Chapter 134: The Ripened Heart (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 134: The Ripened Heart (1)
Under the command of Battalion Commander Marcus, the infantry began pitching a new camp.
It was positioned slightly further forward than their previous location. Encrid found the choice of terrain awkward, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Establishing the camp and selecting its position was the commander’s prerogative, and a man like Marcus didn't seem like the type to do things half-heartedly.
One could tell that much just from the way he had publicly named Encrid the top contributor of the battle.
Nya—
As they moved into the new site, Esther let out a whine.
Nyaa, nyaa.
She was throwing a continuous tantrum.
Come to think of it, isn't she a bit strange too?
She was a divine beast, but there was something unsettlingly human about her. For some time now, whenever Esther opened her mouth to "speak," it felt as if her words pierced straight into his mind. Whenever she made a sound, he could practically hear it as human speech.
Right now, for instance.
"How annoying."
It felt like she was saying exactly that.
Since she was making such a fuss, Encrid scooped her up into his arms. When he had first seen her on the battlefield, she was a tiny, fragile panther. When he saw her again—specifically, when she stabbed Mitch Hurier and saved him from the mustachioed swordsman—he thought she had grown a bit.
But she hadn't grown since then. She had stopped right at the perfect size to be held in his arms. Yet, a panther of this size had once bitten him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him along at incredible speeds.
What kind of strength was that?
“Come to think of it, you're a panther of monstrous strength too,” Encrid remarked, stroking the head of the creature cradled in his arms.
Kya!
Apparently, she didn't find the observation very flattering. Esther nipped at Encrid's finger. It didn't draw blood, leaving only a faint indentation.
If she had been serious... My finger would have been snapped clean off.
When he peered closely at her snout, suddenly wanting to check her sharp fangs, Esther glared back at him. It was because she kept acting this way that he couldn't help but think of her as human.
“Let's go,” Krais called out from nearby.
Establishing a new camp was a complex, grueling task. They had to rebuild quarters, verify supply lines, redefine the perimeter, and redraw scout routes—the list of changes was endless. And yet, they were stubbornly pushing forward with it anyway.
“By the way, Platoon Leader, I feel like I fought the hardest, but somehow you're the only one gettin' cheered. Is it just my imagination?”
No, it wasn't his imagination. The atmosphere had shifted entirely in that direction.
Long live the Mad Platoon! Long live Encrid!
Recalling that moment—which had happened barely two days ago—made Encrid’s chest tighten with a strange sensation. It wasn't a bad memory.
“Hmm.”
As Encrid kept his response brief, Audin, standing beside him, let out a chuckle.
“Haha, my crazy brother. That is because you only beat down a single giant.”
“A single giant?”
“Brother, I beat down dozens of enemy soldiers.”
He hadn't just beaten them. He had slaughtered them in a spectacularly brutal fashion. Encrid had seen it—that mindless, rhythmic clubbing. It brought terror to the enemy and relief to their allies. Or so it seemed. In truth, some allies who watched him up close said they felt a sense of dread looking at Audin.
This was something Encrid had heard directly from Vengeance.
“Hey, that guy in your platoon. The one obsessed with religion. Why does he smile while killing people? Is he a bit... off up here?” Vengeance had asked, tapping his own temple.
Encrid had denied it, offering a plausible excuse on Audin's behalf. He claimed Audin was simply so devout that he was overjoyed to send "new friends" to the god he served.
“I think that makes him sound even weirder,” Vengeance had muttered in response.
But for Encrid, that was the best he could do. It was a hundred times better than calling him a religious fanatic who loved murder.
“Ten mercenaries intoxicated by the blade... If left alone, they would have been lethal. Yes, they would have,” Ragna chimed in, and the atmosphere began to grow tense.
To make matters worse, Sachsen, who had been quietly observing the three from the side, threw in a remark that cut through the air.
“Idiots.”
Three pairs of eyes snapped toward him. A chilling aura flowed between them, a dizzying pressure weighing down on the surroundings. It felt as though a massive brawl would erupt the moment anyone made the first move.
