Chapter 124: Madman Andrew
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 124: Madman Andrew
Encrid naturally prepared to step forward.
After all, wasn't that why he had come out here?
He was itching for a fight. Even if wielding two swords at once was still too much for him, and even if he had to spare his right hand to let it heal, it didn't matter.
Watching the opponent's posture as he stepped forward—his stride, his gestures—Encrid felt certain.
His left hand alone would be more than enough. This man was no Mitch Hurier.
Tap.
The flat of a vertically held axe pressed against Encrid's stomach.
At the same time, Sachsen grabbed his sleeve, Audin placed a hand on his shoulder, and Ragna stepped directly in front of him.
"I can do it," Ragna said.
"Where do you think you're going? I told you to focus on recovering first," Rem added. There was something resolute in his sidelong glance—a silent declaration that Encrid would not be the one to step forward here.
He could feel the collective will of the entire platoon.
So, they’re going to step up?
Krais had advised that, if possible, it was best to avoid letting Rem and the others fight openly to keep their strength hidden.
Then who?
"For someone of that level... hey, rookie," Rem said, leaning on his axe. The corners of his mouth curled upward; he seemed to find the situation highly entertaining.
And the "rookie" he had called upon...
"Andrew?"
Encrid's mouth fell open. Andrew tilted his head in confusion, wondering why he was being summoned.
"Go out there and kill him," Rem said.
His tone was incredibly casual, as if he were asking him to perform the simplest of chores.
Andrew blinked for a moment, then recalled his anger from earlier.
That bastard was definitely the one who said my package wasn't fully grown, right?
The opponent held a spear. The mainstay of the Azpen forces was their Short Spear Infantry.
The man pointed a relatively short spear forward. In truth, in infantry combat, there was no weapon as effective as a spear.
"Come out, you cowards!"
What was the most insulting word in history?
While it was impossible to rank them, the word "coward" would undoubtedly be near the top for any soldier.
Andrew summoned the rage he had briefly set aside.
"Gladly."
As Andrew took a step forward, his opponent did the same.
The two warily closed the distance, sizing each other up.
From behind, Mac watched Andrew with concern. It wasn't a matter of winning or losing; he was worried Andrew might end up turned into a hedgehog by a volley of arrows.
Seriously, their platoon leader had a terribly harsh tongue.
If things go south...
Mac tightly gripped the handle of the buckler he had brought.
It was a shield crafted larger than the one he usually used. He was originally highly skilled in sword-and-shield combat.
I'll block and hold the line.
Unless their allies were fools, they would fire back if arrows started flying. Seeing that those standing at the front of both armies were all holding large shields, an arrow attack wouldn't be immediately fatal.
If I can just hold out and get us out of here...
His worry was brief. Come to think of it, the monsters gathered here weren't the type to easily drop dead.
So, all he had to do was look after Andrew and pull back. Mac set his worries aside, deciding to watch with a relaxed mind.
In truth, he wasn't worried about the duel itself. He had been watching Andrew all this time. Andrew had improved. He had moved forward, becoming even more absorbed in the way of the sword.
The gazes of their allies were complicated.
If Encrid or the others had stepped forward, it would have been an easy victory. Yet, instead of them, a different soldier had stepped up.
Andrew Gardner.
A noble-born soldier who had once risen to squad leader but had voluntarily joined Encrid's platoon as a regular soldier.
Some thought of him as an oddball, while others worried whether a greenhorn like him could even handle a weapon properly. A tense, uneasy atmosphere began to spread.
How many soldiers who had confidently stepped forward before had already been struck down? They couldn't help but wish that Encrid or one of the veterans had gone instead.
Andrew glared at his opponent with burning rage. His opponent returned the look in kind.
"Hmph, flapping your gums only to leave the fighting to your subordinate."
That wasn't the case. Andrew had never seen Encrid avoid a fight. Besides, the difference in their skills was vast. Even with his injuries, there was no way a bastard like this could ever match his platoon leader.
To Andrew, Encrid was a genius. A true genius whose skills leaped bound after bound in a short time. A possessor of real talent, unlike himself.
He sincerely believed that.
"My package isn't fully grown? What did you say about it?"
"Bring out the bastard who called me a ghoul-head!"
Neither listened to the other. They only spat their own rage.
Soon, that rage manifested as spear and sword.
On the gravelly ground covered in short grass, where the chilly fog had cleared and the sunlight poured down, the two furious men exchanged their "opinions."
Watching the spearhead thrust toward him, Andrew momentarily recalled the past few months. It hadn't been that long, but...
That crazy barbarian bastard.
After dealing with Rem's axe, facing an enemy soldier's short spear felt like child's play.
Of course, getting pierced by it would still leave a hole in his body, without a doubt. It wasn't a strike he could just carelessly brush aside, but...
"If you see an opening and hesitate, you deserve to die, kid."
Rem's repeated, brutal advice had become second nature to his body.
