Chapter 292: A Tailor-Made Dirty Trick
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 292: A Tailor-Made Dirty Trick
Who the hell is that bastard?
Lycanos had heard the name Encrid before and had a rough idea of the man's skills. Or rather, he thought he did.
That was why he had revealed his hidden trump card. It should have been a guaranteed victory.
Yet, the bastard had dodged it.
Lycanos had barely managed to claim a single arm. Even then, he hadn't severed it; he’d only run it through, rendering it useless for the time being.
Ha.
Lycanos was utterly bewildered. This was the first time he had drawn his sword and failed to achieve his mark. It was a hidden technique known to only two people in the entire world—a high-speed thrust from a blade concealed inside a mace. And the opponent, who wasn't even a knight, had dodged it?
But the swordplay wasn't the end of it. Even as he lost an eye, Lycanos had signaled with his hand. It was the second blade he had prepared, just in case.
"Kill him."
The unit he had personally raised rushed in, but they, too, failed to kill the bastard.
And I lost an eye.
Half of his world was now shrouded in darkness. Though he had crushed herbs and plastered them over the socket, it did nothing to dull the agony. It hurt like hell. Unless a high priest suddenly materialized out of thin air, losing the eye was a certainty. It was deeply unpleasant.
Failure and injury. With these two misfortunes piling up, irritation flared within him, but...
"What a fucking shitshow. Whew."
Lycanos mastered his emotions with a single curse and a deep, steadying breath.
"Are the boys on the move?"
"Yes," came the immediate reply.
Lycanos calmed his mind, recalling the orders he’d issued. Getting worked up wouldn't change anything. Just because his hidden technique and elite unit had failed didn't mean there wasn't a next step. Of course there was.
Lycanos was a simple man, not some tactical genius, but he had mastered certain truths while surviving in these lands.
Humans are creatures with weaknesses.
No being was without a flaw. No matter how outstanding a person was—even those labeled as geniuses—they were all the same. They all had openings. How did one find them?
You just had to poke around. Use every means at your disposal. Try this, try that. If even one of those attempts landed, it was a success. Because there was no man whose flesh couldn't be pierced by a blade. That held true even for knights. If they let their guard down, a blade could pierce their skin, dig into their muscle, and tear through their entrails.
"Keep poking. Do whatever it takes to find out what kind of bastard he is."
Even before stepping onto the battlefield, the Black Sword had been gathering intelligence. The reach of the bandit group, rooted deep within the kingdom, was stealthy and relentless. They had swept Marcus aside, dragged in Azpen, stood alongside the cultists, and dug deep into the elites of the Border Guard.
During that process, they had also scrutinized the man named Encrid.
Being good with a sword isn't everything.
At first, they had tried to win him over. The Black Sword could offer anything: beautiful women, gold coins, power. It was a taming process. Once broken, he would have become a slave to the Black Sword.
But he hadn't paid them the slightest bit of attention. It was completely out of the question.
That didn't work?
Lycanos wondered what kind of freak this guy was. If winning him over failed, they just had to get rid of him. That was the easiest way. It was a waste of talent, but he had thought shoving a piece of iron through the bastard's gut would be child's play.
Yet, the result was another failure.
Even that didn't work?
Assassins, poison, bribery—all of it had failed. Did he really have no weaknesses?
The leader of the Black Sword had stepped in personally. He investigated and analyzed Encrid's past, his current attitude, the emotions he displayed, and his peculiarities. Then, he constructed a profile of the man and passed it on to Lycanos.
"Is he insane?"
Lycanos had been dumbfounded. This bastard was a romantic. He was the breed of man who drew his sword to save people. A truly crazy bastard. He hadn't earned the nickname "Madman" for nothing.
Lycanos had also heard about the end of the Swallow Blade. There were plenty of mouths willing to sell what they had seen for a few copper coins. If one wore the mask of a bard and claimed to be collecting stories, many would eagerly spill everything.
He quietly complied just because a few hostages were taken?
Was it because he was confident in his skills? Or perhaps he had done it simply to save people. These were the details gathered through various means—the profile of a man discerned from the shadows.
Will this work?
Lycanos wasn't sure. He was just giving it a shot. He hadn't even considered it a definitive solution; if the bastard had died by his own sword or his subordinates' blades, he wouldn't have even brought this method out.
It was nothing grand. Slip into the Border Guard, kidnap a few kids, wrap scrolls around their bodies, and send them back. The scrolls were mobile explosive magic—a tactic from a now-ruined ancient kingdom.
There was a flash-explosion spell that possessed magnificent power but only worked at point-blank range. It was a spell that dealt severe damage even to the caster—a spell that even the mage who created it had deemed a failure. Unless the caster heavily protected their own body before chanting, they would drop dead first.
