking his path. To Encrid, talent had never been the important thing.
'Once my body recovers.'
He would be able to try various things.
Sitting on a rock that served as a makeshift chair in front of the medical tent at the rear camp, Encrid immersed himself in reviewing the battle. Training, left hand, right hand, brawling, Mitch Hurier, his sword, fighting, the battlefield.
As he turned these thoughts over in his mind, he wanted to stand up and start moving immediately, but...
"I told you not to strain your body. Why do you think I'm sitting here watching you, Platoon Leader?" Krais chimed in from the side.
He was right. Absolute rest for at least a few days—that was what the medic had ordered after looking at his injuries.
The rear camp was managed by the supply unit. For defense, the 2nd Company 3rd Platoon—the Vengeance Platoon—remained, with reinforcements said to be joining soon. Once they arrived, Encrid was scheduled to head to the front lines.
To do that, his body had to recover first. He couldn't remove the splint from his right hand yet. His shoulder bore a cut, though it wasn't deep, and his left forearm had a puncture wound from a dagger. Individually, none were major, but they were wounds that would reopen if he made any sudden, large movements.
'Good grief.'
His entire body ached from attempting those reckless joint locks.
If he hadn't trained with the Isolation Technique...
If he hadn't possessed Single-Point Focus...
If the Beast's Heart hadn't sustained him...
If he hadn't felt it through the Blade's Sense...
'I would have been the one to die.'
Encrid sat blankly, focusing entirely on his recovery. Throughout his rest, he swung his sword in his mind. At first with only his right hand, and later gripping a single sword with both hands. At the end of his mindscape training, Encrid held his own sword in his right hand and Mitch Hurier's sword in his left.
'Will it work?'
He didn't know, but he wanted to try. It felt as if it would fit perfectly in his hands. Dual wielding.
'First, physical strength.'
That had to come first. Swinging a sword with both hands was a completely different story from swinging one with just one hand. Among the instructors who had taught him, there was one who cursed upon seeing such a thing.
"Dual wielding? I say it's a perfect way to get yourself killed," the instructor had put it bluntly. "Dual wielding when you can't even handle a single sword properly? Even most masters of the Technique Sword don't pull that kind of stunt."
Where had he met that instructor again? The Great Territory. The fellow who used to say that refined swordsmanship comes from a refined body. After receiving his teachings, Encrid had gone through a rather bitter experience.
As he turned these thoughts over, he began to feel hungry. When injured, one had to eat well and rest.
"Here's your meal."
Right on cue, Krais brought over some food. Thin wheat bread, thick bacon, dried fruit, and even cheese. It was a feast.
"Did you raid the supply tent?"
"No. It seems the supply company commander is quite grateful to you, Platoon Leader. If things had gone wrong, his head would have rolled."
Krais tapped his own neck with the edge of his hand. It made sense. The rear camp existed for supplies. If it were ransacked in an enemy raid, the blame would fall squarely on the commander in charge. If even a single supply tent had caught fire, he would have faced a swift decapitation. While a commander who lost a battle might be forgiven, one who failed in vigilance never was.
"Let's eat."
Encrid chewed, swallowed, and drank. He drank water instead of alcohol. Though not with absolute devotion, Krais looked after him.
Three days passed like that.
"We're heading out. Are you joining?" Vengeance asked, fully armored.
Reinforcements had arrived at the rear. The atmosphere on the front lines was growing increasingly tense. Since all of his platoon members were at the front, Encrid had to go as well. Although his cuts hadn't fully healed, walking was no issue.
"Of course."
Beside him, Krais was lost in thought. 'Seeing how the platoon leader wields a sword... he doesn't seem like the type to die easily. Should I follow him instead of staying behind in the rear? If I just pocket a few pieces of loot dropped along the way, I could make a handsome sum.'
Above all, the supply commander had been replaced, and there were no familiar faces among the soldiers of the 3rd Regiment who had arrived as reinforcements. It would be difficult to get by if he stayed in the rear.
'Let's head out and grab some loot.'
