Chapter 229: Should I Fix My Broken Head First?
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 229: Should I Fix My Broken Head First?
"If you take another hit like that, you’re actually going to die. You still want to keep going?"
It wasn't bedtime yet, but the sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting a dim twilight over them. Rem asked the question while lazily scratching his toe.
His attitude was utterly half-hearted.
Before washing up, Encrid was busy wiping down his sword and inspecting his gear. Beside him, Krais was polishing his dagger with flaxseed oil. His movements weren't delicate, but they were highly practiced.
The man they called Big-Eyes was certainly versatile.
Encrid replied nonchalantly.
"I won't die."
To be precise, even if I do die, I’ll just come back to life.
He had nearly kicked the bucket against the half-giant. Against the Swallow Blade, he had practically walked the line between life and death. Even the sword of Edin Molsen's guard had been no joke. It was a spar with live blades; if things went slightly awry, getting deeply stabbed was a common occurrence.
To an ordinary person, it looked like he was desperately trying to get himself killed.
It was a spar where a single moment of carelessness meant death. Normally, his comrades should have stopped him, but their captain was a certified madman who actually encouraged this sort of thing.
Still, was it really wise to pit himself against that 'Intimidation'?
Without the strength to break through and overcome it right now, it was no different from throwing himself off a cliff naked or leaping onto rocks as sharp as blades.
"It’s like charging a heavy cavalryman with nothing but a quill," Ragna chimed in. Having finished washing up, he spoke in his casual clothes, water still dripping from his hair.
He meant it was just that pointless.
Would Audin and Sachsen's opinions be any different? Both had said similar things while tending to their own business, but...
"It's fine."
Encrid was the only one who thought otherwise. Was it because he saw a path? Because he had a way to deal with it?
No, nothing like that.
It was simply because he knew that no matter what appeared before him, if he took a step back now, he would never be able to move forward again.
Even if Beast's Heart, Single-Point Focus, Blade of Senses, and Isolation Technique had granted him talent, they hadn't turned Encrid into an unprecedented genius.
Did that change anything? No. There was still much he could learn, master, and gain. So why should he avoid it?
Watching Encrid refuse to give up, Ragna felt a spark of something akin to motivation.
Will.
It wasn't a power Ragna could control perfectly either, but it was fair to say he knew how to use it. He just couldn't use the specific technique called Intimidation. Or rather, even if he could, controlling it at will was a different matter entirely.
In other words, he couldn't help Encrid practice for it beforehand.
A thrilling sensation pricked near Ragna's heart—a craving he had never experienced before. A thirst of sorts; something others might call a desire for self-improvement.
Higher.
Ragna quietly sank into his own thoughts.
Everyone was resting; it was downtime. It was also the evening Esther transformed into her human form. Had she mentioned she needed to remain human, if only briefly, once or twice a month?
Esther's eyes turned toward Encrid. No, she had been watching him for a while now. It was just that Encrid had only now looked back at her.
Her eyes were alluring—like a blue lake, or a deep blue moon. Staring intently at Encrid, Esther spoke.
"How foolish."
Encrid was used to hearing that. While he could be sharp and quick-witted in some aspects, when it came to the sword and his dreams, he went beyond stubbornness into sheer foolishness. Since Encrid knew this about himself all too well, the words didn't offend him.
"Can you only become human once a month?"
At Encrid's question, Esther gave a reply that made it clear it was none of his business. To be precise, she could transform into a human as many times as she wanted, but for now, she found it more comfortable to remain a panther.
However, Esther had a lot of work to do in her human form. She had to maintain her Spell World, which she hadn't forgotten but had set aside, and modify the Flesh Golem Bonehead she had acquired a while ago so she could use it. A Spell World, if not tended to frequently, would inevitably lose its power, much like a blade growing dull.
"Foolish? No, I'm telling you, his head is broken," Rem chuckled, tapping his own temple with the hand he had been using to scratch his toe.
Encrid ignored him completely. It was that kind of evening. Audin was meditating, and Ragna had already gone to bed—a peaceful evening that felt like a vacation.
That was when Bell came to find him.
"Someone's here asking for a spar. What should we do?"
