Chapter 398: Striking and Thrusting
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 398: Striking and Thrusting
The adjutant holding the javelin ultimately hesitated and retreated. His opponent did not pursue, as if silently daring only those with the guts to step forward to try their luck.
Encrid merely shook the blood off his sword in silence, returned to his original spot, and stood his ground.
The mount he rode let out a soft whinny beside him. It was a horse of extraordinary size, possessing fierce, piercing eyes.
Taking all of this in, the adjutant shrank back and slunk into the ranks of the main army.
Watching the retreating man, Liebart brought his sword down along with his words.
"You should have fought to the end and died instead."
Crack!
The skull split in half. Liebart wrenched his sword free. A long stream of blood trailed after the blade, pulled out with a wet, sickening squelch.
"Foolish Jalban."
A clear voice insulted the dead man from the side. It was the elf warrior, Banat. Her blonde hair was cut as short as a man's, and her tone went beyond mere coldness—it was entirely devoid of emotion. It was her signature way of speaking: a frigid, unreadable tongue-lashing.
"He was the weakest among us. I will go," Banat offered, stepping forward.
But Liebart shook his head. "I will go."
Did the enemy think they could boost their morale by sending out a single bastard like that? Then he would break them himself. Excluding Count Molsen, Liebart held the highest rank here; he was the second-in-command. He didn't need anyone else's permission.
Banat nodded, her expression remaining a total blank. She was an elf whose face betrayed nothing. Malten was mute to begin with, and Benukt looked as if he couldn't care less.
"Just let me fight," Benukt muttered. Giant blood ran through his veins, and he had no intention of controlling his urge for slaughter.
"Once I kill that bastard, we charge all at once."
That was the plan. Liebart spoke, then nudged his mount forward. Holding the reins, he set his horse into a brisk trot.
He dismounted at the spot where two corpses now lay, casting a brief glance at the dead Jalban. Liebart adjusted his gear with meticulous care. He tightened his sword belt, secured a shortsword, and tucked a thick, single-edged machete behind his waist—a magic weapon, no less. Finally, he strapped a plain, unadorned kite shield to his left arm.
The shield was slightly downsized, designed to be strapped directly to his gauntlet rather than held by a handle. Even so, it carried significant weight; it wasn't the kind of gear anyone would use unless they were exceptionally confident in their strength.
Clanking sounds echoed with every step Liebart took, the result of the heavy plate armor he wore over his gambeson. Fully armed, he stepped forward.
Even then, his opponent merely stared at him blankly. Deciding he didn't like those eyes, Liebart asked, "Your name?"
"Encrid."
"Liebart."
It was a name Encrid had never heard before. The Count's Five Weapons were famous within the territory, but they rarely operated outside of it. Their names were relatively unknown to the wider world. In fact, Encrid was easily several times more famous than they were.
"Looks like I win," Encrid said after reaching this conclusion.
"...We haven't even started."
"I meant my name is more famous."
What is wrong with this bastard?
Of course, Encrid wasn't actually insane. It was a simple provocation to throw his opponent off balance. He did it because he felt it was necessary. The way the man walked, his meticulous preparation, and his manner of speaking—every action screamed that he was a formidable expert who could not be underestimated.
"So this is the Mad Platoon."
"Jealous?"
Liebart was momentarily speechless. Jealous?
Honestly, who would dislike having their name widely known and building a grand reputation? Even if one wasn't consumed by ambition, Liebart was a greedy man. At the same time, he was highly experienced. He quickly realized he had been played by his opponent's wordplay.
"You're a bastard begging to be chewed to pieces."
"I'm pretty tough."
Is he saying he's hard to chew because he's tough? Liebart, being a smooth talker himself, caught the double meaning instantly. It only made him angrier.
"Fine. I'll kill you."
Liebart strode forward and swung his sword in a diagonal slash. To Encrid's eyes, the strike was neither exceptionally fast nor particularly subtle, leaving a clear opening. Seeing it, he moved. Encrid poured power into his first strike.
He channeled his Moment's Will, thrusting with Spark.
The awl-like strike became a beam of light, aiming for the forearm of his opponent's sword arm. Liebart aborted his swing, pulling his left arm with the kite shield to block.
Clang!
Spark was blocked. The shield did not pierce. Neither the shield's material nor the wielder's skill was ordinary. As Encrid withdrew his thrusting Spark—
Whoosh.
Liebart's sword flew in. It was a simple thrust. It wasn't a sudden burst of acceleration, nor was it a pulse-severing strike. Instead, it was calm and precise. If he stayed still, it would graze his throat, so Encrid dodged by bending his body backward.
