Chapter 216: Preparation, Pattern, Experience
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 216: Preparation, Pattern, Experience
"Fuck!"
Horror seized Ulf at the news that a rebellion had broken out within his own walls.
At a time like this? At this exact moment?
"Who is it?!"
Moments later, word arrived that the ringleader had already seized the castle gate. While the rebels couldn't do much about the watchtowers or the ramparts, the gate itself was the immediate, fatal problem.
"Guards!"
In his desperation, Ulf screamed for his men. They sprinted ahead of him.
"Go! Stop them!"
Who the hell is it?!
Ulf bolted after them. Forgetting the crushing weight of his armor, he sprinted with everything he had. His breath hitched, and a metallic tang rose in his throat—the dry, copper scent of blood.
He reached the end of his sprint only to find a nightmare.
"My apologies, General."
Three of his personal guards lay on the ground, turned into human hedgehogs by crossbow bolts. A force at least the size of a platoon stood blocking the way, their weapons leveled.
The man who had just been running his mouth sneered. It was a cunning, practiced smirk—a twisted mouth and narrowed eyes that Ulf had never seen on him before.
It was his "ignorant" deputy, the same man who had been loudly demanding to lead the cavalry out to crush the enemy just minutes ago. An idiot who only knew how to fight—or so Ulf had thought.
That bastard?
Because the man had always fought so brainlessly, Ulf never imagined he was capable of such a scheme.
No—had even that been calculated? Had he been playing the part of the dim-witted brawler this entire time? If so, the man was a born actor.
Ulf realized, with sinking dread, that he had been utterly duped.
"The enemy is coming!"
Bwooooh!
A massive horn wailed, its low drone signaling a crisis of the highest order.
"Fire! Fire!"
While the archers on the galleries and watchtowers frantically loosed their arrows, the deputy repeatedly hacked at the gate’s pulley with a heavy axe.
Thud! Crack! Thud!
To Ulf, each strike sounded like a hammer nailing his coffin shut.
Ha.
A hollow sigh escaped him. His thoughts ground to a halt. He couldn't even bring himself to order his men to stop the traitor; it was already too late. Even if he rushed forward now, there was nothing he could do to stop the gate from swinging wide.
Once that gate opened, the monsters who had run rampant on the battlefield would pour in. The five demons.
It was exactly as he had feared. He knew instinctively that the mages' ambush had failed. Otherwise, why hadn't those arrogant bastards, who had prattled on about their "price," shown so much as a hair of their heads?
Fucking shadow bastards.
Ulf gave up internally. A fight to the death? Risking everything, including his life? Throwing away the lives of all these soldiers for a lost cause?
"Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He couldn't do it. What would be left of his honor if he survived only by letting every man under his command die? Ulf did not want to crown his end with such a pathetic blunder. Even as a defeated commander, he would not tarnish his name. He would die alone and end it.
"You must surrender, General."
Even though he had already made up his mind, Ulf wanted to strike the Guard Captain for speaking those words.
This bastard too?
Rage flickered in Ulf’s eyes, but...
"You must face reality," the Guard Captain urged. One look at his eyes revealed the truth: he was desperate to save his own skin.
Why was this coward talking so much when he hadn't even drawn his sword to fight?
Rumble, rumble.
The gate groaned open. Soon, a black-haired man appeared, his gaze fixed on something in the far distance. He wasn't even wearing a helmet. His blue eyes didn't look at Ulf; they seemed to be staring into empty air.
As the man approached, the Guard Captain unbuckled his sword and quietly laid it on the ground. He was preparing to surrender.
You piece of shit.
Ulf tore the man to shreds in his mind. Then, he let go of his anger. He gave up.
However.
"There is no law that says we must hand over our home without a fight."
Zimmer took a step forward from behind Ulf.
"What?"
"Entrust the final duel to me, General. I will show them the spirit of the Lion of the East."
Zimmer’s eyes blazed with a fierce light. He called out to Ulf once more.
"General."
Zimmer was the finest swordsman among the battalion commanders, Greg included. He was a man who had truly studied the way of the blade.
