Chapter 211: My Name is Encrid
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 211: My Name is Encrid
Graham, the 1st Company Commander of the Turtle Heavy Infantry, did his job.
"Who are we?!"
At the captain's lead, his subordinates roared in response.
"Oo-hah!"
"We are the wall! The moving fortress of the Border Guard!"
At the captain's shout once more, the members of the Turtle Heavy Infantry Company shredded their vocal cords, letting out a guttural roar.
"We are the wall!"
Somehow, the meaning resonated. Their morale soared in direct proportion to the strain on their throats. Regardless of the exploits of Encrid and his companions, Graham intended to be a wall. It was what his company did best, and it was the strategy agreed upon from the very beginning.
What Graham had anticipated was a clash with the assault squad of Greg, his archrival. The assault company of Martai and the heavy infantry company of the Border Guard were long-time rivals. However, he never got the chance to face Greg.
Greg and his assault company had already been torn to shreds by Encrid's group of five, who had charged in like a whirlwind. Having witnessed that, Graham's battle felt remarkably relaxed for a warzone.
"Raise shields!"
The strategy unique to heavy infantry could be boiled down to one core principle: Raise shields and hold.
"Two!"
Close the gap. Clack! Clack!
"Two" meant two steps forward. Moving with a unified stride through rigorous training was slow, but it was uniform and stable. The turtles crawled forward.
"Strike!"
The third command was to swing their heavy blunt weapons at close range. Every single one of them was armed with an iron hammer tipped with a heavy round weight.
Thud-thud-thud!
It was a brand of violence that ordinary armor or leather helmets could not hope to block.
Crack!
A hammer slammed down onto a Martai infantryman's shield. The circular wooden shield split vertically. With the shield gone, the next incoming hammer had to be blocked with the head.
Crunch!
Naturally, skulls shattered, and soldiers collapsed, bleeding out. One could deflect spears or blades, but what could be done against a hammer? The corpses of enemy soldiers piled up rapidly in front of the heavy infantry.
Occasionally, a skilled enemy would dodge and thrust their sword through the gaps, but— ting!
The heavy infantry were men clad in plate and chainmail, funded by pouring in countless Krona. Even if an enemy's blade was lucky enough to pierce the chainmail, it could not penetrate the thick, padded gambeson of cloth and leather worn underneath.
"Die!"
One of the Border Guard "turtles," stabbed near his flank, roared and swung his hammer. The hammer fell vertically from above, crushing the shoulder of the soldier who had thrust the spear.
"Argh!"
Once a single blow rendered one arm useless, the outcome was obvious. They would be shoved down by a shield with a heavy thud, fall, and be trampled to death. Though slow-footed, once they closed the distance, Graham's heavy infantry were turtles with a terrifying bite. Slow violence battered and thrashed the front lines of the battlefield.
However...
'Even so...'
Graham knew his company would not receive the spotlight. On one side of the field, Encrid and his companions were mercilessly racking up the enemy casualty count. With just five people, they were doing what fifty heavy infantrymen could not.
People called such individuals "anomalous forces," and the one who stood at the pinnacle of such forces was called a Knight. Though they couldn't be called Knights just yet...
'At least Associate Knights.'
Graham had an eye for these things.
"Raise shields!"
The simple tactics of the heavy infantry continued. And there was no one left to stop them. Those who should have stopped them had already been torn, blasted, beaten, severed, stabbed, and slashed by someone else's hands.
* * *
The Border Guard Captain looked to his side and asked casually, "May I ask your name?"
In front of them, a detachment had begun to move. Every single one of them moved with agile, swift motions. Could this be the second dagger Martai had prepared?
Undoubtedly. The Border Guard Captain could tell at a glance that this detachment was formed specifically to target them.
The Border Guard's nickname was the Frontier Slaughterer. It was a moniker earned because they carved, slashed, and fought exceptionally well. In terms of being a small, elite, specialized force, the enemy resembled them.
The Frontier Slaughterer. That nickname now felt like a garment he had outgrown.
'These days, maybe just "Border Guard" is enough.'
And why wouldn't it be? There was a class of warriors who made small-scale combat dominate the battlefield, and whose existence shaped strategy and tactics.
Knights.
