Chapter 308: Got Him
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 308: Got Him
In a duel between mages, it is said that they open their respective spell worlds to one another.
The spells they have accumulated within those worlds are their weapons.
Galaf drew upon a river from within his world.
"Rage and strike."
Before anyone could track the movement, a staff had appeared in Galaf's hand. With the white gem at its tip acting as the focal point, a portion of the river poured forth. It condensed instantly into a massive sphere, hurtling forward like a cannonball of water.
"You think you can defeat me while afflicted by a curse? How foolish!" Galaf roared as he launched the attack.
The moment Galaf commanded his spell to strike, Esther’s hands began weaving signs. Devoid of emotion, she simply manifested her magic.
Whoosh!
The moment her fingers stilled, flames flared in Esther’s eyes. A roaring fireball materialized and shot toward her target.
Two spells of opposing elements clashed in midair.
Boom!
A deafening explosion followed, sending hissing steam into the air. The fireball was extinguished, and the mass of river water veered off course, slamming into the earth.
Thud!
The ground gouged deeply as steam filled the surroundings, obscuring their vision like a dense fog. But the loss of sight did not mean the two mages lost track of each other. Since they tracked their opponents by sensing the flow of mana, physical sight was irrelevant.
"Stupid bitch!"
Hearing him repeat the insult sparked a stubborn streak in her. Esther decided then and there on the words she would say when she killed him. But now was not the time for talk.
As he spoke, Galaf stealthily sent two of his disciples behind Esther. He had sent the rest to perform other 'work,' but he had kept these two by his side. Neither was particularly skilled in magic, but they were excellent swordsmen.
Stupid bitch, Galaf sneered inwardly as he chanted spell after spell.
The two disciples crept forward. The steam conveniently shrouded their bodies, making physical detection nearly impossible. Furthermore, because the two disciples had not yet constructed their own spell worlds, they wouldn't be detected by Esther’s mana sensory abilities either.
Galaf’s disciples pushed through the fog. One of them tightened his grip on his sword, searching for their target. He darted his eyes around, intending to thrust the moment she appeared, when suddenly, something rushed before his eyes.
Grab!
The disciple who had stepped slightly ahead was suddenly plunged into darkness. Something wrapped around his face, and a crushing pressure began to squeeze his skull.
"Gack!"
"You piece of shit!"
The other disciple following behind drew his sword and thrust.
Clang! Ping!
"Ugh!"
It felt like stabbing a solid boulder. The tip of his blade bounced off, and he dropped his sword as his palm went completely numb.
Snatch!
A massive hand emerged from the fog and instantly gripped the second disciple’s throat. Reflexively, the disciple clawed at the hand choking him. It was entirely useless. It was a hand that had just deflected a steel blade with bare skin.
"Ack!"
Without even being able to scream, the two disciples dangled in the air. Their breath was cut off, leaving them unable to utter a word. Both the one grabbed by the head and the one grabbed by the neck thrashed wildly, but they could not escape that iron grip.
The face of the one held by the neck began to turn purple. Between his lips, his tongue slowly slipped out and hung limp.
Meanwhile, Esther calmly chanted another spell.
"Demuiller’s Scythe."
It was the same spell for the second time. As the vacuum-cutting blade sliced through the air, the steam shrouding the area was swept away.
"The same trick!"
Galaf blocked it in the same manner. A blue barrier intercepted the vacuum blade and dispersed. Then, he saw the entity standing silently in front of Esther.
"A golem?"
He saw a monster that resembled a human far too closely to be a normal golem. His two dead disciples also came into view. One was dead with his tongue hanging out, and the other lay collapsed on the ground, blood trickling from his ears, eyes, and nose. His skull had been crushed, leaving his face awkwardly contorted.
"A summon?"
"I picked it up on the way," Esther replied, her face still devoid of any smile.
Galaf gritted his teeth. There was no way he could lose to a half-wit who couldn't even open half of her spell world.
