Chapter 192: Are You Crying?
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 192: Are You Crying?
Valen-style Mercenary Sword: Close-quarters technique.
Headbutt.
Encrid was surprised—but the path he had walked was far too grueling for him to fall to such a blow.
As his Sense of Evasion kicked in, his body moved on its own.
He tilted his head to dodge and immediately swept his foot. With a sharp thud, he kicked her ankle, sending the White Lion rolling forward.
Encrid’s sword whooshed through the space where she had just been. Had she stayed still, she would have been left with a deep gash, but she had avoided it by rolling away entirely. Her reaction speed was excellent, and her judgment was sharp.
Encrid naturally increased his pace.
Taking a step, swinging his sword. Then, he shifted his reaction speed.
The tempo itself changed. This was the most significant evolution in Encrid’s recent growth.
A diagonal slash, twice as fast as any sword he had swung before, whipped out even from a twisted waist stance.
Dunchabel clenched her teeth. It was an unavoidable angle. She raised her elbow.
Clack! Crack! Slash!
She had tried to deflect the flat of the blade with her elbow bone, but her opponent had somehow anticipated it and twisted the steel. The downward-facing blade instantly tilted sideways, meaning Dunchabel had essentially slammed her elbow directly into the edge.
Even so, her beastman reflexes did not fail her; though her elbow was partially sliced, she still managed to deflect the strike.
"You managed to block that?" a low voice murmured.
It was sharp and clear. Above all, it was close.
Dunchabel had thought she could hold her ground once she transformed into her beast form, but it was an absurd hope. Before she knew it, the blade had closed the distance and was falling toward her head.
Frankly, she couldn't even comprehend how he had closed the gap and swung his sword so quickly. She was barely managing to block, barely managing to dodge.
Feeling the agonizing pain of tearing arm muscles, Dunchabel swung her scimitar upward. Even if she had resolved to die, she could not die as anything less than a warrior. For after death, she wished to enter the temple where her god resided.
Kriemhild.
Dunchabel whispered her god's name. It was the deity worshipped by all beastmen, said to govern war and reproduction—the sole god of their kind.
Do you wish to be embraced by Kriemhild? Then die as a warrior. For if you die as a warrior, you shall live as Kriemhild's blade within the eternal vortex.
Clang!
Sparks flew as the sword slid along her scimitar. It looked as though red embers were lighting up the surroundings amidst the moonlight.
In a split second, Dunchabel aimed for her opponent's foot and kicked his ankle using a Valen-style Mercenary Sword technique. It was a clever trick where one looked in the opposite direction, pretending to target the opponent with a weapon while casually sweeping their leg.
Her opponent simply raised the sole of his foot to block her instep. Immediately after, a sword descended toward the back of her neck.
Tap.
Feeling the cold sensation of steel, Dunchabel prepared for the end.
Will I be able to go to Kriemhild's side?
As death approached, stray thoughts intruded. And why wouldn't they? Those who lived their lives trembling with resentment were bound to have lingering regrets.
Abandoned by her own village, cast out by the territory, and accepted by none of her fellow beastmen. She had lived her life discarded by her own kind. She had tried to prove herself as a mercenary with her blade, but that too had been no easy task. She thought it was her only path, but that path had also been blocked.
She resented that she could never bear children. She resented being born this way.
Why only me?
Why did she have to live such a life? Her resentment quickly transformed into a desperate desire to live. Regret grabbed her ankles, and anger pounded against her heart.
Encrid, who had just pressed his sword against her neck, held his blade still, struck by a strange sensation. It was a feeling—call it intuition, or a sixth sense. An inkling that it would be better to spare her than to kill her.
To add a rational reason to it: I also need a mouth to tell me who they belong to and who sent them.
At first, she had lunged as if she wanted to die, but as he held his sword still against her, her body began to tremble. Encrid could see the White Lion's fur shaking. He caught glimpses of fear and resentment.
The beastman pressed her palms against the ground, pulling her hind legs in to curl her body.
She looks like Esther when she's tired.
It was strangely similar. With that thought in mind, he asked abruptly, "Do you want to live?"
With the sword still resting on her neck, Dunchabel raised her head. Were her eyes always this blue? Tears streamed down from her eyes, which held a faint golden tint.
...She's crying?
It was an unexpected moment.
"Grrr, snif."
