Chapter 34: Why Do You Go to Such Lengths?
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 34: Why Do You Go to Such Lengths?
"Is your definition of scouting different from mine, Squad Leader?"
Rem asked, idly twirling his axe.
"What do you mean?"
"You look like you crawled back from the grave."
"It’s just a scratch on my side."
"If that’s a scratch, then getting actually cut must mean instant death, huh?"
Rem cackled.
The bastard hadn't changed a bit. Then again, why would he? It had only been a few days for them. To Encrid, months had passed in the blink of an eye, but for the rest of the squad, a week hadn't even finished.
"I did almost die, though," Encrid admitted, tracing the wound on his side.
In truth, he had experienced death countless times, but that wasn't something he could say out loud.
"Let me see."
Sachsen approached and pulled back the torn fabric over the injury. Encrid shifted his weight and lifted his shirt to give him a better look.
"Like you’d even know what you’re looking at," Rem grumbled.
Sachsen ignored him entirely, his focus fixed on the wound.
"It’s nothing," Encrid insisted.
"The bone is intact, but if you underestimate a 'minor' wound, you’ll pay for it later."
He had a point.
"I already applied some ointment."
"Good." Sachsen nodded.
"Looks like you got into a real scrap out there," Big-Eyes said, taking in Encrid’s disheveled state.
His hair was matted with grease, and his eyes were hollow from marching without rest immediately following a battle. Between the lack of sleep, the absence of a proper meal, and the grime of the road, he looked like a wreck.
A scrap? More like I turned the entire enemy camp upside down.
There was no need to recount every detail, so he simply nodded. Watching Rem and Ragna spar the moment he returned had made him break into a fresh sweat, leaving his body completely spent.
Right now, he had priorities.
"Got anything to eat? And some water."
It was time to recover. Honestly, he wanted to pick up his sword and train immediately, but there was a limit to what his current physical condition could handle. Given the sheer number of enemies gathered in the Tall Grass Field, this campaign wasn't going to end anytime soon. Since he would inevitably be sent back to the front, he needed to get his body back in shape.
"Go wash up first. I’ll prepare a royal feast for you," Rem said with a grin.
Encrid nodded and headed toward a nearby stream. There was a reason the infantry had camped here; the stream provided easy access to drinking water and a place to wash away the filth of war.
When he dipped his hand into the water, a sharp chill raced up his arm.
It’s getting cold.
The season was turning; the temperature was beginning to drop. Encrid splashed his face, stripped off his clothes, and scrubbed away the blood, grease, and sweat clinging to his skin.
That guy.
As the water cleared his head, the events of the mission came rushing back. The Tall Grass Field, the ambush, the flagpole, and finally, the man holding the sword and the torch.
I have a feeling we’ll meet again.
It was a premonition—a certainty that their paths would cross in a situation they couldn't avoid.
Is this the wall?
Hadn't the Eyeless Ferryman said it? That walls would endlessly block his path.
He wasn't worried. If a wall blocked him, he would simply climb over it. To be honest, he was actually looking forward to it. He regretted not being able to settle things with that man before he left.
Of course, in a true fight to the death, Encrid would likely be the one dying, but he still didn't want to run. He wanted to clash with him. The moment he had locked eyes with that man, an intense, primal competitive urge had flared up inside him.
Sometimes, you just run into people like that. It was like falling in love at first sight, but the exact opposite—an opponent you desperately wanted to dismantle and defeat.
When he returned to the camp, cleaned and refreshed, he found warm soup, bread, and even golden-brown meat skewers. While it wasn't exactly a "royal feast," it was a rare luxury on the battlefield.
"Rabbit?"
At Encrid’s question, Rem cleared his throat and puffed out his chest.
"I prepared it myself."
"Hey, I’m the one who actually caught the damn thing," Big-Eyes grumbled, glaring at him.
"Right. Thanks."
Encrid devoured the food in seconds.
