Chapter 2: Revolving Lantern
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 2: Revolving Lantern
A black dot streaked toward the eye-slits of his leather helmet.
Encrid raised the buckler strapped to the back of his left hand.
Thud.
The impact was heavy. He had tried to deflect the blow while counterattacking, but having only half-succeeded, a dull ache throbbed through his forearm.
Encrid brought his blade down hard, aiming for the helmet of the bastard who had thrust the spear.
Crack.
The man jerked his head aside at the last second, and the blade slammed into his pauldron instead. A heavy clatter rang out, sending a jarring vibration up Encrid’s arm.
"Argh... I'm going to kill you," the enemy soldier spat, choking up on his spear shaft to swing it like a club.
It was a practiced, fluid move. Without a second thought, Encrid planted the sole of his boot into the man's stomach and kicked him away.
"Oof!"
The soldier lost his balance and tumbled backward.
This was hand-to-hand combat—a chaotic, grinding melee. Once the vanguards clashed and tangled, friend and foe became a blurred mess. In this madness, falling meant immediate death.
Tearing his eyes away from the fallen man, Encrid gripped his shield handle tight and scanned for his allies.
Losing your cool meant losing your life. Playing the berserker in a chaotic brawl didn't make you a hero—it made you a corpse. This was how he had survived for so long despite his meager talent.
Encrid knew his place.
Don't stick your neck out.
He caught a stray blade flying in from his periphery with his shield. The edge of the weapon bit into the iron rim, denting it. The oiled wooden frame warped under the pressure. At best, it would only last a few more blocks before splintering.
Keep attacks short and simple.
After blocking, Encrid tightened his grip and lunged.
Thud.
The impact reverberated through his hand instantly. An unlucky enemy took the blow to the temple and rolled aside, only for an ally's spearhead to plunge deep into his chest.
The man’s thick gambeson, layered with cotton and linen, failed to withstand the force and caved inward. The dying soldier thrashed wildly, desperate to cling to life.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The allied soldier was relentless. Regardless of the enemy's attempts to parry, he kept his distance and drove the spearhead forward with mechanical precision.
Squelch.
Finally, the spear pierced the armor and lodged itself deep in the man's torso.
"Gah..."
Vomiting a mouthful of blood, the dying man trembled violently, his hands locking onto the spear shaft impaling his gut.
"Fuck, let go! Let go, you son of a bitch!"
The enemy held on with a death grip, forcing the allied soldier to abandon his weapon and scavenge the spear the dying man had dropped.
Witnessing the grim exchange, Encrid backed away, taking short, ragged breaths.
"Whew... whew..."
He mapped the chaos in his head—his position, his allies, the shifting enemy line.
If I step forward, I die.
With his level of skill, charging into the enemy ranks would only turn him into fertilizer. He would end up just like the man who had died moments ago with a hole in his gut. That man had rushed past the front lines in a frenzy, but his skills had been mediocre at best. Perhaps he had grown arrogant after killing a few foes even more unskilled than himself.
Or perhaps he was simply unlucky. After all, he had run right into Encrid's blade, which hadn't even been aimed at him.
It hadn't rained in days, leaving the ground as hard as stone. Blood splattered across the dirt, but it did nothing to alleviate the dryness. His throat felt like it was burning, and the metallic stench of slaughter welled up from deep inside his gullet.
Encrid swallowed hard and scanned the area for his squad members. He didn't find them, but something else caught his eye.
"Aaaaargh!"
Just two paces away, one of his platoon members was thrusting a spear.
What the hell is he doing?
The thrust itself was decent, but the idiot tripped over his own feet, catching his right boot on his left heel, and ate the dirt. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, his weapon skittering away.
Is he praying to be killed?
The way the soldier poked his head up while face-down made him look exactly like a man prostrating in prayer.
Encrid cut off his thoughts and moved. Stepping forward, he raised his shield, held his breath, and tensed every muscle.
Thud. Crack.
An enemy's blade lashed against his shield. The impact rattled his forearm and jolted his entire frame. He managed to block the strike, but the oiled wood finally split apart.
Encrid hurled the broken shield into the enemy's face and, summoning every ounce of strength, swung his sword in a violent arc.
Right to left. Then a wide, desperate sweep from left to right.
Whoosh, whoosh.
Clang!
His second swing caught the opponent's weapon perfectly. Sparks flew as steel met steel, and the enemy's sword slipped from his grasp.
