Chapter 38: The Fluttering Banners, the Soldier’s Blade Dance (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 38: The Fluttering Banners, the Soldier’s Blade Dance (1)
“Do I really have to learn the sword?” Ragna had once asked.
It was a biting remark, a blunt assessment of a body that simply refused to cooperate. And Ragna was right.
Encrid had not been born with talent. He had spent his life forcing a dull, stubborn body forward through sheer, unyielding effort.
However, because he had served under countless instructors, studied various styles of swordsmanship, and spent years in solitary contemplation, his mind was flexible. His adaptability was peerless.
Learning a technique for the first time was an uphill battle, but once he mastered it and stepped onto the battlefield, the story changed. In a way, he did possess a single, innate gift.
Flexibility and adaptability—those were Encrid’s true talents.
‘Depending on the situation, depending on the need... I just use whatever works.’
By the standards of the Kingdom of Naurilia, he was above intermediate at best. Even in the mercenary world, he was considered merely average. A skill level that was unremarkable wherever he went—that was Encrid’s current standing.
Yet, separate from his raw technical skill, his prowess in actual combat was exceptional. Because he had lived his life with humble talent, Encrid knew exactly how to squeeze every ounce of utility out of what he had.
A spearhead lunged toward him from the gloom.
His heightened hearing caught the sharp whoosh of tearing air. Though not as precise as sight, he caught the trajectory. He visualized his opponent’s movements in his mind’s eye.
‘A pivoting foot.’
Encrid took a single step. The Beast’s Heart lent him a surge of audacity. Shifting his weight onto his left heel, he drew his right foot back and spun.
The spearhead whipped past his eyes with a sharp whistle. Even though the weapon had lunged suddenly from the thick mist, Encrid didn’t panic.
There was no need to.
This was a spear that had already pierced and killed him dozens of times. He had dodged this very first thrust over two hundred times.
Instead of drawing his sword, Encrid lunged forward, grabbed the middle of the spear shaft, and yanked.
Jerked forward by the sudden force, the startled soldier gasped. “Huh?”
The enemy’s head emerged through the mist. Encrid seized it and twisted with a violent wrench.
Crack.
The soldier’s neck snapped. A man with a broken neck does not stay standing.
As the corpse collapsed, Encrid snatched the fallen spear. He recalled the enemy’s formation from before the mist had descended. They were all clumped together.
‘No matter where I throw it, I’ll hit someone.’
Stamping his left foot into the dirt, he hurled the spear with all his might. The weapon tore through the air and struck home with a heavy thud.
“Ack!” A death rattle echoed through the white shroud.
“What was that?”
“Crazy bastard!”
The panicked shouts of the enemy followed. Listening closely to the voices, Encrid crouched low and dashed forward. Even if they had eyes that could pierce the mist, it would be difficult to spot someone charging in at their feet.
Thud-thud-thud!
Crossbow bolts and arrows whistled overhead.
“Argh!”
“Ugh...”
“Fuck, arrows!”
Screams and curses erupted from his allies behind him. It was a sound to make one’s hair stand on end, but Encrid remained unmoved. He had already lived through this several times. If anything, the problem was that he felt too little tension.
Encrid closed the distance and drew his longsword. He estimated the range using his hearing; his intuition was precise.
Shring!
Drawing his sword and gripping it with both hands, he swung, executing a modified High Horizontal Slash.
Originally, the High Horizontal Slash was a defensive technique where one blocked the opponent’s blade with the guard before slashing with the back edge. Encrid altered it to suit his needs.
The stance was similar. Holding the sword above his crown, parallel to the ground, he shifted his grip. It was a thumb grip, with his thumb extended along the spine of the blade. From that stance, he carved a wide circle.
Because of his low, crouched posture, the High Horizontal Slash became a sweeping low strike. It was an absurd, unorthodox posture, and the blade lacked proper leverage.
However, it was entirely unexpected. The enemy could not react.
Whoosh!
Thud! Thwack!
He felt the heavy resistance of the blade biting into flesh.
“Argh!”
“What is this?!”
“Watch your feet!”
My, how quick of you to notice.
As he pushed through the mist and rose to his full height, the enemy soldiers finally came into view. Even then, his field of vision extended barely an arm’s length past his sword, but it was enough. Now that he could see the enemy, their weapons, and the steel in his own hand, the situation was different.
Three men were clutching deep gashes on their shins, blood pouring from their wounds as they limped. All of them were armed with crossbows. One of them grit his teeth and leveled his weapon.
Encrid took a passing step. Extending his left foot diagonally forward, his right foot followed in a fluid motion. In an instant, his position shifted.