In other words, they were acting exactly like the original Mad Platoon. These men, who used to test each other and maintain a cautious distance when Encrid wasn't around, were now speaking without any filter.
Krais took it in stride, seemingly immune to the suffocating tension. Of course, it would have been troublesome if Encrid weren't here, but they were a unit now, weren't they?
Watching from the side, Andrew was conflicted. Should I step in? Am I not the squad leader? Should I try to settle the mood before the platoon leader has to?
But Andrew hesitated. The memories of all the beatings he had received for stepping forward in the past held him back. Just then, Mac grabbed his sleeve and shook his head, a gesture that seemed to read Andrew's mind perfectly.
Encrid looked up at the sky for a moment. The hue of the sky had changed. It was a deep, cloudless blue. It was spring, and the weather was truly beautiful.
Therefore...
“Stop.”
He decided it was a fine day to stop a fight. There was no need to squeeze himself between them like he used to. Instead, he drew his swords.
Chiring.
One with his right hand.
And then...
Tiriring!
One with his left.
The sword in his right hand swept down in a vertical crown slash. The sword in his left swung wide in a mid-level horizontal arc. For his footwork, he slid his left foot forward, his right foot following in a tight transition.
This was a draw he had been pondering for days—a variation of a technique from the Valen-style Mercenary Sword. Originally, the technique known as Double Draw used the first draw as a feint, but by wielding two swords, he made both slashes lethal.
The sword in his right hand targeted Rem. The sword in his left slashed at Sachsen.
Thud!
The reactions of the two were starkly different. Rem drew his axe to block, while Sachsen had already stepped back to dodge. One sword was stopped cold; the other sliced uselessly through empty air.
Encrid pulled back and sheathed the sword that had missed.
“What are you doing?” Sachsen asked.
“You want a piece of us? Sounds fun.” Rem snorted, his voice thick with amusement.
Because Encrid had suddenly twisted his body to move, Esther, who was still tucked inside his shirt, pawed sharply at his chest in protest.
“Let's do this elsewhere,” Encrid said, his hand still resting on his hilt.
It would be ridiculous to fight like this. His chest was bulging awkwardly because of the panther stuffed inside his tunic.
Lowering his axe, Rem nodded. “Sure thing.”
One could say it was just another peaceful day. Encrid sheathed his swords, soothed Esther once more, and walked on.
At least this is a relief.
If they had been ordered to carry heavy baggage, the annoyance would have made them even more ferocious. Fortunately, the baggage of the Mad Platoon was incredibly light compared to the other soldiers.
“Are they not the heroes of this battle? Even providing them a carriage wouldn't be enough.”
Battalion Commander Marcus was generous. He told them to march light, carrying nothing but their own armaments. The other units, meanwhile, had to haul their own gear along with the heavy components for the tents. Naturally, their pace slowed, but Marcus acted as if there was no rush at all.
The surrounding soldiers watched the commotion caused by Encrid and his platoon, but they quickly looked away. After all, it wasn't as if these bastards bickering was anything new.
Encrid walked, roughly sketching out the future in his mind. Are we going to strike the enemy's rear like this?
When he voiced this thought to Krais, the man with the large eyes shook his head.
“We won't.”
“Why?” Encrid asked. If they had seized the upper hand, wouldn't striking the enemy's rear be the most advantageous move?
“Because taking over the enemy's camp and holding our ground makes the overall battlefield much more favorable for us.”
Encrid tilted his head. Why wouldn't they fight? How was that advantageous? If you've taken their rear, you ought to strike to press the advantage.
As Encrid stared blankly at him, Krais began to explain in a casual tone.
“If we strike the enemy's rear right now, we'll reveal our exact position and military strength, and the enemy will respond accordingly. They'll send at least enough forces to deal with a troop of our size. Since their prepared measures—the giants, elf assassins, and mercenary bands—have all been thwarted, what cards do you think they have left to play? Especially now, when even an independent company like the Gray Dogs has been half-destroyed.”
