Chapter 227: Sparring, Sparring, Test
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 227: Sparring, Sparring, Test
‘How did he get this far?’
The Rapier Swordsman was a man accustomed to the art of instruction.
When one spends a lifetime teaching, their discerning eye moves beyond mere familiarity and into the realm of mastery. While Frok’s ability to read talent was a unique trait inherent to his race, the Rapier Swordsman’s gaze belonged to an entirely different category. It was a keen edge forged from a blend of natural intuition and decades of accumulated experience.
Through those eyes, it was undeniable: the man’s skills had improved.
It was almost difficult to believe he lacked 'Will.'
The occasional flurry of consecutive strikes, delivered with eyes flashing in focus, was perfectly calculated to cut off any path of retreat.
‘Mixing the Heavy Sword into the Orthodox Style...’
He was truly moving toward a single, unified form.
The opponent before him had surpassed every expectation. Originally, the Rapier Swordsman hadn't held even a shred of hope for him. Such was the man’s lack of talent; such was the ceiling of his skill.
He could say with absolute certainty that this was the first time his judgment had been so wildly off the mark. That realization resonated deep within the Rapier Swordsman, touching his heart and stirring his soul.
‘Instruction and sparring.’
That had been his intention from the start. He had once wished to walk the path of a knight himself, only to turn back when his own talent fell short. Even so, he had never lost to someone who lacked Will. That held true even now.
‘He has improved.’
It was surprising, and his technical skill was indeed outstanding. However, the black-haired man was still not ready to face a true Associate Knight. That was his final judgment.
Clang! Clang-clang-clang!
Sword clashed against sword in rapid succession, sending a spray of sparks into the air. Amidst the relentless flurry of strikes, the Rapier Swordsman’s blue eyes narrowed sharply.
‘His footwork, too...’
It was no joke. It had surpassed human limits; of that, he was certain. If his opponents were merely those who slacked off, relying on mediocre talent, the man before him would win every time.
Then, what about his defeat at the hands of that fellow, Swallow Blade? Having watched that fight and now facing him directly, the Rapier Swordsman understood.
‘If the goal isn't to kill, but to fight—if it is a matter of sparring.’
Swallow Blade was the opposite; he fought only to kill. Yet, it was a hair’s breadth of a difference. In the swordsman's eyes, it was merely a matter of who had taken the first step. Swallow Blade hadn't even realized it yet.
Had the man's skills not improved beyond recognition? It was truly worth marveling at, over and over.
That was why he had taken up his sword today—bothered by his own past words telling the man to give up.
The start was slow and steady. He didn't need to swing with all his might. Even so, he struck fast and hard, weaving the principles of the Soft Sword into his strikes. It was a blade that blended softness with speed—deflecting while striking, and striking while deflecting.
He wanted to show the man that such swordsmanship existed in the world. Along with the physical lesson, he initiated a battle of wits.
If one recommended delving into only a single form under the guise of Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu, it would be a flawed teaching. While a warrior could have a specialty, it was proper to learn all five sword forms. At the very least, one should grasp their basics.
Why? Because only by knowing them can you block; only by knowing them can you evade; only by knowing them can you survive.
In that regard, the Rapier Swordsman forced a variety of styles upon him. He showed him that a battle of wits did not always follow the predictable patterns of the Orthodox Sword Style.
For example:
‘Deflect.’
As he moved to deflect the blade, Encrid’s eyes flashed. It was a trap.
Encrid brought down a vertical strike—a heavy slash that looked capable of cleaving the world in two. It was a lightning-fast stroke. Facing it, the Rapier Swordsman made as if to block head-on, only to twist his body aside at the last microsecond.
Soft Sword Style: deflecting without making contact.
Barely missing its mark, the lightning-like sword sliced through empty air.
Whoosh! The sound of tearing air was sharp and violent.