Conversely, Esther found her opponent laughable. Why had "Struggle" been attached to her moniker in the first place? Because she fought well. Her spell world had been forged through combat and battle.
"Ah, it’s been a while."
A fight against a decent opponent. Though she would have to remain as a panther for over a month after this... it was a price well worth the current amusement.
*
Thud!
Strike if they approach. Close the distance and bash them if they back away.
Encrid was a one-man siege engine, tearing through the wall of enemy soldiers. He was demonstrating a level of power that left the enemy terrified. Quite a few of the soldiers began to retreat in a panic.
"Do not retreat!"
At that, a commander in the rear drew his sword. Retreating meant death at the hands of their own allies. Steeling his resolve, a soldier gritted his teeth once more.
Encrid watched the enemy soldiers' reactions and thought. As always, his mind was on swordsmanship. On how to swing the sword. On the way of fighting.
Captain Sinar brought a reactive sword style when she faced me.
Why did she do that? She used the means suited to the situation and the moment. Then, what should he do now? It was a process of reflecting on what he possessed, reviewing it, and making it second nature. It was just like any other day.
It was at that moment, as he swung his sword again in that state of deep immersion.
Whoosh.
Killing intent reached his chest even before the wind did.
Encrid pulled back his extending sword. He employed a defensive form from the Nameless Orthodox Sword Style. Drawing his right foot behind his left, he twisted his body and raised his blade to guard his center.
Clang!
It was the correct move. The incoming blade struck the middle of Encrid’s steel sword. Had he been even a fraction of a second slower, the slash would have deeply severed his body.
The blade that struck Encrid’s sword retreated. He saw the man who had swung the sword take a stance. The man was short, his forehead barely reaching Encrid’s chin. He wore no helmet, possessed a stocky build, and had large feet.
Encrid assessed his opponent with a single glance.
An attack based on an explosive charge.
In terms of swordsmanship, it belonged to the swift sword category. In the language of the far southern edge, it was Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu. Translating that back into the language of the continent: the straight sword, the heavy sword, the deceiving sword, the fast sword, and the soft sword. Swordsmanship was broadly divided into these five categories, but when various footwork and other elements were woven in, they often became entirely new styles.
Such was the opponent’s swordsmanship. A harmony of fast feet and fast hands. A swift and rapid blade.
The opponent bounced lightly in place, then moved again. His movements were lightning-fast. He swung the sword in his hand, which resembled a scimitar. It felt as though anything caught by that curved blade would be instantly severed.
Encrid shifted his feet and retreated.
Clang!
Cl-cl-clang!
Clang!
Even though Encrid blocked the clashes five times in rapid succession, the opponent did not rest. Not even the sound of breathing could be heard, yet the attacks continued relentlessly. He didn't slow down at all. It was as if he were declaring he could swing like this all day.
Encrid was unbothered. The man was slower than Lycanos.
After blocking a total of nine strikes and retreating ten paces, Encrid held his sword with only his right hand, intending to deflect the opponent’s strike.
The opponent feigned a heavy slash, then pulled his sword back and instantaneously bent his knees to lower his stance.
Leaving his right hand as it was, Encrid placed his left hand on the sword belt fastened to his right hip and gripped another sword. The sword’s name was Spark. It was extremely light, making it difficult to handle, but when aiming for a single thrust, it was the best choice.
The opponent’s movements were so incredibly fast that the man who had been in front of him was suddenly airborne. There wasn't even the sound of him kicking off the ground. It was as if he had materialized out of thin air right above Encrid’s head. It was a feat bordering on acrobatics.
He slashed downward from midair. A strike that put weight into speed while suspended in the air, with a timing and velocity half a breath faster than the previous nine strikes. It was his deciding move—his trump card.
Encrid did not back down. Instead, he moved his left hand.
The downward slash from above and the rising beam of light from below grazed past each other diagonally.
Slash!
