Smashing Traps with Strength (2)
Translator: RaidenTL
Smashing Traps with Strength (2)
The Mustachioed Man, commander of the Gray Dog—a unit now reduced to fewer than twenty men—scowled.
'They’re just... charging straight in?'
He had laid a trap. It was perfect bait.
But he hadn't expected them to fall for it so recklessly. His original plan had been to use this trap to his psychological advantage by scattering similar, haphazard decoys all over the area.
What would happen if the enemy couldn't distinguish the real threats from the fakes? They would hesitate, paralyzed by caution. If he could achieve that, he would already be halfway to victory.
"If they hesitate, they will eventually retreat. They won’t dare to attack recklessly."
This was the advice given to him by a strategist in the allied command who favored him.
The Gray Dog was an independent auxiliary unit that had become a mere shadow of its former self. Following consecutive defeats on the battlefield and the death of Mitch Hurier, someone had to take the fall. This mission was the beginning of that accountability.
The Mustachioed Man’s task was to disrupt the enemy’s rear and restrict their movements. He had prepared extensively for this.
'But it feels like everything is ruined before we’ve even properly begun.'
The moment their eyes met, the enemy had charged without a shred of hesitation, leading with their blades. It was as if they intended to hack him to pieces first and ask if he wanted to fight later. Even without words, their intent was glaringly obvious through their posture and sheer momentum.
'As expected.'
They were screwed.
Now that the Naurilian army stationed behind the main force had begun to move, the heads of the allied command would be spinning.
So, what now? Give up everything?
The death of the Hurier family’s son? That was fine. That family treated their children as expendable assets anyway. But where did that leave him?
He shook the idle thoughts from his head. If he let his mind wander, his concentration would waver. He would cast his worries aside for later.
The Mustachioed Man steeled his resolve and drew his sword.
Clang.
Drawing his blade in a single, fluid motion, he held it upright before his eyes.
'I just have to kill them all.'
The enemy's skirmishers had broken through the trap and charged. Was that a reason to panic? No. It was an opportunity.
'I’ll kill that bastard first.'
The one who had put a hole in Mitch Hurier’s stomach would be the first to go. After that, he would kill the blonde swordsman beside him, then the one with the axe. He would have to conserve his strength and take them one at a time, remaining mindful of a pincer attack.
Sorting through his thoughts, he stared directly at his opponent.
But wait—was this bastard always this good? Some things could be told just by looking at a stance. The man's momentum was extraordinary. It was definitely the same guy who had stabbed Mitch Hurier and fled; it wasn't a face he could easily forget.
The bastard who had barely survived back then. The one who had survived even the threat of assassins.
Had he been this capable back then? He didn't think so. Had his skills improved? Even so, nothing changed. He was still a bastard who needed to be cut down.
The same went for the ones behind him.
The Mustachioed Man’s eyes gleamed with lethal intent.
Watching this, Krais felt a creeping sense of unease.
'He doesn't look like an ordinary opponent.'
Krais lacked the eye to gauge an opponent’s true strength, and that was the source of his anxiety. The enemy had laid a trap, and Krais had read their intentions. That was why he had suggested smashing straight through it. He knew that if it was the mad platoon he served with, they could break it with brute force.
He had faith, yet his anxiety didn't completely vanish. It was simply his nature to assume the worst-case scenario.
So, what would the outcome be?
It would begin with the duel between his platoon leader and the man with the splendid mustache. Krais turned his eyes toward the two of them.
He felt an illusion of the air sinking heavily around them. The spring sunlight pierced the space between the combatants. Neither budged. They stood frozen, swords raised. The dust that had risen into the air scattered, carried away by the wind.
In Krais’s eyes, their figures blurred and vanished.
Clang!
Immediately after, the screech of clashing metal erupted.
* * *
Ragna stepped back to the side, turning himself into a mere spectator.
'Not bad.'
The mustachioed opponent’s swordplay was sharp. It bore the hallmarks of proper instruction, mastery, and years of rigorous training. It was like a table that had been sanded countless times until its rough edges were perfectly smooth—a well-crafted piece of furniture touched by the hand of an artisan.
On the other hand, what about Encrid? His platoon leader was rough. Even though he had ground down his edges over and over, he was still something unfinished. Like an incomplete vessel.
One was on the verge of completion. The other was still incomplete.
"What, is this some kind of duel between commanders? Man, how boring," the barbarian muttered from beside him.
Ragna didn't bother to reply. Surprisingly, Sachsen answered in his stead.