As Mac acknowledged, Andrew had talent. Rem had recognized it too. He was a fellow who was satisfying to train, albeit in a different way from Encrid.
Of course, Rem only taught him up to a certain point. He never showed or even mentioned the Beast's Heart or anything of the sort. Those weren't techniques to be taught lightly.
But for Andrew, what he had was more than enough. He possessed genuine talent. Quite an outstanding talent, at that.
Seeing the short spear thrusting forward, Andrew swung his sword from right to left. His blade struck the very tip of the spearhead, not the shaft.
Clang!
If a spear was advantageous for linear attacks, a shorter weapon like a sword was more advantageous for lateral strikes. In the brief moment the short spear was deflected aside, Andrew's foot stepped forward onto the gravel.
Crunch.
He closed the distance. A fight began with the feet and ended with the feet.
"Ugh!"
The enemy soldier pulled back his spear and swung his elbow.
Andrew swung his sword without losing any of his forward momentum. The blade, rising from bottom to top, sliced halfway through the man's forearm.
Spurt.
Blood sprayed from the forearm of the gambeson-clad soldier. Amidst the pattering droplets of blood, Andrew's eyes gleamed.
Is there any need to stop at just a slash?
No. This was a fight. This was war.
Andrew's feet moved once more. Taking a step to the left, he swung his sword again, striking the spear shaft with a sharp crack. He calmly thrust his recovered sword forward.
It was neither fast nor slow, but it was more than fast enough for the enemy soldier, who was reeling in agony from his severed arm.
Squelch.
A moderate resistance traveled up the grip of his sword. The blade had lodged itself in the gap between the armor and the helmet. As Andrew pulled out the sword, which had penetrated about half a span deep, blood gushed out.
"Gurgle..."
The enemy soldier staggered and fell to his knees. He clutched his neck with his hands, but it was futile.
The difference in skill was stark.
This was because Andrew was exceptional. The enemy soldier was also an elite who had undergone rigorous training—an elite who had been slaughtering ordinary allied soldiers until now. But he was no match for Andrew, who was brimming with talent and had survived Rem's brutal training.
Kneeling with his neck thrust forward, the collapsing opponent flailed his hands. He had very little breath left. He would have died even if left alone, but...
Andrew, standing behind the enemy, plunged his sword vertically downward.
Squelch.
To ensure a clean kill, the blade entered from the back of the neck, snuffing out the enemy soldier's remaining breath.
Only silence and the quiet sunlight remained.
Watching from a step behind, Krais thought this had turned out to be a much better move than Encrid stepping forward. It was an exploit by someone completely unexpected.
"Madman Andrew!"
Moreover, shouting the name that had previously eaten away at their allies' morale made it sound like a nightmare to the enemy. Soon, the name of Andrew, who had slain the enemy elite, echoed from all directions.
"Woooooh! Madman!"
"Andrew!"
What is this?
Encrid shrugged as he listened.
This is working better than expected.
Somehow, he felt as if he were the one receiving the cheers. Amidst the shouts of Andrew's name, he could hear them calling him a madman and a hero who had slain the ghoul-head.
Rem chuckled.
"See? That's our rookie for you."
Since when was he the rookie?
"Andrew, fall back!" Mac shouted. It was time to withdraw.
Andrew took a few steps backward. Even so, the intensity in his eyes as he glared at the enemy did not fade.
"My package is fully grown, you bastards!"
Oh, lord, what is he talking about now?
Mac was dumbfounded, and—
"Pfft."
This time, even Encrid couldn't hold back his laughter. Had Andrew held a grudge because they teased him to lighten the mood?
"Come back, Andrew."
Andrew returned amidst cheers after slaying the enemy soldier. It was just as the atmosphere began to shift.
What Krais had been waiting for finally began. It was the blade of Battalion Commander Marcus, which they had been waiting for all this time.
*
Marcus's mouth was beginning to run dry.
Something needs to break this deadlock.
In his estimation, their numbers and level of training were similar. But those Azpen bastards had packaged things quite cleverly. They had sent out exceptionally skilled soldiers to initiate duels, as if they were knights, dragging down morale.
Thanks to that, morale was at rock bottom. Still, it was fine. They just needed a moment to shift the tide.
He had hoped the Mad Platoon would provide that. Yet, when the barbarian-born soldier named Rem stepped forward...
Why does the atmosphere feel even more like a ghoul's?
A filthy, ugly, and toxic atmosphere. Since both allies and enemies had reacted coldly, he wondered if he should try to shift the mood from somewhere else.
It was while he was weighing his options that it happened. One of the nameless members of the Mad Platoon—a soldier accepted as a volunteer just to fill the ranks—had easily defeated the enemy.
And it wasn't a narrow victory, but an overwhelming one.
Now was the time.
"Send them in!"
At Marcus's command, both the messenger and the adjutant moved. Soon, a small flag rose above the battalion commander's tent. That signal reached the unit commander waiting near the river, where rocks were scattered.