The curved sword cut across Encrid’s chest. However, it failed to slice his flesh. It lacked that final bit of force.
"Ugh... to think you’re faster than me..."
Because a sword was now impaled in his chest, the opponent had been unable to properly follow through with his strike. Consequently, the man’s sword had only managed to graze Encrid’s chest. It sliced through the leather breastplate and the gambeson, but it could not penetrate the inner armor worn beneath. The armor he had obtained when saving Odd-Eye was proving its worth.
The man, now with a hole in his chest, fell to the ground and thrashed.
"I’ve been playing with someone truly fast lately," Encrid told the dying man.
The man blinked a few times, then stopped breathing. He was dead. It was a wonder he had managed to speak at all with his heart pierced.
Encrid swung his sword through the air to flick off the blood. His chest felt numb from the impact of that last blow. Clear slash marks were left on the gambeson and leather breastplate covering his chest. However, because it hadn't cut through his bandage armor, he wasn't wounded. Judging by the dull ache in his bones, the man’s strength had been no joke.
Encrid did not know who he had just killed, but the Azpen commander did. He was a man named Fast-Hand Janus. He was one of the most prominent mercenaries active within Azpen. His swift slashes and nimble movements had been a nightmare to many, but that nightmare ended here.
"Shall we keep going?" Encrid said to the enemy soldiers as he took a step forward.
His allies watched him from behind. In particular, the soldier who had been whining until the very end couldn't take his eyes off him.
I’m a fucking idiot.
He fought ridiculously well. Truly, disgustingly well. From the start, it wasn't something a guy like him had any right to critique. The approaching enemy soldiers weren't straw bundles or rotten wood, yet they fell and tumbled one after another as soon as they drew near.
Ah, to think I said those things to a man like that.
It was because of Helma. He had a secret crush on her, but she seemed completely smitten by this man, which had bothered him. He had been jealous. He felt ashamed. Embarrassed. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die. What kind of nonsense had he spewed to a man like that?
Take the lead? Do you even know how to fight?
He had subtly mocked him so many times. He had wondered what this bastard was doing, constantly munching on eel next to him.
"Ah, fuck."
The soldier converted his anger and shame into physical strength.
"Kill them all!"
Whipped into a frenzy, the soldier went wild. This wasn't happening only to him. Encrid’s performance had driven all the soldiers into a state of collective euphoria.
"How dare you!" Helma also shouted.
The enemy was being pushed back. Although Azpen had superior numbers, they were losing in morale and combat effectiveness. Because the tide of battle had shifted solely due to the existence of Encrid, the advantage lay with Naurilia.
Actually, it was a bit strange. The enemy’s movements were peculiar. They fought, but they seemed to move according to a certain set of rules. If someone were to look down upon the entire battlefield from above, it would have looked like a bizarre pattern.
Encrid pushed deeper, and the enemy soldiers retreated. Yet, they were retreating while subtly maintaining their formations, and the number of enemies between Encrid and his allies was steadily growing. However, no one sensed any danger. The battle was so clearly in their favor. It was a fight that would end the moment the enemy stopped resisting and fully retreated.
Encrid kept advancing. After Fast-Hand Janus, two more fairly well-known mercenaries attacked him.
"My name is Joy Hurier!"
A swordsman of the Hurier family also lunged at him. Encrid brought them all down within five to seven exchanges.
"You monster!"
The enemy soldier’s scream sounded like an admission of defeat. It was a moment where no one could possibly predict a defeat for the Naurilian army.
The Azpen units that had retreated to avoid Encrid shifted restlessly within their ranks. Forcing themselves to maintain their formations and lines, they were secretly severing the connection between Encrid and his allies.
Watching the flow of the battlefield from afar, Abnayor muttered to himself, "Come deeper. Deeper."
While the front was a plain, the rear consisted of hillocks—a place where several small hills rose haphazardly. Heading toward the river from here would lead to a valley, while turning right would lead to a forest. Abnayor’s preparations were laid everywhere.
