Chapter 279: The Black Sword is Good at Scheming (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 279: The Black Sword is Good at Scheming (1)
"Throw."
The moment the command left Encrid’s mouth, Sachsen’s hand blurred.
There wasn't even time to register the whistle of tearing air.
Standing seven paces away, the sly, auburn-haired wildcat let fly a stone. What had begun as a mere speck rapidly expanded, filling Encrid's vision.
As his concentration sharpened, the trajectory of the incoming projectile became clear. But just as he twisted his body to dodge, another stone appeared exactly where he was about to move.
It was a throwing technique that controlled space through time differentials.
Encrid’s body contorted, moving in the realm of pure instinct.
Using his left foot as an axis, he pulled his frame back to the right while simultaneously wrenching his waist in the opposite direction. His movements were utterly bizarre, defying normal skeletal logic.
Gaining momentum from the snap of his waist, he tucked his head and rolled forward, successfully weaving through the hail of stones.
"Aren't you supposed to dodge them without moving from your spot?" a nonchalant voice drifted into his ears.
"I will, eventually."
Even if he couldn't do it now, repetition would make it possible. It was a truth he knew without needing to glimpse the future.
If one kept walking steadily, they would eventually pass the signposts and reach their destination. He had proven this with his own body; he had learned it through the weight of his own life.
Encrid replied calmly as he stood up and brushed the dust from his clothes.
It was the hour when the blue light of dawn was crushed by the rising sun, the sky bleeding into shades of orange and yellow. It was early morning—the time when the world began to stir.
As if by prior agreement, the entire company had gathered outside to watch Encrid and Sachsen. Each observer held a different expression.
Rem, wrapped tightly in thermal furs, watched them with eyes that questioned what kind of hometown custom demanded such madness at the crack of dawn on a freezing day.
Audin wore a pleased, serene smile.
Ragna watched indifferently, idly rolling his wrists.
Teresa was away on duty, and Dunchabel looked from Rem to Encrid before shaking her head to herself. Her expression was that of someone who wanted to mimic Encrid’s training but knew that if she asked Rem to throw for her, he would likely hurl a boulder and crack her skull open.
Unbothered by their stares, Encrid immersed himself in his thoughts—thoughts he had harbored throughout two months of walking, running, and fighting.
‘The sense of evasion is a reflex that occurs in the realm of the subconscious.’
Sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell—the five senses.
Crushing those five senses into one to reach a conclusion before the mind can even process the steps is the sixth sense. Grasping a reality without the need for sensation, experience, association, judgment, or reasoning is intuition.
The sense of evasion was a technique forged from intuition within the domain of that sixth sense. Until now, he had thought this alone was enough.
‘No.’
Contemplation was Encrid’s habit, and his everything. He contemplated, and in doing so, he saw the path he had to take.
Without fail, it was a path of thorns. A rough, rugged trail. A path that required scaling sheer cliffs. Even so, he intended to enjoy every step of the way.
‘In the realm of consciousness.’
Reading the entire trajectory of the incoming stones, dodging them, and incorporating deliberate movements—that was the 'preparation' that would lead into his next move.
What he had learned through the Nameless Orthodox Sword Style, what he had gained through experience, and what he had realized by watching Sachsen’s own preparation—this was the conclusion he reached by synthesizing them all.
"Again."
His goal was to dodge every stone thrown from close range without shifting his feet, drawing out his intended reaction speed to its limit.
Of course, this wasn't the end of his regimen. Once this was over, it was Audin’s turn.
"Brother, you certainly enjoy suffering."
"Why are you saying that with such a bright smile?"
"Because, of course, the Lord said that one cannot speak of penance without having walked the path of penance."
Encrid interpreted the words of this giant, ignorant religious fanatic in his own way. In other words, it sounded like: I’m absolutely thrilled that I get to beat you half to death during training.
Encrid smiled back.
If he walked the path of penance and there was fruit at the end, he would be satisfied whether that fruit was bitter or sweet. To a man who had never stopped even while constantly walking in place, any harvest, no matter how small, was precious. Whether sweet or sour, fruit was fruit.
This, in turn, made Audin quite pleased. Though he had phrased it indirectly, the man before him was still smiling even when told he would be beaten half to death.
"Let’s begin."
Audin began teaching Encrid partial strengthening training. Since it was an advanced technique even within the Isolation Technique, it was truly a path of penance.
Previously, to build flexibility, he had segmented and stretched his body joint by joint. This time, it was a method of isolating and training the various internal systems of the body.
He split his day into three parts: upper body in the morning, lower body in the afternoon, and in the evening, he sought out and tormented his hidden muscles.
"There are muscles that are easily felt and seen, but there are also those that are invisible. In the Isolation Technique, we call these the deep muscles. For example, here."