That was the opening. Rather than relying on his clumsy swordsmanship, Encrid trusted the raw physical strength he had built over the years. When it came to training, he had pushed himself harder than most top-tier mercenaries.
This opportunity was forged by that effort. Even so, he did not charge recklessly. Just as opportunity lurks within a crisis, a crisis always lurks within an opportunity.
"Aaaah!"
The disarmed enemy hesitated for a heartbeat, then lunged forward with his arms wide, trying to tackle Encrid like a bear.
Feigning a thrust, Encrid dropped his sword, ducked low, caught the charging man, and flipped him over his shoulder. The combined weight of the armor, helmet, and a full-grown man crashed onto his back.
It was agonizingly heavy. His waist and thighs screamed in protest. Ignoring the pain, Encrid straightened his spine with a guttural roar and stood up.
"Urgh!"
The enemy soldier's body flipped cleanly over his head. Encrid didn't bother looking back as the man crashed to the ground.
He was now standing just a step behind the front line. In this position, you usually encountered three types of enemies: the unlucky bastards pushed to the front by the crowd, the arrogant fools with false confidence, and the "real deals" who led the charge because they were genuinely elite.
The man he had just flipped was the first type. Having lunged in desperation only to land deep within enemy lines, he was as good as dead.
Encrid retrieved his sword from the dirt. He saw the allied soldier who had tripped scrambling back to his feet. Half of the man's helmet had been cleanly split open by a stray blow. Blood was streaming down his face.
What an incredibly lucky bastard.
Encrid had just saved him from the brink. He was a lucky fellow in more ways than one—and he was someone Encrid knew.
"Bell, did having your skull cracked make you lose your mind?" Encrid asked.
Bell wiped the blood dripping into his eyes and spat. "Ugh, fuck... goddammit... I barely made it."
"If you barely made it, then cover my back."
It was difficult for a common soldier to read the flow of a battle, but Encrid could feel it. More accurately, he sensed it in his gut.
This is bad.
For years, he had lived steeped in the blood and steel of the battlefield. Those days hadn't gifted him with talent, but they had given him the instincts of a seasoned veteran.
I think we're completely fucked.
"Ugh, alright then," Bell replied, retrieving his spear. He moved with a pace that was neither too fast nor too slow, scanning his surroundings.
Thwack.
A flash of light pierced the air. It struck right through the gap in Bell's split helmet.
An arrow had lodged itself in his skull. The impact popped his eyeball from its socket, and it bounced wetly off Encrid's leather armor.
Ah.
Bell died without even a groan, his mouth left agape in a silent "O."
Encrid turned his gaze. Far across the sky—or perhaps in a gap between spaces that couldn't be defined—he saw a flashing light and a dot.
The moment he saw it, he knew. That dot was going to pierce his head.
Encrid closed his eyes.
How many people could remain indifferent in the face of death? Encrid was no exception. As he closed his eyes, his past life suddenly sprang forth like a dream, flashing before him like a revolving lantern.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The din of the battlefield faded. Even his breathing slowed.
Thud, shove!
Suddenly, the sensation vanished. The revolving lantern disappeared, the roar of the battlefield rushed back, and he realized he was still breathing.
"Are you offering a prayer of thanks to whoever's trying to kill you?"
It was his subordinate. One of his ten-man squad. The man had shoved him aside just as the arrow thudded into the ground where his head had been.
"Rem."
"I heard some bastard called Hawk's Eye or Hawk's Feather is here today," Rem said, eyes scanning the treeline. "Watch out for arrows."
"Do you think I can avoid them just by being careful?"
"I'm going to go tear him apart, so just wait a bit."
This bastard is crazy in a refreshingly unique way, Encrid thought. He nodded.
"Well, you haven't given up on life, have you? You skipped training today of all days to take a nap," Rem noted.
"Are you nagging me?"
"Just making sure. If I saved someone who actually wanted to die, it'd leave a bad taste in my mouth."
"Goddammit, who in their right mind wants to die?"
"I'm only saying this because you fight fine normally, but you always close your eyes at the most critical moments."
"Do you think I close them because I want to?"
Rem held an axe in his right hand and a broken spear in his left—an armament possible only because he was a master of any weapon he touched. He scratched his helmet vigorously with his thumb.
"Fuck, this helmet smells like absolute shit."
"I can agree with that."
"I told you," Rem said, his voice turning serious. "When you feel like you're about to die, you need to focus even harder."
