Chapter 291: Duty and Responsibility (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 291: Duty and Responsibility (3)
"I don't think you picked a fight just because you had a death wish," the leader said.
Even in this situation, the man was trying to win him over. He told Encrid to join them, to become a bandit.
Had he also told Encrid to serve him in his bed?
He didn't know. Encrid’s memories of this period were fragmented. To him, the bandits standing there looked like nothing more than dog heads—beasts in heat, snickering amongst themselves. Their mouths seemed to tear open, stretching unnaturally toward their ears.
His vision was a blurred mess.
The dog-headed leader approached, licking his lips. Encrid had been completely subdued. Normally, he would have bided his time, waiting for another day. As long as he didn't die, tomorrow would come. Another chance would present itself.
But the moment he thought of 'tomorrow' instead of 'today,' he saw the child’s corpse. He heard the leader’s voice. The man seemed to say more, but Encrid stopped listening.
The last thing etched into his mind was one of the dog-heads stripping the clothes off the dead child.
Why is he taking those clothes?
Whoosh.
A Valen-style mercenary sword—a blade without a hilt.
Encrid was gripping the bare metal of a knife blade, its hilt already broken off. His palm was sliced open, blood pouring out, but no one realized he was even holding a weapon.
He thrust it forward.
Plunge.
He drove it in deep.
Crunch.
Then, he twisted.
Bam!
The leader swung a heavy fist. The blow sent Encrid’s body flying through the air before he crashed into the dirt. He landed shoulder-first, the joint dislocating with a sickening pop. His left arm dangled uselessly.
Even then, he forced his head up. He saw the leader clutching his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers. The dog heads vanished, replaced by the bandits' actual faces.
"You son of a bitch... If you want to die that badly, fine. Die."
"Gere, now!" Encrid barked.
His tongue worked its own desperate magic. He spoke as if he could actually see Gere—alive and swinging his axe—right behind the leader. Startled, the leader flinched and rolled forward to dodge an attack that wasn't coming.
Gere wasn't there. He was already dead. For a dead man to swing a blade, he would have to be a zombie or a skeleton.
Seeing the leader’s panic, Encrid let out a smirk. A vicious, murderous intent flared in the leader’s eyes. Because of his sudden movement, the wound in his stomach tore open further, and blood gushed out.
"You won't die an easy death," the leader hissed.
It's not like I've lived an easy life anyway.
This actually suits me quite well.
Encrid was indifferent. He had done everything he could. If anyone approached now, all that was left was to bite them. And he fully intended to sink his teeth in.
What a shitty feeling.
It felt like hell. Like dog shit. Like a goddamn plague. Because of his lack of skill, he couldn't protect a child whose dreams were cut short by a lonely death. Two of his comrades were dead. The villagers were dead. And now, he was going to die, too.
"What the hell was this bastard relying on to act so cocky?" one of the lackeys muttered.
"I have no faith," Encrid replied, his voice a dry rasp.
Hearing this, the leader and the bandits shared a look; they were convinced Encrid was insane. Muttering nonsense like that in this state? He must have taken a serious blow to the head as a child.
Thwack.
A sudden, sharp noise cut through the air.
A head went flying, spraying a fountain of blood, followed by the sight of a headless corpse collapsing. It was the bastard who had been stripping the child’s body.
Swish, thud, whoosh, slash.
As if they were waiting in line to die, the heads of the two men standing next to him were lopped off as well. Encrid couldn't track the movement. It was impossible.
"What the fuck?!"
The mercenary company? No, even if they had returned, this was beyond them. It was as if a sudden gust of wind had swept by and claimed several lives in its wake. It was that fast—invisible to the naked eye.
The source of the wind spoke. A figure was suddenly standing among the bandits. A hood covered her face, leaving only her eyes visible, but Encrid could tell she was a woman dressed in men's clothing.
Not that it mattered.
"You're the ones who messed with my campsite, right?" she asked, a longsword slung over her shoulder.
She wore black leather armor and had a slender build, but her swordplay was monstrous. Decapitating a person is no easy feat, yet she had cleanly sliced through three sturdy bandits in consecutive strokes.
"It is you."