With a sharp twang, a bolt pierced the space where he had stood a heartbeat ago. Encrid didn’t stop at dodging. Simultaneously, he brought his blade down in a vertical slash.
The heavy longsword crashed down from above. The crossbowman reflexively drew a shortsword, crossing it over his head to block.
Encrid crushed the defense with sheer, brute strength.
Clang! Crunch!
Unable to withstand the force, the back of the shortsword’s blade was driven into the soldier’s leather helmet, digging into his skull. It was less of a slash and more of a pulverizing blow.
Squelch.
With a wet sound, the man with the shattered skull fell backward. Blood poured through the dented leather, drawing a red curtain over his face.
“K-Kuh...” The soldier couldn't finish his final words. He collapsed onto his backside, his eyes growing dim.
Encrid immediately recovered his sword, took a step back, and spun, shifting to the side. Just then, an infantry short spear thrust through the air where he had been standing. The spearhead grazed his left flank, tearing his cloth armor, but it drew no blood.
After dodging, he thrust his sword forward—not with a rapid swing, but with deliberate, crushing pressure. The spearman reflexively pulled back his weapon, blocking the blade with the wooden shaft.
Thud.
Steel met wood. Maintaining the contact, Encrid let his sword slide down the shaft. Stepping forward, he bound the enemy’s weapon and followed through with a slash.
Screeech!
The sound of the blade scraping against the spear shaft echoed.
Thud!
The sword’s destination was the soldier’s chest. The blade, having slid down the shaft in an instant, tore into his torso. Flesh was gouged; bones shattered. As he wrenched the sword out, a spray of crimson drenched Encrid’s chest.
Recovering his sword from his crouch, he stood tall, straightening his knees.
What he had learned so far were the basics. It had been a time to discard bad habits and rebuild his foundation. Realistically speaking, he had only just caught up to his previous level of skill.
However, now that he had trained in the fundamentals of the sword centered around the Valen-style Mercenary Sword, what he possessed was entirely different. It was like putting wings on a lion. Encrid’s flexible thinking allowed him to achieve results far beyond his raw technical level.
His blood-soaked sword moved among the remaining soldiers. In the heart of the mist, Encrid silently danced with his blade.
*
Six banner units.
The commander of the Azpen Principality watched the battlefield and thought: ‘Even if they realize it’s sorcery, they won’t be able to figure out which of those six they need to bring down.’
It was a victory. Now, it was simply a matter of deciding what kind of victory he would claim.
“Cut off their retreat.”
The Gray Dog unit, held as an independent reserve, moved out. They circled behind the Naurilia Kingdom’s army. Now, when those startled by the mist tried to flee, they would run straight into the jaws of the Gray Dogs. The commander gave the order and reviewed his plan one last time.
There were no flaws. General Frok had personally come to ensure this operation did not fail. Otherwise, there would be no reason for a figure of his rank to be on this battlefield.
The commander ordered once more, “Kill them all.”
This battle would change the fortunes of both Azpen and Naurilia. While his orders were being delivered, Encrid was still dancing with his blade within the 1st Banner Unit.
*
“Dammit!”
The Naurilian battalion commander felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare.
‘They took the initiative.’
If the enemy had prepared a trap, his side should have prepared a counter. But if they lost their entire force here, preparations meant nothing.
“Retreat! Retreat!”
Cries to fall back echoed from all directions. The battalion commander was losing his composure.
“Argh!”
Even as they tried to withdraw, crossbow bolts flew in from behind.
‘Damn those crossbow units!’
The commander felt dizzy. He wondered how they had managed to hide such a large number of marksmen. Where? The scout unit’s report already held the answer.
‘The Tall Grass Field!’
But now was not the time for idle reflection. His mind was beginning to fracture under the pressure.
“Get a grip! Group up!”
Two of the more capable company commanders tried to rally the troops, but the enemy’s coordination was extraordinary. The unit blocking their retreat was the Gray Dog—an independent company that was the pride of the Azpen Principality.
The battalion commander realized they had been completely outmaneuvered. He desperately tried to pull himself together.
“It’s the Mist of Massacre! The Azpen army employed shamans!”
Those bastards.
“How do we clear the mist?”
Few of his adjutants had an answer.
“Bring me someone who knows!”
They were blind, and the enemy was hammering them from both front and back. At this rate, they would be wiped out. No—they were being wiped out.
Finally, an adjutant returned with an answer. “We must destroy the medium of the sorcery!”
“The medium?”
“The flagpoles!”
The battalion commander shouted, “Charge toward the flagpoles!”