*
Krais blocked those who tried to flank them. It had been worth saving the cards of Sinar and Dunchabel.
"We’ve blocked them!" Nurat ran up and shouted.
Krais quietly clenched his fist. Good. Now, it was fine even if they just maintained a stalemate. Even in this situation, the enemy fought endlessly. They showed no intention of retreating. It was a foolish move.
They want to fight all night?
That would only cause massive casualties to both armies. To be more precise, Azpen’s losses would be several times greater. They would suffer irreversible damage from this single battle alone. Yet, they wouldn't withdraw. Nor could his own army pull back first. It was a won battle. It was clearly a won battle, but...
What on earth are they planning?
Krais was frustrated, unable to fathom the enemy’s intentions. Despite winning, his expression remained dark.
*
"Block him with your bodies!"
Some members of the Gray Dog unit, who had been lying in wait, struck at Encrid’s rear. They were men who prided themselves on their sheer tenacity.
"Push him to the very end!"
Are these bastards insane? Encrid thought as he swung his sword. It was time to fall back.
Azpen was barely holding on by throwing bodies and lives into the meat grinder. If another day passed like this, the chances of victory would tilt overwhelmingly toward Naurilia. Yet, the enemy did not give up. The Gray Dog wasn't the only problem. Before he knew it, the eyes of the surrounding enemy soldiers had changed. Their momentum was extraordinary.
"Kill him!"
"Kill!"
Encrid did not know. Some of them had their families held hostage, while others were criminals. They were men discarding their present for the sake of a future. If they survived here, their crimes would be pardoned. If they survived here, their families would receive krona. On top of that, if they killed a single man, they would receive an amount of krona they couldn't even dream of. They were a suicide squad that had come for a price.
Of course, even they had tried to flee after facing Encrid a few times at first. Facing him felt like simply throwing their lives away. But they couldn't even do that.
"Shoot anyone who retreats!"
If they backed away, the spears and arrows of their own allies would fly at them immediately. It was the barrier unit—a unit that ruthlessly stabbed the backs of retreating allies. To live, they had to move forward. And so, they did.
The atmosphere grew increasingly bizarre. Encrid did not stop striking, fighting, and killing as he tried to withdraw, but he could not easily return to the main army.
"I am Dolce Hurier!"
Swordsmen of the Hurier family lunged, mercenaries attacked, and those who disregarded their own lives blocked him with their bodies. Encrid’s muscles began to tremble. The human wall was too thick to break through by sheer force alone.
Meanwhile, the main Naurilian army tried to push forward, but Azpen resisted with desperate, dying strength. Ultimately, things went awry. Encrid was isolated.
There were several reasons for this.
First, the enemy was willing to accept sacrifices.
"What the fuck is this?"
Krais was the first to realize it. They had thrown away hundreds of lives just to isolate Encrid. A portion of the Gray Dog unit had even thrown themselves at the Border Guard standing army in unfavorable terrain. All they had achieved by accepting such losses was severing the connection between Encrid and his allies.
Second was the enemy’s resolve. It was also Abnayor’s resolve.
The men holding Encrid reached out even as they died. They grabbed him and held on. That created a far more arduous path than expected. They were risking their lives to bind his feet.
Third was the terrain, formation, and preparation.
Abnayor had prepared many things, and among them was this. Encrid, who had tried to shake off the enemy and return, had somehow lost his way. Sorcery was mixed into this, but no one could notice. It was only natural. These were things prepared one by one during their slow march. They were prepared solely to capture a few specific individuals.
Among them were people, and there were also formations—what they called battle arrays at the far eastern or southern edges of the continent. Encrid could not find his way even by looking at the sky. The trickery of sorcery had obscured the starlight. Before he knew it, the sun had set and night had fallen.
The moment Encrid was trapped in a place thick with overgrown bushes between the hillocks, Abnayor spoke from within his camp as if declaring a verdict.
"Got him."