Chapter 130: One Strike and Severing
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 130: One Strike and Severing
"What a load of bullshit."
The bastard who proved that skill and character didn't always go hand in hand—what was his name again?
He twisted his lips into a sneer.
"Want me to tear you a new one, Enki?"
The bastard took a step forward as he spoke. Encrid decided to exchange words with him just once before killing him.
"What was your name again?"
The bastard froze, his right foot still thrust forward.
"…Fucking prick. You sure have a slick tongue."
He didn't give his name. Nothing could be done about that. It wasn't like Encrid strictly needed to know it anyway.
"Kill him."
As the nameless son of a bitch gave the order, the nine men surrounding them moved.
How should he put it? He figured this was exactly what a corrupted border guard would look like. Seeing them brandish their weapons and charge, they all seemed to possess decent skill. Their weapons practically reeked of blood.
Thwip!
One of them raised a slingshot and fired. The motion of aiming, drawing, and releasing in a single heartbeat was remarkably fluid. The slingshot unleashed a small metal pellet.
Ragna dodged it with a simple tilt of his head. The projectile had been aimed right for his eye.
"A slingshot," Ragna muttered.
Encrid saw a rare spark of heat in Ragna's eyes. In that case, there was nothing to worry about.
"By himself?" someone spoke from behind.
Turning around, Encrid saw it was Vengeance. Noticing his limp, Encrid's gaze drifted to Vengeance's thigh. Before he could even ask how it happened—
"He got hurt trying to save me from that filthy bastard," a soldier behind Vengeance spoke, performing the impressive feat of harboring both worry and resentment in his eyes at the same time.
Encrid didn't need any further explanation. Old habits die hard—or perhaps he had sold his soul to a ghoul. The bastard must have done exactly what he always did: tormenting a soldier on purpose to bait Vengeance into stepping forward, then exploiting the opening to put a hole in his thigh.
It was exactly the kind of stunt that bastard would pull. Conversely, Vengeance would have willingly taken the blow to save his man.
What would have happened if Encrid hadn't come here? Vengeance would have died. He must have been prepared for it.
With a man like this, yes, one might actually want to be friends. Someone like Vengeance would make a fine friend. But not that bastard. Calling him a friend? Utterly preposterous.
"He's sharp. That guy," Vengeance spoke again.
Only then did Encrid smack his right fist into his left palm as if he had finally remembered the opponent's name.
"I remember your name now."
The opponent smirked. "As if you could ever forget it. Cut the cheap provocations, you little shit."
The bastard drew his sword with a sharp shring. It was a weapon designed to bend when force was applied—a flexible sword made of wrought iron. The fluttering blade caught Encrid's eye.
Watching it, Encrid spoke.
"It was 'Motherfucker,' right?"
Your nickname was 'Son of a Bitch,' and your name was 'Motherfucker,' right? Yeah, that must be it.
"…I'm going to make you beg for death."
The bastard's eyes gleamed with murderous intent. Was he angry? Ah, that hadn't been Encrid's intention. He simply shrugged.
The two of them riled each other up with petty banter. Among the son of a bitch's nine lackeys, the slingshot wielder moved again.
Thwip, whoosh, clack!
This time, the shot was aimed at Encrid, but Ragna, who had closed the distance unnoticed, drew his sword—sheath and all—and deflected the pellet. The metal pellet soared vertically into the air, glinting before vanishing into the fog.
"You've got fast hands. It'd be fun to put a hole through them," the slingshot wielder said.
Beside him stood a man wielding twin axes—one in each hand, a setup similar to Rem's.
"What a joke. You think you can take all of us on by yourself?" the twin-axe wielder sneered, glaring at Ragna.
That's a bad idea, Encrid thought.
Sure enough, Ragna reacted.
"A cheap imitation of a crazy barbarian."
"…What?"
The axe wielder couldn't comprehend what this blonde, red-eyed bastard was saying as he stared him down. A strange, inexplicable hostility burned clearly in those red eyes. Carrying a hand axe in each hand—he had chosen the wrong weapon.
Aside from them, there were three swordsmen. They carried unusual swords with deep fullers, and their faces looked remarkably alike. They were triplets.
"Once this battle is over, we'll belong to Azpen. If things go well, we might even receive noble titles," the son of a bitch—the motherfucker—said.
He seemed eager to brag. Just like before. He wore the same expression as when he had "saved" Encrid back then—a face smugly satisfied with itself just by declaring the reasons behind this fight beforehand.
I see.
Encrid didn't waste any more words.
Thud.
