Chapter 378: Repetition
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 378: Repetition
‘How did she execute such delicate movements?’
In his mind’s eye, Sinar swung her sword. Her footsteps were as light as a butterfly’s, and the Leaf Sword she wielded was just as weightless. Despite its unique shape—broad in the center like a literal leaf—it felt airy and fluttering in her grip.
Watching the blade move was like watching a dance; it seemed as though she hadn't invested a shred of strength into the strike.
But facing it in reality was a different story. It was a blow packed with genuine, devastating power. Having fought her himself, Encrid knew this all too well.
How did she achieve that?
To do something with absolute precision, one must exert force. Yet, to execute such fluid movements, one must remain relaxed. He understood the mechanics of the action in theory, but he had to wonder if his own body was truly capable of moving that way.
‘Is this a path I haven't discovered yet?’
No. He already knew the way. He had learned, practiced, and struggled through countless trials. Those lessons were already ingrained in his very marrow.
“Is there only one way to exert force? Without precision, the Isolation Technique is utterly meaningless.”
Audin had once told him that the body possessed various types of muscles. Just as there were large muscles for power, there were small, intricate muscles that allowed for delicate control. Because she had trained them relentlessly, Sinar possessed that surgical precision.
Encrid needed it, too.
“If you sharpen your senses, you will be able to feel it.”
Sachsen had said those words countless times. Drawing upon that wisdom, Encrid half-closed his eyes and began to swing the weapons in his hands.
After tracing an imaginary line in the air, he swung his sword precisely along its path. It didn't work on the first try. It didn't matter. Encrid simply repeated the motion.
It was similar to drawing a circle on a tree and training to hit only that spot, but striking a large, pre-drawn target and the training he called the ‘Meeting of Sword Tips’ were on completely different levels of detail.
In terms of the Naurilian Soldier Grading System, the gap was as wide as that between a low-grade conscript and a top-grade veteran.
Furthermore, an opponent's sword was never stationary.
‘Aisia doesn't stay still.’
She would take small steps, twist her body, and constantly shift the direction of her blade.
The answer was clear. He needed a level of precision akin to plucking a single feather from a bird in flight. To achieve that, he needed to master the Meeting of Sword Tips. Encrid immersed himself deeply, drowning in an ocean of concentration.
As he did, a voice finally reached his ears.
“This is no place for a barbarian to interfere! Go back and suckle on goat’s milk!”
The training of this third ‘today’ was not much different from the others, but the encounter with the sheriff—the event that triggered everything—was unfolding differently than before.
When Encrid turned his gaze, Rem was grinning as he gripped the handle of his axe.
“Goaaat?”
Ah, it was already too late to stop him.
Encrid halted in his tracks, abandoning any thought of intervening.
The South Gate Guard Captain was desperately trying to restrain the sheriff, but whether out of fierce loyalty, sheer thoughtlessness, or overconfidence in his own skills, one of the soldiers drew his sword and struck.
“You bastard!” the soldier shouted, stepping forward and aiming a downward slash at Rem’s head.
Just before the blade touched his hair, Rem moved.
He lightly kicked the ground and leaped to the side. The strike cut through empty air, and Rem immediately spun his axe, reversing its momentum.
Thwack!
A crisp, heavy sound echoed. It wasn't a flash-like slash, but a strike delivered with the butt of the axe. Hit by the flat back of the axe head, the soldier's abdomen caved in for a split second before snapping back out. Rem hadn't swung with the intent to kill, but it was far from a gentle tap.
“Gack!”
The soldier was launched through the air.
‘That’s going to hurt.’
Encrid knew the feeling well; he had been on the receiving end of such blows plenty of times. That was no padded training tool. If Audin’s hammer was at a bearable level, Rem’s strike was the kind that shattered bones and ruptured internal organs if it landed poorly.
The soldier crashed to the side and rolled across the dirt. He immediately began spewing vomit, tears, and snot. Blood was mixed in with the bile. After rolling once, the soldier retched a few more times before his eyes rolled back into his head. He had been hit in the stomach, yet the sheer agony had knocked him unconscious.
Rem snorted and muttered, “Fragile.”
It was a quiet voice, but in the silence that followed his display of power, everyone heard him loud and clear.
The sheriff gaped in shock. Then, he clamped his mouth shut, grit his teeth, and barked, “...This is treason!”
If left alone, Rem would start a massacre. Ragna and Sachsen, standing behind him, were the types to join the fray rather than stop it.
Encrid moved the instant the sheriff finished speaking. He stepped forward to ‘persuade’ them once again.
He kicked off the ground, keeping his body low as he advanced. Closing the distance, he struck the neck of the man blocking his path with the edge of his hand.
