Chapter 397: Where the Dawn Leaves Its Mark
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 397: Where the Dawn Leaves Its Mark
Encrid adjusted his grip on Silver.
As he did, he reflected.
The charging horse, the flying spearhead.
Beast’s Heart had granted him boldness, while Single-Point Focus had fragmented his opponent’s movements, breaking the world down into individual, frozen frames. The preternatural sharpness of his senses had allowed him to calculate the trajectory of the incoming spear instinctively.
And then, he had slashed.
Yet, a nagging sensation remained.
It’s not enough.
Something was still lacking.
His mental combat review concluded in an instant, and he immediately identified the flaw.
What if he had extended his lead foot just a bit further? Stepping forward a mere half-pace more would have sufficed. The transmission of force would have been far more efficient. A slight adjustment in stride changed everything about how power was delivered.
Encrid swung his sword, adjusted his grip, pulled back, and moved exactly as he had envisioned.
Widen the stride. Adjust the stance. He carved the blade through the empty air.
Whoosh.
There was no need for speed. He only needed to feel the flow of kinetic energy at a moderate pace. The blade sliced through the atmosphere, stopping precisely at his intended target.
Conclusion: this was correct. The adjusted stride made the delivery of power much smoother. Encrid understood it in his mind and engraved the sensation into his very marrow.
"Are they not coming?"
He raised his head.
Thousands of people were gathered here. An entire army stood watching. Of course, Encrid wasn't looking at the masses; he was simply searching for his next opponent.
Why the delay?
He merely stared, his silence a heavy question.
It had only been the first clash—a single duel. Those lined up in the rear couldn't see the details, but everyone at the front had witnessed it clearly. Naturally, the enemy soldiers standing opposite him had seen it too.
It was no wonder they hesitated to take a step forward.
*
A single strike?
Jalban’s brow furrowed. He had two deputies. The one who had just fallen was the least skilled of the two, but he was still a man of enough talent that he shouldn't have lost so easily to a mere knight’s squire.
"Did he let his guard down? Foolish bastard," the other deputy muttered, preparing to step forward.
"Wait," Jalban said, raising a hand. At his command, the deputy pulled his reins and halted.
Jalban judged that the boy’s skill was out of the ordinary. However, it was also true that his subordinate had been careless. He wasn't someone who should have been cut down in a single blow. After a brief moment of deliberation, Jalban spoke.
"I’ll go. Binyu, follow behind and support me."
Jalban did not go alone; he brought his deputy along. The key was to make it appear as though Binyu was merely following a few paces behind to assist. Binyu’s specialty was the throwing spear. A single, well-timed assist would be more than enough.
Even if someone from the enemy camp stepped out to help the boy, the outcome wouldn't change. After all, warriors with such a lethal talent for the javelin were rare.
"Let’s go."
Neigh!
Jalban spurred his horse forward, his deputy trailing close behind.
*
The guild master attached to Encrid’s group stood frozen, his mouth agape in sheer shock. Only when two figures emerged from the enemy camp did he finally find his voice.
"S-Shouldn't someone from our side go out as well?" He directed his frantic question toward Rem and Ragna.
"Yawn... Those guys don't stand a chance," Rem replied, stretching lazily.
Encrid had shown them more than enough over the past month. There was no need for concern.
Ragna had somehow produced an apple and was chewing on it vigorously. He munched with such ferocity it seemed he intended to swallow the seeds and core alike.
Sachsen remained silent, standing with his arms crossed and eyes closed. To the guild master, he seemed like an inscrutable statue, his thoughts impossible to read.
Are these people serious?
Was no one from the main army going to intervene either?
The guild master turned his gaze toward the royal force. It was quiet. There was a low murmur rippling through the ranks, but no one looked ready to charge. In fact, they were merely spectating.
After Ingis’s departure, Marcus had taken command of the kingdom’s army. His palms were slick with sweat. If they lost this duel, they would lose the upcoming battle before it even began. If their morale was crushed here, all hope would be lost.
That was how overwhelming the enemy’s presence felt.
