Chapter 27: Why Is He a Lowest-Grade Soldier?
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 27: Why Is He a Lowest-Grade Soldier?
The Scout Squad Leader’s name was Andrew.
His full name was Andrew Gardner.
He was the sole heir of a fallen family that had once held the title of baron. He had only one wish: to restore the Gardner family to its former glory within his lifetime.
“Andrew, you are our hope.”
The final words of his mother, who had withered away from illness, remained vivid in his mind. She had scraped together every copper by doing needlework and working as a housemaid for others. Every bit of that money had been spent on Andrew.
From swordsmanship academies to his food and clothing, she had provided everything. He couldn't say he had a wealthy upbringing, but he never lacked the essentials. Overworked and exhausted, his mother eventually fell ill and passed away.
Her wish had been simple.
“Succeed the family, and become a great man.”
He resolved to do exactly that.
There was only one path Andrew could take to revive his family in this era of endless war: he had to fight. He needed to prove his worth on the battlefield over and over again.
Just when he needed training and connections, timely help arrived. Before her death, his mother had reached out to a man who had once been like a sworn brother to her husband.
“He has talent,” the man had said.
Under that man’s guidance, Andrew underwent rigorous training before joining the military. He started as a professional soldier and was appointed squad leader at a young age.
I need achievements.
Andrew’s mind was consumed by that single thought. He was confident in his skills—a confidence born from stepping onto the battlefield and slaying three or four ordinary soldiers.
“You must be careful in everything you do.”
His advisor and benefactor nagged him constantly. He had heard it so much his ears were practically bleeding. Still, Andrew did not take those words lightly.
Survival is paramount.
After all, he had to stay alive to revive his family. But that didn't mean he would shy away from a challenge. What happened to those who gave up?
His father, who had lost the family's prestige, was the perfect example. Lacking talent since childhood, his father had swung his sword every day, but his ability remained pathetic. In the end, he couldn't even dream of reviving the family; he had given up too quickly. Squandering the remaining assets was all his life amounted to. Eventually, he was stabbed to death by a gambler during a petty argument.
A life without a future is bleak.
That was why, while dreaming of greatness, Andrew also valued his own life. Of course, even with his cautious nature, there were things that rubbed him the wrong way.
Among them, the Troublemaker Squad Leader caught Andrew’s eye.
I earned this position through my skills.
I am working tirelessly for the great feat of rebuilding my family.
But what about that guy?
His skills are those of a Lowest-Grade Soldier.
Isn't he just a slacker who got lucky enough to become a squad leader?
Is he even worthy of being called a professional soldier?
He even saw traces of his father in the man.
He’ll probably just scrape by on his salary, settle for mediocrity, and die.
He would live a lie, pretending to swing his sword under the guise of training. It was ridiculous that a mere soldier wore a sword belt and carried a blade while claiming to train. It was a thought one could only have if they didn't know Encrid, but Andrew knew nothing of him.
And now, since morning, that Troublemaker Squad Leader bastard had been staring blankly at him.
Their eyes met.
An unpleasant tension flowed between them. Andrew’s brow furrowed.
Those eyes are getting on my nerves.
Just as Andrew was about to snap, the Troublemaker Squad Leader spoke first.
“Those eyes of yours are offensive.”
Hm? Who the hell is he talking to?
Andrew’s brow furrowed sharply. His scowling expression spoke volumes about his state of mind. Then, one of the soldiers following him stepped forward.
“What did you just say?”
It was the Soldier with a Scar on His Forehead. He was a man who had spent his youth brawling in the streets. Andrew had once told him: “Follow me. I will give you a better life than a thug’s.”
Since then, he had become Andrew’s right-hand man. Though his formal skills were still lacking and he hadn't shed his street-thug habits, his raw fighting ability wasn't bad. That was why Andrew kept him around.
There were three such soldiers in total. The three of them slowly stood up and surrounded the Troublemaker Squad Leader.
*
Encrid had reached a conclusion after repeating "today" several times.
As expected, being just a squad member won't work.
The others had to follow his words and move at his command. That was the bare minimum for survival.
But how could he achieve that? How did knights gain people's trust? Why did soldiers go wild the moment a knight stepped onto the battlefield?
The reason was simple: Skill.
It was possible because they demonstrated overwhelming ability.
What was needed right now to make these ten men move as one body? What was needed to gain their trust? Since they couldn't build a bond in a single day, the only option left was coercion through strength.
“Looks like that mouth of yours is the problem. Shall I carve a pretty little tattoo on it for you?” the Soldier with a Scar on His Forehead sneered. His eyes gleamed with malice; he had the face of someone who had buried more than a few people.
Why is this bastard's dialogue always the same? Encrid thought as he observed their positioning.
To them, this was happening for the first time, but for him, it was a "today" he had already repeated several times. The reason he kept repeating it? There was only one.
Violence and coercion were more effective when they were overwhelming. To achieve that, he needed experience. Regardless of his own skills, he had to know their reactions and patterns.
For this reason, he excluded the Valen-style Mercenary Sword. He had to subdue them with pure, fundamental skill. The first obstacle to passing this loop was subduing these three thug-turned-soldiers.
“Lost your tongue?” the thug swaggered.
Encrid decided words were unnecessary. He acted.
A silent step.
The opponent reacted, flinching and raising his fists into a fighting stance. One of the three even placed his hand on the hilt of his shortsword.
Encrid lifted his left foot first. The movement was incredibly slow—a deliberate tempo that left them bewildered, unsure whether to attack or wait.
