Chapter 39: The Flag Flutters, and the Soldier Dances with His Sword (2)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 39: The Flag Flutters, and the Soldier Dances with His Sword (2)
"Eyes, feet, hands."
Ragna’s voice was steady.
"The sword begins with the eyes, moves with the feet, and finishes with the hands."
Encrid did exactly as he was told.
By seeing with his eyes, he predicted his opponent's movements; by moving with his feet, he claimed the superior position; and his sword merely followed through to deliver the finishing blow.
Whoosh.
In the next battle, he put the theory into practice.
Because he was predicting and evading rather than simply reacting to what he saw, his opponent's line of attack missed him entirely. Meanwhile, Encrid’s own line of attack found its mark.
Thrusting his sword was merely a confirmation of the kill.
Thuck!
The blade pierced the man's Adam's apple. As he wrenched the sword out sideways, muscles, nerves, and blood vessels were shredded, and blood gushed out in torrents.
The moment the enemy soldier fell, Encrid rolled across the ground and slammed his pommel into the shin of another soldier standing nearby.
Crack!
The man wore no greaves; the bone shattered instantly.
"Argh!"
As the man collapsed, thrashing in agony, Encrid snatched a dropped quarrel from the ground and drove it into his heart.
Because of the armor, the bolt only went halfway in. Standing up, Encrid stomped down hard on the fletching with the sole of his foot.
With a sickening squelch, the quarrel sank all the way in.
He hoisted the corpse with one hand and used it as a shield, tilting it to the side.
Thud-thud-thud.
Several quarrels embedded themselves in the dead meat.
Here, Encrid made a small mistake.
Zip.
A quarrel grazed his thigh. If his mobility dropped, it would be difficult to continue his rampage through the enemy ranks.
Still, he did as much as he could.
Thirty-two.
He had killed two more than yesterday. Even with a mistake in the middle, he was improving.
Eyes, feet, hands.
See with the eyes, move with the feet, finish with the hands. He felt he needed to practice this a few more times in the heat of real combat.
And so, Encrid did.
Through the repeated "todays," he also gained a rough grasp of the enemy's movements.
They are protecting the flagpole.
While guarding it, they circled in a specific direction. If he charged straight ahead one day, he would sprint to their left the next.
Though he had yet to break the flagpole, it felt almost within his reach.
Encrid felt a thirst. He felt something was still lacking.
Is it impossible to do this alone?
He could simply bring Rem or Ragna along, but his stubborn pride flared up. He had learned and mastered proper swordsmanship. He wanted to take one step further on his own. He wasn't being impatient, but the thought that it was time to move forward echoed constantly in his mind.
I'll give it one more try.
If this turned out to be nothing more than empty stubbornness, he could make a different decision later. Encrid had the luxury of opportunities gained from repeating today.
"Shit, what the hell are you?"
After several more battles, he faced the enemy platoon leader. It wasn't a familiar face. The man was a stranger with a beard grown out like a rat's tail.
"What do you think?" Encrid replied with a smirk.
Normally, one couldn't act this bold in the face of death. The Rat-Beard of the Azpen Principality swallowed hard and thrust his spear.
"Unlucky bastard."
* * *
After dying and waking up, it was time for training once again.
"Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu."
Once the concept of eyes, feet, and hands became familiar, Ragna moved on to the next step. What had started as an attempt to master the basics had somehow progressed into the history and philosophy of swordsmanship.
"Fortunately, what you learned, Squad Leader, shares the same roots as my own style."
Of course it did. Ragna was the one who had taught him in the first place.
"I just copied one of the instructors who seemed particularly good. I guess I got lucky," Encrid blurted out, and Ragna had no choice but to believe the nonsense.
Otherwise, none of this made sense.
His rapid improvement in a single day could be excused—if he had continuously trained his basics alone but simply hadn't known how to apply them, such a sudden leap was possible. It was highly unusual, but it was the only logical explanation.
Ragna decided to gloss over how the foundations of Northern-style Heavy Swordsmanship had settled into Encrid's body using the same logic. What was the point of questioning it? The squad leader had never pried into his past, so he would return the favor.
"Do you know it? Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu."
At Ragna's question, Encrid nodded.
Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu.
It referred to the five great essences: the Orthodox Sword, the Heavy Sword, the Illusion Sword, the Swift Sword, and the Soft Sword.
To break it down:
• Jeong (Orthodox): A righteous and precise sword.