If Azpen had the Gray Dog, Naurilia had the Frontier Slaughterer. They were all soldiers worth ten men each.
Idiots.
Marcus actually welcomed the clumsy stunt the enemy commander had pulled. The tide of a battlefield could change in an instant. Above all, when morale that had hit rock bottom suddenly soared, the rebound was always far greater.
Furthermore, Marcus was of the mind that, in the end, the side that killed better won the battle.
Therefore...
"Kill them all."
Though Marcus's muttered words reached no one, the order had already been handed down.
The Border Guard, the independent company that Naurilia took pride in, moved as one to strike the enemy's flank. From hiding near the riverbank, crouching behind rocks and water to disguise their numbers, to the moment they charged and clashed with the enemy—it was a completely unexpected blow to the Azpen commander.
"Sweep them," the Border Guard Captain spoke, and his men executed the order immediately.
Torres was among them.
An approaching enemy soldier thrust his spearhead forward. Torres grabbed the incoming shaft with his hand and pulled; as the opponent resisted, Torres used that pulling force to close in and plunge his dagger beneath the man's chin.
Thud.
With a dull sound, the enemy soldier, who wore a steel beard-guard beneath his chin, collapsed sideways. Without even taking the time to retrieve his dagger, Torres immediately rushed toward his next opponent.
The other guards were also busy fighting.
Hyo-woon, who wielded a longsword with breathtaking skill, was one of them. A soldier from the north, Hyo-woon's sword danced through the air. With two swift thrusts, he claimed the lives of two enemy soldiers in an instant, then spun halfway around to unleash his blade.
Crack!
The enemy soldier who blocked that powerful strike with his shield was lifted off his feet. It was a heavy, devastating blow.
Eisen finished off the soldier who had been sent flying backward. Eisen's specialty was the trident. Though he was a former fisherman, his skill with the trident was extraordinary.
Eisen's trident pierced the enemy soldier's back. Digging through the gambeson, the center prong of the trident penetrated the soldier's back, pierced his armor, and emerged from his stomach.
Bani's specialty was her quick feet. She was a soldier for whom being a woman posed absolutely no disadvantage. Bani darted among the enemy soldiers, throwing daggers before leaping back to hurl round stones with her sling.
Thrum! Whiz! Crack!
An enemy soldier struck in the head by a stone collapsed sideways. A mere leather helmet could not withstand the impact of a projectile fired from a sling. Although carving these stones made them labor-intensive consumables, their effectiveness was outstanding.
The members of the Border Guard were individuals of exceptional individuality. They were also highly specialized in guerrilla warfare rather than mass combat.
And that was exactly what they did. They carved their way forward, slaughtering as they went.
Torres began to penetrate one side of the enemy lines while keeping his platoon under control. Hyo-woon joined his side, swinging his sword repeatedly to hold off the enemy soldiers.
The group of soldiers holding longbows—that was their target. Specifically, their goal was to take the head of the archer commander.
Each platoon of the Border Guard moved toward its respective target, and their movements caused the entire battlefield to writhe violently.
The enemy commander did not overextend in an attempt to reverse a battlefield that had already slipped from his grasp.
"Retreat."
They sent the Gray Dog to hold off the Border Guard, while the rest of their forces withdrew.
*
If it were wind, it would be a tempest. If it were an earthquake, it would be a massive tremor. If it were a wave, it would be a tsunami.
The flow of a battlefield was naturally prone to such violent fluctuations. It was stranger that they had only been facing off until now.
Encrid also read the shifting atmosphere. Even if he couldn't see the movements of the Border Guard, he knew something had begun. Otherwise, their archers wouldn't be acting like this.
"Fire!"
Thrum-thrum-thrum.
Arrows arced over the heads of Encrid and the members of the Mad Platoon. In contrast, the enemy's counterattack was pathetic. Not even a handful of arrows flew back in response.
Instead, a swift, scout-specialized unit pursued Encrid.
"Kill them all! Don't let a single one escape alive!"
They were lightly armed pursuers equipped with crossbows. Encrid assessed the surrounding situation.
"Turn back. We strike and slip away to the side," he ordered.
The number of pursuers was twenty at most. In that case, there was no need to avoid them. Two squads were nothing. They could simply sweep them away.
"Sounds good!" Rem shouted excitedly, brandishing his axe. He was so thrilled that he swung his axe wildly from side to side, forcing Enri, who was right next to him, to quickly dodge out of the way.
"They're armed with crossbows!" Enri shouted, looking back.
Would that be a problem? Not at all.
Encrid himself had dodged incoming arrows countless times. Surely his platoon members possessed at least that much skill.
The more he knew, and the more his skills grew, the more he saw things in a new light. These men were strong.
Soon, with Rem at the vanguard, the Mad Platoon took their positions behind him, halted, and charged back the way they had come.
Somehow, they had become the vanguard of their army. And at the very front of that vanguard stood Rem.