The beastman wept. It was hard to pinpoint the shift in her inner state, but he could tell one thing for certain: it sounded like she was begging for her life.
He withdrew his sword, and immediately, a familiar voice pierced Encrid's ears.
"What? You're not killing her? Yaaawn."
It was Rem. He spoke while stretching his mouth so wide it looked ready to tear, letting out a massive yawn.
"When did you get here?"
"Just now, right when you started clashing blades with that beast. But is that a lion-man? Or is it a beastman?"
Her appearance was close to a lycanthrope, but no monster would shed tears like that after losing a fight.
"Hey, are you a crybaby?" Rem smacked the back of the White Lion's head. It was just like him—his classic bullying posture. He squatted down, poking her head, and slapped the back of her neck again. "Stop crying. He said he's not going to kill you."
Rem wasn't the only one who had arrived. Before long, Audin, Sachsen, Ragna, and Krais had also made their way down.
"What in the world is going on in the middle of the night?" Krais asked.
"Was it too loud?"
When Encrid asked back, Sachsen pointed to the side and replied, "Esther called us."
His tone was dry as usual. However, Encrid felt something subtly different within it. Admiration? Something like that.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Did you see the fight?"
Sachsen nodded and shut his mouth. In truth, he had arrived even before Rem and had seen everything with a gaze even more detailed and meticulous than Audin's.
A first-rate eye recognizes first-rate skill. Thus, he was inwardly marveling. Even though he already knew, whenever Encrid demonstrated his transformed skills like this, it felt as if some kind of magic had occurred.
"How did you pull off that last move?" Ragna asked.
"I mixed the Valen-style Mercenary Sword with the new swordsmanship I learned."
At those words, Ragna's expression turned subtle. "Did Frok teach you that?"
"Huh?"
No, Luagarne had told him to learn various swordsmanship styles. Mixing them like this was just something he had tried naturally. In that moment, it had just felt right. Reflecting on that moment, Encrid himself wondered why he had done it.
Why did I do that?
He had done it because he felt it was the most necessary movement at that exact moment. Was it wrong? No. It couldn't be. That was how he felt.
His opponent was inferior to him. He had stepped forward with the feeling of testing his newly received sword. Though he would only know for sure after uncovering where they came from, they were at least on par with the elites of the Border Guard.
The Border Guard was a place where only special-grade soldiers gathered. Among them, the elites fought exceptionally well. He had often heard that one of the guards, currently away on a mission, was previously known as the strongest blade in the Border Guard.
In other words, the carnage Encrid had just wrought was roughly equivalent to facing ten elites of the Border Guard. And the last beastman was even better than that.
When had he become capable of looking down on them like this? He truly had no idea.
I'm still lacking.
Even so, a thirst burned within him once more. He was not satisfied with this. No, he could not be satisfied. What if that associate knight had been here? If Aisia, the woman who had made her name unforgettable, had been here...
It would have been easier than this.
In any battle, in any moment, there was no end to learning. Encrid had known this since he was a child. The problem was that his body couldn't keep up despite his learning, but Encrid's attitude was always correct. He craved learning and never stopped.
"Which group did you say you belong to?"
Just as he was organizing his thoughts, he saw Krais speak from behind Rem. He didn't get close to the beastman, only opening his mouth. In front of him, Rem was running his mouth with a smirk. No, he was running his hands as well—tapping her head, then poking her shoulder with his finger, specifically right where she had been cut.
"Does it hurt? It doesn't hurt me."
"Hey, are you a crybaby? A beastman crybaby?"
"Why do you look like that? Did you eat curses instead of meat when you were a kid?"
"It's my first time seeing a lion cry. Cry more. Want me to gouge your wound? It'll be easier to cry if it hurts, right?"
"Hey, kid, I said cry."
Encrid realized anew that Rem was truly the most ill-tempered bastard in the world. If a provocation was needed on the battlefield, he would gladly put this guy at the very front. While Encrid used his words to gauge his opponent's intentions, this guy's mouth was practically possessed by an evil spirit.
"Why the fuck did this bastard come here in the middle of the night to mark its territory, huh? Did you have to make me drag myself out of bed?"
Rem spoke, and there were two errors in his words. First, crying was not marking territory. Second, no one had called Rem out here.
Why did he even come out...