The fellow had been staring at Rem with a dumbfounded expression, but upon hearing the word ‘treason,’ he had unconsciously gripped his spear. The veins bulging on the back of his hand were impressive, but his body was stiff with tension. Even if he hadn't frozen, he lacked the skill to react to Encrid.
Crack!
Hit in the neck, the man collapsed with a gasp. Before his body even touched the dirt, Encrid spun, using the centrifugal force to slam his palm down onto the helmet of the soldier next to him.
A loud clang echoed as the palm strike met the steel.
“Ugh!”
The soldier's knees went limp like the legs of a floppy octopus. With his brain thoroughly rattled, he wouldn't be waking up anytime soon.
These were the two soldiers who had been blocking the direct path to the sheriff.
Having cleared the way, Encrid grabbed the sheriff's ankle where it rested in the stirrup. The startled official looked down at him.
Since their eyes had met, Encrid gave him a bright smile and yanked.
Snap!
“Aaaargh!”
The sheriff's other foot got caught in the stirrup as he fell, his leg snapping under the weight. Encrid was personally demonstrating the same tactic Dunchabel had used before.
Encrid silenced the sheriff, who was now hanging half-off his horse, by slamming an elbow into the man’s temple.
Thud. Crack.
There was the sound of vertebrae shifting, but he likely wouldn't die. All of this happened in the span of just two breaths.
Neigh!
Only then did the horse startle and rear up. Having accomplished his goal, Encrid took two steps back to avoid the hooves.
The squire watching from behind the sheriff stared with wide eyes, his hand frozen on his half-drawn sword. The security captain right next to him was equally paralyzed.
“Why didn't you just kill him?” Rem muttered from the side.
Encrid looked indifferently at the unconscious sheriff dangling from the saddle, then frowned slightly.
“What was the sheriff's name again?”
He had paid so little attention that the name had already slipped his mind.
“Polman Vertes,” the security captain answered, warily watching Encrid's reaction.
“If you're not going to do anything else, you'd better leave,” Encrid said.
The squire opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. What could he possibly say?
A heavy silence descended—deeper than the one following Rem’s strike. The soldiers were speechless. The security captain decided there was no need to step forward and get his own leg broken.
“You seem worse than me,” Rem remarked. “I'll hand the title of ‘Noble Hunter’ over to you.”
“Keep it for yourself.”
Rem threw out the casual remark, and Encrid shot it down instantly.
Clop-clop-clop-clop!
The sound of galloping hooves echoed, followed by a desperate shout.
“Save me!”
It was a cry from the depths of a soul, filled with absolute sincerity. It was a familiar voice and an expected event. This was the third time it had happened.
It was Marcus.
Encrid unhesitatingly pushed through the wall of soldiers and climbed onto the parapet. They didn't dare stop him; instead, they scrambled out of his way. Rem and Dunchabel leaped up beside him.
“Rem,” Encrid said, looking past Marcus. A pursuer in unusual clothing was visible.
“It's the Immortal Madman,” Rem noted. “I lost him before, but it seems he's been slacking off here. I'm going to go beat him to a pulp.”
“Go,” Encrid replied.
Rem dashed out without looking back. He leaped from the wall, displaying an inhuman ability to traverse the air. He landed on a distant roof and, while running at full speed, pulled out a throwing axe.
“You bastard! Try running away this time!”
There was no thought of an ambush. The opponent turned around immediately, and Rem welcomed it. Catching someone who fought back was easy; he wanted to chase down the fleeing prey and crush them. It was pure hunting instinct.
“You crazy bastard!”
Hearing himself called crazy by the Immortal Madman, Rem simply grinned and accelerated. He crossed roofs and walls before dropping to the ground, moving with terrifying speed. The Immortal Madman fled just as quickly.
The two disappeared from sight in an instant.
Encrid turned back toward the wall, raised a hand, and spoke. “I'm going to the royal palace. Who will stop Viscount Mernes's army from entering in the meantime?”
He abbreviated the explanation his friend, Squire Ropode, usually gave. Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, what was meant to happen would always happen. Ropode’s change of heart followed the same pattern as before.
“Ragna, Dunchabel.”
Encrid called to them after seeing the shift in Ropode’s eyes.
“Understood.”
“Hmph, got it.”
The two replied, preparing to welcome the group of assassins that appeared just as Marcus began explaining the chaos at the palace.
“Stab...”
As if they had been waiting in the wings, the assassins appeared on the wall. The white-haired assassin with the monocle, standing in the center, opened his mouth to speak.
Encrid rushed them the instant he saw them.
What was the point of talking? It was meaningless. He had the advantage of timing, and the difference in skill was clear. He leaped onto the wall and brought his sword down in a vertical arc.
In that moment, a brief thought crossed his mind.
‘Is my sword more precise than before?’
