Chapter 261: Just Because You Strike Softly Doesn't Mean a Blade Becomes a Cotton Ball
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 261: Just Because You Strike Softly Doesn't Mean a Blade Becomes a Cotton Ball
"Did you enjoy your stint as a recruiting officer? Find anyone worthwhile?"
At his old friend's question, the Rapier Swordsman nodded.
"I did."
"...Really?"
He wasn't the type to say such a thing about just any ordinary talent.
The Castellan wondered who the last person his friend had called a "worthwhile talent" was. It had been someone who displayed outstanding genius even among the elite. Even within the Empire, where prodigies of all stripes gathered, the people this man acknowledged could be counted on one hand.
And yet he was admitting it so readily? It was impossible not to be intrigued.
Hadn't he just returned from traveling the continent, specifically around the Kingdom? To the man before him, this job—acting as a recruiting officer—was a sort of working vacation. With his near-workaholic nature, it was something he did to relax while still keeping his hands busy.
For him to say something like this during his time off was truly rare. It wasn't the kind of answer one expected from a casual, joking inquiry.
The two sat in a small room inside the inner castle of the Empire's gateway territory. A round table and a few chairs with wool cushions were the only furniture in the space. One was the ruler of the territory; the other was a training officer returning from leave.
The Rapier Swordsman calmly recounted what he had seen and felt. Though he spoke plainly, sticking strictly to the facts, a quiet heat burned in his eyes. To the Castellan, it felt like a hushed, reverent speech.
"So, he’s a talent you couldn't even read, yet he deflected your Intimidation?"
The Rapier Swordsman conveyed only the facts, omitting the part where he had been so shocked that he stood in the rain for half a day, repeatedly muttering, "Huh?" to himself.
"He certainly is an intriguing fellow."
The commander of the gateway territory stroked his chin. He downed the whiskey sitting in front of him—a potent liquor called 'Farmer's Tears.' The liquid made its presence known with a sharp sting down his throat, warming his stomach as it settled.
"Is he about as good as a competent Frok?"
'A competent Frok' was a slang term used in the Empire to refer to the specialized mercenaries they employed. It referred to those Froks who could wander the continent alone, survive any hardship, and get the job done. The question was meant to gauge the ceiling of the boy's skill.
"A Frok, you say?"
Swirling his glass, the Rapier Swordsman replied without a moment's hesitation.
"Not even close."
Did he mean the boy wasn't even at a Frok's level? Or that a mere Frok couldn't compare to him? Naturally, it was the latter. The Castellan had enough wits to realize that.
Was awakening 'Will' special? Yes, it was. But there were things even more peculiar—strange occurrences that couldn't be fully conveyed through a dry recitation of facts.
And his swordsmanship...
It had improved absurdly. It had changed, grown, and evolved. And it had happened overnight—a fact the Rapier Swordsman had witnessed with his own eyes. If anyone else had told him, he wouldn't have believed it even if his life depended on it.
It would be easier on my mind to just believe I was deceived by an illusion.
A competent Frok? If it were one of those Froks who only roamed the frontiers...
How many clashes could they even last?
They wouldn't stand a chance. That was how strong the current Encrid was.
The Rapier Swordsman raised his glass, holding it up to the lamp. The brown liquid inside had been crafted through a long, arduous process. That was why it was called Farmer's Tears; it required enough hardship to wring tears from a man.
Ordinary soldiers, squires, and associate knights needed this exact process.
Time, effort, and tempering.
The process was so clear he could practically see it. The keen eye of a training officer was built to discern such things. He was a man acknowledged even among the Froks, who were known as 'talent readers.' Through those eyes, he could see the effort etched into the human named Encrid, but it made no sense.
Time was fair to everyone. And that was why talent mattered. If two people spent the same day training, it was only right to nurture the one with superior talent.
Then what on earth was this Encrid?
He was something outside of common sense. The possessor of an incomprehensible, explosive talent. That was the only conclusion.
Unless... he entered some other world where he repeated a single day, doing nothing but training for years before returning.
Pfft.
The man chuckled, dismissing it as an utterly ridiculous thought.