He stepped forward and brought his sword down. His opponent underestimated him. Still sneering, the bastard deflected the strike.
Cling-g-g!
The uniquely flexible blade whipped toward Encrid's wrist. Striking the longsword, the tip of the flexible blade bent downward, immediately snaking toward his wrist. It was the epitome of a Technique Sword.
Had he said he learned this swordsmanship in the East? Encrid was pretty sure the bastard had mentioned something like that.
Encrid watched the blade aiming for his wrist until the very last moment, then flicked his sword up and down. The flexible blade, which had been sliding along his own edge, was deflected upward.
Thud.
Look at this bastard.
Doubt and surprise flashed across his opponent's face, but Encrid couldn't care less. He simply stepped forward and swung his sword, exactly as he had learned, practiced, and trained.
Had he not also learned how to deal with a Technique Sword?
'Begin with a simple, honest strike.'
And so he did. Just as Ragna had taught him.
Whoosh.
The blade sliced through the air. Through Single-Point Focus, everything slowed down to a crawl, as if within arm's reach. Connecting point to point and layering power over it, a Diagonal Slash descended toward his opponent.
The son of a bitch hastily retreated, thrusting his sword upward.
Shri-i-ing!
The flexible blade cut through the wind, aiming for Encrid's neck.
It only aimed.
For before it could connect, Encrid's Diagonal Slash had already reached the bastard's body. Because it was faster, stronger, and more precise.
A single strike was enough.
Crunch.
He felt resistance in his hands. Although this strike was clean enough to leave no lingering sensation in his grip, cutting through armor and other obstacles meant it couldn't be completely unfelt.
Encrid's longsword cleaved through the bastard's armor, sliced through half of his ribs, and severed the wrist holding his sword. The blade that had been bending toward Encrid's neck clattered to the ground.
Clink.
Encrid paused in his follow-through before flicking his sword to the side.
Splatter.
Blood sprayed onto the ground. Before him lay a remnant of his past, dead with eyes wide in shock.
Inwardly, Encrid spoke to his past companion.
'I have avenged you.'
There was no reply. The dead, by nature, do not answer. The same went for the opponent whose life had just been snuffed out in a single blow. He had died without even a final gasp.
It was a natural outcome. The mercenary who used the Eastern Flexible Sword Style—the son of a bitch—had been highly skilled, but...
'Compared to Frok and Mitch Hurier...'
He fell short. Compared to Encrid's own platoon members? There was no contest; even comparing them was laughable.
Still, if not for Encrid, this battlefield would have been a disaster. It would have become just as chaotic as the place where the giant had appeared. It was all relative.
These men wielded a murderous sword, treating slaughter as their trade and a tool to hone their skills. Against an opponent stronger than themselves, they might die quietly like this. But if the tables were turned, they would become highly efficient killers. They would have run absolutely wild.
"…What the fuck?" one of the triplets muttered.
"What do you think?" Ragna replied upon hearing him, taking a long stride toward the slingshot wielder.
His footwork was nothing short of miraculous. Whatever steps he took, he managed to flank the slingshot wielder in just a few strides.
"Tch!"
The man twisted his body to the side. And that was his end. Leaving behind only that "Tch," his head flew into the air, his face frozen in shock.
When? When had he drawn his sword, and when had he swung it? It was a terrifyingly fast and clean display of skill. Even to Encrid's eyes, the blade had left nothing but a lingering afterimage.
"Slingshot," Ragna muttered toward his dead opponent and moved. "Three swords."
He was heading toward the triplets. The three of them drew their swords, clearly unwilling to go down without a fight. Ragna saw the bloodlust burning in their eyes.
Masters of the murderous sword, who used killing and more killing as their sole means. There were occasionally bastards like this—dumbasses who didn't even know how to properly develop their own skills. A sword that began by slaughtering the defenseless, learning only how to kill the weak.
No matter who the opponent was, or what the situation was.
Ragna was in a rather good mood. How many times in his life had he felt this overflowing with motivation? Three times? Five times? Probably not five.
He, too, had accumulated frustration. That irritation and stifling feeling had transformed through his sparring matches with Encrid. Something that had started as a tiny spark flared up in his eyes. A light gleamed in his naturally red eyes. A fierce glow.
Leaving a trail of light in his wake, Ragna swung his sword.
Swish, clack, stab, thud, slash!
The three masters of the murderous sword collapsed—one stabbed in the neck, one decapitated, and the last split open from jaw to crown. Ragna's sword cleaved through whatever stood in its way, whether it was a blade, armor, flesh, or bone.