"If you're bored, why don't you start cleaning up?" His tone was utterly nonchalant.
"To think so many wish to stand by my Lord’s side. Today is a blessed day." Beside them, the words of the ignorant religious fanatic could also be heard.
Aside from the Mustachioed Man facing Encrid, the rest of the enemies had surrounded them from all sides, wielding long spears. At a glance, the enemy outnumbered them more than three to one, with their strength close to fifty men. Even the bastards hiding inside the supply wagons had crawled out, and every single one of them was formidably armed. Though they weren't heavy infantry, three of them wore chainmail.
Yet, Encrid’s men remained perfectly calm. One had to wonder where they had left their fear—or if their audacity had swollen so much it was practically clogging their throats.
Clink.
"Should we wait until that’s over before we start?" One of the enemy soldiers in chainmail casually tossed out the question, gesturing with his thumb toward the Mustachioed Man and Encrid.
His attitude oozed confidence, despite the fact that those who had just died by Ragna’s sword were still sprawling on the ground.
"Sure, let’s do that," Krais replied.
After all, it was a given that starting the battle after winning the duel between commanders would be advantageous.
Beginning with that first metallic clash, Encrid and the Mustachioed Man continuously traded blows, sending sparks flying. Ragna tuned out everything happening around him. It was none of his concern. His eyes solely tracked Encrid’s hands and feet, his sword and his movements.
Between the complete and the incomplete, who held the advantage?
Clang!
Screeech!
'The complete.'
That was only natural. However, what if the vessel itself was of an entirely different caliber, even if it was incomplete?
'It’s over.'
Ragna reached a conclusion. The difference in skill was one thing, but their mindsets were on entirely different levels. With a mindset like the commander's, one would lose even a fight they were meant to win.
* * *
Blades, feet, swords, air, dust, heat.
Even as such things brushed past him, Encrid didn't pay them the slightest bit of attention. He didn't see them. He didn't even feel them. He focused entirely on his sword.
"Hah!"
His opponent, the Mustachioed Man, let out a shout as he brought his sword down. It was a heavy strike following the basics of the Heavy Sword Style, a testament to proper training.
Gripping his hilt with both hands, Encrid blocked the blow horizontally while bending his knees. He deflected the force, letting it slide off to the side.
Screeech!
Blade met blade, showering sparks. The opponent fought with strength; Encrid countered with technique. In the exchange of offense and defense that immediately followed, the roles reversed. Encrid struck down with power, and his opponent caught and deflected it. It was an incredibly smooth and clean execution—even more so than Mitch Hurier’s.
Of course, Mitch Hurier didn't cross Encrid’s mind. Encrid’s eyes, ears, hands, and feet were all entirely focused on the act of swinging his sword and fighting.
Utilizing everything—Single-Point Focus, Beast's Heart, and Blade's Sense—to perceive his surroundings, he created lines that connected point to point. He cleaved his opponent along those lines, reading the man's intentions as he blocked and evaded.
Over a dozen exchanges of offense and defense passed.
Encrid faced two moments of crisis. Once, his wrist was nearly slashed, but he blocked and deflected it with his sword’s guard. The second time, after unleashing a series of vertical and horizontal slashes, the opponent suddenly transitioned into a thrust, which Encrid barely managed to block. Against the thrust aimed at the center of his abdomen, Encrid had to raise the flat of his blade to catch the sharp tip and parry it aside.
To any onlooker, it was a defense bordering on a miracle. Had his timing been off by even a fraction of a second, a new hole would have been punched right through the center of his leather breastplate.
"Hmph." The Mustachioed Man snorted as his surprise attack missed. It was a declaration of his intent to kill him shortly.
Encrid ignored it.
Encrid’s foot pivoted to the left as he took a step. To deny him a favorable position, the Mustachioed Man also moved his feet. The two circled each other within striking distance.
As they swapped positions, Encrid intentionally hid his left hand behind his right shoulder. After shifting his stance, he held his sword with only his right hand and reached toward his waist with his left.
The Mustachioed Man read Encrid’s intention. Through countless duels and years of experience, he foresaw what was coming next. He had already been wary of the extra sword Encrid carried, especially since he had already seen him wield two swords.
'The left hand.'
The moment he saw Encrid’s left hand drop, the Mustachioed Man swung his sword with all his might. From upper right to lower left—a massive diagonal slash. A strike of the heavy sword. This was enough. Victory was his.
Encrid did not draw a sword with his left hand. He had only feigned it.
Then, unleashing the strike he had prepared while regulating his breath over several exchanges, he drove it home.
