Chapter 143: Breaking the Trap with Strength (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 143: Breaking the Trap with Strength (1)
Encrid was no stranger to small-scale operations, having led scout squads in the past.
On top of that, he now possessed the weight of accumulated experience.
Experience—he had plenty of it.
There were the days spent crossing endless fields of tall grass. The day he and his squad had raided the Gilpin Guild. The nights spent fending off werewolves, mages, and relentless ambushes.
What was the most important thing in those moments? What should a commander prioritize above all else?
Awareness.
It all began with knowing—understanding one’s own actions and the consequences that would ripple out from them. One couldn't know everything, nor could every variable be put into words. However, he had developed a sense for it. It wasn't mere instinct; it was a gut feeling forged in the fires of experience.
"We’re going deeper," Encrid commanded.
At his word, Finn immediately adjusted her course, faithfully following her leader. Beside them, Krais blinked, staring at his squad leader in silence. He was deeply curious about what was going through Encrid’s mind, but the man’s expression was the same as always—an unreadable, calm composure.
The group quickened their pace. They couldn't afford to let the enemy catch them from behind.
"Can't we just turn around and fight? If we kill enough of them, I doubt they'll keep chasing," Rem grumbled.
Encrid cut him off instantly. "Don't."
It was a flat, absolute command. The sheer authority in his voice was surprisingly novel. Even more surprising was how obediently Rem complied.
"Ragna, keep your eyes on the back of the person in front of you. Don't look anywhere else."
Ragna followed the instruction without question. As for Audin and Sachsen, there was no need to say anything to them.
"Haha, you truly look like a leader now, Brother," Audin remarked with a grin.
Had his attitude changed because his skills had improved?
"Is that so?" Encrid replied, as nonchalant as ever.
That attitude, that behavior, that tone of voice—nothing had truly changed. That was exactly why they followed him. Even Krais felt his own heart stir. When even he—a man who calculated every angle and constantly verified if Krona was involved—acted this way, there was no need to mention the rest of the squad.
At times, even Sachsen, whose specialty was keeping his face entirely devoid of emotion, couldn't hide his feelings. His frustration, regret, and pity were plain to see. Thinking about that brought a chuckle to Krais’s lips, even though the current situation was no laughing matter.
Why does this feel so stable?
Krais had calculated everything before suggesting this plan, but the reality felt different. This squad was far more incredible than he had imagined. If the enemy had their Hawk's Claw, this side had the Mad Platoon. They were a pack of madmen with outstanding mobility and combat prowess that none but knight-level combatants would dare try to block.
That was Krais's assessment. But what if they were used as a guerrilla unit? It would be a lie to say no adjutant had ever suggested such an idea. The only problem was...
Would they even listen?
It was great that they fought well, but they were troublemakers of the highest order. They were a fine blade if they could be wielded, but the process of wielding them was the challenge. What they needed was a focal point—a single entity to control them.
And who else could that be but Encrid?
Krais knew this because he had watched from the front row. An event had recently left a vivid impression of the squad leader's power in his mind.
That sparring match.
If Encrid hadn't stepped onto the battlefield to clash swords with them, rolling in the dirt under the guise of sparring, the Mad Platoon would have met its end right then and there. The entire battlefield would have turned into a complete mess.
Encrid had changed all of that with a single match. He had made the winds of the battlefield blow in reverse.
As long as there is a focal point...
A high-speed strike mission utilizing their mobility to the fullest? The Mad Platoon could pull it off. Krais didn't have the eye to judge their martial skills—he was utterly hopeless with a blade, after all—but based on the facts, he could estimate their potential. More than anything, he understood them.
Thus, the conclusion he reached for their first move was this: If the enemy plays dirty with arrows, we play dirty with our feet.
Though Krais hadn't intended it, and had only conveyed a fraction of the facts to Encrid, the squad leader was already ordering them deeper into enemy territory. Did he already know the plan? Just as Krais was about to ask...