• Jung (Heavy): A heavy and fierce sword.
• Hwan (Illusion): A bewitching and swaying sword.
• Kwae (Swift): A swift and ever-faster sword.
• Yu (Soft): A soft and deflecting sword.
Five hundred years ago, an unparalleled genius was born. A child of a small farmhouse, he was a prodigy among prodigies. At the age of nine, the boy had killed a group of bandits who raided his home using nothing but a fire poker.
A mere nine-year-old had killed twelve adult bandits—men who knew how to handle blades.
"So this is swordsmanship," the child had said.
The boy was precocious, likely because he had lost his parents so young. Just by watching the bandits swing their weapons, he had grasped the fundamental principles of the sword.
Later, a nobleman heard the tale of the child and sought him out. He adopted the boy, and thus, the surname Oniak was attached to the child's name.
Lionesis Oniak.
The genius gained his name in this manner.
Lionesis was born with heaven-sent talent, but he was also cursed with an equal measure of misfortune. Around the age of ten, he contracted a disease that drained the strength from his limbs. It was an incurable ailment that no mage, doctor, or healer on the continent could treat. It was a disease that would completely paralyze his body before he turned twelve.
Despite his illness, the Oniak family did not cast him out. The ill-fated genius was on the verge of being forgotten by the world.
Yet, at the age of twenty, Lionesis—completely paralyzed—left an indelible mark on the history of continental swordsmanship. He compiled and synthesized all existing swordsmanship into five distinct categories.
That was Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu.
Even though he could not move his body, he had rewritten the history of the blade. This was the beginning of the legacy that transformed the Oniak family into the greatest house in the Empire.
The school of swordsmanship created by Lionesis was passed down through generations and had now solidified into orthodox doctrine. Today, people categorized them by region: Northern-style Heavy Sword, Central-style Orthodox and Soft Sword, Western-style Swift Sword, Southern-style Illusion Sword, and Eastern-style Technique Sword.
"I have a technique I developed to utilize Northern-style Heavy Swordsmanship. It will be far more useful than some beast's guts."
Today was just like any other, with the same sun and wind. On this day, Encrid learned a new technique from Ragna.
From Rem, he had learned the Beast's Heart.
From Sachsen, the Blade's Sense.
And Ragna taught him something called Single-Point Focus.
"The principle is simple. Forget everything around you. Keep only your opponent in your eyes and focus entirely on your own actions. Let nothing else enter your sight. Just focus."
The explanation was terrible.
"The essence of the Heavy Sword lies in its basics. It has nicknames like 'the sword that crushes even when blocked,' 'the sword that cannot be evaded even when anticipated,' and 'the sword that pours all its power into a single strike.' That's how you do it. By focusing."
If it could be done simply by "focusing," then why did so many fail?
"I'll teach you a little trick."
With those words, Ragna's sword became a beam of light. Even though he had changed his weapon and shouldn't have been accustomed to it yet, the blade was invisible. Even his arm, bending like a whip, could not be seen. In a mere flash, something brushed past the side of Encrid's neck.
Nick.
The blade grazed the skin. The sword was so fast that Encrid only realized he had been cut after the fact. The back of his neck grew hot as blood trickled down.
"You bastard, are you picking on the squad leader?" Rem appeared out of nowhere, glaring.
Encrid placed a hand on his neck. I almost died.
It was a dangerously precise strike—to slice the skin with such invisible speed.
"They say humans focus dozens of times more intensely at the moment of death. I'm helping him," Ragna said.
"You crazy bastard, what's the point of mastering a technique if you're dead? You clearly don't know the squad leader. It took him a veeeeeeery long time just to master the Beast's Heart. Huh?"
Encrid frowned. Was the "veeeeeeery" really necessary?
Ragna snorted. "That's because his teacher was terrible."
"Huh? What was that? You want an axe planted in your skull?" Rem snapped, cupping a hand behind his ear.
"I am no ignorant barbarian. My teaching methods are rational."
Rational? Encrid pondered the word. To him, Rem and Ragna were two peas in a pod.
"But wait, if you're from the polar tribes, aren't you a barbarian too?"
Ragna's skin was pale and his eyes were red—the distinct characteristics of the northern polar tribes.
"Do not lump me in with those western barbarians. It is offensive. Extremely so."
"...Sure, just drop dead then. Once you die, I'll personally go all the way north to bury you."
