Chapter 148: Ten Days, Awarding of Rewards
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 148: Ten Days, Awarding of Rewards
Ten days had passed since the army’s return.
Spring was in full bloom, and flowers had begun to bud even within the Border Guard. Rain had fallen once during the interval.
News of the ongoing battlefield cleanup arrived alongside a steady stream of victory reports. Finally, word came that the Azpen Principality had requested peace.
This meant Naurilia had seized a portion of the Azpen Principality’s territory—specifically, the Greenpearl Plains. Since the land had been left as a wasteland for so long, reclaiming it would require a monumental effort, but a victory was a victory, and a grand one at that.
Cheers echoed as the war reached its end. With the arrival of spring, more and more people felt the intoxication of mana in the air.
Amidst those restless, excited days, Encrid’s past ten days had remained utterly unchanged. There was nothing to change, and nothing had changed.
Whoosh. He swung his sword.
"Brother, you still have a long way to go. Hold your posture and squat just like that. Straighten your back, breathe in, and feel the pressure in your abdomen. If you lose that core tension, your back will snap."
Audin chuckled as he spoke.
Training his body by squatting with Audin on his back—a feat bordering on a circus act—was also part of his daily routine. The sword, training, and sparring. His time was focused entirely on these three things.
Whether others were excited or not was of no concern to Encrid. Krais busily scurried about here and there, but Encrid had no reason to join him. With his rank as a platoon leader, his unit recognized as an Independent Platoon, and his performance on the previous battlefield, he had been relieved of all duties.
It was a ten-day period of pure, uninterrupted rest. Of course, for Encrid, "rest" meant ten days of being utterly absorbed in training.
However, if there was one thing that had changed...
"Hoo!"
...it was the attitude of the soldiers nearby—specifically, those in the unit who knew Encrid and had fought alongside him.
Without exception, they were busy swinging their spears from the early hours of the morning. While this trend had been emerging before, the number of soldiers engrossed in training had now surged. Every single one of them sweated profusely, completely focused. They were dead serious about swinging their spears and conditioning their bodies.
And there was another change on top of that.
"Um, could you give me some guidance? Just once?"
Some of the soldiers had begun to seek Encrid out.
"Me?"
He had been taking a brief break after swinging his sword, drenched in sweat. Encrid pointed a finger at himself and asked. It was only natural; this was a scene he had never even imagined.
Him, teaching someone? Giving guidance?
Encrid’s past life had not been easy enough for him to speak of such things. He had never looked at anything other than the path of learning, mastering, and moving forward. Especially teaching—was there any word less suited to him than that?
"Give it a try," Rem, who had been watching blankly from the side, spoke up. Encrid thought he had been dozing off, but he must have been watching.
Encrid nodded. He had already felt inclined to try anyway. He could see the eyes of the soldier standing before him. That desperation—the same yearning and thirst that still burned inside Encrid—was visible in the soldier’s eyes as well.
Ting.
Encrid flicked his sword, tapping the tip of the soldier’s spear. The soldier holding the spear flinched, his shoulders trembling slightly.
How skilled was he? From what he had learned and studied under Audin, there were things he could discern just by looking at a person’s posture and physical conditioning. He appeared to be a somewhat experienced soldier.
"I am Paul, a junior soldier," the man said.
Encrid let the words go in one ear and out the other. He simply focused. He did not take this lightly. To focus and closely observe his opponent—he believed that was the best and only thing he could do.
The soldier, Paul, swallowed hard and took his stance. Left hand forward, right hand back. A stance specialized for thrusting. Crossing his feet forward and backward, he let out a shout—"Ha!"—and thrust his spear.
Whoosh.
He was indeed a reasonably refined soldier. Encrid moved while keeping his eyes locked precisely on the incoming spearhead. Observing and reacting, his body moved. Even if he hadn't perfectly mastered it, the technique that flowed out naturally was his Sense of Evasion.
Twisting his body aside to dodge, he extended his left arm, pressing his palm from bottom to top to snatch the spear shaft.
"Ugh!"
The soldier reflexively pulled back on the spear. Seeing the veins bulging in his neck, it was clear he was putting everything he had into it.
Gripping the shaft, Encrid pivoted half a turn on his left foot, spinning inside the spear’s reach. It was essentially grabbing the shaft with his left hand, rotating, and pulling. Planting his right foot on the ground, he pulled the shaft with his left hand, using his body as an axis to hold his ground. He didn't even need the Heart of Monstrous Strength. It was something that could be done with just a bit of knack and a decent amount of physical strength.
Tap.
Just like that, he lightly brought his sword down from above. The sword, devoid of any killing intent, tapped the top of the soldier’s head. Naturally, it was with the flat of the blade, not the edge.
Feeling the sword resting on his hair, the soldier gasped in surprise.
"Ah."
"I believe it's over."