Expecting the sword to drop downward next, Encrid raised Silver to prepare, but his opponent simply pulled his thrusting sword back and reset his stance. He raised his shield to cover his front once more.
He would have had the advantage if he had rushed in blindly, wouldn't he?
Encrid had prepared several counters for that scenario, but to think the man wouldn't press the attack even after seeing an opening? Straightening up from his deep backward bend, Encrid stared at his opponent's helmet. Through the visor, he could see Liebart's eyes.
Deception? Was he playing around?
No. He was dead serious.
Even if you gathered ten men who had attained knighthood, all ten would have walked different paths. That was why the path of a knight was so difficult and grueling. Following in the footsteps of those who went before did not guarantee the same results. The same applied to squires. Each had their own unique path.
Among them, Liebart's path was twice as solid and sturdy as anyone else's. He wore thick plate mail and carried a shield. He thrust and slashed, but he never attempted an attack unless he had a perfect opportunity. He took no risks. He was the type of man who would choose to walk around a stone bridge even if it were built on steel pillars.
Upon such a rock-solid foundation, he had perfected his swordsmanship, even weaponizing his tongue.
After his initial provocation, Encrid, conversely, fell silent. His opponent's defense was impenetrable. It could not be pierced by Spark, nor could it be cut by Silver, and the Whistle Dagger Encrid threw at a brief opening was blocked by the helmet. It wasn't just that he wore heavy armor; he utilized his defensive gear with masterful proficiency.
That was what made him formidable. Meanwhile, Liebart kept talking.
"I hear your dream is to become a knight?"
Encrid withdrew Spark and gripped Silver with both hands. He used the Crushing Sword, pressing down to overpower with sheer pressure. Liebart raised his shield and absorbed the downward strike.
Clang—
The sound of the impact was somewhat muffled for a clash of blades. Silver's edge struck Liebart's shield. The moment it hit, Encrid channeled his strength to press down, executing the Crushing Sword. His opponent tilted his shield, letting the blade slide off along the angle.
Deflecting the blow, Liebart stepped back. He held his ground without buckling under the Crushing Sword. His stance and skill were as solid as his armor.
"So, are you satisfied with the path you've walked so far?"
Liebart's voice drifted over, but Encrid merely moved to set up his next attack. If crushing didn't work, he would use the Capturing Sword. It was the start of a battle of wits. The problem was that no matter what unique technique he used, his opponent simply absorbed it with his armor and shield.
A faint glow emanated from both the shield and the armor. Naturally, they were no ordinary items. They were magical gear enchanted with spells.
Would they split if I used Severing?
If he couldn't seize the upper hand in a battle of wits, he had to pour power into a single strike once more. What if he imbued it with the will to cut and sever anything? It would be an imitation. Even if he couldn't truly imbue it with his will yet, he could substitute it by striking down with the Heart of Monstrous Strength.
Encrid acted the moment the thought crossed his mind. It was a slash built upon Ragna's technique, combined with a Heavy Sword Style spinning slash. He dug his feet into the ground, twisting his waist to transfer force into his sword.
But just as he gathered his full strength to swing, Liebart, despite his heavy armor, lunged forward with surprising speed and attempted a body check. If he completed the swing now, the ricasso of his blade would, at best, strike his opponent's forearm.
Encrid had to step back. His stance was momentarily disrupted, but Liebart did not press the attack. He simply raised his shield and took up his stance again. Lowering his knees to keep his center of gravity low, he kept his eyes locked on Encrid, his sword poised to thrust or slash at a moment's notice.
He was a troublesome foe.
"What will you do if the path you chose is wrong?" Liebart asked.
Encrid stared at him, analyzing the situation. His fundamental skill is easily on par with mine, yet he is entirely focused on defense. What does this mean?
He thought he understood his opponent's strategy.
"The path to knighthood is treacherous. It is a path of thorns. It is like jumping off a cliff while clutching briars. Yet, if you take even a single wrong step, it becomes an unreachable utopia. It means that every single time you jump off that cliff clutching briars, your path must be absolutely correct."
Liebart's breathing remained perfectly steady even as he spoke. He was fighting with a long-term battle in mind. Neutralizing his opponent's attacks with his armor and shield, talking to him in the meantime, and never showing any disruption in his breathing. It was a strategy characterized by an absolute stability that seemed ill-suited for someone nicknamed one of the "Five Weapons."
Yet, it was undeniably threatening. Liebart's shield and armor looked like an unyielding wall of steel. That was likely his intention. Above all, he kept talking to shake his opponent's mental state. He sought out his opponent's weaknesses to exploit, squeeze, thrust, and slash at them—both with words and with his blade.