'Heart of Monstrous Strength.'
Thump!
His heart pounded. A rush of blood, originating from his explosively beating heart, surged through his entire body. As the surging blood infused his muscles with power, brute strength—nearly double his usual physical power—welled up within him.
There was no battle cry. Only two pairs of bloodshot eyes staring each other down. It was the moment where life and death would be decided in a single blow.
Facing the heavy incoming blade, Encrid swung the sword held only in his right hand horizontally.
Clang! Crack! Thud!
Three distinct sounds erupted almost simultaneously. Their blades crossed as they both stepped forward. The two swapped positions.
"……Did you plan this?"
"From the very beginning."
Standing back-to-back, the Mustachioed Man asked, and Encrid replied.
The Mustachioed Man’s blade was clean. No blood stained it. Most of all, it was snapped in half.
Encrid’s sword was the exact opposite. A sword forged by blending Valerian Steel and Noir Wrought Iron.
'It’s a masterpiece.' At least, to him right now, it was.
The Mustachioed Man collapsed forward. His chest split wide open, blood gushing out. His ribs, sliced and shattered, had failed to protect his heart. Since even a Frok would die if their heart was destroyed, the fallen man's death was inevitable.
Though Encrid did not know it, this man had been the last hope of the Gray Dog. It was the moment the name of the Gray Dog faded into the annals of history.
"Phew." Exhaling slowly, Encrid flicked the blood off his sword.
His opponent had been wary of his left hand. That was why he had answered, "From the very beginning." He had shown it to him just for this moment.
Valen-style Mercenary Sword: Pre-showing.
It was a technique designed to plant an attack pattern in the opponent’s mind and clutter their thoughts.
'It works.'
He had visualized it, and now he was able to move his sword exactly as intended. That realization came even before the joy of victory. That sheer ecstasy filled his chest first.
Just because he used dual swords didn't mean they had to be his primary style. He only needed to wield what was necessary at the necessary moment.
'Spears, other weapons, and shields too.'
Now that even the things he had once given up on felt within his reach, it wouldn't be bad to try handling all of them. Of course, they wouldn't fit his hand as perfectly as a sword, but there was value in simply experiencing them.
"Not bad," Encrid muttered, having finally slain his opponent.
"I don't know why, but watching the platoon leader fight always gets me so pumped," Rem said. His face looked extremely excited, a wide, mischievous grin curling the corners of his mouth.
Their opponents, the three in chainmail, remained calm. They were unfazed even by the Mustachioed Man’s death.
"Hmm, he wasn't the type of man to die like that."
"A pity, indeed."
"He underestimated his opponent. When someone comes at you with everything they’ve got, you must face them with everything you’ve got."
Rem nodded inwardly. Those words were correct. Encrid had given his absolute all, but his opponent had been worrying about what came after. Why on earth was a lesser fighter worrying about the aftermath of a battle? What a joke. No wonder he ended up dead.
"Hey, should we take them all at once?" Rem took a step forward.
Thud.
"You are being too greedy, brother." A hand resembling a bear’s paw came down on Rem’s shoulder. Audin shook his head.
"Get your hand off me." Rem’s voice and gaze were as murderous as his excitement was high.
Audin merely chuckled, still shaking his head. "I told you, you are being too greedy, my barbarian brother."
"Why, you little...!"
Whoosh, thud.
Rem’s axe swung in a straight, honest vertical strike. Audin stepped back with an agility that belied his massive frame. A chilling tension hung in the air between them. At some point, Audin’s smiling face seemed to have frozen like a stone statue.
Watching the two of them, the three in chainmail were utterly dumbfounded.
What is wrong with these bastards? Why are they fighting among themselves? And are they seriously fighting over who gets to deal with the three of us?
It was disregard. Utter contempt.
"Crazy bastards."
In the end, one of the chainmail-clad soldiers stepped forward first, armed with a round-headed iron mace. As the man lunged forward, a sword suddenly blocked his path.
"You’re mine."
It was the blonde-haired, red-eyed youth, Ragna, whose eyes looked as if they held embers. A flurry of slashes, blazing like a raging fire, immediately followed.
The mace-wielding man swung a large, round shield like a weapon. It was both an attack and a defense.
Clang!
Having struck the shield, Ragna’s sword snapped back to its starting position like a swallow skimming the water’s surface.
"Hey, no cutting in line!" Seeing this, Rem lunged forward.
"If you disrupt the order, the Lord will be displeased, brother!" Audin moved as well.
And so, the battle continued.