It looked like they would start brawling if left alone. Encrid intervened. "You know what I'm going to say, right?"
Despite the interruption, Ragna cast his gaze past Encrid. "I know very well that the squad leader is as dull as a northern ox. But I didn't know he possessed such solid basics."
"What did you say, you bastard? Stop changing the subject and bring your head over here. I'm going to plant an axe in it!"
"Crazy barbarian bastard."
A northern ox minimizes its movements to endure the cold; it was a metaphor for an incredibly slow and dull person. Although the two of them were ganging up on him, Encrid didn't feel wronged.
"You said you'd teach me the trick."
Encrid held Ragna back and turned his head toward Rem. No words were needed; a simple look was enough. Rem fumed, but when Encrid stared at him intently, he snorted, blew his nose, and shouted.
"They said to assemble!" Then he turned around and stomped back toward the camp.
"We should head back," Ragna said, watching him go. As he went to sheathe his sword, Encrid grabbed his wrist.
"And the trick?"
The thirst for learning was the driving force that moved Encrid—especially when he was about to be taught something new. Single-Point Focus. Ragna had said it was a technique he refined from an ancient secret art.
He coveted it.
"It won't be easy."
The basics hadn't been easy either. Adopting new stances, learning steps, discarding old habits, and relearning how to slash and thrust—none of it had been easy.
Yet, it was enjoyable. The pleasure of growing day by day filled his entire body. He said he dreamed of becoming a knight, but perhaps he had ended up this way simply because he loved the sword. When he held and swung a blade, Encrid was so happy he forgot all the troubles of the world.
As Encrid held his wrist, Ragna said calmly, "You must put yourself in mortal danger. When you feel like you are going to die, your nerves will stand on end. You just need to repeat that sensation of heightened nerves countless times."
The trick was similar to how he learned the Beast's Heart. However, while the Beast's Heart required him to be bold in the face of death, Single-Point Focus was the exact opposite. He had to struggle desperately to survive. The fear of death would make his nerves stand on end like needles.
I'll combine it with real combat.
Encrid formulated a plan.
"Just learning the trick won't make it work."
"Tell me what it feels like once you master it."
"It feels as if everything around you is erased," Ragna spoke honestly, his red eyes meeting Encrid's. "And your sword moves exactly as you desire."
Encrid caught a glimpse of a seriousness he had never seen in Ragna before. Ragna was usually fickle, yet this was the first time he had stepped forward so passionately. With a flame burning deep within his eyes, Ragna said, "It is time to go."
Encrid nodded. "Indeed."
* * *
The battle began once more, and the mist rolled in.
"Sorcery? You son of a bitch," Rem fumed.
"Keep your stance low!" Ragna shouted to the sprinting Encrid.
Previously, they had been busy trying to stop him, but not anymore. Now, they knew he wouldn't fall to some mediocre soldier. As he ran, Encrid once again dealt with the enemy in the order of eyes, feet, and hands.
Starting with the quarrel unit.
If there was anything different this time, it was that after repeating this day so many times, the enemy's formation had become familiar. To be precise, he had naturally memorized it.
Before the first enemy soldier could even thrust his spear, Encrid closed the distance and drove a dagger upward. Abandoning the dagger that had pierced through the jaw and palate with a wet thud, he shoved the dead soldier with his shoulder.
"Huh?!"
"Ack!"
The soldiers pushed back in a panic. In that brief opening, Encrid threw two more daggers. The blades impaled the necks of two soldiers. It was an astonishing display of skill.
He immediately drew his longsword and delivered a diagonal slash.
Clack!
An infantry spear shaft blocked it. Having anticipated the block, he used the recoil of the impact to pull back his sword and slit the throat of the soldier on the opposite side.
Slash!
The well-honed blade severed the enemy's neck.
Once again, it was a fight. Once again, a battle. A repeated today. Fighting again, dying again.
Through it all, Encrid struggled desperately. The moment he heard the trick, he understood. He shouldn't face death boldly; he had to struggle desperately not to die. That was the key. In the end, death would be unavoidable, but that was fine. He would get what he wanted regardless.
The flagpole.
He needed to attack the flagpole that served as the medium for the sorcery. Overlaying his goal onto the actual combat, Encrid charged toward his target.
Through the repeated "todays," Encrid knew the enemy soldiers' movements in advance. The soldiers, relying on the mist for cover, panicked at the assault of a single man who seemed to know their every move.
Encrid took full advantage of their fear.