It was easy to say. Repeat a single day and train over and over. Words were cheap. If it were just a matter of speaking, it would be easy. But who could actually endure that? He had seen and raised countless talents. No one would be able to withstand such a soul-crushing process.
But what if someone did?
If such a person truly existed...
Regardless of the Empire or anything else, he wanted to help that person's will blossom with his own hands. It was a talent so pure and covetable.
Once, in an academic paper he wrote within the Empire, he had posed the question: What is the greatest talent?
The liquor swirling in his glass continued to reflect the lamplight. The man downed his drink, organizing his thoughts.
The greatest talent is to never break, even in death, and to look forward no matter what.
To be utterly ignorant of despair. That was his conclusion.
Of course, without physical talent to back it up, one would simply wither away. He had tried to force talent into bodies based solely on their disposition and temperament more than a few times. Every single one had failed.
For the talent he envisioned to grow so explosively, some form of mystery had to intervene—whether they were possessed by a demon or blessed by the Goddess of Fortune.
What if that happened? What if such a person truly existed? What if someone with such insane willpower—capable of enduring what defied common sense and bordered on torture—ascended to the rank of knight, whether by birth or through sheer effort?
A monster would be born.
The Rapier Swordsman thought to himself, letting the face of the man who crossed his mind drift away.
Black hair and blue eyes. An uncommon appearance. One that would not be easily forgotten.
*
"There's someone I'm looking for," Encrid replied, looking at the Elf Company Commander. Beside him, Gilpin was watching, sweat literally pouring down his face. However, Gilpin had enough tact not to barge in blindly, choosing instead to glance back and forth between Encrid and Sinar.
"I see."
The Elf Company Commander nodded and stood her ground. It seemed she would follow him wherever he went. Should he refuse her? There was no real need to. So, he let her be.
Encrid turned toward Gilpin. The man was wearing a fur coif, and sweat was streaming down his face. It was obvious he had run all the way here. His face was flushed red, and his chest heaved beneath his thick fur coat.
"Phew... Please help us."
As Gilpin spoke, Encrid suddenly recalled the name of the Frok who had visited the Border Guard back then. He hadn't forgotten the name. The Frok had said he would return, and he would keep his word. After all, keeping their word was what made them Froks.
"Meelun?"
The thought slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.
Gilpin's eyes went wide. His pupils dilated in shock.
"...How did you know? The guild master has been captured. Again."
He seemed to emphasize the word "again."
To the public, the guild master of the Gilpin Guild was the bald man in the coif standing before him, but they all recognized Krais as their true leader. The Gilpin Guild had started as a criminal guild formed by illiterate thugs. Though their nature had changed slightly, their original temperament remained. To them, their superior was the guild master. In other words, Krais was the boss.
And above that boss was Encrid.
"If things get dangerous, just run and get him. It's Captain Encrid. Don't forget his name. If you see him in the market, lower your eyes. And especially, if you see that gray-haired barbarian next to him, just bolt. If you make eye contact, run."
Krais had emphasized this so much that every member of the Gilpin Guild knew Encrid's name and face. And, of course, Rem and the others as well. He had repeatedly stressed that they must never accidentally pick a fight with them.
Gilpin had seen Encrid fight. Seeking him out the moment trouble arose was only natural.
"Let's go," Encrid said, immediately setting off.
Wearing armor and keeping your weapons on you at all times is also a part of training.
This was advice he had received when he first started working as a mercenary. Encrid had followed it religiously. Because he was unskilled in handling weapons, he had faithfully adhered to that discipline. That habit remained with him to this day.
He wore bandages made of demonic beast hide wrapped around his inner armor, with the Magic Sword Tutor on his left hip and the gladius given to him by the dwarf on his right. He had also packed five throwing knives into the sheath slung across his chest. Since he couldn't obtain a whistle dagger, its dedicated sheath had been left behind in his quarters.
With a gambeson, chainmail, and a helmet on top of this, he was fully armed. Going out like this was perfectly fine.
"Uh, are you going out?" the soldier guarding the barracks asked.
Encrid replied, walking at a brisk pace. "Just going for a short walk."
