Chapter 210: Marcus Hides Encrid
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 210: Marcus Hides Encrid
Sachsen expected the cavalry to halt before they overextended. If men were dropping like flies from a single charge, stopping was the only logical choice for a commander.
So, instead of meeting the charge head-on, he lowered his center of gravity and began to move.
While everyone else was fixated on the charging horses—while they watched those who had repelled the initial impact—Sachsen anticipated the rally point. He moved before the horses even reached it. He was confident that over a short distance, a full-tilt sprint fueled by his mana would rival the speed of any steed.
The result was instantaneous.
He kicked the calf of a rider whose neck had already been pierced. As the man tilted sideways, Sachsen freed the dying man's foot from the stirrup and shoved him out of the way.
With a dull thud, the enemy commander hit the dirt. Sachsen didn't even spare him a glance.
Mounting the saddle, he lightly patted and stroked the horse’s neck. The beast, which had been bucking in resistance, immediately quieted under his touch. Without looking back, Sachsen rode the horse back to Encrid’s side.
Clip-clop, clip-clop!
The cheerful rhythm of hooves echoed through the sudden silence. The watching cavalrymen were so stunned by his nonchalant theft that they missed their window to strike.
"Fucking alley cat, hogging all the fun for himself," Rem grumbled, greeting the returning Sachsen.
"Go back to your mindless brawling, you crazy barbarian," Sachsen shot back smoothly.
Sachsen dismounted and slapped the horse’s rump. With a sharp neigh, the horse galloped away toward an empty stretch of the field, kicking up a hazy mist of dust. Despite being in the middle of a literal war zone, a murderous glare passed between Rem and Sachsen.
Encrid, who usually would have mediated, was lost in thought. He had been chewing on a tactical detail for a while.
"Couldn't they have just swung the glaives without hooking the shafts to their backs?" he asked suddenly.
If they had simply held the weapons, they could have dropped the shaft the moment a sword broke the blade. But because they had used loops on their flanks and horse armor to lock the butt of the shaft in place, their reactions were fatally delayed.
That was why their response to the first strike had been so pathetic. No wonder they fell so easily.
Rem looked at Encrid, who was spouting technical observations in the heat of battle, and sighed. The staring contest with Sachsen ended as Sachsen also shook his head and looked away.
"If you use your waist as an axis to hold the weapon, you have to withstand both the horse's momentum and the impact of the collision," Rem explained. "Do you think a normal man's back would hold up under that pressure?"
Encrid’s back wouldn't break. But ordinary soldiers? Without specialized training, the recoil would snap them in half.
Understood.
The point Encrid was making was simple: the opponent’s attacks were too linear. Locking the shaft to their flank while performing a slashing attack might be efficient against the weak, but in a high-level engagement, it was a death sentence. They were physically incapable of adjusting to a counterattack.
Encrid had unwittingly grasped the core flaw of the enemy. The Glaive Shock Cavalry was specialized in butchering those who couldn't fight back—the weak and the disorganized.
Instead of hooking the glaive to their backs, they should have trained their physical strength.
After facing them, he could see exactly what they were doing wrong. It was a fresh realization. Encrid was now capable of diagnosing an opponent's shortcomings at a glance.
It was another sign of his growth.
Good.
Aside from the tactical victory of blocking the charge, Encrid’s eyes gleamed with a strange light.
The remaining cavalry, caught in a state of hesitation, finally received the order for a second charge.
"Charge! Kill them all!"
In a way, they had incredible guts to try again after the first disaster. Encrid leveled his sword and prepared to meet them. He had done it once; he could do it again. Luck had played no part in the first encounter. It was pure skill.
"Is this some kind of crazy antlion pit?" Marcus commented from his vantage point.
On the opposite side, the enemy general, Ulf, cursed the stupidity of his cavalry but made the only decision he could. To retreat now would be utter ruin.
"Infantry, charge!"
The Martai foot soldiers began to move. The true melee was about to begin.
Before the infantry could even close the gap, the cavalry collapsed in droves and retreated. Since that feat had been accomplished by only five men, the morale of the charging Martai infantry was already at rock bottom.
*
"Ragna and I will take the front. Rem on the right, Sachsen on the left, and Audin will cover the rear."
Before arriving, Encrid had pondered a formation for his small unit rather than a chaotic brawl. It wasn't a complex strategy; it was simply about maintaining spacing so they wouldn't get in each other's way.