Then, Encrid’s right foot kicked off the ground with explosive speed.
Mixing a fast movement into a slow one made it appear twice as fast. It was a simple trick, a ploy to secure the first strike, and it was incredibly effective.
“Hup!”
The Soldier with a Scar on His Forehead gasped, trying to throw a punch. Encrid was faster. He snapped a kick into the man's shin.
Thwack!
The kick swept the leg aside, breaking the opponent's balance. Immediately, using his hand guard, Encrid struck the temple of the tilting soldier. It was a clean, swinging blow.
Crack!
“Ack!”
With a short scream, the man stumbled and collapsed.
Encrid’s subsequent movements were as fluid as flowing water. As he spun to the side, a shortsword aiming for his opening sliced through empty air. As if it were a rehearsed routine, he grabbed and twisted the wrist of the second soldier.
The key was to apply just enough force to incapacitate without causing permanent injury.
Crack. Snap.
Twisting the wrist and striking the jaw at an oblique angle, he sent the second soldier into unconsciousness. Encrid caught the falling man by the chest and gently laid him on the ground.
Standing back up, he picked up the dropped shortsword. Without his breathing even quickening, Encrid asked, “Do you want to keep going?”
The last remaining soldier broke out in a cold sweat. The thugs had drawn their weapons first; even if Encrid stabbed him now, they would have no grounds for complaint.
“What do you think you're doing?”
The Scout Squad Leader, who had been watching until now, stepped forward.
“I haven't liked you since day one. You're just a greenhorn who barely learned how to walk.”
Encrid turned toward Andrew, ignoring the terrified soldier. If there was no need to cause a scene, he could tolerate almost anything. He didn't care what others said or did. That was how he had always been.
But if a scene was necessary? Then he would say exactly what was on his mind.
“If we're under the command of someone like you, we'll get wiped out on a trivial scouting mission. Let's settle this with skill.”
Mutiny was a serious crime. However, the situation was peculiar. Encrid also held the rank of squad leader. If Andrew had respected that, things might be different, but he had openly displayed his contempt. No one could blame Encrid for losing his patience.
In fact, the higher-ups likely wouldn't care which of the two led the squad. The scout platoon leader had even told Encrid to "look after" the young squad leader.
Now was that time. A time when, instead of just looking after him, he had to take the lead.
“……Are you saying the winner gets command?” Andrew asked, his brow furrowed.
“That works. I have no intention of crawling under someone weaker than me.”
Ironically, in the Troublemaker Squad, everyone except Krais was a monster who fought better than Encrid. But an excuse was just an excuse. It was better if the opponent got worked up and attacked.
“Come at me, you wet-behind-the-ears brat. Have you even slept with a woman yet? Or has your dick not fully grown?”
Andrew’s face stiffened. He was still a virgin, having dedicated all his time to training his body. He felt as if the opponent was insulting his discipline, his efforts, and everything he had sacrificed to get here.
Shring.
The squad leader drew his shortsword.
“You can draw your sword too. Not that the length of the blade will make up for your lack of skill.”
“Well, hmm.”
At Andrew’s words, the Grim-faced Soldier beside him tried to intervene but stopped. He shook his head, sighed, and stepped back. Having worked as a mercenary for a long time, he had seen this countless times. There had been discord from the start; it was better to settle it now before the rift deepened. Men often cleared the air after a good brawl.
Moreover, he knew Andrew well. He had taught the boy swordsmanship himself. Though Andrew seemed like a reckless brat, he knew how to handle a blade and had a good heart. Above all, he knew right from wrong.
It won't be easy, but...
If things went south, the veteran would step in. However, something caught his eye. Looking at the Troublemaker Squad Leader’s stance and footwork, he didn't seem like an amateur. He could see thick, hardened calluses on the man's palms—a badge of honor earned through years of toil.
“Forget it. I’ll do this barehanded.”
“This bastard...!”
Andrew was agitated. That was a weakness—showing his emotions so easily. The veteran decided he would have to point that out to the boy later and settled in to watch the show. He didn't think it would end quickly. Neither of them had exceptional skills, but they weren't total amateurs either. Still, he secretly put his money on Andrew. Basic skills don't vanish just because one is angry, and the boy had talent.
The Troublemaker Squad Leader gestured for him to come. Andrew rushed forward.
And then.
Smack!
“……In one blow?”
The veteran’s eyes widened.
The moment Andrew rushed in, the Troublemaker Squad Leader feigned a strike with his left hand. Sensing this, Andrew slashed with his shortsword.
Having perfectly read the trajectory, Encrid struck the flat of the incoming blade with the leather gauntlet on the back of his left hand.
Andrew’s chest was left wide open for a split second.
Encrid lunged into the opening. His body moved with dynamic precision in the narrow space.
Thud!
Kicking off the ground and twisting his body inward, he thrust his elbow forward, striking Andrew’s solar plexus with pinpoint accuracy.
That single blow ended it.
“Khhh...”
Andrew groaned, his legs trembling. The air was driven from his lungs instantly, and all strength drained from his limbs. That was the reality of a vital point. Andrew let out a final, choking gasp, his back arching in pain.
If this had been a real battle, he would be a corpse.
What kind of... strength...
To transmit such an impact through thick cloth armor required immense power. His skills were at a level far beyond an ordinary mercenary.
A question naturally followed in the veteran's mind.
Why is a man like this a Lowest-Grade Soldier?