So, did people fight like they used to when there were no Knights? No. To replicate the tactics of a small, elite force of Knights, they created organized elite groups—special forces. Until now, the Frontier Slaughterer had enjoyed great renown, but they had been completely overshadowed by the reputation of Encrid and his Mad Company.
Not that he was bitter about it.
'You can tell just by looking. He's a cut above the rest.'
The captain acknowledged Encrid. In fact, who within the Border Guard standing army wouldn't? Encrid was the kind of guy who made people feel good just by looking at him. He was someone who made something boil up inside you. Because of that, he was impossible to hate.
"No."
At the end of his thoughts, the elven company commander's rejection reached his ears. She wouldn't even tell him her name?
Thirty-six years old. The captain was getting up there in age. His pupils shook. Of course, no one saw it; he had slightly lowered his head so even the elf couldn't see. Even if they officially held the same rank, the Border Guard Captain was a special position, much like the 1st Company Commander. If the Border Guard Battalion Commander's authority was weak, the captain's words sometimes carried even more weight.
Yet, the elven company commander didn't seem to care in the slightest.
'She won't even tell me her name.'
The Border Guard Captain, fast approaching middle age, quietly let it go. It was time to dismiss this late-blooming infatuation and step into battle. However, lingering regret prompted one more question.
"Are you really in that kind of relationship with Encrid?"
Sinar stared blankly at the Border Guard Captain and said, "What one wishes for and what comes to pass are two different things."
Her expression was colorless. Her tone betrayed no emotion. The Border Guard Captain closed his mouth, then spoke again.
"I am Zenok."
A second lingering regret made him blurt out his own name. Sinar didn't even nod. Meanwhile, Torres approached from behind and nudged the captain in the ribs.
"I told you not to do that."
The captain didn't answer. Torres had tried to stop him beforehand. But what could he do? His pure heart was burning. If he died today without saying it, whose fault would that be?
"Today, I fight with passion," the captain said.
Torres nodded. Behind them, the core forces of the Border Guard all had gleaming eyes.
For our heartbroken captain.
Their eyes chanted the slogan. Soon, the dagger prepared by Martai approached the designated point. The elven company commander, Sinar, had come to reinforce this side, but she had brought no subordinates. There was no one under her command skilled enough to match the strength of the Border Guard.
The commander of the Martai detachment looked frantic. Their discipline was shattered, and their formation was in disarray. When a commander was rushed, the soldiers under him were bound to be affected. It was also because they had increased their marching speed instead of checking their surroundings.
The Border Guard lunged at their flank.
"For the broken heart!" one of the guardsmen shouted.
"Who the hell said that?!" the captain roared back.
One of the Martai detachment members twisted his body. He was a dual-wielding warrior with sharp, slanted eyes that gave him a fierce impression. Led by him, everyone turned. It was a clash between the detachment that had aimed for the flank of the Border Guard's main force, and the guardsmen who had struck the flank of that very Martai detachment.
The dual-wielding warrior's reaction speed was exceptional. He aimed his twin swords at the neck of the elven company commander, who had closed in on him. His hands and feet were fast. His reactions were superb, and there was no hesitation in his transition to attack. He was top-tier.
Sinar, who had been standing still with her hand on her waist until then, moved. Stepping back, she drew Naidel and slashed upward toward the intersection of the twin swords. The leaf-like sword split the sunlight—and split his swords as well.
Clang!
"Where are you aiming?"
Sinar replied listlessly, dancing with the swinging Naidel. Every time Naidel swung, a mist of blood erupted. Those slashed and stabbed collapsed to the ground.
Torres had also just closed in on a man holding a sword and shield, drawing a hidden dagger from his wrist to slit his throat. A precise strike aimed between the helmet and armor tore the neck wide open. He shoved aside the man, who was spurting blood.
Having killed one, Torres moved close to his captain and glanced sideways, only to see Sinar performing a sword dance that rivaled Encrid's.
"If you don't fall in love after seeing that, are you even human?" the captain muttered.
"You fall in love seeing that?" Torres replied, shaking his head inwardly.
Isn't that just a slaughter?
Of course, this was a battlefield and she was an ally, so it was an exploit, not a slaughter. One thing was certain: that elf was by no means inferior to Encrid or his Mad Company. So how could this even be a fight?
"You crazy bitch!"
Among the enemy was a group of tattooed warriors, and the man who appeared to be their leader let out a monstrous shriek. At the profanity-laced shout, the captain and some of his guardsmen moved.