It was impressive.
"Pitchfork," Ragna sought out his next target.
It was the man wielding a pitchfork. It looked like a weapon chosen solely to inflict pain. The opponent swallowed hard. He had clearly met his match.
"Attack all at once!" the man shouted.
The moment the words left his mouth, the others moved. But he himself spun around and bolted. Encrid's eyes widened in surprise. Normally, Ragna wouldn't have spared a single glance for someone fleeing like that.
Yet, that very Ragna...
Dash.
He moved so fast he was practically invisible. Kicking off the ground, he swung his sword left and right. He swung so rapidly that it looked as if wings were fluttering around him—though those wings originated from his hands rather than his back.
The wings formed by the afterimages of his blade split open the head of the spearman and severed both arms of the woman wielding daggers.
Clang!
And in the process, he sheared her dagger in half. It was a strike of terrifying power, defying description.
"Aaargh!"
The dagger-wielding woman's scream pierced the air. Ragna then dashed forward to pursue the fleeing man. The pitchfork wielder spun around, thrusting his weapon forward. It was a weapon made of solid iron.
Ragna swung his sword just as before. Judging by his stance, it was a back-edge strike—a motion that deflected the opponent's weapon to the side and struck back with the reverse edge.
But it differed in that his very first motion sliced halfway through the solid iron pitchfork. Immediately following through, he reversed the blade and cut the man's throat with the back edge.
Slash.
What was that? If he had put just a bit more strength into it, he would have cut the pitchfork clean in half first.
After that flurry of movement, only one remained.
"Fuck," the man with twin axes muttered.
"You're the main dish."
How should one put it? Ragna was very, very different from his usual self. He walked straight up to face the axe-wielding enemy. Though the man's appearance didn't remind him of Rem at all, that probably didn't matter to Ragna.
"Starting with the legs."
He immediately put his words into action. Ragna's sword moved. The axe-wielding bastard could be considered skilled, but this was like...
It reminded Encrid of himself. To be precise, his past self. The moment of facing a wall that could not be scaled through effort and training alone.
"Aaaaargh!"
The axe wielder struggled desperately. That was all. Ragna slashed the man's thigh first, then severed the tendons in both of his arms. Resting his sword on the crown of the man who had dropped his axes with a dull thud, Ragna realized anew that he was quite excited.
It was a novel feeling. Is this really something to get excited about? Regardless, it wasn't a bad feeling.
"P-please spare me, and I'll tell you where the treasu—"
Split.
No matter what his opponent said, Ragna didn't listen. In the end, the last remaining member of the ten-man mercenary band died with his head split open.
Ragna checked his sword, saw that its edge was completely chipped and the hilt was rattling, and tossed it aside. He then gathered all the swords the triplets had used.
"Hmm, I've acquired three swords."
He then strapped a sword to each side of his waist like Encrid and slung the third diagonally across his back.
"Are you using Three-Sword Style?"
"No. I will use them one by one."
Ragna shook his head at Encrid's question and spoke again.
"Do you know what technique I just used?"
He was speaking faster than usual. That, too, was a rare sight. How would Encrid know? It had looked like nothing more than slashing and cutting.
But there was one impressive thing. No matter what blocked it, Ragna's sword cut through it all. Daggers, iron, or anything else.
While Encrid was thinking, Ragna spoke again. Still speaking faster than usual.
"I have named it Severing."
It was an uninspired name. But unlike its name, the power of the technique was undeniable. Severing. To cut. It referred to a certain art achieved by refining the act of slashing with a sword into his own unique method.
"I will teach you," Ragna announced.
Encrid nodded. Watching the fight, Vengeance couldn't even find the words to express his disbelief.
Monsters.
That was the only word that came to mind.
Encrid picked up the two axes lying on the ground. Since Rem had broken his weapon while fighting the giant, he would need new ones. Aside from those, the only things worth taking were a few throwing daggers from the woman. It was a pity he had used up all his Whistle Daggers.
It would be nice to make some new ones.
As they finished the battle and reorganized—
From up ahead.
Waaaaah!
"Audin! Audin!"
Cheers erupted. It was the front line, the place where Audin had headed. It seemed something had happened.
Encrid's gaze shifted forward. Before they knew it, the sun had risen, and the fog was dispersing. Their surroundings were gradually becoming visible. It wasn't some kind of sorcery; it was merely river fog that would naturally clear with time.
Beyond the clearing fog, Audin stood there. Standing entirely alone.
He stood right in the heart of the enemy forces.