The fact that Bell had personally come to fetch him in the middle of the night meant the opponent's skills were extraordinary.
"Every single bastard who shows up in the dead of night has something shady going on," Krais spoke from behind, rummaging through his belongings. He seemed to be looking for something after finishing his dagger maintenance.
"I'll go take a quick look."
Shady or not, right now was when he needed a breakthrough. Sparring with a new opponent—that was Encrid's path.
Though the rapier swordsman hadn't acknowledged it, Encrid felt his skills had improved after facing the half-giant, the Swallow Blade, Count Molsen's guard, and the rapier swordsman himself. To others, the progress might have seemed negligible, but he had indeed improved. They had been of great help in the process of tempering and reflecting on his swordsmanship.
Believing this encounter would be just as helpful, he set out. Bell asked if he was going alone, and he nodded nonchalantly. Nothing major was going to happen right away.
Rem and the others didn't show much interest either. There had been quite a few people requesting spars in the middle of the night by now. Some came in secret, terrified that their reputation would plummet if they lost in front of spectators. Others claimed they couldn't show their techniques to the public.
Both reasons were valid. Encrid respected his opponents for the most part. In the first place, he was just glad they had come.
That didn't mean he accepted just anyone, though. He only faced opponents whose skills were somewhat proven. Bell was the benchmark for that. If Bell came to call him, the opponent was worth meeting.
"What did he hit you with?"
"He had a sword on him, but he only used his fists and hands. He slapped me like this with his palm, and man, it hurt."
Bell mimicked the opponent's technique. It was so clumsy that Encrid couldn't make heads or tails of it.
That was how they arrived in front of the castle gate.
Illuminated by the torches, the man's hair looked red, but it was clearly a shade that would look closer to brown in broad daylight. His face was youthful, and his arms were long. The discerning eye Encrid had developed through the Isolation Technique assessed the opponent's skill.
Long arms and a solid center of gravity.
An exceptionally balanced body and long arms were excellent conditions for wielding a sword.
"I am the Soldier Who Ended the War," Encrid stepped forward and spoke.
Whoosh.
A gust of wind blowing from behind caused the torchlight to flicker. Because of that, the shadows between them tangled and then parted.
"Ah, you're him?"
The opponent's eyes widened. They weren't particularly bright or clear, but they held no malice or killing intent. He looked like a man who had killed his share of people but possessed clear standards—someone with conviction.
Of course, it was merely a guess. There was no telling with people just by looking at them.
A trace of playfulness seemed to linger across his face. If the playfulness on Rem's face was like the seasoned mischief of a demon, this man's felt more like that of a pure child.
"My apologies for coming at such a late hour," the opponent apologized first, bowing his head halfway. Even as he did so, his eyes scanned Encrid. It was a good posture.
"It's fine."
The man's eyes swept over Encrid's entire body. From chest to toe, and then from toe back to chest. He spoke without hiding his gaze.
"You have a well-tempered body."
It wasn't an exaggeration to say Encrid could feel the emotion laced in those words the moment the man spoke.
"Where are you from?" Encrid asked, not hiding his anticipation.
"Shepherd of the Wilderness."
It wasn't a long conversation. Frankly, it was trivial. Encrid had grown accustomed to the embarrassing moniker of the Soldier Who Ended the War; it just showed how many opponents had sought him out.
Even so, he hadn't expected someone like this to show up.
The Shepherd of the Wilderness—a group possessing absurd combat power from herding sheep in the monster-infested wilds. They were a nomadic people whose history and tradition were said to predate the Imperial Calendar.
Well, that didn't change anything. If anything, his anticipation only swelled. The wilderness was a land overrun by monsters and demonic beasts. Herding sheep there? Naturally, they were no ordinary folk.
"Let's begin."
At Encrid's words, the shepherd moved. His footwork was astonishingly fast.
Just before the opponent's sword could be drawn, Encrid's blade cleaved the darkness first.
Chiring! Whoosh!
Draw and slash. It was a Heavy Sword Style draw, an Upward Slash.
Through the wind-shearing blade, he caught the glint in the opponent's eyes. He also saw that a dagger had somehow found its way into the man's hand.