While the Guard Captain, who usually put on airs, was already debating whether to put his hands on his head or drop to his knees, Zimmer—the man who had always handled the dirty work and spoke the blunt, uncomfortable truths—stepped forward.
I was blind.
Ulf admitted it to himself. He had failed in his judgment of character. He had been backstabbed by his deputy and had favored a coward while neglecting a man like Zimmer. He felt like gouging his own eyes out in shame.
"Do it."
Ulf nodded. Even if the battle was over, he had no right to hold back a man burning with the spirit of a warrior.
With that, Zimmer moved to face Encrid.
*
A spy had been planted in Martai.
Since when had he planned this?
The moment the gate opened, Encrid recognized the handiwork. This was Marcus’s doing.
Was it a specific plan, or just preparation?
Regardless of whether it was a grand scheme for this exact moment, it was clear Marcus had planted the seeds "just in case."
Encrid’s thoughts accelerated, the train of logic leading him back to the Orthodox Sword Style. It was the nameless swordsmanship he had learned from the Evil Spirit of the Magic Sword.
The Orthodox Sword Style is fundamentally about cornering the opponent in a single direction.
The preparation for that was the foundation—the everything—of the style.
If the Heavy Sword Style crushed with overwhelming power, and the Swift Sword Style won through sheer speed... then the Orthodox Sword Style was the art of creating a "pattern" to trap the opponent.
And a "pattern" required preparation.
A 'pattern' is the tactic used to corner the enemy.
It was fine if the opponent moved as expected, but what if they didn't?
Prepare broadly. Prepare for everything.
One simply had to move while anticipating every possible variable. This was why the Orthodox Sword Style excelled in a battle of wits. The key was preparation—diversifying and multiplying one's responses.
The spy Marcus had planted was one such preparation. There were likely many more schemes hidden away. Even if the gate hadn't opened, Marcus wouldn't have given up; he would have played another card.
The Orthodox Sword Style functioned the same way. It was meant to be used without being confined to a single pattern. One simply needed to prepare extensively to respond to any reaction the opponent offered.
Just as Marcus had done.
This was why, among the styles that grew stronger with experience, the Orthodox Sword Style and the Soft Sword Style were the most formidable. The more battles of wits one survived, the more diverse the patterns became ingrained in the body.
The thoughts triggered by Marcus’s "magic" cascaded, finally settling into a clear direction for his swordsmanship.
The lessons from fighting the Evil Spirit of the Magic Sword.
The insights from sparring with Ragna after his return.
The wisdom he had gleaned from Frok Luagarne.
Everything blended and intertwined.
Taking three steps, Encrid crossed the threshold of the castle gate. Within those three steps, he realized his own greatest advantage.
Today’s repetition.
The experience of fighting with his life on the line.
The experience of fighting while throwing his life away.
The constant review that followed countless defeats and battles.
Hadn't all of that been the building of patterns and experience?
Yes. It was patterns, and it was experience.
That old teacher’s specialty must have been the Orthodox Sword Style.
Having realized the true nature of the coastal village teacher who had taught him the importance of "review," Encrid took another two steps.
Realizing the infinite diversity of patterns, he took two more.
Within those five steps, Encrid felt the need to reflect once more on every experience he had gained and melt them into his very marrow. If he had been a genius, or even just talented, would he have realized these things all at once? Would he have executed them immediately?
It would be a lie to say he had never lamented his lack of talent. However, he no longer craved talent as desperately as he once had.
Step by step.
He moved forward. This was the path to reaching "Will," and the path toward becoming a knight. His forgotten dream beat against his heart once more.
Only then did Encrid truly perceive his surroundings.
The gate had opened, and one of the primary actors of the battlefield had stepped inside. Arrows should have been flying by now; spears, swords, or hammers should have been swinging at his head. Yet, there was only silence.
"Ah."
A brief gasp escaped someone. Encrid lowered his shield—a wooden board bristling with enemy arrows. Setting it aside, he looked left and right, taking in the situation at a glance.
There is no will to fight.