What a total mess.
That had been his first thought upon hearing the size of the enemy’s main force. Later, when he saw the level of their discipline and equipment, even Marcus felt his resolve waver. That was when Encrid had stepped forward.
At an unexpected moment, in an unexpected way. That was how this fight had begun.
It had been a long time since Marcus last saw Encrid fight. Consequently, he was utterly astonished.
He was this strong?
The opponent had been one of the Five Weapons raised by the Count. Even a deputy of such a group possessed skills far beyond the ordinary. Yet, he had been cleaved in half at the waist in a single stroke.
It wasn't a matter of luck or exploiting a momentary gap. Encrid had stood directly in front of him and crushed him with superior strength and speed. Even Marcus could recognize that much.
He pondered for a moment. Their current situation was like hanging off the edge of a cliff—or perhaps like trying to find solid ground in the middle of a vast, bottomless swamp. Either way, the stakes were the same. A single wrong choice, a single bad move, would lead to ruin. That was the source of his caution.
"Should we send support?" Instead of deciding on his own, he asked Aisia, the knight standing beside him.
"Just watch," Aisia replied sullenly. She was thinking to herself: I should have been the one out there.
Without a word, without a signal or warning, Encrid had gone out alone and cut down the enemy. It wasn't as if she could walk out there now, call a timeout, and tell the enemy to fight her instead.
For a brief moment, Aisia imagined herself stepping in front of the enemy, calling for a reset, and starting over. Of course, the idea was absurd.
More than anything, she knew that if Encrid hadn't stepped forward, they might have lost before the first arrow was even notched. They had assessed the enemy’s numbers with scouts, but they had underestimated the sheer quality of their training and gear. The Count’s territorial army was solid. Like a mountain of iron.
The disparity in strength was dizzying. It was only natural to freeze up when faced with it; the more experienced a soldier was, the more likely they were to realize how dire the situation was.
Then, was Encrid out there simply because he was too ignorant to be afraid?
No, that wasn't it. Encrid knew everything, yet he did not hesitate. He had charged forward alone, taking the weight of the battle’s opening onto his own shoulders.
Aisia cleanly admitted defeat—not just in terms of skill, but in her heart.
What a cool bastard.
She watched him, her eyes fixed on his back. In the distance, she saw the man who had stepped forward to fight. The man who had proudly declared his dream was to be a knight, even as he half-crushed her face. The man who had saved her life in doing so.
"Ah, go on then. Kill them all," Aisia muttered, her inner thoughts slipping out unbidden.
In the middle of the battlefield, under the gaze of both armies, a battle cry erupted.
"Kyah!"
It was one of the Five Weapons. Jalban, the wielder of twin short spears. Even from Aisia’s distance, she could see the reckless intensity of his charge.
*
In Encrid’s eyes, floating dust motes became visible. He could see the splattered droplets of blood forming perfect spheres on the grass.
About ten paces away, the man on horseback leaped down. The moment his feet hit the ground with a thud, the dust rising beneath them looked like individual grains of sand. The blades of grass swayed in the wind. A faint rustling reached his ears—the sound of the earth breathing.
He felt the weight of the sword in his hand. He felt the texture of his clothes and the bite of his armor against his skin.
It’s a good weight.
He had named the sword Silver. Today, its weight felt particularly right. Looking at the blade, he noticed a slight nick. He’d need to sharpen it with a whetstone later.
"You must be confident in your skills to have come this far. What is your name?" the approaching man asked.
Encrid did not answer. He simply savored everything flowing toward him through his senses. The wind brushed his cheek. The sunlight beat down on his helmet. Ah, this is a bit of a shame.
Encrid reached up and removed his helmet.
The sunlight and wind felt closer now. The vast plain lacked even a single mound to hide behind; it was a perfect playground for the wind. In ancient times, the Nauril Plains were called the Land of Wind. Here, the gales swept across the earth unobstructed—an unstoppable, eternal sprint.
Whoooooosh!