It was a masterfully executed maneuver. When the Rapier Swordsman subsequently raised his sword tip and thrust, Encrid’s stance naturally broke. From then on, the upper hand belonged to the veteran.
He pressed his advantage. Slowly, bit by bit—it was the technique known as Frog Slaying. The way to kill a frog in boiling water is to start with cold water and heat it gradually. The foundation of this swordsmanship was pressure.
It was a statement made through the blade: ‘You cannot surpass me here. This is your end.’
Driven and cornered, any other man would eventually be trapped and brought to a halt. Encrid had met a wall that he could not overcome with his Heart of Monstrous Strength, his Sense of Evasion, or any of the swordsmanship he had mastered.
Did he despair?
He had no time for such thoughts, and even if he did, he was not the type to indulge them. Encrid simply swung his sword with heavy, silent resolve.
Yet, watching this, the Rapier Swordsman found himself displeased once more. The sparring was unfolding entirely differently from what he had hoped. To put it simply, he couldn't see any flashes of brilliance from his opponent.
‘Was he not a hidden genius I failed to recognize?’
If not, his rate of growth made absolutely no sense. But why was there no spark? Why was the color of his talent so dull? He had hoped the frog would leap out of the pot. He had wanted to see him at least stretch out a leg in defiance, but the man was merely drying up, dying slowly under the pressure.
"Let's stop here."
"Whew... whew... That was an excellent lesson."
Encrid bowed in respect. It was a sparring match worthy of such a gesture. This man had not aimed for his throat, nor was he after fame. He had simply appeared and offered instruction.
"I will go today as well."
The Half-Giant, wielding her massive sword and shield, stepped forward. The previous spar hadn't put too much strain on Encrid's body; he only needed a moment to catch his breath. He nodded.
The fight between the two was as intense as before. The violence of it was enough to make onlookers dizzy. If the fight with Swallow Blade was a battle where one never knew when a hole would be punched through their chest, the battle with the Half-Giant felt as though one's bones would be pulverized at any moment.
Encrid endured it head-on. His injuries were of a similar level to the first day. This time, the Half-Giant performed the trick of gripping her sword by the tip to swing it like a blunt mace, while simultaneously shaking her shield to create a jarring distraction.
In response, Encrid mixed the Heavy Sword and the Orthodox Style to press her back. He was already applying what he had just learned from the Rapier Swordsman.
Of course, the watching Rapier Swordsman was far from satisfied.
‘He hasn't improved.’
A genius would show a fundamental change after a single spar. But this fellow, Encrid, was mediocre at best. That realization irritated him, and his brow furrowed of its own accord.
*
"Well, that's it for today. If you're bored, you can take on some requests to clear out the nearby demonic beasts. The reward is handsome, and it'll help relieve your frustration," Krais suggested.
"That sounds good." Swallow Blade’s eyes brightened. His hands were itching for action.
Above all, both opponents he had seen today looked formidable. One was his natural counter, and the other seemed to be hiding his true strength.
‘Crazy bastards.’
Yet, he couldn't just run away. If he fled under some flimsy pretext, the Black Sword might send an assassination squad after him. He had been spending the bandits' Krona recklessly; now was the time to put his life on the line.
More than anything, his urge to kill made his blood boil. If he ran now, he wouldn't be able to slash to his heart's content for a long time.
‘Ah, I want to kill.’
He craved the sensation of his blade piercing soft flesh. But he couldn't just kill anyone; murdering a vagrant in this territory would only get him beaten to death by a mob. And the bastards standing next to him looked ready to pounce the moment he stepped out of line. Every single one of them had sharp eyes and outstanding skills.
‘I've really gotten myself into a mess.’
He hadn't expected it to be easy, but things had become thoroughly tangled.
‘I might as well go carve up some demonic beasts.’
It was a rational decision. Krais nodded and spoke to the soldier who had joined them. "Yes, this way."
The soldier led Swallow Blade away, bringing an end to the day's formal sparring. Encrid practically had to be carried back. His thigh muscles were trembling so violently he could barely stand.