But what if it didn't matter if the "caster" died? What if it was turned into a scroll and wrapped around a living body? And what if they could control the activation of that scroll from a distance?
It was a high-maintenance task. Considering the resources required, it was highly inefficient. But those who changed the tide of a battlefield were the elite few. Even if they couldn't kill them, just holding them back would be a success.
That was how this tactic had been born. Rather than agonizing over whether it would work, Lycanos chose to execute it. Sometimes, taking action was more important than overthinking.
"Will this really work?" one of his subordinates asked, voicing his doubt.
In a world of kill-or-be-killed, what could they possibly achieve with a kid the target barely knew? In a world where most would value their own lives even if their own mothers were being slaughtered? Besides, would he even recognize the child? It wasn't like there were only one or two kids running around the territory.
"Should I wrap it around your body and send you instead?" Lycanos asked, baring his fangs. Green fluid from the herbal paste trickled down the side of his mouth, looking grotesque.
The subordinate bowed his head and quickly set to work.
Useless bastard.
Lycanos found his subordinate's half-baked resolve disgusting. This was what it meant to use any means necessary—poking and prodding until the opponent's opening was revealed. That was how the Black Sword operated.
Under the cover of night, several bandits slipped into the Border Guard. A few of them ran into a man named Frok, got beaten to a pulp, died, or fled... but some of them managed to kidnap a child. They reported that they had barely managed even that.
Hearing that, Lycanos felt a sudden throb of irritation. Are these bastards really the Black Sword Bandits?
In any case, while it was an earth-shattering tragedy for the kidnapped, would such a trivial matter shake the battlefield? Not a chance. A mother who lost her child would despair, but even she would know deep down that her child would never return. She would accept it in her heart. That was the kind of world they lived in.
Damn it. Is this really going to work?
One of the subordinates, not even believing in the plan himself, wrapped the scroll around the child's body. A hollow-eyed spellcaster muttered something from behind. He was a gloomy, wretched bastard.
"Preparation is complete."
"Send them."
It was an old mage with a bulbous, strawberry nose pockmarked with black spots. Following his words, they pushed the captured child forward.
"P-Pl... Please spare me."
At the child's tear-and-snot-stained plea, the bandit drew a dagger and lightly grazed the kid's cheek. Blood splurted with a soft hiss.
"If you don't want to die, do as you're told. I'm sending you over there."
With trembling legs, the child ran forward. The kid didn't even cry, gritting their teeth and enduring. Dragging their shaking legs, they kept moving toward the territory where they belonged.
Viscount Tarnin saw them bringing the child in but passed by indifferently. What was the big deal about a kid or two dying? Even if it had been one of his own residents, he wouldn't have cared, but they said this was a rebel spawn captured from the Border Guard.
If sacrificing a commoner meant winning the war and becoming the great lord ruling over this entire region? Of course he would force the sacrifice. Tarnin was greedy.
A great lord!
His vague desires and ambitions were on the verge of becoming reality. His heart swelled with excitement. Therefore, joining hands with a bandit group was nothing to him, and he couldn't care less whether they wrapped scrolls around kids or draped them in iron thorns. He wouldn't have batted an eye even if they crowned them with thorns.
"Go," the bandit urged.
The child walked forward. Crossing past the range of arrows, the child headed straight toward enemy territory. Trembling, the child ultimately broke into a run.
No arrows harmed the child. No one blocked the approach. Instead, someone stepped forward. Who it was didn't matter.
The mage kept his spell world connected to the scroll. Even a minor mistake would deal a devastating blow to his own mind. That was how dangerous it was. Even if it succeeded, it would leave a scar on his soul. That was how crude the magic was. But that was also why it worked.
What sane mage would do such a thing? It was possible only because he was an old, diseased man. A man who, ruled by greed rather than the pursuit of magic, had become a mere tool for bandits.
"Detonate," the mage muttered.
*
The Ferryman's eyes came into view. He spoke, swaying his violet lamp. His voice pierced directly into Encrid's mind, as always.
"Do you find this enjoyable as well?"
Encrid hadn't yet fully grasped what had happened. He had only registered his own death. He spoke directly to the entity in his dream.
"Long time no see."
Despite the warm greeting, the Ferryman showed no emotion. Indifferent as ever, he spoke.
"It will not be enjoyable."
The Black River receded as Encrid opened his eyes, greeting the repeated day.
"Are you really going to go this far?"
Hearing Krais's words, Encrid sat up and ate his breakfast first. After finishing the hearty meal, he checked his physical condition. His injuries remained. This meant he had to survive the day in this broken body.