"I think this every time I watch you, but you sure can eat, Squad Leader."
"You need food to have strength."
"You’re the most peculiar person I’ve ever met," Rem said, crossing his arms and spouting nonsense.
To think he was being called "peculiar" by a member of the troublemaker squad—specifically the one whose hobby was beating up his own allies.
"You’re the last person I want to hear that from."
Rem cackled again.
After the meal, the squad members drifted off. Sachsen left to attend to some business, and Krais headed out to "scout" for more information. The squad’s resident religious fanatic began praying in a corner, while Rem loitered outside the barracks, chuckling to himself—likely bothering passing soldiers with terrible jokes.
Meanwhile, Ragna sat nearby, staring blankly at Encrid. Encrid could feel the weight of the gaze.
"What?" Encrid finally asked, turning his head.
"Just looking," Ragna replied, half-reclining.
When Encrid tilted his head in confusion, Ragna looked away, muttering that it was nothing. He clearly had something on his mind, but Encrid didn't press him. From his time leading this group of misfits, he knew that forcing an answer never worked. If he waited, they usually brought it up themselves. And if they didn't, it wasn't worth worrying about.
Since he had just returned from a high-stakes mission, he was exempt from night watch and cooking duties. Encrid ate his fill and slept soundly. Sachsen’s ointment was remarkably effective; the wound on his side began to close in no time. At this rate, two days of rest would be plenty.
But just because Encrid was lying down didn't mean he was idle.
I’d probably lose ten out of ten times.
Sitting still, Encrid was continuously swinging his sword in his mind.
His first opponent was Rem, the next was Ragna, and finally, the enemy he had encountered in the field. He pondered every move.
The old swordsman who had taught him in that quiet coastal territory had once told him:
"If you don't want to die to a stray blade, you have two options. One is to beg the Goddess of Fortune on your hands and knees, over and over again."
In other words, leave it to luck.
"The second is to think. Think until your head hurts, countless times."
The old man had said that if you fought with your life on the line and survived, that battle became your greatest asset. But how does one survive such a fight in the first place?
By pondering. By deliberating. By obsessing over every detail.
He had been told to endlessly visualize every possible outcome. If you faced an enemy without a plan, you were relying entirely on luck. If you wanted to live, you had to solve the problem before the sword even left the scabbard.
He was a decent teacher.
It had been the perfect advice for the Encrid of that time, and it remained his guiding light today.
Encrid pondered. What must he do to win? What must he do to at least survive?
His desperate struggle to find those answers had birthed the Valen-style Mercenary Sword. Some dismissed it as crude trickery, but it was Encrid’s core.
Deceptive Breath. The Three-Sword Style that incorporated headbutts. Drawing techniques used to launch daggers or stones. In reality, they were absurd, anticlimactic tricks—but they were devastatingly effective against those seeing them for the first time.
The Encrid in his mind swung his blade.
He took a thrusting stance and threw a stone. He feigned a draw and launched a throwing knife.
In his mindscape, Rem swung his axe and deflected them all. Ragna shifted his weight and dodged with ease. And the man with the torch ignored the flying stone, rushed forward, and drove his sword straight through Encrid’s heart.
In reality, they might not move exactly like that, but in the theater of his mind, that was the standard he had to overcome.
Again.
He visualized the exchange a thousand times. Encrid spent an entire day in that mental loop before finally falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. The fatigue of the mission had finally claimed him.
The next morning, Krais brought back their rations: watery soup, salty jerky, and crumbly bread.
"Are you on duty today?"
"Yeah. You were sleeping like a log."
"I was tired."
Krais rolled his large eyes and leaned in. "So, what happened out there? Give me the details."
Krais, "Big-Eyes," was the squad’s primary source of gossip and intel. Encrid hesitated for a moment but decided there was no harm in sharing. It would be common knowledge soon enough. He kept it brief, mentioning only that the enemy was lying in ambush within the Tall Grass Field.