As he spoke, Audin poked Encrid deep in the waist. A horrific pain, like being stabbed by a thousand needles, erupted from his waist and radiated through his entire body.
"Ugh."
It was agonizing enough to elicit an involuntary groan.
"Indeed. We will be training those muscles."
After the Regenerative Body comes the Hardened Body.
From the deep muscles to the superficial ones, he trained them to the point of abuse. He rolled and pushed himself again and again.
"Normally, one would have to pour years into this, but perhaps you, Brother Company Commander, are a genius when it comes to body shaping. Physical conditioning is also a realm of talent. Many people don't realize that. I must add, it's also quite fascinating. Your physical talent was clearly mediocre, yet you've achieved this. I believe it's a talent invisible to my eyes."
As Audin droned on, not even half of it registered in Encrid’s ears. When you are repeatedly performing single-leg squats with three boulders tied to your back, the sounds of the world tend to fade away.
Sweat poured down in streams. The winter chill stood no chance against the furnace of his intense training.
"Excellent."
Audin smiled warmly. Encrid smiled back. Just because it was hellish didn't mean it was bad. For this, too, had its own pleasure.
Every single exercise was extreme. For instance, crawling like a beast—with boulders or even Audin himself strapped to his back. Or standing on one foot with a boulder on his back to pick up copper coins from the ground to build ankle flexibility.
He repeated all of this dozens, hundreds of times.
It was painful, exhausting, and difficult. His concentration could not waver for a second. Since these were not things that yielded results overnight, it could easily have become incredibly tedious.
Yet, he did it anyway. If you took away consistency from Encrid, what would be left? Furthermore, to him, this was not tedious at all.
"I'm doing it too!"
Dunchabel jumped in, declaring she would join, but after just fifty round trips of the beast crawl—an Isolation Technique that trains muscles by walking on all fours like a predator—her face turned pale.
Yet, even as sweat dripped onto the frozen ground, Dunchabel stubbornly pushed through. Every time she struggled, the intense, lingering look she gave Encrid was highly unusual, but it wasn't something he had the spare energy to worry about.
Encrid was too busy refining his own training. Pushing his body to its absolute limits was his daily routine. And while pushing his body like that, he couldn't neglect his swordsmanship.
The first form of the Soft Sword Style: just because a strike is soft doesn't mean it lacks a blade.
Ultimately, he honed the swordsmanship he had roughly dubbed the Snake Sword. After that, the Nameless Orthodox Sword Style. Returning once more to the Heavy Sword Style, he finally contemplated speed and the Technique Sword.
He polished what he possessed, searched for what he lacked, and repeated the cycle countless times.
"Rem!"
He also made sure to physically test what he had learned against Rem.
"Damn it, am I some kind of combat doll that fights whenever you call? You're treating me like a human golem."
Encrid was startled. Inwardly, he had indeed been thinking of Rem as exactly that. Can he read minds?
"Step aside if you don't want to do it."
Ragna, who had been watching silently from the side, spoke up as he sharpened his sword with a whetstone.
Screeech, ting!
Seeing him maintain his sword, unlike before, felt somewhat like watching a child finally grow up.
"Piss off, you lazy weasel, before I split your skull open with my axe."
Rem immediately whipped his head around and glared. This was their daily routine.
"Sure. My blade is well-sharpened, so it wouldn't hurt to stain it with barbarian blood."
Ragna gripped his sword and prepared to stand. By the looks of it, they were about to have a real brawl.
"You can both come at me together," Encrid provoked.
At those words, Rem and Ragna’s gazes snapped back to Encrid. Rem blinked, and Ragna sat back down.
Screeech. He went back to sharpening his sword.
It was just a single sentence, but it was a highly effective way to stop a fight.
"You beat him," Ragna said, remaining seated.
"Gladly."
Rem approached, tapping the flat of his axe against his palm. Ragna stood up with his sword, took a spot on the edge of the training ground, and began swinging his blade. Sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly.
Encrid took a brief glance, then silently raised his sword. Gripping the hilt with both hands, he focused, trying to peer into Rem’s inner state.
Sword and sword, blade and blade.
Cold air sliced between them. In the past, their very first spar had been nothing more than a whim of Rem’s, not even qualifying as a pastime. After that, there was an axe laced with playfulness.
And now? Even Rem could no longer treat Encrid lightly.
‘He’s a monster. A total monster.’
Rem thought to himself. If there was anyone who had shattered the limits of talent through sheer effort, the word 'monster' suited them perfectly.
That was why it was so much fun.
At first, he had certainly intended to just watch and see when this guy would break. Yet, before he knew it, he had become a member of his company—a true subordinate.
‘The folks back home would lose their minds if they saw this.’
Rem briefly recalled his past—specifically, what he had left behind in his homeland. Then, he quickly dismissed it, letting the thoughts drift away. What did any of that matter now?