"I'll be fine after a little rest," Encrid insisted.
"Yeah, right," Audin muttered, reciting words from the holy scriptures. "You might heal, but if this keeps repeating, you'll ruin your body, Brother. Having faith is good, but we are told to avoid overconfidence."
In other words: trust your body, but do so in moderation.
"Mmh, I will," Encrid nodded. It was a promise not even a dog would believe.
"Once we get back to the lodging, let's do a quick hand-blade spar," Ragna said.
"Sharpening the blade of your senses makes it easier to anticipate the next move," Sachsen chimed in.
Everyone had something to say. To be precise, they didn't like seeing Encrid get beaten up. Was it different from when they were the ones beating him? Encrid didn't care. What did it matter, when he had a mountain of things to do?
He had learned and practiced, but it still didn't work on the first try. It couldn't be helped. He would just have to take it one step at a time again. At least something resembling talent now resided in his body; he was no longer stuck in place as he had been before. That alone was a massive improvement.
Shaking off his idle thoughts, Encrid returned to the lodging and continued his hand-blade sparring with Ragna.
"You're really doing that with an injured body?" Finn shook her head in disbelief.
Finn seemed quite busy lately as well. After her whispered conversations with the Elf Company Commander, her early morning outings had become frequent.
"Where are you running off to play so much lately?" Rem asked, looking bored.
Finn gave a half-hearted reply, packing her things without looking at him. "I heard the night dew is good for the skin."
"...I think she's making fun of me," Rem muttered.
Encrid secretly agreed but took Finn's side. "You're just being paranoid. You have a habit of taking people's words the wrong way."
It wasn't out of revenge. It certainly wasn't because Rem kept looking at his head and calling it "broken."
"Huh?" As Rem frowned, Ragna pushed Dunchabel forward.
"Go on, go do your job."
"Eh?"
Dunchabel was forced to approach Rem.
"Ah, right. We need to train. It's been a bit sparse lately, hasn't it?" Rem said with a grin.
It had only been two days since she managed to reduce her daily beatings from twice to once. What did he mean, sparse?
When Dunchabel cursed him with her eyes, Rem expressed his satisfaction. "Yes, that look, that venom! Excellent. Today, let's train merrily!"
Dunchabel wanted to cry, but her pride held back the tears. And so, the two of them went out.
Encrid continued his battle of wits. Once his body fully healed, he would grab one of the people staying at the inn and engage in sparring again.
Swallow Blade was a master of sharp slashes and unpredictable, unorthodox attacks. There was much to learn from him.
The Half-Giant swung her sword and shield with heavy force—a harmony of the Heavy Sword Style and shield techniques. Although the Orthodox Style was mixed in, the deeper he delved, the more varied her techniques became. Furthermore, the shield charge he had suffered initially remained a constant threat. At the slightest opening, she would press her advantage, backed by her monstrous stamina. In terms of endurance, Encrid was not lacking, but his opponent's massive frame was a deadly weapon in itself.
The Rapier Swordsman remained the same, repeating the same actions every time. Edin Molsen also challenged him relentlessly but was no match. After being knocked unconscious in their third spar, Edin didn't dare challenge him so easily again.
Instead, Edin's guard stepped forward.
"Your name?"
"No need for you to know."
He was a blunt, prickly man. Encrid didn't care; it was none of his business why the man was only stepping forward now. He was simply glad to have another skilled opponent to clash with.
When Encrid offered a small smile, the guard remarked, "You're definitely not normal."
Encrid didn't even pretend to hear.
The guard's swordsmanship was based on the Soft Sword Style. He deflected and aimed for openings to thrust. Encrid found the style familiar—it felt as though he had seen it before. It was no illusion. These were things he had reviewed and engraved in his mind countless times.
‘This...’
It was a technique used by the man from Azpen. To be precise, the one he had cleaved with his left hand. There were some opponents whose names could never be forgotten.