"We shake them up, strike, and pull back," Encrid spoke first. "Their eyes and ears will be occupied by our main force. In the meantime, we'll cross paths with the guerrilla unit the enemy has been deploying."
Encrid’s past experiences had granted him a unique perspective.
I can see the intent.
Krais's intent. The enemy's intent. And exactly what needed to be done in between. Since there was something the Mad Platoon could do, they simply had to do it. It was as simple as that.
Would this ultimately affect the course of the war? Or even the battle of the main force?
Probably not to that extent.
Then again, who knew? Perhaps Krais saw things differently. This big-eyed fellow, who loved Krona and whose dream was to open a noblewoman's salon and play around until he died of old age, seemed to operate on a completely different wavelength.
"Is opening a salon still your dream?" Encrid asked. He didn't know why he was curious; he just wanted to know. He had no intention of mocking him. Who was he to mock anyone's dream?
"Yes. Why even ask? It's obvious," Krais replied.
And a guy like this devises such strategies? He really is an enigma.
Encrid's unit pushed their mobility to the limit, scaling mountain after mountain. Eventually, even Finn shook her head in disbelief. Andrew and Mac's breathing grew heavy. Krais ended up being half-carried by Audin. Even Encrid felt the strain of the grueling pace.
As a ranger, Finn noted that this was an incredibly forced march. Traversing ridge after ridge, they finally descended a gentle slope to the flat ground below. They had descended right into the enemy's rear—a maneuver executed by a small elite force utilizing the terrain to their advantage. Of course, this was a tactic the enemy's guerrilla unit had used first.
"Let's go."
Seemingly tireless, an excited Rem moved out. For some reason, the squad seemed exhilarated by the brutal schedule. Encrid felt it, too.
What followed a harsh march? Battle. A battle where blood must spray, flesh must be torn, and bones must be laid bare.
"Wreck them," Encrid declared as he dashed forward.
The enemy's rear was full of openings. The sentries had increased to three, but they posed no problem.
Tweet!
A whistle blew the moment they spotted Encrid's group. At the same time, Sachsen lightly threw himself to the side.
Ching.
Drawing his sword and thrusting in a single, fluid motion.
Thuck.
That was one.
Pulling out the blade, he stabbed again. Thuck.
That was two.
After killing the second, he raised his sword vertically to block a counter.
Clang!
Watching Sachsen fight made killing look remarkably easy. The two enemy soldiers, holes pierced through their necks, collapsed. After killing five or six more, Encrid's unit pulled back. They feigned a descent down the ridge, but upon spotting a crossbow unit, they retreated once more. They caught several scouting units pursuing them and wiped them out instead.
As night deepened, they hid in the mountains to set up camp. Sufficient rest was essential.
"It's nice being close to the stream, but it's a shame we can't light a fire," Finn said, shaking the dirt from her boots.
It was spring—the season of mana. The weather was mild, so while their meals were meager, they didn't have to shiver.
"Look here, I knew this would happen, so I prepared in advance."
Even in these circumstances, Rem—who absolutely detested the cold—had brought along thermal leather. Ragna simply lay down and fell asleep instantly. Sachsen skillfully climbed a tree to sleep on a thick branch. They took turns standing watch, though Krais was excluded.
"I'll take the watch," Andrew volunteered. He had only played the role of Krais's guard while the others fought, and his eyes were full of heavy thoughts.
Encrid allowed it. If a man carried a heavy heart, his skills would suffer. This operation was still dangerous, and they couldn't afford any lapses in focus. It was better for Andrew to unburden his mind now.
A day passed, and when the next morning arrived, Krais could tell that Encrid fully understood the objective.
"It's now, right?" Encrid asked, confirming the enemy's position after crossing several more mountain passes.
