Chapter 271: Not Everything Goes as Planned (2)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 271: Not Everything Goes as Planned (2)
Finn tilted her head slightly, watching the direction Sachsen had disappeared.
‘Is he heading straight for the village chief’s house?’
To her, this village reeked of suspicion. There were far too many red flags to ignore. Hadn't she just spotted a woman among the passersby whose stride was far too disciplined for a mere peasant? Even to Finn’s experienced eyes, that woman was no ordinary civilian.
‘Fucking bandits, the lot of them.’
Working alongside Sinar on various missions, she had learned just how deep the Black Sword’s roots reached into the kingdom. Their influence likely extended to central nobles, perhaps even lords with vast territories. And the biggest problem among them was, of course...
She walked on, lost in thought under the shroud of darkness. Her habits as a ranger made her instinctively stick to the shadows. Her steps were cautious, avoiding attention while she constantly checked her six to see if anyone was tailing her.
She made her way toward the watermill atop the hill. Just as she was about to reach it, something struck her hard on the back of the head.
Finn reacted instantly. She twisted her body away from the point of impact, minimizing the force of the blow. Reacting a split second before the hit landed was half luck—and if half was luck, the other half was pure skill.
Ever since meeting Encrid, she had relentlessly trained in Eilkaraz-style martial arts alongside Audin and Sinar. Among its various techniques, she had focused obsessively on defense. It wasn't so much a choice as it was a matter of survival.
"Take a direct hit from that, and you'll be meeting God, Sister."
Audin’s fists were such that a single clean strike was practically a knock on heaven’s door.
"Too many openings."
Sinar would constantly jab her in the back of the head or the neck from outside her field of vision.
Because of them, Finn had become sharper than ever. Her senses were heightened, and her reaction speed had reached a new level.
Thwack!
The sound of the impact rang out, but Finn didn't faint or fall. She had tucked her chin and tensed her trapezius muscles against the blow aimed at her skull, causing the strike to land near her ear instead. Her head rang with a fierce vibration, but she remained upright.
Her opponent didn't give her a moment to breathe.
A second strike followed immediately—a low sweep aimed at her legs. It was the work of an experienced brawler: ambush the top, then immediately take out the bottom. It was a difficult sequence to counter.
But Finn didn't fall. She bent her knees and braced her weight. It was an Eilkaraz-style bracing technique. As the opponent’s foot swept toward her shin, she twisted her body halfway, deflecting the momentum of the attack.
‘Bastard.’
Her head was still pounding, but she knew she was dead if she stayed on the defensive. She instantly drew the shortsword hanging from her belt.
Clang!
The moment the steel left its sheath, she slashed horizontally with ruthless force without even looking back. The blade met only empty air. She felt the presence of the man who had struck her backing away.
Finn’s vision blurred, and she furrowed her brow, trying to clear the haze.
"Don't move. Move and you die."
The voice came from her back-left. It was accompanied by the sharp click-clack of a crossbow being cocked.
‘Goddammit.’
She was caught. These men were professionals at ambushing. More importantly, they had been waiting for her. They were prepared. This was a lethal situation.
"Did you think we were blind morons? You fucking bitch... maybe I should chop off your limbs and sell you to some gutter brothel. You probably won't even fetch a few copper coins."
The man who had struck her spoke while hefting a short club. His mouth was beyond foul; it was filthy.
Instead of replying, Finn focused. Sweat trickled down her temples, making her forget the winter chill. Her head was still spinning, but the fog was lifting. The urgent task was to escape this crisis, and to do that, she had to assess the situation.
"Don't shoot," Finn said, slowly raising both hands. The shortsword she let go fell, its tip stabbing diagonally into the dirt.
"Crazy bastards, where do you think you are?"
The club-wielding bandit curled his lip in a sneer.
‘This is bad.’
By raising her hands in mock surrender, she had bought a second to grasp the reality of the situation. It boiled down to three things.
First, the villagers were neither stupid nor fools.
Second, because of that, she and her companions were the ones who had acted like fools.
And third, the final point: not everything goes as planned.
The original plan was to scout the village for two days and then immediately sweep through it with the waiting troops.
‘Find the evidence first.’
Based on that evidence, obtaining permission from the lord who ruled this region was the priority. Since the Border Guard was a specific territory, they technically had no jurisdiction outside its borders. Strictly speaking, this area belonged to another noble.
In truth, this matter was entangled with complex political factors. Marcus intended to turn the Border Guard into a proper lordship that ruled the surrounding area, and he believed this operation was necessary to exert that influence.