Encrid felt as if a line had been drawn between them.
Ping.
The sound of tearing air rang out low and sharp. The dagger's speed was incredible. The moment he registered it, it was already right before his nose.
Encrid put weight on his left foot, twisting his body and arching his back. It was a reflexive response. His Sense of Evasion kicked in.
Immediately after, the dagger bent at a right angle. It was an angular trajectory.
In the meantime, Encrid had already switched his two-handed grip on his sword to a single grip. Sweeping his empty left hand down to his waist, Encrid drew a black-bladed dagger to block the opponent's weapon. It was an item he had obtained after wiping out the Black Sword Bandits.
Clang!
Dagger met dagger, sending sparks flying. In that brief window, Encrid pulled back the sword in his right hand. Rather than swinging it, he pressed and dragged the blade.
Instead of retreating, the opponent secured his own distance—the exact range where a short weapon like a dagger could show its true worth. He blocked the pulling blade by angling his dagger against it.
Screeech!
Sparks showered at close range, but neither of them so much as blinked. Neither could even catch their breath. That was how intense the flow of time had become. As if they were the only two people left in the world, as if they would die if they failed to kill the other.
They shattered the moonlight, kicked up the dirt, and fought, completely isolated from everything around them.
The opponent's hands grew faster. Encrid's hands and feet naturally grew busier as well. The Shepherd of the Wilderness was also highly skilled in martial arts.
Encrid did not back down. With neither of them gaining the upper hand, Encrid momentarily forgot many things. The place, the weather, the situation, and even his opponent.
His heart pounded, craving a brief breath. Amidst this exchange of blows, Encrid sank. He became immersed. He fell deep into it. A sensation similar to when he had faced Mitch Hurier began to dominate him.
In an instant, he grabbed the opponent's extending elbow and unleashed the Heart of Monstrous Strength.
It wasn't that Encrid understood and calculated his own movements. It was something that occurred entirely within the realm of instinct and sensation.
Grabbing the elbow, he shoved it to the right of his body, simultaneously moving his feet to take the opponent's back. At the same time, he raised his sword horizontally and pressed it against the opponent's neck.
Having taken the back, he trapped the enemy's neck between the blade and his own body. It was a technique called the Guillotine Cut, which involved pressing down on the elbow to force it behind the opponent's back before slicing the neck.
Encrid pulled the blade. He did not hesitate. He was on the verge of claiming victory.
Clack!
He felt resistance against his pulling blade. Encrid knew his sword was no ordinary weapon, yet the blade was blocked.
Somehow, the sword that had been at the opponent's waist was now wedged, sheath and all, between the shepherd's neck and Encrid's blade. In a way, the weapon looked like nothing more than a simple black rod.
"Hah!"
The shepherd let out a shout. Simultaneously, he rocked his body back and forth, slamming his back into Encrid's chest. Despite having unleashed the Heart of Monstrous Strength, Encrid was pushed back.
The opponent's strength was also formidable.
The shepherd spun around. By now, what lingered in his eyes was killing intent. Encrid, refusing to be outdone, also filled his gaze with murderous intent.
From bottom to top, stepping out with his left foot, he executed another Heavy Sword Style Upward Slash. Power and weight, rotation and timing—everything aligned perfectly. Encrid felt a rush of sheer ecstasy.
At that exact moment, his upward-slashing sword clashed with the opponent's black rod.
Boom!
An explosion-like sound erupted. The sheath shattered as if bursting open, and a blade sprang out from within.
Encrid reacted, but he could do nothing to stop the blade from grazing the edge of his forehead.
Immediately after the cut, the opponent suddenly muttered something and leaped far back. The immersion was broken.
"Ah, I wasn't supposed to use this..."
The man's muttering registered in Encrid's ears a beat too late.
"Damn it. I'm sorry," the bastard said.
"What..."
Encrid found it difficult to finish his sentence. What is this? Something was seeping into his body, starting from his forehead.
Poison? No, it was entirely different.
"Uh, by any chance, is there a priest nearby? If you go quickly, you might survive... Ah, actually, it's already too late."
The shepherd seemed flustered, his words rambling.