What was left? The question wasn't difficult, but uttering the word aloud gave Encrid a strange feeling. Still, it wasn't a word he could ignore.
“Knights.”
“At the very least, squires. Or they'll come with overwhelming numbers. Though, in all likelihood, they'll send a small elite force.” Krais’s eyes gleamed as he continued without waiting for a reply. “We hold the advantage of difficult terrain, and since they already failed with their special forces, it must have dealt a blow to their main army's morale. They'll want to pay us back in kind. Of course, we aren't avoiding a rear strike because we're afraid of knights. As I said, it's a matter of profit.
“From the perspective of a commander, it's a battle of gains and losses. Even if you take a loss in one area, if you make a massive gain elsewhere, you can lose the battle but win the war. From that perspective, holding our ground instead of striking their rear is the correct answer. We don't waste our troops; we simply let them know we are behind them. What will the enemy think then? Their heads will be in a massive tangle. And while they are distracted, our main army will push forward. So, we don't even need to fight. Besides, Azpen, who has to face our main army, won't have the luxury of diverting troops here. Pitching our camp in an awkward spot serves the same purpose. There's no need to draw closer just to strike. If the enemy tries anything funny? We can just retreat. We pull back, and then a day or two later, we reclaim the same spot. This camp is just a stepping stone for that.”
Encrid prided himself on his honesty. He had always treated his squad members that way. “Keep it short and simple.”
He understood about half of it; the other half failed to register.
Krais, who had been rattling on without taking a breath, paused to exhale. After catching his breath, he spoke again, no longer choosing his words carefully.
“Imagine someone raising their hand behind you as if they're about to strike the back of your head, while someone else is holding both of your arms from the front. How would that feel?”
“Like shit.”
“Exactly. That is the position the enemy is in.”
What happens if they shake off the grip on their wrists in front and try to block the rear? If the guys in front and back swing at the same time, they could try to block both, but... by simply staying put, their mere existence became a constant, looming threat.
Sometimes—truly, only sometimes—Krais did not seem like an ordinary soldier with big eyes and modest ambitions. For a guy whose dream was to open a noblewoman's salon, his mind worked incredibly fast. Was he the hidden son of some great strategist? Or perhaps a hidden disciple? Seeing how he could predict the enemy commander's thoughts and foresee the movements of the main army, it was a natural suspicion.
“Well, this is all just anticipation. A guess. If the enemy goes, 'Ah, screw it, I'm killing those guys first,' then they'll come to strike us here, regardless of whether they send knights or whatever.”
That won't happen. Krais said it with his mouth, but his eyes said the opposite. He was a strange fellow.
Encrid nodded. So, there was no need to fight. Knowing that was enough. Not that staying here would be boring.
Pitching the new camp was the job of the other units. While they set up tents, lit fires, and hung cauldrons, the Mad Platoon settled down in a corner.
The moment they settled in...
“Rem.”
Encrid called out. It might not matter who went first, but by tacit agreement, the first was Rem. Otherwise, there was no telling what that crazy barbarian might do.
Ragna, perched on a sun-warmed rock, turned his gaze. Sachsen, Audin, Andrew, and even Mac all looked at Encrid.
“Let's begin,” Encrid said.
Rem grinned, baring his sharp fangs. That's it. That's my platoon leader. His smile said as much. Rem was satisfied. At the same time, a thought crossed his mind: he hoped this man wouldn't die here.
“I'm warnin' you now. You might just die.”
“Anytime.”
Death was no obstacle to Encrid. He lived a life where he repeated today over and over again. The dream that had been torn, faded, and vanished was right before his eyes.
Encrid's eyes shone with a passionate, yearning light. In front of him, Rem’s eyes mirrored that intensity. Had he ever seen such a human before? Never. This man, this continental... was a truly crazy bastard.
Rem cackled. “Good. Let's do it. Let's see if we can die.”
It was time to learn something new—specifically, the power Rem had shown against the giant. Encrid felt a thrilling ecstasy, yet he grew remarkably calm. It was a strange state where excitement and composure coexisted.
This was a sign that the Beast's Heart had truly ripened.