In a chaotic melee, friendly fire was a real risk. He discarded defensive tactics entirely. That wasn't how a small elite force operated. To minimize their own casualties, they simply had to maximize the enemy's deaths in the shortest possible time.
Thus, this "functional formation" was born. Fighting as a unit would be far more effective than scattering.
"Keep your distance."
These were not men who liked being bound by structure. Audin, Ragna, and Sachsen aside, would a madman like Rem actually listen? Encrid was curious. If Rem broke rank, he was prepared to let him go.
If he leaves, Ragna takes the front, and I’ll take the right.
He expected the others might ignore him too. If they did, he’d give up on the formation and just fight. There was no time for persuasion. From here on, the only communication would be through the sword.
"Got it," Rem said, surprisingly taking his position first. The right side. He kept a gap of about three paces—enough room to swing his axe freely, but close enough to provide support.
"Three paces, then. Understood," Sachsen moved to the left.
Following their lead, Ragna stepped forward two paces. Finally, Audin took the rear.
"...You're not charging out on your own?" Encrid asked, unable to hide his surprise as he looked at Rem.
"What are you talking about? Those bastards are coming right at us. Do we have time to chat?"
They didn't. The enemy infantry was rushing in like a tide.
"...Forward," Encrid muttered. His voice was quiet, but it carried with absolute clarity.
Ragna matched his pace. No matter what anyone said, Encrid was the heart of this formation.
Is this really happening? They’re actually listening?
It was baffling, but there was no time to question it.
Waaaaah!
The air filled with the roars of the enemy.
"Kill them!"
"Die, you bastards!"
The vanguard showed a mix of fear, madness, and forced composure. Every man was different. Between the screams and the curses, a grim harmony emerged—the orchestra of the battlefield.
Encrid didn't run. He simply quickened his stride, and his allies moved in perfect unison. Their collective pressure was overwhelming.
"Waaaaah—you bastards!"
As the battle cries of his own allies erupted from behind, Encrid met the first line of the enemy.
The aftermath of the cavalry's second charge had been even more devastating than the first. The first time was a shock; the second was a slaughter. The exact same scene had repeated itself, but with even higher casualties. The broken cavalry fled. If they had stayed any longer, they would have earned the title of the biggest fools on the continent.
Because of their flight, the composure in the eyes of the infantry vanished, replaced by raw terror.
Amidst the forest of blades, a scorching heat rose. Encrid swung his sword in a straightforward vertical slash, aiming for the crown of a soldier's head.
Thud, crack!
The first blow hit home. With a snap strike, the skull shattered as if it had exploded, spraying blood and brain matter. Droplets of red rained down onto Encrid’s leather helmet.
Before the blood could even settle, Encrid was already slicing horizontally through another soldier’s chest and arm.
Slash!
If swordsmanship was an art, then the weapon itself was a vital part of the technique. Encrid utilized his sword’s extraordinary sharpness and durability to the fullest. His blade parted the wave of soldiers again and again.
He didn't care about the theoretical effectiveness of the formation anymore. He focused on one thing: fighting while staying close.
His intention was clear. Encrid pierced the enemy ranks like the tip of a needle. Rem and the others followed, centering their movements on him. The charge of this "mad company" was like a hot knife through a soft apple. Soon, they were deep within the enemy heart.
They were surrounded, completely enveloped by the enemy. To most, this was a nightmare. To them, it was a target-rich environment.
"Brothers, to heaven!" Audin shouted from the rear. His fists and club moved faster than breath.
Whoosh, bam! Whoosh, thud!
On the right, Rem cackled as he swung his axe. The flashes of his blade whipped in all directions, shattering swords, splitting skulls, and shearing through plate armor.
"Come on, more! I'm just getting started!" Rem roared, drenched in gore. Only his gray eyes remained visible through the mask of blood on his face.
As fear paralyzed the enemy, the soldiers in front began to hesitate.
"You bastards!"
Suddenly, a man rushed in from the left. It was the 1st Battalion Commander, Greg—a fierce general trusted by General Ulf. Blocking his path was Sachsen, wielding his slender blade.
To Greg, Sachsen looked like the easiest target. He hadn't stood out at all compared to the others. Greg swung a hexagonal mace in a heavy, tricky trajectory toward Sachsen’s collarbone. If the boy dodged, the formation would break; if he didn't, he’d be crushed.
Encrid saw it out of the corner of his eye but didn't worry.
Not a chance.
Greg had clearly been lingering near Rem, but fearing the axe-man, he had looped around to target Sachsen. He thought he’d found the weak link.