"Ah, yes."
Once Encrid let go of the shaft, the soldier hurriedly gathered his weapon and stood there awkwardly.
"Um... what am I lacking?"
What did it mean to be a fairly experienced soldier? It meant he possessed a certain level of confidence in his own skills. Yet he was asking him this?
What had the old Encrid been like—back when the Mad Platoon was just the Troublemaker Squad? He felt like he had been the one everyone ridiculed. And yet, they were asking him such questions now?
Looking closely, it wasn't an unfamiliar face either. They had crossed paths a few times. Since the battlefields they had traversed were far from easy, the soldier before him could at least be called a veteran. He even wore the epaulet of a squad leader.
What is this? Seriously.
Encrid stared at him, filled with doubt. The soldier endured the awkwardness and waited. Once again, Encrid saw the soldier’s eyes. Desperation, yearning, and thirst. A glimpse of desire for something just out of reach. It was the same feeling coiled deep inside himself.
He couldn't bring himself to turn away. To be honest, after just one spar, he could see exactly what the other man needed.
"You should build up your physical strength."
"A spear is a heavier weapon than you think. It's not light. Compared to that, you lack power."
"Mmh, yes. Thank you."
The squad leader offered a military salute. Encrid nodded in return.
From that day on, the departing squad leader dedicated himself to physical training. He poured all his effort into lifting heavy weights and building muscle. His subordinates did the same. In other words, a craze for physical conditioning swept through the unit alongside their regular training.
Hadn't this unit just returned from the battlefield? Wasn't this the time to celebrate their victory? Of course, many went to the estates to unwind. Some did nothing but sleep and guzzle alcohol. Some of them probably thought visiting the red-light district for a day was far better than training for tomorrow.
Encrid didn't particularly blame them. What did it have to do with him? He was a mere platoon leader, the commander of an Independent Platoon. For now, he was someone who couldn't even step onto a battlefield where Associate Knights ran rampant.
To say he didn't want to see their battles would be a lie. However, his mindset remained the same. If the destination was in sight, there was no need to take a detour on the path he walked.
Perhaps it would have been different if it were a battle fought by Sir Cypress. What about a true knight, one whose name was renowned across the entire continent? He supposed he would want to see that. He didn't know. You only knew how things would turn out when they actually happened.
"Is this fun?" Rem, who had been watching indifferently, asked with a gentle smile instead of his usual chuckle.
Fun? He didn't know about that.
"I don't know," as always, he simply answered with complete sincerity.
Only then did Rem chuckle.
Encrid immersed himself in training once more. Amidst his hours of immersion, yet another person approached and proposed a spar. After easily knocking him down, Encrid offered a word of advice:
"Your feet are stiff."
Afterward, another came, and another spar.
"I think you need to relax your shoulders."
Another piece of advice. It was after several spars that a young man approached.
"Could we... um, do it?"
He asked without even using a proper subject, but there was no need to ask what he meant. He asked with sparks in his eyes, his overly cautious attitude betraying his nervousness. He had a relatively youthful face—at best, he was around Andrew’s age, or perhaps even younger.
"Whew, sure."
None of the platoon members stepped forward to stop him either. Originally, hadn't they grumbled whenever they saw people approaching him? They used to pick fights for no reason. He had no idea why they were just letting it slide now.
Most of the soldiers were armed with spears. Using a weapon other than that usually meant the opponent belonged to a special unit. This opponent held a forearm-length war hammer. The head of the hammer was rounded, and its polished surface suggested it was a weapon used for a long time. It didn't look heavy, but it was an efficient weapon with undeniable power.
Seeing him spin it around his wrist, Encrid could feel that mastery was deeply ingrained in his body.
"I'm with the Border Guard."
Sure enough, the opponent spoke, and Encrid nodded indifferently.
Swish.
Snapping his wrist to spin the war hammer, the opponent’s eyes gleamed. To Encrid, however, the opponent’s intent was far too obvious. Was it because he had grown too accustomed to the Valen-style Mercenary Sword? The opponent’s tricks and schemes were plain as day.
Clang, clang, clang!
The Border Guard soldier, who had been swinging his hammer with all his might, suddenly gripped it with only one hand and brought it down vertically. It was better to dodge than to block. Anticipating the opponent’s intent, Encrid stepped aside, dodging the hammer’s trajectory.
The Border Guard soldier reached for his waist with his other hand, extending it. Before the opponent’s elbow could even fully straighten, Encrid grabbed his wrist.
"I can see it."
He threw out those words. The trick was simple and clear: drawing attention with the hammer, then throwing a short-range dagger. It was similar to the techniques of the Valen-style Mercenary Sword.
"Valen-style Mercenary Sword?"
When he asked, the opponent nodded.
"You should refine your hammer-swinging technique more."
