Chapter 4: Beast's Heart
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 4: Beast's Heart
"All troops, assemble! 4th Platoon, fall in!"
The platoon leader's shout echoed across the front of the barracks.
The day, which had filled Encrid's chest with a rare sense of accomplishment, was finally drawing to a close. Before he knew it, the sun was sinking into the west, ushering in the late afternoon.
"To put it simply, this isn't something you learn with your body. That's why practicing for a hundred days is useless. But seeing how much you've picked up just from today's training... it’s hard to say you don’t have talent, isn't it?"
Moving at the platoon leader's call, Rem spoke with an uncharacteristic seriousness.
"Is that so?" Encrid merely asked back.
It was hard enough to believe what was happening to him even if he told the truth exactly as it was. And even if they did believe him, it would only create more problems.
What if word got out?
If it were a genuine blessing from a god, that would be one thing, but even the slightest slip-up would mean an interview with an Inquisitor. And would an encounter with those Inquisitor bastards ever end well?
Not a chance.
At best, he'd be burned at the stake; at worst, a torture party awaited him. No one wanted to have nails driven into their body or their fingernails and toenails ripped out. Naturally, Encrid was no exception.
During his mercenary days, he had seen many who suffered unjustly under the label of heresy. He had even secretly helped a few of them. If anyone had found out, they would have mocked him, saying he was actively looking for a way to commit suicide.
It was that dangerous.
Yet, he had done it anyway. Because helping them was the right thing to do. If he didn't even do that, there would have been no reason for him to live as a swordsman.
"What's with that relaxed look? It's highly unsightly. Did you find a gold bar somewhere? Planning to desert today? Don't you know keeping something like that to yourself will only bring you trouble?"
A gold bar... He had obtained something far better than that.
"Shut up and let's go."
The assembly order had been given; it was time to move. Encrid roughly wiped the sweat trickling down his forehead with his sleeve. If he put his helmet on like this, it was bound to smell awful. But he couldn't exactly ask to go wash up in the stream at a time like this.
The bastard Rem standing next to him wasn't even sweating. What kind of training did one have to do to end up like that?
Encrid belonged to the 4th Platoon. He moved to his position within the ranks.
Will it work?
Learning it in a single day was impossible. Still, he had grasped the knack of it to some extent—thanks to the experience of being stabbed to death.
"We!" the platoon leader shouted.
"Will win!" the soldiers roared back.
The platoon leader was an ordinary, easygoing man. He was nothing special, just a soldier who followed orders from above.
The gates of the battlefield were about to open once again. As the sun sank further west, twilight began to fall.
Encrid's heart trembled.
Why? he asked himself.
The answer came quickly: Fear.
Being stabbed to death three times... that pain, that dizziness—no matter how many times he experienced it, he didn't think he would ever get used to it.
Encrid stroked his neck. It stung even though there was no wound. It felt as if he had swallowed a blade.
"Why? Worried you won't be able to keep your head on your shoulders?" Rem, standing beside him, whispered.
"Get your head in the game. This is a battlefield," Encrid replied, taking his first step in sync with the shout of "All forces, advance!"
Beside him, Rem fell into step. "Tension is what stiffens the body. Didn't you learn that from me to prevent exactly that?"
He was right. Which made him all the more annoying.
The Beast's Heart.
Rem had said very few could actually learn it, even if taught. Encrid suppressed his pounding heart, regulating his breathing to match his steps.
"Yeah, just like that. Let's see each other alive today, Captain with the big dreams."
Hearing Rem's words, Encrid resolved that if he died again today, he wouldn't mention his dream of becoming a knight tomorrow.
Once again, it was the battlefield. The start of hand-to-hand combat.
The exact same day unfolded. For Encrid, it was his fourth "today." He thought about trying to stop his shield from splitting but decided against it. What was the purpose of a shield in the first place? It was ridiculous to exert himself trying to spare something meant to block the enemy's swords, spears, and axes.
Instead of doing that...
He had lingered too long on idle thoughts. Suddenly, something flew right at his face with a sharp whoosh. Without even letting out a gasp, he leaned back and thrust his shield forward. His body tensed instinctively.
Clang!
The incoming spearhead struck the edge of his shield. It was a narrow block. His left shoulder throbbed; it was a spear, and the blow had carried considerable force.
The enemy soldier pulled back his spear and thrust again. Normally, Encrid's stiffened body wouldn't have relaxed in time. He would have blocked with a rigid posture, leading to a succession of crises.
