Chapter 32: Dreams, Rebukes, and Responsibility
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 32: Dreams, Rebukes, and Responsibility
"And the flagpole?"
"It is safe, sir."
The commander of the Azpen Principality company wasn't particularly fond of the current operation. But what could a mere company commander do when orders came down from on high? If they told him to crawl, he crawled.
He was carrying out his orders to the letter, but a small problem had arisen in the process.
A few rats from Naurilia had infiltrated the camp and set fire to the tents. Despite more than half of his forces being deployed in the tall grass field, they had allowed an infiltration. No matter how much he disliked the mission, the operation had already begun. Getting hit like this was a matter of pride.
Failure was even more unacceptable.
"You should have kept a tighter guard," the owner of the flagpole remarked.
Veins bulged on the commander's forehead. It was irritating to hear this bastard run his mouth when drawing a sword and slashing his neck would end him in an instant. But what could he do? It was true that a hole had opened in the unit's perimeter.
"I will."
Flutter!
The commander pushed past the tent flap and stepped outside. He still couldn't wrap his head around the situation.
Does this make any sense?
The enemy finding this place? Fine, he could accept that. But what happened next? With fewer than ten men, they had bypassed the forces deployed in the tall grass and attacked the main camp's flagpole?
The commander trusted his unit. Naturally. His nickname was the "Demon Company Commander," an alias earned because he trained his men with brutal efficiency. His philosophy was simple: you had to vomit blood during training so you wouldn't vomit blood and die on the battlefield.
This was the unit he had raised.
And they broke through this?
A soldier may lose a battle, but a soldier must never fail in vigilance. The commander truly believed that. But could he simply blame his men's lack of alertness? He couldn't be that blind. The bastard who planned and executed this was no ordinary foe.
The sheer audacity to enter enemy territory with so few men. The skill to fight his subordinate platoon leader and survive. The perfect execution of the arson and the clean escape. Even if the platoon leader had been forced to let them go because the fire was spreading behind him...
Luck is also a skill.
Having roamed the battlefields for years, the Azpen commander knew the importance of luck. He turned to his waiting adjutant.
"Summon all commanders, except for the platoon leader on duty."
"Yes, Commander."
His company fell under the battalion, but it was a unit with independent operational authority—an independent company. Usually, such units had nicknames.
This unit's name was 'Gray Dog.'
In the Azpen Principality, the Gray Dog was a grey-furred canine famous for its relentless nature. A Gray Dog was only satisfied when it caught its chosen target, no matter what—whether that connection was for a mate or a kill. Because of this, the Gray Dog unit was also known as the 'Persistent Lover.'
Now, the commander of that unit had set his sights on the enemy's nameless scout squad leader.
I will hunt you down and kill you.
The Gray Dog had chosen its target. The commander engraved that resolve deep into his chest. He would hunt them down and crush them.
Above his head, perhaps due to the workings of the shaman inside the tent, clouds began to gather. It looked like it would rain soon. Most of the intermittent rain recently had been the work of that shaman.
The shaman was the core of this tactic. The commander still disliked the method, but there was no denying its efficiency. If this operation had been utter nonsense, the commander of the Gray Dog—the 'Persistent Lover'—would never have participated, even if beaten to death.
It was a battlefield where victory was promised. Burning with a desire for revenge was one thing, but he couldn't help but find the predictability incredibly boring.
*
"So, you coincidentally discovered an enemy ambush, coincidentally entered the enemy's main camp, and coincidentally set fire to it before returning?"
Hearing it put that way, it did sound absurd. Instead of nodding, Encrid offered an explanation.
"Yes. The result of acting on what I believed to be the right judgment at that moment just happened to turn out that way."
The scout platoon leader blinked. What on earth was this fellow saying?
A guy around his own age who had luckily become a squad leader. A fool with terrible skills who swung his sword at every opportunity. That was the public reputation of the Troublemaker Squad's leader.
But hearing what he had just accomplished... and this was just hearing it from Encrid's own mouth. The stories from the surviving squad members were even more spectacular.
"Rumors really can't be trusted. If possible, I want to learn more by his side."
This was Andrew, who had been so arrogant before leaving that it had caused genuine concern. The platoon leader had worried that sending the bastard along might lead to an accident. Now, Andrew spoke as if it were only natural that his command of the scout unit had been taken. No, he even wanted to learn from the man.
Was this really the Andrew he knew?
"In terms of skill alone, I'd say he's surpassed the level of an intermediate soldier," added Mac, Andrew's protector.
The scout platoon leader knew Mac's skills. He had entrusted the scout unit to Andrew partly because he trusted Mac to keep things steady. And yet, Encrid had won Mac's recognition through sheer skill.
"He knows a lot. We just did as he ordered, and this was the result," said Enri, the plainland hunter.
The squad members' evaluations were unanimous. They said they had simply trusted and followed him. They wouldn't all band together to tell the same lie.
Therefore, it had actually happened. Encrid had seized command of the scout unit. With a mere ten men, he had evaded the eyes of the enemy soldiers ambushed in the tall grass, set fire to the enemy camp, and returned alive.
Does this make any sense?
It didn't seem possible, but since they had already set the fire and mapped out the enemy's movements, he had nothing to say. Trying to organize everything he had heard only left him bewildered. Stories about how they stood still among the enemy and the enemy just bypassed them. Stories about how they moved right through enemy territory in the dark without being detected.
"Well, uh... you must have been incredibly lucky."
In the end, that was all the scout platoon leader could say. Encrid thought that was an appropriate assessment. He couldn't exactly explain that he had memorized the enemy's movements and camp layout because "today" repeated every time he died.
"Yes, luck was on our side."