While it was true he was furious upon seeing the drug-peddling bastards and the assassins sent by the Black Sword, there was a cold calculation behind his anger. Even if he didn't want to be, Marcus was a politician whose mind naturally worked that way.
He planned to use this incident to "liberate" the village and reorganize it around innocent residents. He sought to transform it from a drug-producing Black Sword den into a village under the protection of the Border Guard.
Officially, the noble who owned this territory would throw a fit, but there were countless ways to handle that. The best way would be to find evidence linking that lord to the bandits, but that was a "nice-to-have," not a necessity. Marcus knew how to wield influence; he knew how to placate a single noble and swallow a village whole.
The beginning was crucial. Once you took one, the next would be easy. If they let one village go, the rot wouldn't stop there.
But who could have anticipated this level of preparation? The lord ruling this region was supposed to be nothing but a pig-headed fool with shit for brains.
Despite all the preparations and the many threads woven into the background of this operation, things had gone awry from the very start.
Of course, Finn couldn't know the full political scope. Even in this situation, she merely recalled her duty—she was a soldier through and through.
Finn thought to herself: finding evidence was now like spilled water on dry soil.
‘I’m thoroughly caught.’
She had walked right into the trap. Sweating profusely, Finn prepared her next move. Just because she was caught didn't mean she would go down without a fight.
Struggle, and struggle again.
She, too, had learned something from watching Encrid. Because he never gave up, he moved forward; because he moved forward, he changed. Finn had watched that transformation from the front row.
Suddenly, her foot kicked the sword stuck in the ground. The blade flew out of the dirt and shot forward like a projectile. At the same time, Finn drew two daggers, each slightly longer than a hand-span, hidden along her forearms.
It was time to fight. Even if there was no chance of winning, if the moment demanded it, she would go down swinging.
*
It was shortly after Sachsen had slipped out the window. Encrid stared blankly at the empty frame.
‘How did he even fit through that gap?’
The window was tiny. Sachsen had slipped through as if his body were greased, and the process was truly fascinating to behold. He hadn't struggled; he had simply measured the window's dimensions against his own body, leaped, and slid out in a single, fluid motion. It was as if he had aligned his body perfectly in midair, or as if someone had pulled him from the outside. He had vanished like a bird in flight.
Sachsen possessed an astonishingly superior sense of spatial awareness.
‘Seeing with his eyes, judging the distance, and mapping his own body perfectly.’
It was a feat possible only because he had a perfect grasp of his own physical limits and athletic capabilities. Could Encrid do it? He wasn't confident at all.
His curiosity ended there. Encrid looked past the window where Sachsen had disappeared. Beyond the glass, the moonlight looked like shattered, silver powder. It was a bright, moonlit night.
After gazing outside for a moment, he turned his attention back to the room. Though one would expect the air to be freezing on a winter night, there were heated stones and glowing red charcoal in the brazier, with firewood resting beneath them.
Encrid pulled the brazier in front of the bed and stared into it. When he tossed a piece of firewood onto the embers, the wood crackled as its surface charred, soon sprouting red tongues of flame.
He watched the fire dance. Encrid’s gaze was hazy. He simply stared blankly at the flames. Sitting half-hunched, he completely released all tension in his body.
The fire flared, throwing off sparks. Crackle, pop. The sound of burning wood, the warmth of the brazier, and the heat pushing away the biting cold. The warm air created by the meeting of heat and cold enveloped him. It felt as if someone had gently embraced him and laid him down. Encrid’s body sank into the bed.
The soft straw mattress cushioned him. The bed was soft, his stomach was full, and his back was warm. As the peaceful air wrapped around him, it felt like being held in a mother’s arms. Though Encrid, being an orphan, did not know a mother’s embrace, he imagined this was what it felt like.
He curled up like a child. The bath in the wooden tub with warm water, bought for six copper coins, had relaxed his body to the absolute limit.
Encrid had a brief dream.
In it, he was a child whining to his mother. Then, he set out from home on a long journey, only to have his life threatened within ten days. Having barely survived, a sudden wave of regret washed over him.
‘Why on earth did I leave home?’
Leaving home brought nothing but hardship. Difficulties lined his path. A single mistake could cost him his life. It was like crossing a chasm while relying on nothing but a thin, frayed rope.
‘Will you still cross?’ someone asked.
He could have just gone back home, but Encrid did not. Even as he enjoyed the peaceful, serene air and the idyllic meadows of the dream, he did not. Even with the things he loved so dearly behind him, he did not turn back. Even though he missed his mother’s embrace and his father’s large hands, he did not.
‘I must cross.’
‘Why?’
‘Do I need a reason?’
‘Aren't there things done for no particular reason?’
‘No, there is a reason for everything; you just don't realize it. Why are you walking that path?’