A powerful gust surged from the horizon. Jalban reflexively tensed his legs against the force. Encrid, however, relaxed. The wind flowed over him, wrapping around his frame before dispersing into the distance.
Jalban frowned. Did his opponent’s body just float for a second? No. Was it an illusion? He wanted to rub his eyes, yet he couldn't take them off Encrid for even a fraction of a second. If his concentration wavered, the boy’s blade would be through his gut before he could blink.
Even if the first deputy hadn't been careless, he wouldn't have lasted more than a few exchanges. Seeing Encrid up close brought that chilling certainty.
He’s the real deal.
The boy’s skill was superior to his own. Jalban tightened his grip on his short spears, veins bulging on the backs of his hands. Steeling his resolve, he mapped out the course of the battle in his mind.
Block the sword with my left...
In the midst of his visualization, Jalban’s gaze drifted to Encrid’s waist. There were two more swords. A belt housing throwing daggers was also visible across his chest. Three swords in total. He wouldn't have brought them for show. He would surely use them.
Observing his opponent meticulously, Jalban even noticed a knife hidden near the boy's ankle. Encrid stood with his arms hanging loosely, swaying slightly with the wind.
Again.
Jalban visualized the fight from the beginning. If I block his sword with my left and thrust with the right faster than anyone else...?
No, again.
Beads of sweat formed on Jalban’s forehead—proof of the immense mental energy he was consuming. He visualized the fight once more.
Thrust with the left. Force him to defend. Then, twist the handle of the right spear. Yes, do that. Use every trick I’ve prepared. That’s the way.
His eyes stung. It felt as if he were trapped in a prison where even blinking was forbidden. Nevertheless, Jalban endured the pressure with practiced ease. He, too, was a warrior who had crossed the river of death countless times.
I will kill him.
The moment he moved, his subordinate—who functioned like his own limb—would throw a spear. Even I wouldn't be able to block that. A javelin flying from outside his field of vision in the heat of a duel, thrown by a comrade with top-tier skill. His deputy was as capable as any associate knight when it came to the spear.
A drop of sweat hit the dirt.
The opponent blinked once. Jalban flinched, his shoulders trembling.
That bastard... showing such leisure? Blinking? For a split second, Jalban almost lunged.
An illusion? A deception? The moment he made his judgment, Jalban slid his foot forward. He began to close the ten-pace distance inch by inch. It was a cautious, predatory approach.
Encrid watched the approaching man, but his vision extended beyond him. His ability to see everything in minute detail remained, but his perspective suddenly expanded, bringing the entire surroundings into focus.
First, the man creeping sideways in the background. He would intervene if the duel went south. The spears strapped to his back were an eyesore. Then, the man approaching him. Watching him creep forward so slowly was becoming frustrating.
At the same time, a thought occurred to him.
If I lose here, the blow to our morale will be fatal.
He could foresee the outcome of the larger battle. The enemy’s strength was superior in both numbers and discipline. The Count had prepared thoroughly.
But even so, he felt it would be fine.
On this continent, wars were decided by a small elite. The power of a knight changed the course of a battlefield. The one called the First Knight had changed the very meaning of the word "knight," which in ancient times had merely been a title of birth. Knights changed the shape of the world.
And because he wanted to change something, Encrid stood here today.
To change.
What was the reason he had wanted to become a knight?
To save, and to protect.
To fight for what he believed was right, and to shield those behind him. From the moment he first held a sword, that was how he had wanted to live. The lyrics of the bard’s song had pierced his heart, becoming the compass of his life. He had walked and walked, and now he was here.
Since the dawn had stained his faded, torn dreams, leaving its mark.
Ignoring his opponent’s cautious steps, Encrid strode forward with large, confident paces. The way he lightly kicked off the ground made it look almost like a half-run, yet he didn't seem hurried. As he walked, the arm holding his sword swayed naturally, the blade rhythmic with his movement.
The moment the distance closed to five paces, Jalban exploded forward.
"Kyah!"