Only troops who had lost their spirit stood before him. These were men who had returned battered from the field only to be forced into a siege. Their last bastions were the gate and the walls—and they had just watched the enemy scale those walls with terrifying ease.
"It won't break, will it?"
"Fuck, do you think our gate is made of clay?"
Anxious whispers and ominous tension had spread among the soldiers. And then, at the moment of their greatest fear, the gate had opened, and the five demons of the battlefield had simply walked in.
"Damn it."
Is rushing toward certain death courage, or is it foolishness? The soldiers of Martai didn't care to know the difference. They didn't seek the answer. They simply stopped.
The gazes of those who had abandoned the fight locked onto Encrid.
Silence. The wind blew, sweeping over the flagpole planted in the center of the territory.
Flutter, flutter.
The sound of the snapping flag mingled with the bitter curses of a few soldiers—curses laced with surrender and self-deprecation.
Seeing and feeling all of this, Encrid spoke.
"Must I state my name here once more?"
My name is Encrid.
The weight of those words, which had initially sounded like the arrogant ravings of a madman, now settled heavily over Martai.
Nevertheless.
Even when everyone else gives up, there is always someone who will make a final struggle.
Amidst the heavy silence, a lean man stepped forward, cutting through the ranks of soldiers who were hesitantly clutching their bows. Encrid could tell that although the man wasn't large, he was packed with solid, functional muscle. His balanced stance and the lack of fear in his eyes were impressive.
"My name is Zimmer," the man said.
Encrid didn't know who he was, but he had never moved with such things in mind anyway.
"I am the 2nd Battalion Commander of Martai."
Since his opponent had introduced himself politely, Encrid returned the gesture.
"Independent Company Commander of the Border Guard Standing Army."
"I see."
Encrid looked into Zimmer’s eyes. They were not the eyes of a man who had surrendered. He was someone who intended to do something—to leave a mark.
"Well, it feels a bit awkward to butt in now," Rem grumbled as he followed behind.
Audin smiled and added, "A duel is sacred. Brothers, I shall convey His will on behalf of the Lord’s eyes."
It was the kind of thing a priest of the God of War would say, and no one dared to challenge him.
"I simply cannot retreat without properly swinging my sword at least once," Zimmer declared, his resolve clear.
Behind him stood General Ulf, who looked half-dead already—a man pushed past the brink of reason. Encrid didn't spare him a second glance.
Only Krais was looking around, scanning the perimeter. To Krais, it was incomprehensible why someone would risk their life for a battle that was already over, but the others seemed to respect the situation.
Ragna stepped back to the right. Should any enemy archer attempt to interfere, he would draw his sword without hesitation. As he released the aura he usually kept suppressed, Ragna’s presence seemed to double in size to the surrounding soldiers.
And then there was the warrior whose physical size was already massive.
"If you interfere, your heads will be crushed, and you will go to heaven, brothers and sisters," Audin warned.
Audin volunteered to act as referee, and Rem stepped back as well. Rem respected the man’s spirit. To challenge someone to a clash of steel in a situation like this—was that not the true image of a warrior? Zimmer, was it? Even in Rem’s tribe, he would have been honored with that title.
Sachsen had already vanished into the shadows, likely intending to slit the commanders' throats if anything went sideways.
Encrid was genuinely impressed by Zimmer’s courage. It was a duel where, even if Zimmer won, his chances of survival were slim. Yet, he did not flinch.
A warrior. A man who knew how to fight.
Chring.
Encrid drew his sword. It had once been a magic sword, but now it was simply an extremely sharp, sturdy blade.
"My sword is no ordinary weapon," Encrid informed him, offering a warning out of respect for the man's bravery.
Zimmer nodded. Then, he drew his own weapon.
Tring.
It was a short, straight sword. An estoc.
The moment Encrid saw his opponent’s stance, he knew the man’s specialty. It was an intuition bordering on certainty.
A fast sword. Light on his feet.
Light feet meant agility. Zimmer lowered his center of gravity. The moment his sword tip leveled forward, his foot kicked off the ground.
The tip of the blade blurred into an afterimage, shooting forward like a bolt of lightning aimed straight for Encrid.