Encrid reflexively pointed out the opponent’s opening. At the same time, he realized that these words were also necessary for himself. If the hammer technique was more developed, the dagger could be hidden better—so that one’s attention wouldn't be drawn away by something like a Double Draw from the very beginning.
The opponent’s talent was overflowing. It was enough to remind him of that kid who had put a hole in his stomach once upon a time. Back then, he had collapsed without even putting up a proper fight. That was how it had been.
Then what about now? He recalled what one of his instructors had said.
Improving your skills begins with knowing where you stand.
Awareness. Once again, awareness. To walk a new path, one must first know what kind of path they are currently standing on.
Spar after spar, lesson after lesson. Many more came to find him afterward. Each time, Encrid realized something new and moved forward. Though his steps were slow, he did not rush. This was a realization he had gained from watching a soldier hastily thrusting his spear. Haste was of no help whatsoever.
There was also an opponent whose decisiveness shone through his calm demeanor.
"I'm Rut."
He was said to be a fellow from the West among the Border Guard. He spoke while glancing at Rem. Rem didn't seem to care in the slightest.
Encrid knocked him down as well. An easy opponent? No. He was a tricky one. It was just that the experiences Encrid had accumulated were so rich and profound that he had no difficulty dealing with him.
"You're strong."
Rut marveled and turned away. As he did, Rut kept his eyes fixed solely on Encrid, not Rem.
As the number of people seeking him out grew over the ten days, Krais began to regulate them.
"There are too many of you. I think it'd be best if you filter yourselves and come in smaller numbers. If you disturb our captain’s work... well, you know what happens, right?"
The weight carried by Krais’s words had changed. After all, Rem, Sachsen, Audin, and Ragna stood behind him.
In truth, those four were inwardly nodding as they watched their platoon leader. Awareness—what must one do to see where they stand? One must look up, down, left, and right. Only then would their own position become clear. It was a moment that each of them had also passed through at some point.
If anything, Encrid was a bit late. With the arrival of spring, his age was thirty-one. By continental standards, he could well be called an old mercenary. Of course, there were plenty of people who made a living by the sword well past their forties, but none of them could do what Encrid did.
Thus, they felt a sense of satisfaction just watching him. Audin found the answer to the question he had posed to the Lord within his platoon leader. Rem looked back on the fragments of his past memories. Sachsen, watching the platoon leader, pondered what it would be like to live that way and why he lived so, sketching out his own future.
Ragna, reflecting on the sword and people, drive and life, and the power wielded by knights, realized anew that he, too, had embarked upon that path. And that he would continue to walk it. As a deeper conviction than ever before took root, he realized once again what kind of value the platoon leader held for him.
A late-blooming genius. That was currently the best term to describe Encrid.
As for changing the soldiers around him—well, that was a separate matter from being a genius. To the surrounding soldiers, especially those who possessed the will to move toward tomorrow rather than remaining stagnant in today, Encrid was a symbol of change. He had become an idol who made them think, I want to be like him.
All of this was confirmed when the ceremony for the Awarding of Rewards commenced.
"All units, fall in!"
All the soldiers gathered in the center of the training ground, which was usually a noisy place. Everyone, except for a few away on duty, was present. It was time to evaluate their achievements on the battlefield.
Who was the protagonist of this occasion? Everyone knew.
Marcus was different from the previous battalion commander. Leaving behind the few nobles seated in the rear, Marcus stood on the platform and began his speech.
"If I have to tell you who made the greatest contribution in the last battle, then your heads aren't even fit to be helmet stands!"
Marcus’s loud, booming voice pierced the soldiers’ ears. His tone was rough, his words aggressive. Hearing Marcus’s words from the platform, a few nobles frowned. How unrefined.
However, to those who were the subjects of his words—the crowd of soldiers—it sounded different. For there was genuine sincerity in his voice. Having made up his mind, Marcus spoke from the heart.
"I call forward the one who achieved the greatest merit. The Mad—no, the leader of the Independent Platoon, Encrid!"
Everyone knew what word was supposed to follow "Mad."
A man walked up through the ranks of the assembled troops. The soldiers saw him walking empty-handed, drenched in sweat. Even if the temperature was gradually rising, it wasn't warm enough to sweat like that.
Yet no one looked at him with doubt. For he had undoubtedly come to this place straight from swinging his sword countless times.
Encrid was that kind of person. A man who proved himself by swinging his sword again and again. A man who demonstrated his worth by pouring out everything he had learned. The very incarnation of sincerity, treating nothing lightly.
The Mad Platoon Leader, Encrid, headed toward the platform.
No one gathered on the training ground spoke. Amidst the strange silence, a burning heat surged. To those who had experienced the victory on the battlefield, what kind of existence had Encrid become?
He had become someone’s idol. He had become someone’s hero. On the battlefield, that was who he was.
Marcus had not forgotten that.
On the platform, the two men stood face-to-face.