Thus, Krais joined them.
"Nyaa."
Even after resting for three days, Esther still looked listless. Encrid scooped her up. She wasn't very heavy. Did she even eat well? Why did it seem like she wasn't growing at all? Aren't young beasts supposed to grow rapidly? Her size seemed almost unchanged from when he had first seen her.
"Are you eating properly?" Encrid asked, stroking Esther's head.
At his needless worry, Esther blinked and looked up. There stood a man with eyes similar to her own.
Look who's talking. You almost kicked the bucket this time too.
Thump, thump.
Esther patted Encrid's chest with her front paws, her way of telling him not to worry about others.
"Right, I'll get you some food once things quiet down."
The human had completely misunderstood, but Esther didn't mind. She closed her eyes against her lingering fatigue.
Encrid took a step forward. If there was anything different, it was only that the swords at his waist had increased to two.
"Two swords?"
At Vengeance's question, Encrid simply nodded. Vengeance had seen him use his left hand and had even sparred with him. Since Encrid was a guy who constantly did bizarre things anyway, he just accepted it.
They marched to the front lines as part of the Vengeance Platoon, the transit passing without incident. Upon arriving, the chilly air of the battlefield welcomed them. As they walked along a path thick with the scent of blood and iron, the sky darkened, threatening rain. It was a place where the damp smell of rain, blood, and iron mingled to exude the fragrance of death.
It was the forward base. And there...
"Damn it, I thought my neck was going to snap from waiting! Wait, what? I told you to go rest, so why are you even more beat up? Huh?"
"Things happened."
Encrid raised a hand to placate Rem, who looked ready to throw a fit. It felt as though something always happened whenever he was separated from them, but that was just how things turned out.
Thanks to Vengeance reporting their return, Encrid immediately joined them in the barracks and briefly explained what had happened in the rear.
"You always do the fun stuff when I'm not around," an excited Rem grumbled, picking his nose.
That was the end of it. He had survived, and being here was all that mattered. When Encrid took a spot in a corner of the tent and asked for an update, Sachsen approached and spoke in a quiet tone.
"Both sides are just testing the waters."
There hadn't been any significant battles while he was away. The forces gathered here, including reinforcements, amounted to more than two infantry battalions—over a thousand men. On top of that, there were headquarters troops, scouts, and rear guards.
'They said this is the beginning of an all-out war.'
The main battle—the field where knights, mages, and sorcery dominated—was waiting on the Greenpearl Plains. Under these circumstances, both armies were keeping a close eye on this skirmish. The infantry clash to block the bypass route had become the prelude to the entire conflict, meaning the battle here would decide who started with the upper hand.
Winning here would expand the field of operations and open a bypass route for deploying detachments. The main forces of both nations were merely sizing each other up, reluctant to commit any reinforcements other than infantry. They were in a state of standoff.
Because an all-out war could erupt at any moment, a pale, tense anxiety filled the camp. It was visible to the naked eye how frayed everyone's nerves were.
But this did not apply to the Mad Platoon.
To be precise, Encrid was completely unfazed. 'Ah, a fight. It's coming soon. Then what should I do? Let's just train.'
Waking up at dawn, Encrid trained his body using the Isolation Technique, just as he always did. The night watchman who saw this thought that he was indeed a mad platoon leader. It felt like witnessing a long-standing tradition passed down since his days as the Troublemaker Squad Leader.
That stubborn bastard who swung his sword rain or shine—that was the man before him.
"There isn't a single sane person in this platoon," the night watchman muttered.
"Are you moving already at dawn, Brother?"
Before the sun had even risen, the night watchman looked away as he saw the "friendly madman" and the "training madman" twisting and locking each other's bodies. They seemed to exchange a few words, and then suddenly they were twisting wrists, grappling, and making a scene.
'Have they lost their minds?'
At a time when their knees should be shaking at the prospect of an imminent life-or-death battle, and when the camp's atmosphere was at its absolute worst, those guys were doing all sorts of crazy things.