If this was luck, it was no ordinary luck. It was as if the Goddess of Fortune had gone beyond a mere kiss and shared a bed with him. But in truth, there was no other way to explain it.
Since there was no reason to hide it, rumors began to circulate within the scout platoon. They said Encrid, the leader of the Troublemaker Squad, was a man blessed with luck—a man with whom the Goddess of Fortune had entrusted her coins. Some said he was luck itself, while others claimed he had used up a lifetime's worth of luck on this single mission.
Nothing happened on the way back to the main camp. The only occurrence during their half-day march was a brief, drizzling rain falling from a clear sky. It was uncommon, but it happened.
Throughout the return journey, Encrid was absorbed in a single thought.
Was that the best I could do?
It was a question he posed to himself. If he had repeated 'today' a few more times, could he have brought about a different result? Regrets always linger, no matter the task. Encrid had realized this since he was young. What mattered was the choice, and the process of making that choice.
I thought it was the best choice.
Because he could repeat the day, other thoughts naturally crept in—delusions and doubts about whether that had truly been the best path, and regrets over whether there might have been another option.
Only four.
That was the number of those who had returned alive with him. Five, including himself. Half of the unit had died. The outcome demanded an answer from Encrid. Was this the best? Was this really all you could do?
Five died.
Those five were neither Encrid's family nor his friends. They were merely squad members he had shared a brief journey with. Whether they existed or not changed nothing for the world. It was just that, in that moment, on that "today," they had been Encrid's responsibility.
The dream he had harbored in his chest for so long, the conviction that had guided him until now, rebuked him.
Was that truly the best? Couldn't you have saved more? Just what kind of knight do you intend to become?
It was the young Encrid who had been captivated by that simple word: knight. The boy who had been enchanted by the bard's songs of the Knight of the End of War had grown into an adult. As time passed, Encrid realized he possessed only a meager talent. Rolling through battlefields, he had come to realize his limits.
Even so, he did not abandon his dream, even if that dream had become worn and tattered leather. Even if it had become a scrap of cloth shredded by the blade of reality. Because he had never given up, he could avoid being someone merely captivated by the idea of a knight.
A knight is one who protects. A knight is one who steps forward. A knight is one who demonstrates his intent.
What kind of knight will I become?
By repeating today, Encrid had been able to step beyond his limits. If so, he had to protect the things he had seen with his own eyes and heard with his own ears.
As his dream, torn to shreds by reality, became the word conviction and rebuked him, Encrid accepted the weight of it. By doing so, he decided to let go of what had already passed. Even if he could have saved five more by repeating today, there was nothing he could do about it now. That 'today' was already over. Lingering on it was foolish.
"It's the main camp," one of the soldiers said.
"Whew, we survived," Enri muttered, leaning on a comrade for support.
"So, are you going to run straight to that flower shop widow when we get back?"
"Won't I only be able to go after this battle is over?"
At Encrid's words, Enri's face brightened. The joy of returning alive, of surviving through such hardships, filled his chest. It was the same for the others—especially for the thug-turned-soldier.
Throughout the march back, the man had chewed over what had happened. Just how had he managed to survive? He had thought he would live his whole life like a lowlife and die, but somehow he had ended up in the army. And somehow, he had ended up serving a master like Andrew.
Then came this mission. He had felt a great deal. After much thought, the soldier limped on his injured leg and approached Encrid.
They say if you don't know gratitude, you're not even human.
It was something the older brother who had taken him in used to say. That brother was long dead, but his words had become a guiding light. Even though he had lived a rough life, the thug knew how to repay a debt.
"I'm sorry for being rude before. I will repay the debt of you saving my life when the opportunity arises."
Encrid stared at the soldier, then nodded. Had he really saved his life? In truth, it was a place where they could have died at any moment; surviving was the soldier's own luck. During the repetitions of today, this soldier had died many times. It was just that on this today, the Goddess of Fortune had briefly lingered by his side.
"Do as you wish."
Replying indifferently, he turned around to see Andrew and Mac.
"I owe you one," Mac spoke first, his gaze friendlier than ever.
Andrew was even more so. "I hope we can meet again next time."
Encrid had thought of him as an endlessly arrogant brat, but the boy's attitude had changed. His eyes held respect. Encrid pressed his palm firmly against his aching flank.
"If we're on the same battlefield, we'll meet again. The flower of the battlefield is—"
"The infantry."
He used the infantry's slogan as his farewell. Watching from the side, the scout platoon leader approached.
"Everyone is dismissed to quarters. Wounded, head to the medical tent. Good work, everyone. And, uh... never mind."
The platoon leader had started to speak to Encrid about achievements and rewards but decided against it. Report first. They had accomplished something unbelievable. It was too early to bring up rewards when he didn't even know if the higher-ups would believe the report.
"Well then."
Seeing the pain in his flank subside, Encrid decided he didn't need treatment and set off. It was time to return.
I hope nothing happened.
In the tall grass field, he hadn't had the luxury to worry, but now that he was back, he wondered if his squad members had behaved. Whether they had picked a fight with other soldiers... or had beaten each other bloody. Whatever it was, it felt like something must have happened. They hadn't earned the name Troublemaker Squad for nothing.
He hadn't even reached the tents yet when it happened.
Clang!
A thunderous roar—the sound of heavy metal clashing against metal—struck his ears. The auditory training he had practiced under Sachsen bore fruit. He instantly located the source.
It was near the main camp's tents. Encrid quickened his pace. As he drew closer, he saw a crowd surrounding the area.
At the center, two figures were locked in combat, axe against sword. The location was right in front of the Troublemaker Squad's tent.
The one holding the axe was Rem.
The one holding the sword was Ragna.