"Damn it," Big-Eyes muttered. "If they’re setting an ambush there, they aren't planning on letting us pass quietly. But does an ambush even make sense in that spot?"
Krais didn't know the first thing about high-level strategy, yet he often had a knack for hitting the nail on the head.
It doesn't make sense.
If the scout unit’s route hadn't been specifically set through there, they would have passed by without ever knowing the enemy was there. And if Encrid didn't have the ability to repeat the day, the scouts would have simply been wiped out in silence.
An ambush was a reactive tactic. Yet, the main army wasn't even marching toward the Tall Grass Field. It was illogical.
"We don't know yet," Encrid replied.
That was the only honest answer. He assumed the commanders were planning something, but it was clear the enemy was, too. That flagpole, and the man guarding it... the sheer density of the troop deployment suggested a desperate determination to annihilate anyone who approached.
"Tsk. And here I thought things would end quietly this time."
"An order will probably come down today or tomorrow."
As if on cue, shouting erupted outside the tent.
"We’re moving! 4th Company, fall in!"
It was the voice of the 4th Platoon Leader. He poked his head into Encrid’s tent.
"Your legs still work, don't they? I heard you went through hell out there."
"Where did you hear that?"
"Rumors are everywhere. They’re saying you’re the hidden child of the Goddess of Fortune."
Since Encrid had credited his survival to pure luck, it was a natural conclusion for the camp gossip mill.
"Then who’s my father?"
"How should I know?" The platoon leader chuckled. "You must be exhausted, but we’re moving out. Word is we’re heading east, so get your gear ready."
Encrid pushed himself up. East meant toward the Tall Grass Field. Since the command now knew about the ambush, they wouldn't charge in blindly, but they were clearly positioning for a confrontation.
"Looks like a fight’s coming. The air feels heavy," Rem said, suddenly appearing at Encrid’s side.
"Is that so?"
"Don't go getting cocky just because you’ve survived a bit of luck, or you’ll end up face-down in a ditch. Be careful."
Encrid couldn't tell if that was a warning or a curse.
It wasn't just the 4th Company; the entire infantry battalion was on the move. Hundreds of men were marching in formation.
Step, step.
The rhythmic thud of boots on dirt filled the air. There was no battle that day. They marched, set up a temporary camp, lit fires, and settled in. Unless the commander was completely incompetent, he wouldn't order a night charge into the tall grass. They were likely just closing the distance to prepare for whatever came next.
By the end of the day, the wound on Encrid’s side had faded to a dull ache.
The next morning, orders came down for each squad to handle their own cooking. The six members of the squad gathered around a single pot.
"I caught a lizard on the march," Sachsen said, dropping the cleaned meat into the stew.
"Look at you, actually being useful for once," Rem remarked, genuinely pleased.
Sachsen, as usual, didn't bother to reply. Rem growled at the silence, but Sachsen simply ignored him.
They actually make a decent pair, Encrid thought. One talked enough for two, and the other didn't talk at all.
In the army, the simple acts of moving, eating, and resting were exhausting chores. Throughout the march and the meal, Encrid felt that same intense gaze on him.
Ragna was staring again.
"You’re going to wear a hole in my face," Encrid said casually.
Ragna immediately looked away. "It’s nothing."
He clearly had something to say.
Though the atmosphere was thick with the tension of impending battle, another day passed without incident. Encrid spent his time trying to physically manifest the techniques he had practiced in his mind. Some were easier than expected; others were frustratingly difficult.
As he stood in a quiet corner of the camp swinging his sword, Ragna finally approached him.
"Why do you go to such lengths?"
The question came out of nowhere, but Encrid understood him perfectly. He was surrounded by men who struggled with words; Ragna was just the blunt type. You had to listen to the intent, not just the phrasing.
Encrid was the perfect person for that. He scratched his forehead, considering the question.