It was his mantra. Encrid knew what it meant. Rem used to say it all the time: At the brink of death, in that moment of the revolving lantern, a person focuses with superhuman intensity. Use that in battle.
Bullshit. As if anyone could actually do that.
But that was what talent was. Keeping one's eyes open at the split second between life and death, staring the opponent down, and doing what needed to be done.
"Focus, my ass," Encrid muttered.
"Well, it'd be great if you could learn by dying a few hundred times, but you only have one life. See you around."
Rem chuckled and leaped back into the fray. He really was an exceptional fighter.
Encrid focused on the battle once more. Fight, block, move. He thrust his sword forward. If he was lucky, it would impale the enemy; if he was unlucky, they would dodge.
If it was neither...
Thud.
The sword tip, failing to pierce the opponent's armor, acted like a blunt instrument and pushed him back.
"Ugh."
The soldier stumbled, only for a passing ally's war hammer to smash into his skull.
Crack.
Encrid cleared his mind. Just blocking and swinging against the endless tide of steel was enough to make his nerves feel like they were on fire. Feeling vulnerable without a shield, he picked up a discarded axe to use as a makeshift parrying tool.
He continued to block and strike. Whenever an opening appeared, he executed the clumsy sword techniques he had spent years practicing.
Left foot forward. Shift the center of gravity. Keep the blade straight.
A thrust.
With properly tensed muscles and focus, it was a move that should have succeeded.
Clang, screech!
The thrust was only half-successful. He had aimed for the gap between the helmet and the breastplate, but the opponent moved, causing the strike to slip. It left a long gash on the man's neck, but it wasn't fatal.
The bleeding soldier locked eyes with Encrid. They were filled with pure venom.
Danger.
His instinct screamed. As Encrid backed away, an allied soldier stepped in to fill the gap. The enemy silently ducked and smashed his sword-hilt into the ally's shin.
Crack.
"Argh!"
As the soldier collapsed, the enemy drew a dagger and plunged it into the man's neck. The motion was seamless, almost like a rehearsed play. Blood sprayed, soaking the enemy's breastplate as he casually shoved the corpse aside.
Ah.
The revolving lantern returned.
The boundary between life and death. Countless images flashed outside the glowing light—the fragments of Encrid’s life. Like the dream he had had last night.
At the end of that life, as everything flashed by, the opponent's blade pierced Encrid's throat. The man had executed the exact same thrust Encrid had attempted earlier. It was a perfect strike.
A searing pain surged from his throat, spreading through his body. Facing the threshold, Encrid finally understood what Rem had meant by "focus."
Only, it was far too late.
Did I really have to die to learn this?
Cursing Rem in his heart, Encrid closed his eyes. His heart moved of its own accord—longing, yearning, desire.
I wanted to be good with the sword.
I wanted to be a knight.
I wanted to be a hero.
He should have been content to earn a living, settle down in a village, and build a house. But he couldn't. The passion burning in his chest wouldn't let him. Until his very last moments, he had squandered his blood-earned money on swordsmanship schools and manuals.
I could have done better.
If only I had more time.
He had believed that if he just swung his sword more while others slept, he could bridge the gap between himself and the geniuses.
At the end of the revolving lantern, the face of the person he had saved—the first and last person he had ever saved by his own strength—appeared.
"The talisman will move according to your wishes, Sir Knight."
It was the Slash-and-Burn Village Chief. An old woman whose missing teeth made her voice whistle.
A mixture of regret and longing filled his chest.
Would things have been different if I had swung my sword just a few more times?
The coldness of death settled into his limbs. Beyond his closed eyes, he saw a black river. And Encrid regretted taking a nap earlier today instead of practicing. If he had practiced just a little more, perhaps that final thrust would have succeeded.
Atop the black river, a Faceless Ferryman sat in a small boat.
The ferryman asked, "Do you really think so?"
Huh?
"You're interesting."
Wh-what?
"Then let's make it so," the mouthless ferryman spoke. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
Encrid couldn't utter a word. He lost consciousness, and then, he opened his eyes.
Clang, clang, clang.
The sound of the night watchman striking metal—a ladle hitting a pot. The familiar morning wake-up call.
"..."
He looked to his side.
"Did you have some fucked-up dream?"
His subordinate, Rem, grumbled as he sat up and shoved his feet into his boots. "Ah, a bug."
Encrid blinked. The events of the battlefield felt far too real to be a dream.
"Ptooey."
Shaking the bug out, Rem spat and crushed it under his heel. A stain of bug guts and spit smeared the floor.