He couldn't tell. He couldn't feel a physical change yet.
In the assassin's eyes, something had suddenly blurred into his vision. Something was falling—fast. He didn't even have time to dodge before he offered his head to the blade.
Thud, crack!
The blade split the assassin's head vertically. The skull burst open, and brain matter and blood sprayed where the sword had passed. Encrid leaped back immediately.
Thud-thud-thud.
Three daggers and five darts embedded themselves exactly where he had been standing a second ago.
Encrid, having avoided them as if he had seen them coming, spoke up.
“Just so you know, I already got stabbed. So the request has been fulfilled. It went ‘ouch’ and it hurt, right? That's what you ordered, isn't it? I even have a scar here.”
He raised his left arm. Since he was wearing forearm guards, no scar was visible.
“That crazy bastard,” another assassin muttered.
“Your insults lack creativity,” Encrid shot back. Getting under an opponent's skin was a talent he was born with.
“You!”
The assassin bristled with rage. Usually, assassins specialized in silent kills. If things went wrong, they fought, but they rarely had to deal with verbal provocation. They were unaccustomed to being mocked like this.
Encrid had successfully grabbed the attention of every assassin present with a single kill and a few words.
Meanwhile, Sachsen had already vanished. Even without being told, he knew his role.
The white-haired monocle assassin grit his teeth. “The information leaked! Everyone, respond!”
Encrid's reaction had been too fast. To the assassin, it seemed impossible unless Encrid had known they were coming. And those words... Stabbed? Where? He realized the boy was mocking their profession.
He was a leader of the Assassin Union. He knew how to fight when the time came. Of course, he had no way of knowing that Encrid was simply repeating the day.
The assassins moved in patterns Encrid already recognized. He realized then that this group had trained together for years; they defaulted to the same formations regardless of the circumstances. The throwers threw, the vanguards retreated, and the specialists used poison.
However, Sachsen’s movements were slightly different during each of the three ‘todays.’ In the first loop, he had used a longsword; this time, he was a blur on the wall, wielding stilettos in both hands.
Blood splattered from his blades. Already, four assassins had been silenced.
Encrid found it fascinating. Why was Sachsen different every time when the opponents reacted the same way?
‘Is he responding to my movements?’
It was a hunch, but he felt it was correct.
“Strike that side first!” an assassin shouted, pointing at Sachsen. He was simply too threatening to ignore.
Seeing the opening, Encrid slipped away and whistled for Odd-Eye.
“Give me a ride.”
As he ran from the mansion, Odd-Eye pulled up beside him. Marcus was at the entrance, still mounted. Encrid gestured for him to stay on his horse and rode up alongside him.
This was the third ‘today.’
Encrid judged that this was better than hiding Marcus away. He usually made decisions similar to the first loop, but he knew perfection was an illusion. He simply made the optimal choice to survive by risking everything.
‘Everything cannot be perfect.’
He accepted that.
“Where are you going to hide?”
“I can take care of myself,” Marcus replied. “My lord is trapped in the royal palace. It seems the knights have made their move.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“...What?”
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
Marcus’s voice was swallowed by the thunder of hooves. Marcus pulled to the side, seemingly intending to find his own cover. During their brief rest, he had torn his shirt to bind his injured arm. It wasn't a wound that would stop him.
Encrid galloped along the outer road toward the palace, leaping over obstacles.
“Wow.”
He caught a glimpse of a startled soldier’s face as he blurred past.
He threw his body to the side in sync with Odd-Eye’s sudden halt. As he leaped down, Odd-Eye’s eyes showed a hint of surprise, as if asking how he had mastered such a maneuver.
“Thanks,” Encrid said, striding into the royal palace.
An old nemesis stepped forward to block his path.
“You—”
Thud!
Before the man could finish, Encrid lunged with Moment’s Will. Silver flashed, and the man’s head was gone.
The severed head collided with the white garden wall, leaving an elegant smear of crimson. Before the rest of the corrupt instructors could react, Encrid was among them. Like a wolf among sheep, he stabbed, slashed, and slaughtered those who had committed vile deeds in the palace.
After a brief word to a maid, he maintained his pace and finally faced the orange-haired wall.
“Yes, that’s far enough. Let’s start right away,” Encrid said, not slowing down. Before Aisia could speak, he leveled his sword.
It was the Meeting of Sword Tips.
Encrid drove his blade toward that singular point.
The beginning and end of the fight were not much different from the previous loops. He was not yet at a level where he could surpass Aisia.
The only difference was that the man he had seen on the first day never appeared. Instead, once Aisia defeated Encrid, she immediately turned away.
“There is something I need to check.”
She left, and then... darkness.
After that, it was repetition. And repetition again.
Encrid kept doing the same thing, over and over.