"Me too."
The Elf Company Commander fell in beside him, adding an Elven joke without a hint of a smile. "Don't you know that spending time together is how affection grows?"
"Is that so?"
"A woman filling the bathwater told me that, and I think it's excellent advice. That's why I believe we should spend time together."
Cracking jokes at a time like this. Encrid replied nonchalantly. "If you mean training together, then sure."
Any ordinary woman would have kicked this man in the shins by now. She suggests spending time together, and he proposes training? Instead of eating delicious food, watching the sunset, and whispering sweet nothings?
But Sinar was no ordinary woman, let alone a human.
The elf spoke as she walked. "That's not bad either, but how about looking around the market? Lately, a lot of strange things have been coming into the Border Guard market. Though just as many problems have cropped up because of it."
He had only been away from the territory for a month at most. How many problems could have arisen in that short time?
Encrid and the elf walked as they talked, while Gilpin followed behind, wondering what kind of useless nonsense these two were discussing. What were they going to do about the Frok? And yet, their pace was so fast that he practically had to jog to keep up. They looked like they were just walking, so why were they so fast?
As Gilpin scrambled to keep up, Encrid spoke.
"You said a Frok came?"
"Whew, yes, it's that guy from back then. Pant, pant. The one with a white scar on his neck like this," Gilpin replied, catching his breath. He stroked the right side of his neck as he spoke.
The guy who had come to collect money from the Gilpin Guild before. An opponent whose name he hadn't forgotten. Back then, chasing him off was the best they could do. No, even that had been barely managed.
But what about now?
"Over there!"
In a way, it was almost funny. The exact same place, the exact same situation as before. Should he call the captured Krais an idiot?
He could feel it instinctively. Entering the mansion, they passed through the corridor and reached a single door blocking their path. Had they learned something from the previous fight? The door was wide open.
Last time, he had kicked this door open and thrown a whistle dagger first. Leaving the overlapping memories behind, Encrid raised his left hand, palm facing forward, and spoke.
"Have you been well?"
It was a greeting.
With Krais beside him, the Frok could be seen sitting on a chair deep inside the hall.
"Fuck, are we friends or something? Am I supposed to be glad to see you?"
Meelun greeted him back. Of course, he didn't seem nearly as pleased as Encrid. As for Encrid, he was simply thrilled at the prospect of clearly demonstrating the gap between himself and the opponent he had fought before.
He saw no reason to drag things out.
While the other man was opening his mouth to respond, Encrid had already lunged forward. A heavy thud of his foot stamping the ground followed. Despite Encrid rushing him at a terrifying speed, Meelun did not panic. This guy was a fighter skilled at creating anomalies and variables; Meelun had experienced it before.
Before the words "glad to see you" could even fully leave his mouth, Meelun drew his Loop Sword. Hooking his finger through the ring, he swung the thick blade downward. It was a strike driven by a Frok's raw physical strength.
Opposite him, Encrid drew his sword as well. Drawn like a flash of light from his left hip, his sword swept upward. Soon, the silver gleam of the Loop Sword clashed with Encrid's blade.
Screeech!
A bizarre noise echoed. Meelun intended to crush him with raw power, close the distance, and smash his head in with his fist. But he could not carry out his plan.
His downward-swinging sword slid off to the side. It felt as if someone had pulled it from the flank.
What the fuck?
A curse slipped out of his mouth automatically, and then, the tip of the sword—now moving like a snake—loomed before his eyes. The blade forged of blue steel pierced the eye of the competent Frok. To be precise, the blade slashed right across his eyeball.
"Aaargh!" the Frok screamed.
Encrid flicked his sword in the air, watching the bastard roll backward clutching his slashed eye. The Frok's blood splattered onto the floor. He had clearly demonstrated the gap between them in a single exchange.
Above all, having tested his new swordsmanship in actual combat for the first time...
It works.
A rush of thrill and joy washed over him. Encrid raised his sword once more. As he developed the Soft Sword Style, he had thought:
Just because you strike softly doesn't mean a blade becomes a cotton ball.
And that became the first technique of his Soft Sword Style.