The auburn-haired swordsman met the heavy mace with his slender blade.
Chirrrrrring!
Sachsen caught the heavy impact on the flat of his blade and used the opponent's own momentum to deflect it to the side. Sparks flew as metal ground against metal. Sachsen remained expressionless, looking as if he were merely performing a chore.
It was a masterclass in deflection—the hallmark of someone who had perfected the basics of the Soft Sword.
"Uh!" Greg grunted, trying to force his drifting mace back with sheer strength.
"Dumbass," Sachsen muttered.
Greg heard it clearly. This bastard? Cursing with his eyes, Greg planted his feet, intending to crush the boy with raw power. If the kid tried to deflect again, Greg would drop the weapon, lunge, and snap his neck. He was confident in his wrestling.
For a brief moment, Greg envisioned his victory. He saw himself breaking the enemy's neck.
But then, the scene began to loop in his mind. Drop the mace, lunge, snap the neck. Crack. Drop the mace, lunge, snap the neck. Crack.
Suddenly, the world spun. The boy who had called him a dumbass was already thrusting his sword elsewhere, skewering another soldier through the visor.
"Aaargh!"
Why can I see all of this? Greg wondered.
He looked down and saw a headless torso with blood geysering upward. The lifeless body collapsed forward with a heavy thud. The armor on the fallen man looked remarkably similar to his own.
That was the end. His thoughts cut off, and darkness consumed him.
*
Ragna had delivered the killing blow the moment Greg was deflected. Since there was no need for a high-level technique like Severing, he used a simple Steel Slash.
The armor protecting the neck was thick, but it was meaningless against Ragna.
Thud, slice!
He cut through armor, bone, and tendon in one fluid motion. The head flew through the air, its eyes still blinking in shock. Ragna immediately lost interest.
He was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Amusing bastards.
He was referring to everyone, Encrid included. Where on earth could one find such a collection of freaks? This was a miracle born of coincidence piling upon coincidence—a prank played by the Goddess of Fortune.
No, maybe there’s no such thing as luck.
Life begins with coincidence and ends with inevitability. If not for Encrid, Ragna wouldn't be standing here. That made this moment inevitable. But Rem and the others played their parts too. In a tedious life, he had finally encountered those of similar caliber.
Coincidence and inevitability—the useless thoughts faded. Joy and amusement took their place. Feelings Ragna rarely experienced while wielding a sword drenched him completely. Ecstasy overflowed.
Ragna’s sword became fiercer, more precise, and more relentless. From that point on, even Encrid had to push himself to match Ragna’s rhythm. Once Ragna took the lead, he was a grim reaper incarnate.
Something beyond mere terror—an incomprehensible dread—flickered in the eyes of the Martai soldiers.
"Aaaaargh!"
"Spare me!"
"It's a monster!"
The battle cries turned into weeping. Cold laments stained the field. The orchestra was drawing to a close.
"...What kind of monsters are they?"
The squad leader who had once tried to trap Encrid on the supply route had just joined the fray. A hollow sigh escaped his lips. Had he survived, he might have become an excellent commander. But he would not survive this day.
An axe suddenly closed in, striking him across the chest.
Gasp.
His breastbone collapsed, and his heart ruptured. A terrifying pain surged through him. The squad leader fell, weeping tears of blood.
By the time the slaughter slowed, the number of dead had easily surpassed a hundred.
*
"Fuck."
Ulf sensed defeat. No, it was more than a premonition. This wasn't even a contest.
Five Associate Knights? That son of a bitch, he hid them well.
Beyond despair, Ulf felt dizzy. Five Associate Knights—this wasn't even a formal order of knights, so how was this possible? Even if they weren't officially ranked, how had Marcus managed to hide five individuals with that much martial power?
Ulf could not accept this as a military defeat. He hadn't lost a war; he had lost a political game. This was the victory of a man who knew how to hide his trump cards.
This had happened because Marcus had hidden Encrid so well.
"Maintain the melee!" a commander shouted as he ran past.
There was nothing to maintain. The flow of the battlefield was gone. From now on, Ulf’s life and the fate of his men were entirely at Marcus’s mercy. Beyond morale and victory, everything had fallen into the hands of a politician.
"What a true bastard."
Having suffered an absurd defeat from a strike he had launched with overwhelming numbers, who could possibly understand Ulf’s misery? Could this even be called strategy? Simply hiding the martial might of five men?
If someone were to name this battle, only one title would fit:
Marcus Hides Encrid.