He thrust with the spear in his left hand. Encrid held Silver diagonally across his chest, blocking while twisting his wrist. Just because a blow was struck with finesse didn't mean a blade turned into cotton. The moment his steel met the tip of the short spear, he deflected the force, his sword sliding forward to redirect the spear’s momentum.
He saw his opponent’s eyes. Brown, bloodshot. Are his eyes dry? Why do they look like that?
Stray thoughts drifted in. The opponent raised his right hand and thrust. It wouldn't reach—yet he made the motion anyway.
Bang!
With an explosive crack, the tip of the short spear shot forward. It was a weapon equipped with a spring mechanism. Instead of pushing away the deflecting sword, Encrid pulled it back.
Clang-clang!
Though the exchange felt long, it happened in a heartbeat. Jalban thrusting with his left, firing the spearhead from his right, and two metallic rings echoing out.
Immediately after, the sound of tearing flesh followed.
Thud!
Encrid had blocked twice and swung once. He had done it all with the single sword in his right hand. Encrid’s third strike gouged into his opponent’s chest. Jalban wore several layers of leather and a thick gambeson, but Encrid’s sword sliced through it all, carving a deep mark into muscle and bone.
It was a direct hit to the heart.
The veins in Jalban’s eyes bulged.
"Cough!"
Spitting blood, he staggered back a few steps before collapsing. His knees hit the ground first.
"Hup!"
Only then did the man in the back throw his spear. The javelin flew straight for Encrid’s face.
Whoosh! The pressure of the displaced air hit him first. Encrid swung his sword downward.
Clang!
Caught in the arc of the blade, the throwing spear was swatted aside, rolling harmlessly along the ground. The deputy’s hand, which had been reaching for a second spear, froze. It was obvious that throwing another would yield the same result; his body simply refused to move.
In the end, Encrid had swung his sword for the fourth time, bringing the duel to a close.
Jalban watched the ground rush up to meet him. The world turned red. As he fell, he thought: The difference in skill was too vast from the start.
The opponent’s level was entirely different. He had effortlessly blocked both attacks, even the hidden mechanism. The reason was simple: the opponent had swung his sword faster and more accurately. What they had built up over their respective lives was fundamentally different.
That was Jalban’s final conclusion.
Encrid flicked the blood off his sword. Until then, the man who had thrown the spear could neither attack nor flee. He could only roll his eyes in panic.
"Aren't you going to attack?" Encrid asked calmly. It wasn't a provocation; he simply seemed curious about the man’s intentions.
A strange tension filled the air. Just as the spear-thrower was about to steel his resolve—
"You crazy bastard!"
An impatient soldier from the enemy army charged. He whipped his horse’s reins and dashed out.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
The man, looking as if he would trample Encrid, let go of the reins twenty paces away. He raised a shortbow from the saddle and drew the string. It was an impressive display of horse archery. An arrow shot while closing the distance would be as fast as a beam of light.
Encrid watched the archer charge and infused his left hand with Moment’s Will. He accelerated the motion of drawing and throwing his secondary blade.
Whoosh, swish.
The sword and the arrow crossed paths in midair.
Thud!
It was a crisp, clean sound. The man who had plucked the bowstring was struck in the chest by a sword the instant he released his arrow, his body lifted briefly off the back of his horse.
This was the scene created by the sword Encrid had thrown. The gladius flew in a straight line and pierced the archer’s chest. To Encrid, the incoming arrow appeared as a mere dot, well within his cognitive range. He threw himself to the side, rolling to evade.
Thunk!
The arrow embedded itself in the dirt. Beyond it, the horse carrying the archer ran off, having lost its master.
Clack-clack! Clack-clack!
Neigh!
The horse let out a long, mournful whinny. The man struck by the gladius had been blown backward, his blood soaking the grass.
Encrid walked over with steady steps and pulled out the gladius. A sickening crunch echoed as ribs cracked.
Hypothetically, what if he had been given exactly three "todays" to face that pulse-severing bastard from his past? Encrid felt as though he could prove the answer right here and now. Instead of three days, he had condensed all of that growth into a single month.
Today, of all days, Encrid felt remarkably light.