Chapter 36: Mist of Massacre
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 36: Mist of Massacre
Ragna was bewildered, but he quickly gave up on trying to make sense of it.
‘He was always an odd one, anyway.’
To his eyes, Encrid was far from normal.
"Shall we start now?" Encrid asked.
"Sure," Ragna replied.
Under the clear blue sky, the two of them started from scratch, beginning with the most basic fundamental: how to hold a sword.
Actually, they started by finding the right weapon first.
"You’ve got plenty of strength, so there’s no reason to stick with a light weapon. I think a heavier longsword would suit you better. Let’s swap."
Ragna handed over the sword at his waist. Encrid found the gesture highly unusual. Did people usually hand over a weapon they were accustomed to so easily?
"I haven't used it long enough for it to become second nature yet, anyway," Ragna added.
When Encrid took it, he realized it wasn't a particularly remarkable blade. The one he had been using actually felt superior, but he accepted it regardless. Ragna was the one teaching him now; it was only right to follow his instructions.
"Understood."
He switched from an arming sword to a longsword. With its longer hilt, it was a weapon meant to be swung with both hands. The blade was a span longer and significantly heavier. Still, it wasn't a poorly made weapon. Though not crafted from high-quality steel, its balance and overall finish were decent.
"Right hand in front, left hand in back."
After swapping swords, they started fresh, beginning with the grip.
Encrid lost himself in the training. The same went for Ragna. The squad leader's mere presence was a catalyst. Teaching Encrid directly fueled Ragna's own motivation, and he, too, became fully absorbed in the moment.
The two spent their time like that until well past noon. They were so focused that they only realized how much time had passed long after they had skipped lunch.
"Playing house and skipping meals? What are you two up to?"
Only when Rem showed up did Encrid register the passage of time.
"Now that you mention it, I am hungry," Ragna muttered.
"You bastard, did you bully our squad leader?" Rem barked.
"Piss off, barbarian."
"You piss off, you lazy bastard."
The two bickered as usual. Drenched in sweat, Encrid let his sword hang low. He was exhausted. He had resolved to start anew, but mastery wasn't something that happened overnight.
‘I’m lacking.’
Time was desperately short. Originally, he had planned to cleverly pluck only the techniques. Since he could repeat the day, he had expected his skills to improve rapidly that way.
‘It’s the exact opposite.’
To think he lacked even the basic fundamentals. He hadn't expected this at all. He realized something else anew: building a foundation under the guidance of a master swordsman was on a completely different level than struggling alone.
"What was the intent behind the direction of your toes?"
"Your grip is slipping."
"Are you trying to thrust? Or slash?"
"What is it you want to do right now?"
"This won't do. We need to start with learning how to walk properly."
The nagging poured down like a rainstorm. Yet, every single word became an asset.
Ragna, who had been bickering with Rem, suddenly turned to Encrid. "By the way, don't you want to show off or anything once you get better at swordsmanship?"
Ragna asked, recalling the reason he had first picked up a sword as a child. It would be a lie to say there was no desire to stand out. Naturally, Encrid also possessed ambition, competitiveness, and desire. In his fantasies, he had even imagined standing guard before a noble lady and receiving her handkerchief.
How could he not? The desire for recognition was inherent in everyone.
"I have plenty of ambition. I want to show off like crazy," Encrid replied. He wanted to be cheered by crowds and become the protagonist of a bard's song.
Ragna nodded. It seemed to suffice as an answer.
"What are you blabbering about? Anyway, we're being summoned. Orders are in—assemble, the enemy’s been spotted."
It was battle once again. Encrid nodded.
Looking at Encrid, Ragna wondered if he had done something foolish.
‘Will he even survive today?’
What would happen if Encrid went out to the battlefield like this? An unfamiliar sword, and a clumsy, awkward level of swordsmanship. That was the "new" sword he had built today. Because of that, Ragna expected him to die.
‘He has no talent.’
Throughout the time they spent rebuilding his fundamentals, Ragna had realized how pathetic Encrid's skills actually were. This wasn't something that could be fixed in a day. Ragna briefly blamed himself.
‘Did I just drive him to his death?’
Regret washed over him. His big mouth was the problem. When had anything ever gone right when he interfered? Why did he have to step up today?
Sighing with regret, Ragna made up his mind.
‘I’ll stay close to him.’
He would protect him for today, if possible.