He recalled his final moments. The Black Sword had kidnapped a child and wrapped something around their body. He had at least identified the origin of the light.
A scroll?
Nothing else made sense. Just before the child's body exploded, a dizzying sense of foreboding had struck his mind. Light, flickering, and a pain that scorched his entire body. It felt as if he was being torn apart, shred by shred, down to the very marrow.
It was a sense of dread he had experienced before—a magic trap, something he had encountered when he first opened the eye of his sixth sense. The problem was that this time, it was rushing straight toward him, unavoidable.
How absurd. What if he simply dodged? What if they shot the child with an arrow before they could get close? Yet, the enemy used a scroll—and a clearly expensive one at that—for something like this, even slipping into the Border Guard to kidnap a child. None of those could have been easy tasks.
"This is ridiculous."
"Pardon?"
"It's nothing."
"I'm the one who finds this ridiculous," Krais said with a sigh.
"Right, yeah."
Ignoring him, Encrid racked his brain. It was absurd, but Encrid had no intention of turning a blind eye.
A way.
If something was placed before him, he would push through and break past it. Just like always. Encrid deliberately focused his thoughts in one direction: a way to face the exploding magic, a way to overcome it, and a way to save the child as well.
What should he do? Facing a repeating day was something he was used to.
The first thing that came to mind was Esther. Mages manifested mysteries. Since the scroll involved a spell, it fell under that domain. He felt that if Esther were here, half the problem would be solved. The problem was that the panther had to transform into a human to use spells. She had said so herself.
Encrid's gaze drifted down to his thigh. He saw a Lake Panther lying quietly on the floor. When he placed his hand on her back and stroked her gently, she let out a pleased purr.
Isn't it about time you became human?
Encrid stroked Esther from her head to her back and said, "Transform into a human. Presto."
He just tried it. He didn't attach any deep meaning to it. But everyone must have heard him, as all eyes gathered on him. Among them, Dunchabel approached, placed her hand on Encrid's forehead, and muttered to herself.
"...Does he have a fever?"
Watching this, Krais quietly shook his head. "Sigh... I must be losing my mind," he lamented.
Esther merely looked at Encrid with languid eyes. What are you doing? she seemed to ask.
"Never mind."
Encrid pressed down on Esther's head again. Under the gentle pressure, she lowered her head and returned to her original posture. It wasn't something he had done with high expectations. Esther still spent more time as a panther than as a human. When she was human, she had mentioned that the time she could spend in that form was very brief.
It seemed to be less than once a week.
How wonderful would it be if she could turn into a human right now, instead of just when he was giving speeches on the platform?
That's wishful thinking.
Back when they were wrecking the village that served as the Black Sword's business, Esther had suddenly beaten up the lightning-wielding mage, so... let's leave her help aside for now. Since when had he ever escaped "today" through someone else's help?
It's something I must do myself.
He pondered all day. Once that spell activated, the child would explode first. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and fell deep into thought with his chin resting on his hand. Beside him, Dunchabel was muttering to Esther to become human, only to get her hand bitten.
"Ow, that hurts!"
Teresa was quiet, as were Ragna and Audin. Amidst the silence, Krais asked in a thoroughly drained voice, "What are you thinking about so deeply?"
Encrid knew Krais possessed exceptional cunning. Raising only his eyes to look at him, Encrid roughly explained the situation. What should one do if someone rushed in with a scroll wrapped around their body?
"What do you mean, what should we do? If you know in advance, you either dodge or shoot them down with arrows."
"That won't do."
"Pardon?"
"Never mind."
"Why do you keep saying 'never mind'? Ah, seriously, what is it?"
Krais grumbled, but Encrid ignored him. The cold-blooded "Big-Eyes" was right. It was a matter of simply dodging.
But he couldn't do that.
He had taken up the sword, swung it, slashed, and killed. He had slain monsters and demonic beasts alike. It was all for the sake of responsibility and duty. He couldn't say there was no pleasure in the mastery of the blade, but if his sole intention had been to run wild in a frenzy of slaughter, he would never have dreamed of becoming a knight.
Because I said I would protect what lies behind my back.
That was his reason for swinging the sword. The reason for his people. The very source of his desire to become a knight. If one had to sacrifice their own child—if there was truly no other choice—Encrid, too, would do so.
But if he had to abandon a child as a desperate struggle just to escape today? That was unacceptable. The beginning of an oath is conviction, and conviction stems from the heart. Encrid could not achieve his dream by battering and turning away from his own heart.
Because the dream he aspired to, the knight he wanted to be, was not like that. Thus, there were things he simply could not give up.
The trick the enemy pulled was an utterly ridiculous stunt... but it was effective against him.
It was a tailor-made dirty trick.