Though it seemed like a question with no answer, the Encrid in the dream replied without hesitation.
‘It’s fun.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Do you prefer to smile or frown? Do you like pain, or do you like joy?’
‘What?’
The face of the person asking was invisible. The final words came out aloud.
"I am walking the path I find enjoyable and believe to be right."
There was no hesitation. Encrid didn't even call this a belief; it was just his truth.
He opened his eyes.
It had been a truly brief dream. The flames on the firewood hadn't even died down yet. Before the wood had even charred black—it was an incredibly short rest.
And yet, his body felt light. His feet were nimble, and strength surged into his hands. Normally, one wouldn't have full strength immediately upon waking, but not this time. As if someone had breathed power into every single muscle fiber, his body brimmed with energy.
Just then, someone knocked on the door.
Knock, knock.
"Are you in there?"
The voice of the tavern servant followed.
"You're in there, right?" he asked again.
Encrid got dressed. He quickly wrapped his inner armor, which went on like bandages, and threw a thin leather breastplate over it. He buckled his sword belt with practiced ease. His speed in equipping his gear was beyond excellent.
And why wouldn't it be? When one's swordsmanship was mediocre, they ended up doing a lot of chores. Encrid had served quite a few other mercenaries in his time. In the process, he had to be meticulous about donning his armor and preparing his weapons to survive. His speed was truly astonishing.
It was just as he finished arming himself.
"Well, look at that, you're in there but you're not saying a word." A hint of laughter could be heard in the servant's tone. "Hey, moron."
With a click, the door swung open. The lock meant absolutely nothing.
With the open door as the boundary, the light from the brazier inside and the light from the hallway clashed. The lights did not fight; they simply did their jobs, illuminating the surroundings.
The inn corridor was narrow. Beyond it stood the tavern servant, the innkeeper, and next to them, a man with a beard like a thicket. Every single one of them had gleaming eyes and a menacing aura.
"Three?"
Encrid skipped the pleasantries. He lowered his head, then tilted his eyes up to look at them. As he spoke, Encrid adjusted the position of his sword belt. He pulled it slightly forward to a position where it would be easier to draw, settling it into the most comfortable spot.
The servant sneered at Encrid. To him, this was just a pathetic fool who had been struggling to put on his gear.
"What? Three? This crazy bastard has lost his mind," the servant mocked.
Encrid finished adjusting his gear. Hadn't he recently realized anew that minor preparations were crucial? The angle of the dwarf's gladius hanging on his right hip was slightly off. He adjusted and tightened it with his hand.
"You know how to use a sword, don't you? Fuck, then what's with that clumsy acting?"
Suddenly, Krais came to mind. The nagging advice not to act flashed through his mind. For a moment, Encrid resented a world that failed to recognize his superb acting skills. Surely, once he reached the territory, there would be a playwright who would appreciate his talent.
"No need for long talk, right?" the servant said with a smirk.
Normally, the servant was someone who preyed on an opponent's openings and carelessness, but to him, this guy named Encrid seemed far too clumsy to be a threat. Though the elf who had been with him might be a bit troublesome, he wasn't here.
‘Where do they think they are?’
The servant was full of confidence. He was certain he could strip these bastards clean now that they were inside the village.
"Hey, kill him quickly," said the bearded man, who had been watching blankly from behind.
Talk? As if this were some salon to sit around and chat.
Encrid gave his sword belt one final tug forward. He positioned Tutor so that the sword hung right in front of his hip. Only now was he satisfied with his state of readiness. He raised his head and straightened his back.
Meanwhile, the tavern servant flicked his hands. His smirk was insolent, and the eyes that had seemed so innocent when they first met now gleamed with murderous intent.
All of this entered Encrid’s vision. In the slowed-down perception of combat, he read their expressions and their gazes. They were barely three or four paces apart.
The servant threw a dagger. Encrid tilted his head to the side. At the same time, he gripped the hilt of his sword. He didn't draw it immediately.
With a sharp whoosh, the thrown dagger grazed his hair and thudded deep into the wall behind him.
"...So you've got some moves!" the servant barked, raising both hands. He held a dagger in each.
Encrid instinctively gauged the opponent's physical capabilities from his actions, his posture, and the way he threw the blade. That assessment immediately translated into a minor preparation.
He slid his left foot forward. His leather boot squeaked slightly as it slid. It was a brief movement that no one noticed.
And now, it was perfect. The minor preparation was complete.
Confident in his throwing skills, the servant swung his arms again, while the innkeeper behind him drew a shortsword. The pieces of metal shrieked, as if each weapon were screaming its own bloodlust.