With words he couldn't quite grasp, her sword moved again. With every stroke, the pile of corpses grew. Encrid swallowed the blood pooling in his mouth and panted heavily. His lungs had been damaged during the fight, and his internal organs were bleeding.
Still, it wasn't enough to kill him. Having been beaten so many times, he knew exactly which injuries were fatal. This much was bearable. He wouldn't die.
Forgetting the pain, Encrid watched the rampaging swordsman.
"Kill her! Archers!"
Twang!
Several arrows flew toward her. They didn't stand a chance. Her movements were a blur. All Encrid could see were the bandits—the reapers of the villagers and his friends—collapsing one by one into the mud and rain.
"All because we lost a single rabbit we were roasting?!" the leader screamed in disbelief.
The swordsman answered with her blade. She didn't fight them; she butchered them.
"Insects. You should have known who you were picking a fight with."
There was neither hesitation nor mercy. She slashed, severed, and stabbed with mechanical precision. Watching the remaining bandits flee into the darkness, Encrid finally blacked out. He had lost too much blood.
"By any chance, do you know a guy with blonde hair, red eyes, and a lazy vibe?"
Though he had fainted, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Those were the words he heard. The swordsman was looking down at him. When their eyes met, she simply said, "If you don't, never mind."
He later learned she had left after taking a few gold coins from the surviving villagers. It wasn't payment for saving them; she took it simply because it was offered, attaching no meaning to the act. She hadn't fought to save them. She hadn't rescued or protected anyone; she had simply cut down what annoyed her.
That was all.
After waking up, Encrid buried the dead alongside the villagers. He buried Gere and Pete. He buried the child.
Why did you do that?
It felt as if the dead child was asking him from the grave. Left alone among the mounds of dirt, Encrid had replied with total indifference.
After he recovered and returned to the mercenary world, rumors began to spread, earning him the nickname "The Man Who Gets His Comrades Killed." It was a battle where nothing was gained and nothing was protected.
Yet, it was a battle he could not have backed down from.
* * *
"Because it pisses me off."
"What?"
"What they're doing is disgusting. It makes me want to beat them into the dirt. If I run away here, it feels like losing. I can't stand that."
Encrid’s words carried no emotion. Delivered at a flat, monotonous pace, it was the epitome of indifference.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, seriously."
"And you say that so nonchalantly?"
"I've always been a man like a cold flame."
"Ah, yes, of course you are," Krais sighed, giving up.
If Encrid were a man who could be reasoned with, they wouldn't have made it this far in the first place. Encrid stood up. It had been a long time since he’d thought of that day with the bandits.
"I won't ask you to run anymore. Just tell me the truth. Why, really?"
Somehow, it was the exact same question he had imagined the child asking.
"Because that's what I want to do."
It was the same answer he had given back then.
What is a knight? They were said to be those who kept their oaths. Encrid had grown up on poetry and stories. The dreams of his youth had bled into his reality. To Encrid, knights were those who kept their word and never betrayed their own hearts.
Since that day, he had frequently found himself in similar situations. Whether it was by the grace of the Goddess of Fortune or sheer stubbornness, he had survived. Until eventually, in some forgotten village, he received a talisman that made 'today' repeat.
You really never know how life will turn out.
So, he would do what he had to do. He would act as his heart dictated and his oath demanded.
"Ah, so in the end, you're saying you're going to protect our rear? Because if we pull out now, the Border Guard residents will suffer? People will die, and with the cultists around, it'll be absolute chaos. That's what you're trying to protect, isn't it?"
"No, I told you. I just don't like the way they look."
"Oh, come on! That's not it! You're doing this to save people!"
"You're getting awfully informal with me, Krais."
"Fine, fine! I lose. Let's just say that's the case."
Krais finally surrendered. Encrid let out a small chuckle.
Yes, he wanted to protect them. Was that not his responsibility? If he couldn't protect those standing behind him, what was the point of swinging a sword? What—and whom—could he hope to protect in the future? If he couldn't take responsibility for what lay at his back, he was nothing. That was Encrid’s oath.
"May the Lord's blessing be with you," Audin prayed, his face solemn.
Ragna silently wiped and oiled his sword. Sachsen had slipped away at some point. Neither Teresa nor Dunchabel had much to say. The same went for Esther; the panther looked as if she couldn't care less about their conversation.