Just as Encrid was about to move, the White Lion, unable to take it anymore, raised her head. Something akin to anger flared in her tearful eyes. To be precise, it was closer to raw resentment.
"Grrr, fuck, what kind of dog—"
The White Lion's shout was cut short.
Smack, crack!
Rem was merciless. While still squatting, he slid his left foot to the side and swung his right elbow horizontally. It was a blow delivered by rotating his waist. Indeed, had it not been for the situation, one would have marveled at such a perfect striking posture executed from a squatting position.
"Splendid," even Audin expressed his admiration.
The elbow slammed into the back of the White Lion's head. The struck beastman rolled forward.
"Gah!" A groan escaped her mouth.
"Hey, let's talk for a second." Krais stopped Rem.
Encrid also had to take Krais's side. If left alone, Rem looked ready to beat her to death.
"This little kitty, trying to hiss at me," Rem grumbled.
"Don't kill her," Encrid calmly intervened, and Rem raised both hands in mock surrender.
"Hey, I just gave her a light tap. Just a little nudge, a poke, you know? Like waving hello because I'm glad to see her."
If he were glad to see someone twice, several people would end up dead.
"So, which group do you belong to?"
Having been beaten, mocked, and broken, the White Lion resigned herself. She wanted to live, she felt wronged, and in truth, she had no loyalty to uphold. The fame she had built in the mercenary world was never something she had truly wanted. That was something she could afford to lose. She hadn't hidden any Crona pouches inside the bandit camp either; she had spent every single coin as soon as she earned it.
Dunchabel's mouth opened easily. "The Black Sword."
"The bandits? You mean them?"
"Yes."
As Dunchabel nodded, Krais's expression stiffened. "Well, this is troublesome."
Encrid listened in silence. He had stopped them through a series of coincidences, but he had no way of knowing what lay behind this. Battalion Commander Marcus had asked him if he loved the territory. Since he had ended up protecting it like this, it felt like a good outcome.
However, there was something that weighed on his mind.
They are weak.
Wasn't the combat power of the guard forces far too pathetic? Part of it was because his own standards had risen, but it would be a problem if such enemies came again. If a similar raid occurred, the patrolling forces would die without even being able to put up a proper fight.
Above all, there was even a bastard dressed as a soldier trying to open the side gate. While it was unavoidable to have spies within the territory, openly opening the gates was a serious issue. Since it had happened right under his nose, he felt a desire to do something about it, but there was nothing he could do immediately.
"Captain, I think we should report this first," Krais said, approaching him.
Rem watched and asked, "Are we really keeping this thing alive?"
"We have to," Krais said hurriedly. He must have thought Rem would literally pop her head off if left to his own devices.
Encrid nodded, lending weight to Krais's words. "Escort her back."
For now, they just needed to keep her detained. The battalion commander would handle the rest.
Just as he moved, he saw the crowd of soldiers who had turned into onlookers. As he turned around, his eyes met those of a commander wearing epaulets. Immediately, the man offered a military salute.
He was a platoon leader—a face Encrid had seen passing by. Although Encrid had been given the position of company commander, nothing had been officially recognized yet. Thus, this was the first time he had received such a crisp, formal military salute.
Encrid sheathed his sword and acknowledged the salute by lightly tapping the pommel with his palm.
"Thanks to you...!"
"It's fine."
He spoke and turned away. The platoon leader had been utterly shocked, and now he was deeply moved. If not for Encrid—if not for that mad company—he would have died just like those raiders. He would have become a cold corpse, leaving his wife behind. And he wouldn't have been the only one; several of his subordinates, whom he regarded like brothers, would have perished as well.
While he was lost in thought, Krais scurried over and whispered, "Keep the talk about the Black Sword a secret."
"...Mmh. Understood." At this point, the platoon leader was willing to agree to anything.
"We'll handle the reporting on our end."
Krais kept talking, refusing to leave the side of the corpses under the pretext of cleaning up the area. The platoon leader wondered why he was being so diligent, until Krais spoke again.
"Shouldn't our company be the ones to collect the spoils of war?"
His eyes gleamed, and his attitude was utterly bold. Of course, it was true. The platoon leader personally ordered his subordinates to carry the manticore carcass and search the pockets of the dead.
Though there were no Crona pouches, the weapons they used were all made of high-quality iron. It was worth a tidy sum, and Krais was not the kind of man to let such an opportunity slip by.