"Every time you take a wrong turn, your talent erodes, and you lose the strength to move forward. That is why talent alone cannot make one a knight. Tell me, how far do you think you can go with that precious talent and luck of yours?"
He was exceptionally talkative. This was the foundation of how he had so quickly understood and countered Encrid's initial provocation. This man, too, weaponized his tongue.
"A knight? It is a desire that only drifts further away. A painted grape. A star you can see but never touch. Does wishing for a star in the sky mean you can possess it? You have stepped onto a path of futile dreams. Fairy tales do not happen in reality."
He used words as his spear and sword. Instead of answering, Encrid repeated his previous attack. He thrust with Spark. Because his opponent reacted to the sudden burst of acceleration, he could not pierce the shield.
The Crushing Sword was blocked as well. This was a man who could easily withstand a falling boulder. The Capturing Sword yielded the same result. His opponent remained unshaken. He refused to engage in the battle of wits, cutting it short. He shoved his shield forward, forcibly blocking the path of the blade. And still, his mouth ran.
"If you walk a path of thorns barefoot, your feet will fester, burst, rot, and eventually be lost. You could simply choose not to walk that path. Why do you persist?"
Liebart was relentless. Despite receiving no answer, he kept talking. Encrid finally responded to his persistence.
"You're incredibly noisy."
In truth, because he was entirely unaffected by his opponent's words, he could afford to answer.
"Noisy? Look at yourself. If these words strike a painful chord, it is because deep down, you already agree with them."
"You're practically a sage, aren't you?"
Encrid took two steps back as he spoke, adjusting his stance. He put his left foot forward and drew his right foot back. He went back to the absolute basics. He raised the tip of his sword high, as if to pierce the sky.
"What if the path you chose is wrong? I ask you again. What will you do if your talent erodes and you lose your way?"
His mock concern was top-notch.
"I'll just do it again."
Liebart blinked. Had he not been explaining this entire time that it was impossible?
A few more similar exchanges passed between them. About the path of thorns, about the erosion of talent, about how it was already too late for him to dream of becoming a knight.
"I said, I'll just do it again."
It was often said that a battle between pure offense and pure defense was a clash of spear and shield. If their blades had been like that until now, their tongues were no different. Only their roles were reversed.
In the clash of swords, Encrid was the spear and Liebart was the shield. In the clash of words, Liebart was the spear and Encrid was the shield. Encrid steadily and calmly threw back the same response.
"I told you, I'll just do it again."
"I'll just try again."
"Losing my way is a daily occurrence."
"I don't need shortcuts anyway."
"I'll just do it again."
For there was something here far sturdier than Liebart's armor and shield. It was an assertion of willpower that naturally summoned the Will of Rejection.
Naturally, Encrid's "again" did not refer to the repetition of today. Even without that regression, he would still move forward. Even when he didn't have it, he had lived today, tomorrow, and every single day in that exact manner.
When he swung his sword until his palms split open, had he been certain that his path was correct? There had been no such certainty. He had simply repeated it every day, walking and walking. Thus, there was a dream upon which the dawn had touched, leaving its mark.
If he had only had three more "todays," he would have surpassed even the pulse-severing squire. The "todays" he had repeated over and over while overcoming Aisia had also been a door to a new world. Since then, a month of time had passed.
Encrid swung his sword from his high stance pointing toward the sky.
Capturing and crushing.
He blended the Capturing Sword with the Crushing Sword. It was a feat performed with the sword in his right hand. The Soft Sword Style was difficult to utilize. His opponent had staked everything not on attacking, but on the skill of enduring and blocking.
So, he hammered away. With everything he had.
Since his left hand was accustomed to speed, his left arm alone struck out with a sudden burst of acceleration. It was a feat of Thought Partitioning, executing both actions simultaneously. Straining the muscles of his right arm, he struck down.
Clang!
Before the echo of the metal could fade, he thrust with Spark.
Clang!
Spark struck the pauldron, failing to achieve its purpose. Silver, blocked by the shield, could neither break nor cut through it.
It was fine. Because he could just do it again.
Encrid repeated his assault. Employing a strategy for a long-term battle meant one was confident in their stamina. The same went for him.
He stopped breathing. Inviting his opponent into the Breathless World, he repeated the cycle.
Striking and thrusting, striking and thrusting, striking and thrusting.
Liebart responded with a continuous loop of blocking and enduring, blocking and enduring. Before long, their clash of blades became a battle of sheer endurance.
Naturally, the talking stopped.
In the middle of the battlefield, only the sharp clangs and cracks of metal echoed. With both the horn trumpets and the drums silenced, the sound of clashing steel spoke for the entire battlefield.