Soon, his hands moved, crossing his axes. The blades met, offering a light greeting to one another.
Thud.
At the sound of the crossed axes, Encrid moved.
Lowering his upper body, he kicked off the ground, lunging in an instant. Rem’s eyes tracked every inch of the movement. A surge of boldness from his chest allowed him to stare his opponent dead in the eye. His dynamic visual acuity was on an entirely different level from ordinary people.
Rem twisted his left foot and thrust his axe forward.
Whoosh!
It was a strike like a flash of light, heavy enough to cleave through sword, forearm, and torso even if blocked. A heavy flash of light infused with weight and speed, yet Encrid parried it with his sword.
However, because he couldn't advance even half a step further, he was unable to thrust his sword forward despite deflecting the axe. The Snake Sword was blocked.
Rem swung his second axe. A double slash—a technique Rem took pride in.
And Encrid blocked the second axe strike as well. The moment he realized this, Rem couldn't help but feel thrilled.
"Excellent!"
The thermal leather he had been wearing over his shoulders flew backward with a whoosh. Revealing his bare arms, Rem bared his fangs. A broad grin spread across his face.
After deflecting the two slashes, Encrid stood facing him with his sword raised. Naturally, he was smiling too.
To an onlooker, they were absolute madmen. Why on earth were they smiling while fighting as if to kill each other?
In any case, this was Encrid’s recent daily routine. Since returning, he had devoted himself entirely to training, sparring, and conditioning.
He couldn't even fully carry out his duties as the Training Company Commander. Before he could even make excuses about being busy, a new scout unit had to be formed, and the troops deployed on duty were doubled.
The surrounding political climate was incredibly tense. He couldn't even go outside to run or hunt demonic beasts under the guise of training. Naturally, commissions had ground to a halt as well.
However, they couldn't stop the flow of peddlers or large merchant guilds. In other words, the territory was still on its way to becoming a hub of trade. Although all of this was on the verge of going up in flames at any moment, for now, this was the best they could do.
It was right around the time Marcus was pulling strings everywhere to clean up the mess that had erupted. Encrid didn't care about Viscount Tarnin or the Black Sword. He had decided what he needed to do, and he did just that. He moved and acted. When the time came to step forward, he would. He felt that now was not that time.
Marcus would have been dumbfounded had he known, but in reality, Encrid’s involvement wouldn't have changed anything anyway, so this was indeed the right path.
It was exactly a fortnight later.
"You're still the same."
Marcus came to find Encrid. It was in the private training ground in front of the Independent Company barracks. Snow was falling heavily overhead, the kind of weather that made soldiers curse under their breath. If left alone, it would turn the ground into a sheet of ice, so they could only sigh heavily as they watched the falling snow.
A makeshift roof had been built on one side of the training ground, supported by pillars. Leaning halfway against the center pillar, Marcus spoke with a bitter smile.
"I've been thoroughly beaten."
"By what?"
"I'm going back."
As Encrid stared, wondering what he meant, Marcus let out a deep sigh and continued.
"To the center. To the capital."
Suddenly? Encrid had ears too. He knew the surrounding situation had gone to hell. Without any reinforcements, they were becoming a flickering candle in the wind. Of course, that flickering candle wouldn't be easily snuffed out.
But Marcus was pulling out now? No, he said he had been 'hit hard,' so that wasn't it. He wasn't pulling out voluntarily; someone was putting pressure on him.
"The position of the next Castellan will be handed over to the 1st Company Commander."
Encrid exhaled a breath of white mist and set down an iron club—weighing as much as ten swords—which he had coaxed a blacksmith into making. It was an excellent training tool that naturally built up his core strength along with his forearms and upper arms as he swung it. Of course, it also helped in honing his swordsmanship, serving as a training method to instill a more precise blade technique into his body.
At the heavy thud, Marcus’s gaze briefly drifted downward. He saw the blunt tip of the iron club embedded diagonally in the frozen dirt.
What on earth is that? Marcus was reminded once again of just what a monster this man was.
As they stood there, Krais poked his head out from inside the barracks.
"Oh, Battalion Commander, you're here?"
Krais opened the door and offered something resembling a military salute. No matter how one looked at it, his movements lacked any sharp discipline, so it only barely resembled a salute.
"Put that away," Marcus waved his hand dismissively.
Encrid clasped both hands over the grip of his weapon.
"A smoke?" Marcus asked.
"I don't smoke."
Marcus placed a cigarette between his lips. Just as he was about to strike a flint, Krais scurried over and offered a small ember.
Lighting his smoke, Marcus took a deep drag and exhaled. The white smoke mingled with his breath, dispersing into the air as a pungent aroma stung their noses. It was a smoke made of rolled leaves, and the smell was far from pleasant.
The conversation that followed was simple and clear.