"Enemy forces!"
The time for battle arrived in an instant. Even before they could pack up their temporary camp, the enemy infantry strode forward from beyond the tall grass field. Their march was bizarrely fast.
As the various units gathered to face the threat, they noticed the peculiar way the enemy forces were assembled. They were scattered in distinct clusters, and each unit held a long flagpole.
Flap-flap-flap-flap!
Flags fluttered atop the poles. Suddenly, a strong wind blew from the enemy's side toward them. Squinting against the wind that lashed at his eyelids, Encrid looked at the flagpoles and the enemy soldiers. In that instant, he felt that this battlefield would be anything but easy.
It was an intuition born of the survival instincts that had kept him alive for years. And he soon realized that his intuition was correct.
"What is this?" at the front of the infantry line, a platoon leader muttered.
It was a familiar face—the Vengeance Platoon Leader. He was the one who had exchanged an awkward infantry-style salute with Encrid when they parted at the medical tent.
Then, a thick mist began to roll in between the platoon leader and Encrid.
*
"We've been hit!"
Even before her adjutant could speak, the Elf Company Commander grasped the situation. Her keen elven senses allowed her to feel the flow of the battlefield through her skin.
‘Magic? Sorcery?’
A thick mist was beginning to blanket the battlefield. It was no natural phenomenon. Her senses as an elf—a friend of nature and the forest—warned her of something unnatural. The artificial mist settled heavily, and soon, she couldn't see an inch ahead.
"Company Commander!"
Hearing her adjutant's panicked voice, the Elf Company Commander realized a crucial fact.
‘No one would have prepared for this.’
Suddenly losing their vision—everyone would be in a panic. And this wouldn't be a problem unique to the 4th Company. If this was an artificially created mist, it wouldn't just end here.
That ominous premonition soon became reality.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
Quarrels and arrows rained down. They were invisible projectiles, the call of the Grim Reaper pouring from beyond the mist. With sickening thuds, quarrels pierced the bodies of the surrounding soldiers. Her adjutant was struck in the head by an arrow and collapsed instantly.
The Elf Company Commander sharpened her senses to the absolute limit and leaped backward. Arrows thudded into the spot where she had just been standing. As she retreated, she drew her sword and swung.
Clang! Clang!
Two arrows were deflected by her blade. The commander immediately lifted the corpse of her dead adjutant to use as a shield. If she didn't, she would surely be killed by a stray arrow.
Mist and arrows.
‘A prepared strategy.’
They had been completely blindsided.
*
"It worked!"
Exultation flared in the eyes of the Azpen Principality Commander. Soon, he would be able to crown this battlefield with the name of victory. The resources consumed for this were by no means small; failure was unacceptable.
As soon as the mist thickened, the commander shouted, "Fire!"
The order, mixed with joy and excitement, was delivered. Prepared arrows and quarrels rained down upon the enemy.
What Azpen had prepared was sorcery—a spell known by the moniker 'Mist of Massacre' that blinded the opponent.
At the commander's shout, the shaman wore a satisfied smile. The sorcery was a success. It was a spell cast using the blood of a hundred newborn lambs, calves, and foals, along with water from a lake untouched by human hands as a medium.
It wasn't just ordinary ingredients that went into it. Much had been sacrificed for this sorcery. The commander didn't know the full extent of it, but the shaman had poured his heart and soul into the ritual. The terrain, the climate, and even the rain-summoning spells he had cast previously were all for this moment.
The ground had to be wet for it to activate. Flags and flagpoles soaked in blood served as the medium for the sorcery. The troops protected by the flagpoles were unaffected by the mist—that was the entirety of the trick the shaman had pulled.
However, one couldn't dismiss this as a mere trick. The enemy couldn't see, but they could. Anyone who wasn't a complete idiot knew how massive an advantage that gave in a large-scale battle.
The shaman didn't care about the direction of the fight or its success. He was simply pleased with the success of his sorcery.
"Are you happy because it succeeded?" the platoon leader guarding the flagpole asked.
He was the skilled swordsman, an Azpen Platoon Leader, who had previously cornered Encrid.
"It almost failed, so of course I'm happy," the shaman replied, recalling the enemy's night raid. The ritual could have been defiled, which would have wiped out all the sorcery power he had prepared. Just thinking about it made him dizzy.
Listening to the shaman, the platoon leader recalled the bastard who had carried out that raid.