"Rip that mouth open!"
At the shout of the lovesick Border Guard Captain, his subordinates charged. This fight was also one-sided. It was thanks to the influence of the main force's victory. It was a battle where the side that moved first was at a disadvantage, and Martai's detachment had moved first. On top of that, Sinar's performance was so brilliant that even their ambush felt like overkill.
Now was the time to think about minimizing their own casualties, not worrying about losing.
* * *
The Elite-Catching Blade.
Since when had that been his name? His memory was hazy.
He concealed his presence. He silenced his footsteps. Weaving through his dying allies, he observed the enemy. He saw a fierce-looking fellow encouraging his subordinates while continuously firing arrows. Taking that guy down would help on the battlefield, but...
Licking his lips, he suppressed the urge.
No, did I come all this way just to kill a guy like that?
He lowered his stance. He hid his breath. Regardless of his skill, he crawled or walked through the gaps between ally and enemy. Occasionally, someone who lunged at him blindly was quietly pulled in, their neck wrung and choked to death. Killing silently was one of his specialties.
As he walked, a memory of the past pierced his brain like a fragment.
"Are you saying you're giving up on being a Squire?"
It was the voice of his last sword instructor. What had he said in response? Without a moment's hesitation, he had nodded.
"Yes."
"Are you going to let your talent rot like this?"
Becoming a Squire in an Order of Knights meant running errands and doing chores for Knights and Associate Knights. That was the beginning. Later, if your skills were recognized, you became an Associate Knight. If you fell short, you became just another swordsman or warrior.
After becoming an Associate Knight, if you could circulate 'Will' throughout your entire body, you became a Knight. What did they call that stage? Was it Flow? Or was it called an uninterrupted stream?
It didn't matter. Knights were few, and the way they categorized their stages was entirely subjective. In any case, he gave up, even though the path to rise was open to him.
"Foolish bastard," his instructor had snapped.
But he hadn't been angry. There was no reason to be. Killing was easier than fighting, so he just had to do that; there was truly no reason to force himself into their mold. And so, he gave up on being a Squire and left the Order.
He wandered, and during his peak as a mercenary, Count Molsen approached him. A count called the King of the Frontier. He thought it was an arrogant title, but the offer wasn't bad.
"Do you have any interest in working under me?"
He had nodded.
"Do you have no regrets about not walking the path of an Associate Knight?" the Count had asked.
The man had smiled and replied, "I may not be able to become an Associate Knight, but I can kill them."
That was his answer. The man mastered silent footsteps and held a sharp blade instead of Will. One day, after seeing the Needle, a weapon exclusive to the elves, he searched far and wide for a similar sword.
The swords he had acquired in this manner were strapped to his waist, chest, and both forearms. They resembled stilettos but were shaped like sharp awls. Crafted by a nameless artisan who had seen the Carmen Collection—the masterpiece of assassination blades—they were designed to pierce anything, whether plate or chainmail, to punch holes in the opponent's body.
They were swords of solid Valerian steel. They were also a gift from Count Molsen. Thanks to these weapons and his own talent, he soon earned the moniker "Elite-Catching Blade."
If a select few dominated the battlefield, wasn't it only natural that there would be a blade dedicated solely to killing those few? His goal was to one day punch a hole in the neck of a Knight. In fact, he had once come dangerously close to taking an Associate Knight's life. He had even taken a few fingers as a gift instead of the neck.
"What a waste of talent."
The words of the Associate Knight who had lost his fingers came back to him. Who cared? It wasn't something a loser beaten by him had any right to say.
The memories faded, and he took in the current battlefield. The man's target was clear.
'The black-haired bastard.'
The one tearing through the battlefield as five acting as one. The one leading them, the one who had announced his name, the one who stood out from the very beginning. The bastard named Encrid.
He looked to be at the level of an Associate Knight. That made it even more thrilling. To think he could kill someone of that caliber.
'Take one down, hide, and then take them out one by one.'
Those who possessed both keen eyes and true skill were rare. Therefore, his opponent wouldn't even recognize him. Like most Associate Knights, he would be packed to the brim with arrogance.
To blind the opponent's eyes, he had put on the armor and helmet of an ordinary soldier and rolled in the dirt. With his entire body soiled by others' blood and dust, he dragged his feet as he approached. He calculated the distance from the blonde guy to keep his distance and ignored the axe madman rampaging on the other side.