That man's name was Mitch Hurier. The Hurier family was a clan that symbolized the military might of Azpen.
So, was his opponent a spy? He didn't care. As long as he was a good sparring partner, that was enough.
And so, they sparred. They fought and clashed. Their skills were evenly matched; victory would not come easily. But Encrid did not place any weight on winning.
"If you had fought to kill, you could have killed him a hundred times over," Rem chided him later, knowing Encrid was not a man who possessed only a simple, stubborn swordsmanship.
"What's left if I kill him?"
This was not a battlefield. These were merely people who had come to test their skills. When it was time to speak through swordsmanship, he simply wished to do so.
"Look at him smiling again. Do you find this fun?"
Swallow Blade smiled often now, though his tone remained prickly. He often took issue with Encrid's smile while wearing one himself. In that state, he clashed with Encrid repeatedly. At some point, only Encrid remained in Swallow Blade's mind. He had been filled only with thoughts of killing, but no other impulses intruded now. All his murderous intent converged solely on Encrid. It was a first-time experience for the killer.
The Half-Giant had a similar experience. However, instead of murderous intent, she felt something else.
‘Why does he keep coming at me?’
She had the upper hand. That was certain. If Encrid fought to kill, he might be able to take down someone like Swallow Blade, but the rest of them? Impossible. In truth, even Swallow Blade likely had a hidden trump card, so a life-and-death struggle would be a toss-up.
Even so, was there anything to be gained from this sparring? Then why did he look so joyful?
"Alright, today it's you."
Why was he so happy, even while getting beaten so thoroughly by her? As he raised his sword with a faint smile, the emotion on his face was all too clear—clear enough that even she, who was terrible at reading people, could see it vividly.
He was like a child. A child experiencing a moment of pure joy. An innocence so radiant, as if he were about to attend his own birthday party. She had heard the man was not that young, yet why did he make such a face?
"Let's begin."
How could he speak so brightly? She didn't know. But one thing was certain: everything about this man was making her blood boil.
It was a spirit of struggle, a desire for victory. The giant blood flowing through her veins surged. At this very moment, she was not a cultist, but a warrior. And for the first time, she felt a desire to be a warrior rather than a servant of the faith.
It was the moment a crack formed in the brainwashing she had endured since childhood. It was a moment where, setting aside the cult's orders, she recognized her own desires. Her innermost thoughts, which neither the Bishop nor anyone else knew, tangled within her chest.
"You are a truly strange fellow," the Half-Giant spoke. Her tone was clumsy, but her meaning was clear.
"I told you from the start. He's broken up here." Behind Encrid, his grey-haired subordinate tapped his temple and spun his finger.
She had ignored that gesture at first, but now she understood.
"Yes, you are broken," the Half-Giant said. And so was she.
Encrid thrust his sword forward as if it didn't matter. "I said, let's fight."
He simply craved the struggle. He showed his yearning. He enjoyed the moment.
Before she knew it, something resembling a smile played on the Half-Giant's lips. To enjoy the act of fighting itself was a brand-new experience. She was filled with a sense of novelty. As a feeling of worth welled up from what should have been meaningless sword swings, she had no choice but to smile.
Thus, the indiscriminate sparring matches continued endlessly. More than fifteen times with each opponent. At times, Encrid was severely injured. At other times, it ended with only minor wounds.
At the end of this cycle, the Rapier Swordsman shook his head.
"As I thought, this isn't it. This is his limit. Still, I might have misjudged, so I must test him. Can he overcome it? I am merely curious to find out."
Muttering his disjointed monologue, the Rapier Swordsman faced Encrid. Just as Encrid wondered what he meant, a crushing pressure erupted from the swordsman's body.
Encrid had experienced this before—from a member of the Red Cloak Knights named Aisia.
Will—the formless blade imbued with intent—battered Encrid's entire body.
It was Intimidation.