“...We don’t know which direction they’re in,” the adjutant whispered, his voice thick with despair.
The enemy forces they had initially seen were shifting positions like interlocking gears, spinning constantly. They couldn't pinpoint the source. The battalion commander couldn't erase the word ‘annihilation’ from his mind.
While the commander groaned in agony, the elf company commander in charge of the 4th Company realized the enemy would never let them withdraw. Her prediction was correct—and that was the problem.
‘Without a miracle, we’re all going to die.’
She prayed for a new wind to blow across the battlefield, but the air remained still. The battle was a crushing defeat. The elf commander barely survived, narrowly escaping the slaughter. As she fled, the mist cleared behind her. It was total annihilation. There were likely fewer than fifty survivors in total.
*
Clang!
Encrid had fought well. He had fought incredibly well, and he was satisfied. Though his allies were near extinction, he alone had cut down nearly twenty soldiers.
Blood dripped from the hand gripping his sword. His forearm had been slashed in the heat of the melee.
‘I can’t put any strength into it.’
Until now, he had invested his time solely in training the basics. Ragna had told him not to even spar recklessly until he was "complete"—until he had purged his body of its bad habits.
And then, Ragna had immediately added: “Though, I suppose that’s not something to say on a battlefield.”
Even as he said it, Ragna must have realized how absurd it sounded. Telling a man not to fight in the middle of a war just to fix his form? Did he expect him to just die quietly?
But Encrid could do it. By quietly surrendering his life and dying, he had bypassed the finality of real combat. And today was the first time he had truly showcased his skills in a life-or-death struggle.
‘It’s different.’
Until now, he had fought by any means necessary, using the Valen-style Mercenary Sword or whatever else was at hand. That was how he had lived. It was the same even now. The only difference was that proper swordsmanship had finally become the core of his movements.
‘I want to learn more.’
His hunger for growth surged. He didn't want to stop at the basics.
Having watched Encrid slaughter two entire squads by himself, the enemy was hesitant to approach. For some reason, as he held his ground, Encrid’s vision seemed to expand. The sorcerous mist no longer clouded his mind. He could see the enemy soldiers standing in a semicircle before him.
Every single one of them held a crossbow.
“Let’s duel one-on-one, like men,” he said, wanting to test his refined basics just one more time.
“Crazy bastard,” the enemy squad leader replied.
Thud-thud-thud!
Crossbow strings snapped. Bolts embedded themselves across his body. A quarrel piercing his eye brought a flash of excruciating pain.
‘It hurts...’
Yet, he was also glad. As he lay dying, Encrid recalled what he had to do in this repeating "today." Ragna had constantly emphasized the basics.
“If you train and train, and keep fighting with your life on the line... well, it will eventually become second nature to your body.”
It was an incredibly irresponsible thing to say, but it held a profound truth. Encrid needed more real combat.
The cold weight of death settled over him. Before his final breath escaped, an enemy soldier looked down at him and muttered, “Tenacious bastard.”
Even then, Encrid kept a death grip on his sword. The blood he spilled pooled on the parched earth.
“No matter what happens, even if you die, never let go of your sword. That is the first rule.”
Countless instructors had said it. Ragna had said it. Rem had said the exact same thing. Encrid did exactly that.
Spit!
An enemy soldier who had lost many comrades spat on Encrid’s face. That was the end.
*
Morning dawned.
Once again, a new "today" began. Encrid chewed over everything he had gained from yesterday’s slaughter.
‘I need more real combat.’
That was his conclusion. He sought out Ragna once more.
“Your basics are mostly there, but you seem like someone who has spent his entire life training alone. By the way, where did you learn the fundamentals of swordsmanship?”
Ragna was right. It was something Encrid had felt himself. What he needed now was the friction of battle to smooth the edges.
“Here and there.”
“...Here and there? Tsk, fine, let’s leave it at that. It would indeed be best to make what you’ve learned second nature through sparring so you can pull it out instinctively. And whoever your teacher was, they taught you well.”
That teacher is you.
Ragna was unknowingly singing his own praises. Encrid simply replied with a noncommittal grunt and focused on the spar.
It was exhilarating.
In the battle that repeated once more, Encrid cut down thirty soldiers single-handedly. He hadn't done it through raw skill alone—not with bolts and arrows flying from every direction. It was a feat achieved by weaving through the chaos, using his head to maximize his combat experience.
He repeated the day several more times. He swung his sword again and again. Before he knew it, the "basics" clung perfectly to his muscles and bones.
“There is nothing left for me to correct when it comes to your fundamentals.”
In the end, Encrid’s progress was so rapid that Ragna was forced to admit the truth.