A trap. Krais had identified a setup. It was terrain perfect for an ambush, and equally ideal for a hit-and-run. In the center of it sat an enemy supply unit. It was a flat area nestled between undulating mounds, with several supply wagons visible. If they entered and their rear was blocked, there would be nowhere to run.
There were other signs it was a trap. For one, no crossbow units had been deployed. They had created a mouth-watering bait.
"Yes," Krais replied.
Was the Mad Platoon's potential limited only to mobility? No. It lay in their raw combat power—their ability to deliver a massive blow to the enemy's rear. With this single battle, they would thoroughly complicate the enemy's command. In Krais's eyes, the enemy's reaction was already visible. It was foresight.
Then... the movements of the main force will finally become meaningful.
"Let's go."
Encrid steeled his resolve. No matter the predictions, the battlefield was an unpredictable fireball. If things went awry, the flames would consume them. Was this like jumping into a fire while carrying straw?
Probably not.
There was something the enemy didn't know, but Encrid did. The enemy underestimated them far too much. The soldier who killed a giant? They likely only knew him as that. That was hardly enough.
Encrid took the lead. As he dashed toward the supply wagons, the soldiers clumsily organizing food and supplies reacted. If one were to set a trap, it had to look convincing. Instead of hiding the soldiers, they showed them but kept them heavily armed.
The enemy soldiers came into view. Among them, Encrid spotted a familiar face.
"You."
A mustache. If he remembered correctly, the man had been part of the Gray Dog. Encrid locked eyes with him as they clashed. An enemy soldier thrust a spear forward.
Encrid's hands moved.
Ching! Ching!
Two draws of the sword.
Clang, thuck!
Deflecting the spear with the sword in his left hand, he thrust with his right, piercing the enemy soldier's heart.
Would Frok be shocked if he saw this?
As he pulled out his sword, the enemy's gambeson stained red. The blade had pierced through the compressed cotton and wool armor with ease. Blood and bits of thread clung to the steel. He didn't worry about the mess; he would have to keep swinging and killing from here on out anyway.
Ching.
Encrid sheathed the sword in his left hand. He would draw it again when the timing demanded it. For now, he gripped a single sword with both hands. At his appearance—his sheer grit and overwhelming momentum—the enemy soldiers hesitated.
"Good! Great!" Beside him, Rem swung his axe in high spirits. Audin smiled as he drew his club. Sachsen didn't push forward, nonchalantly cutting down anyone who rushed him.
But the two who drew the most attention were Encrid and Ragna.
"Hmm."
Ragna closed in beside Encrid, swinging his sword mercilessly. Despite having two more swords strapped to his waist, his movements were fluid and unhindered. Ragna's blade left a chilling arc in the air.
Whoosh.
Heavy Sword Style.
With a basic downward slash, an enemy soldier's skull split open with a dull thud. Ragna pulled his sword back and swung horizontally, slicing the neck of another soldier who tried to retreat. His feet never stopped moving.
In a clash between spear and sword, the spear usually held the advantage of distance. But Ragna's footwork nullified that advantage entirely. Amidst his swift steps, the lives of the enemy soldiers vanished one by one.
A shadow fell over the faces of the ambushers. What on earth was this? With this level of skill, they were acting as mere guerrillas? This was completely different from what they had expected.
The enemy numbered over forty, and they were by no means incompetent.
"Everyone, form up!" the Mustachioed Man shouted.
The movements of the soldiers shifted. The Mustachioed Man stepped directly in front of Encrid.
"You bastard."
Encrid nodded. Since the man recognized him, there was no reason not to return the greeting.
"Yeah, well, have you been doing good?"
Because his tone was so cheerful and familiar, the Mustachioed Man's pupils shook with rage. His eyes burned. It looked as though he would charge immediately, but the man took a deep breath and composed himself.
As expected. He was no half-baked opponent. He didn't let his emotions dictate his actions; he regulated his breathing.
Therefore... this test will be all the more meaningful.
A fight using two swords—would it be effective against a truly skilled opponent? It was time to find out.