‘That bastard.’
As a member of the Gray Dog, the Persistent Lovers, he wanted nothing more than to kill that man with his own hands. And that guy had to be somewhere in the enemy lines right now. The Azpen Platoon Leader had not forgotten the face illuminated by the torchlight. The pretty face of that enemy soldier.
He wanted to meet him again.
*
As the rapidly spreading mist approached, it carried the scent of water. At the same time, Encrid's vision was cut off. The Vengeance Platoon Leader, who had been visible just moments ago, vanished. Even Ragna, who had been right beside him, was gone from sight.
"Sorcery!" someone shouted. It was Rem's voice, spitting out his irritation. "Which fucking bastard did this?"
Sorcery? What sorcery?
Encrid ducked as he thought. Before he knew it, arrows and quarrels were flying overhead.
"Good job. Keep your head down," a voice spoke from right beside him. It was Ragna.
Clang! Thud!
The sounds of deflections echoed above his head. His ominous premonition had become reality.
‘Sorcery.’
Why on earth was there a shaman here? Why would a shaman, who existed only in extremely rare numbers even among the minority tribes of the western frontier, be here?
The question of 'why' was practically meaningless right now. Encrid brushed the thought aside. Suddenly, a spearhead thrust forward right before his eyes.
Thump.
His Beast's Heart reacted. Boldness reared its head. If not for that, his body would have frozen, and he would have died right then and there. Reflexively, Encrid twisted his body to the left and swung his sword from bottom to top.
Clack!
A clumsy slash couldn't cut through an oiled spear shaft. The spear was merely deflected. It was a spearhead that had suddenly lunged out of the mist. Encrid tried to move forward, estimating the position from which the attack had come.
But then, another spearhead lunged at him.
Clack!
He barely blocked it this time as well. As he blocked, he realized his posture was broken and his weight distribution was a mess. The only thing he had done right was gripping his sword tightly. He had completely thrown away everything Ragna had nagged and taught him.
‘Well, then.’
Naturally, he hadn't expected to master it after learning it just once. So, what should he do now?
"Fall back," Ragna said.
Encrid moved in the exact opposite direction of the command. Thanks to Sachsen, his hearing had become sharp. Though he couldn't see, he could hear.
"Aaargh!"
"Gaaah!"
"Die!"
"Damn it!"
Amidst the screams and curses echoing from all directions, Encrid threw himself forward.
"...Squad Leader!" Ragna’s startled shout rang out behind him.
And then.
Squelch!
A spearhead pierced his throat.
‘Precise.’
This was better than having a clumsy hole poked in his torso. Excruciating pain spread from his neck throughout his entire body. His vision began to turn pitch black.
"Crazy bastard," muttered the soldier who had stabbed him. He had panicked because Encrid had suddenly lunged forward, offering his neck. "Drop dead."
The soldier kicked Encrid away. As the spearhead slid out, a second wave of extreme pain hit him. Encrid felt death approaching. He knew that in the time it took to draw a few more breaths, darkness would completely envelop him.
Yet, he was satisfied. What did excruciating pain and the terror of death—which he could never get used to no matter how many times he repeated it—matter?
‘With this...’
'Today,' the day he could learn the fundamentals from Ragna, would begin anew. How incredibly delightful that was.
"Heh... heh..."
Encrid laughed as blood poured from him. Seeing this, the enemy soldier shook his head in disbelief. He had just witnessed a man who was truly, utterly insane.
Blackout. Darkness fell.
When he opened his eyes, 'today' had begun once more.
*
"Why do you go to such lengths?" Ragna asked.
This time, instead of scratching his forehead, Encrid answered immediately.
"Because I want to be good with a sword."
It was a different answer than before, but the destination remained the same.
"Do you want to learn the sword?"
Of course. Ragna made the offer again, and Encrid accepted.
The second day of fundamental training—the second 'today'—had begun.
And then he stood on the battlefield. The mist rolled in.
"Huh? What the fuck?" Rem cursed again.
This time, Encrid deflected the spear shaft three times before offering his neck to the spearhead once more. Unluckily, it was a glancing blow. The skin of his neck tore open, spilling blood onto the ground.
‘Damn it.’
Dying of blood loss like this was too slow and painful. Before he could even finish the thought, one of the enemy soldiers thrust his spearhead again. He was grateful.
Thud.
He died once more.
And the third 'today' began.