A horrific pain descended from Encrid's forehead, spreading throughout his entire body. Along with it, a screeching scream erupted from somewhere.
"You see, it's like this. I shouldn't go around slashing people recklessly... This sword cuts a person's soul. If you can overcome it the moment you're cut, you can live, but... ha, looks like it's too late."
It was a rambling, overly detailed explanation. Without even fully understanding, Encrid felt something constricting his heart.
The shepherd was right. He couldn't comprehend all of it, but he had heard that last part—that it was too late. Something he couldn't overcome with anything he had learned so far was encroaching upon his mind.
His vision gradually darkened. He thought he had experienced countless things by now, but this was his first time dying like this. Something was rummaging through, piercing, and splitting his head. It was physical. Indeed, something like black soot was shimmering on Encrid's forehead.
Even so, he felt no resentment.
Immersion and focus. It had been a truly meaningful time. It was hard to say who was superior between his opponent's skill and his own. The shepherd had fought well.
The advantage of a weapon? If this were a fight to the death, it was only natural to use it. Of course, this was supposed to be a spar, and things had only turned out this way because they had both lost themselves too deeply in the fight.
He hadn't slashed him intentionally; it had been a reflexive response. Encrid actually liked that. He would have done the same. Encrid couldn't bring himself to resent his opponent at all. During that final Guillotine Cut, he too had intended to slice the opponent's neck. If he had stayed his hand there, he would have been the one to lose.
There were moments when, even if it killed him, he absolutely refused to lose. He had felt something similar toward the opponent before him just now.
Why?
It wasn't that he didn't care about winning or losing, but if he could learn from it, he usually wouldn't place much weight on defeat. If that weren't the case, he would have fought to the death to settle the score with the Swallow Blade long ago.
Encrid was accustomed to contemplation and review. Because of that, it was easy for him to understand his own complex mindscape.
Ah.
A brief realization washed over him. The opponent before him resembled that kid he had met when he first started wandering the continent—the one who had put a hole in his stomach despite having held a sword for only six months.
Of course, it wasn't that the child from back then had grown up and appeared before him now. But this opponent made him recall that moment. The location, the time, the weather—everything was just like then. Even the innocence lingering on the opponent's face.
That was why he hadn't wanted to lose. Because he was reminded of the child who had shattered his very beginning. He had made that child his goal to strive toward for a long time.
"Anyway, I'm sorry for killing you."
His attitude was similar, too. The shepherd gave a half-hearted bow.
This bastard.
It was an attitude of 'I'm sorry, but it couldn't be helped.' The shepherd turned around just like that. As he did, he added one last thing.
"If you happen to survive, let's say I owe you one. I'm Pel, the shepherd."
The bastard bolted. He seemed to know well enough that staying here would only lead to trouble.
Encrid collapsed forward. As he fell, his mind was filled only with the thought of what this could be if it wasn't poison.
Then, darkness. To die from a mere graze on the forehead. It was death.
Right up until the moment of death, he heard a woman's bizarre screaming, along with the clamor of those who seemed to have crawled up from the depths of hell.
It was a strange thing. When he closed and opened his eyes, the familiar Black River came into view. The Ferryman smiled, holding a violet lamp.
"Do you think you can overcome it just because you know of it?" the Ferryman asked.
Encrid replied calmly.
"It doesn't matter if I don't."
If you get cut by a sword, you die. Then all he had to do was not get cut. No, even if he did get cut...
Just one more time.
He wanted to experience that moment of immersion, that flow of time, once again. He wanted to fight that shepherd again. Regardless of winning or losing, wasn't he an opponent who made ecstasy surge through his entire body just by the act of fighting?
Encrid was dead serious.
"...Should I fix my broken head first?"
With those final words, Encrid lost consciousness once more.
By the way, did that Ferryman hear outside sounds too? The phrase 'broken head' launched by Rem had reached all the way here.
In any case, that bastard Rem was the problem.
*
Once again, a new day.
"If you do it again, you might actually kick the bucket."
Once again, the exact same evening.
"None of your business, you bastard Rem. Just focus on properly teaching Dunchabel."
"...Why does it feel like you're treating me harsher than usual?"
Rem expressed his confusion, but Encrid did not give him an answer.