Slipping through the razor-thin gaps, he took up a position at Encrid's flank. Joy and excitement filled him.
'I may not be able to become one, but I can kill them.'
Those were the words that drove him. He gripped the custom-made assassination dagger in his hand. Holding his breath, he aimed for a gap and thrust. He kicked off the ground to close the distance in an instant. It was a lethal strike. The footwork to spring off the ground was something he had learned during his days as a Squire.
Since he had approached this close while holding his breath, the fight was already over. Or so he thought, at the very moment he thrust his blade.
Clang!
'Blocked?'
He saw his blade's tip stopped. He saw the flat of a black-painted dagger.
"What are you?"
It was a voice laced with disappointment, regret, or something of the sort. Immediately after, a dizzying slash flew from behind. The man reflexively rolled forward. Before him, a dot appeared. No, not a dot, but the tip of a blade. The man ducked his head.
Evading twice was already an incredible feat. But the final blow was not something he could possibly dodge. Something like a log swept across the ground toward him.
Thud, crack!
"Gack!"
It was Audin's low kick. Both of his legs shattered in a single blow. It was a display of terrifying strength and technique. Instead of sending his body flying, it had cleanly broken them.
His upper body collapsed downward, his head hitting the ground first before bouncing up, leaving him slumped on the floor. It was an involuntary acrobatic feat forced upon him by a kick of monstrous strength.
Before he could even properly regain his senses, a sword fell from above. A pair of blue eyes entered the man's vision.
Slash.
That was it. Because he had jerked his head to the side, the sword slashed his shoulder. Thanks to dodging the lethal blow, he didn't die instantly, but he collapsed to the ground, bleeding profusely. His life was rapidly slipping away.
The man squirmed as he lay there. The owner of the blue eyes looked at him, then turned away. In the dying man's memory, his last sword instructor appeared.
"Why are you throwing away your talent?" the instructor asked.
The man should have answered back then: 'I didn't throw it away, I didn't have it in the first place, you frustrating bastard.'
If he could have climbed higher, he would have. But there were nothing but monsters around him. The world was full of them. It hadn't taken long to realize the limits of his talent. It was from then on. His goal had shifted from becoming a Knight to becoming the one who killed Knights.
The man's dream was over. The blade of Count Molsen, who had forgotten his own name and lived only as the Elite-Catching Blade, was broken just like that.
Of course, Encrid had no way of knowing any of this. However...
"Is he insane?"
Rem's single remark summed it all up. Jumping in between them on purpose? It was literally no different from charging headlong into a group of five Associate Knight-level combatants. Furthermore, not a single one of them was someone to be trifled with.
At any moment, in any situation, Encrid envisioned the best move, swung his sword, and poured his heart into everything around him. Whether it was a sword to kill an opponent or just a single step, he gave his absolute best to everything. He was simply that kind of man. In a way, this very trait was why he could be called a monster.
Among them was also Sachsen, who was second to none when it came to sheer cunning. Sachsen had waited for the bastard to dive right into the center on purpose before catching him.
Could this even be called an easy hunt?
'Well, calling this a hunt is a bit of a stretch,' Rem thought to himself as he clapped his axe blades together.
Clang!
"Bring on some more!"
It was only natural for Rem to shout that. Before they knew it, the surrounding soldiers had backed away significantly. An empty space had formed around them—an open space paved with corpses, blood, severed limbs, and entrails.
Looking around from the center of it, Encrid felt his muscles trembling slightly. It was the aftermath of a reckless battle combined with the Heart of Monstrous Strength. But was that a problem? No. It was stiff, but not to the point of being unusable.
He looked around. The sky was clear. It wasn't weather that promised rain, and though the stench of blood hung thick in the air, the morale of his allies, drunk on victory, pushed him forward. Though they had charged in as if isolated in the middle of the enemy forces, he could faintly hear Vengeance's voice from somewhere in the distance.
After taking in the entire situation, a surge of heroic spirit welled up within Encrid once more.
"My name is Encrid."
It was just a single sentence. Merely words.
However, when those words pierced the ears of the enemy soldiers, there was no reaction like before. In the middle of the battlefield, centered around the empty space Encrid had carved out, only a chilling silence spread.
"Step forward, and you die," Encrid said.