"Seriously, is everyone here insane?" Krais grumbled, but like the others, he had no intention of leaving.
As the night passed, Encrid judged that his right arm was unusable for the time being. He would use it in an emergency, but for now, he would favor his left. His shin injury was manageable. As long as I don't move too much.
During the night, Audin asked, "Shall I heal you?"
Encrid was sharp. He had survived as much through intuition as through luck. He had a rough idea of what happened when Audin channeled his divine power. Should he force the man to do something he was clearly reluctant to do? Should he sacrifice something belonging to this devout, bear-like soldier just to make his arm heal a little faster?
"No need," he declined. Audin offered a small, appreciative smile.
A war council was held in the dark hours. The situation was dire.
"We must counter them. We have to force the enemy to show their hand first. We endure for one more day, and then we settle the score on the third," Encrid commanded.
Graham nodded. He was calculating the right moment to deploy the heavy infantry, while Krais visualized every possible disaster that could occur, dissecting them one by one. By dawn, dark circles had formed under Krais’s eyes.
"Staying up all night is the enemy of good skin," Krais grumbled, though his mind never stopped racing.
Early the next morning, the battle resumed.
"Kill them all!" Lycanos roared, though he stayed back from the front lines.
"We must hold the line. Keep it intact," Krais said.
Encrid headed toward the place his instincts led him: the very front of the formation. He held his sword with only his left hand.
"Hold!"
"What doesn't kill me!"
"Makes me stronger tomorrow!"
The squad’s distorted slogan echoed across the field. As soon as the clash began, a thrusting unit—men who threw their entire body weight into their attacks—targeted Encrid.
Lycanos watched from a distance, his single eye gleaming with malice. Encrid didn't give him a second thought. He barely held on that day. He didn't die, but he couldn't push forward either.
As Encrid held the line, the morale of his allies soared. A mere injury could not stop the Mad Company. Furthermore, the elite members under Encrid’s direct command hadn't even fully committed to the fray yet. Both sides were fighting while hiding their final trump cards.
"Kill them!"
"Fuck off!"
Amidst curses and screams, the soldiers fought desperately. Encrid survived again, though he allowed three sword strikes to land on his abdomen. It was intentional. Fighting left-handed made his movements awkward, forcing him to take risks. He trusted the armor he had obtained from the Explorer’s Tomb. It was a treasure for a reason.
Tap, tap.
Encrid tapped his stomach and laughed. "Sturdy."
He really finds new ways to act crazy every day, Krais thought, letting out a deep sigh as the second day drew to a close.
The next morning arrived.
"Is there really a need to go this far? Seriously?" Krais asked.
Encrid’s face, forearms, and torso were a mess of minor cuts and scrapes—yesterday’s badges of honor. To Encrid, they were nothing; they’d heal if he just spat on them. But it clearly wasn't a pleasant sight for Krais.
"Those bastards keep hitting and running. It pissed me off to just block," Encrid said. In exchange for exposing his stomach, he had taken the heads of two men—one with the Snake Sword, and one with a Heavy Sword Style slash.
"...Let's just not talk," Krais muttered.
When the battle began anew, Encrid saw something he never expected.
"Ughhhhh!"
A child, unable to even scream properly, stood at the very front of the enemy lines. He wasn't just on the front line; he was standing deep within the archers' range, practically begging to be skewered by arrows.
It wasn't a bandit, a soldier, or a cultist. It was a familiar face—a child Encrid had seen in passing within the Border Guard. A child he was meant to protect was standing right there.
"A gift for you, motherfucker!" Lycanos shouted from far behind. There was no grand expectation in his voice; it was a cheap, cruel trick to break their morale.
"Vengeance," Encrid called out.
Vengeance understood immediately. "Hold your fire!" he roared. The archers lowered their bows. The enemy didn't shoot either.
The child ran forward, his legs trembling violently. Encrid took a few steps out to meet him. He intended to use his round shield to block any arrows that might fly from the enemy's rear.
The child, running steadily toward him, finally arrived.
Flash!
A blinding light erupted from the child’s stomach.
And then...
"Is there really a need to go this far? Seriously?"
Encrid opened his eyes to Krais’s nagging.
Today had begun again. It was the 'today' he had already experienced yesterday.