But his mind settled. Thanks to that, he could see the spearhead clearly. It was twice as slow as the thrust that had killed him before. Therefore, there was no reason he couldn't dodge it.
Watching the tip of the spearhead until the very last moment, he simply tilted his head.
Whoosh.
The spearhead grazed the side of his helmet. It was a feat bordering on acrobatics, something he had never done in his life.
The Beast's Heart does not easily get excited.
Evasion with minimal movement. It gave him that much composure. This mental clarity also granted him a new perspective. In Encrid's eyes, the gap between the spearman's helmet and breastplate came into view—a gap just wide enough to catch a glimpse of the chin.
It wasn't a very wide gap, but it couldn't be called narrow either, since it was wide enough for a blade to slip through.
Gripping his sword, he thrust upward. It didn't even require any grand technique.
Squelch.
From bottom to top, the blade skewered the man from the chin straight through to the throat.
"Gurgle..."
The enemy soldier spewed blood and chunks of his severed tongue. A strike aiming for an opening did not require immense physical strength. Reminded of this truth, Encrid recalled what his old swordsman teacher had once told him.
"If you can dodge an opponent's attack with minimal movement, what comes next becomes easy."
It had been quite an expensive training hall, yet they taught very few things. For a long time, Encrid had thought even those few things were complete nonsense.
It was worth the money after all.
One of those pieces of "nonsense" had just become reality. Dodging and attacking with minimal movement—it worked. It was highly effective.
Pushing the opponent's abdomen with his foot, he drew out his sword. Blood gushed even more violently from the hole beneath the chin. The enemy soldier collapsed backward.
"You bastard!"
Another enemy rushed him from behind. Encrid neither gasped for breath nor reacted in a panic.
Six steps.
Measuring the distance between them, Encrid raised his sword and sliced the shield strap secured to the back of his left hand.
Rip. Slice.
Two cuts, and the strap was severed. Wrapping the shield tightly around his forearm was a trick he had learned to survive, ensuring he wouldn't lose it in a chaotic melee. But right now, he didn't need it.
The enemy soldier closed in. Encrid hurled the shield.
Clang!
Startled by the flying shield, the spear-wielding soldier instinctively pulled back both hands. Naturally, the spear in his hands retreated as well. His footsteps slowed. The broad shield, if only for a brief moment, was enough to block the opponent's vision.
Having thrown the shield, Encrid took two large strides to the left while the opponent's vision was obscured. A helmet is a tool to protect the head, but it narrows one's peripheral vision. Encrid himself had experienced the sudden disappearance of an enemy from his sight multiple times. He had often utilized this to deceive the opponent's eyes, ducking low and flipping them backward.
It was something he had done even on the day of his first death. He simply executed it much more cleanly this time.
He was on the opponent's right. Before lunging, Encrid checked the soldier's hands. His left hand held the front of the long shaft, while his right hand gripped the back.
He was right-handed.
Things he wouldn't normally notice were now visible. It was a vision granted by his composure—tricks he occasionally used in small skirmishes or duels, but could never easily employ in a chaotic melee. This was the insight he had gained while surviving as a mercenary.
A right-handed spearman would find it difficult to swing his spear to his right.
The soldier, having blocked the shield, hurriedly turned his head left and right. He was startled, and with good reason—his opponent had suddenly vanished from right in front of him. The soldier's eyes soon scanned around and spotted Encrid.
In the brief moment the soldier was looking around in surprise, Encrid swung his sword diagonally from the back of the man's head toward the front of his chest.
Thwack!
The man's armor was designed to guard the back of his neck. Thick cloth and the thin leather covering it prevented his neck from being completely severed. The blade lodged halfway into the back of his neck.
"Cough, cough, ah..."
He could see the soldier's eyes—wide with shock, staring roundly. Blood gushed from the half-severed neck. Despite the wound, the spearman swung his spear reflexively. The shaft tapped Encrid's right shoulder.
There was no impact. The man was already half-dead, and Encrid had moved at an angle that made it difficult to put any force into the spear shaft anyway. Encrid pulled his sword upward to extract it.
Crunch.
It must have lodged in the bone, as it required quite a bit of force. Clots of blood clung to the freed blade as it slid out. Glancing briefly at the state of the battlefield, Encrid picked up a shield with a broken corner from the ground instead of an axe. He now had enough composure for that.
This actually works.
It was happening so easily. On a battlefield, it was usually difficult to display even half of one's normal skills. That was only natural. Standing in the midst of a killing field, how could anyone move as they normally did? Though there were occasionally those who went wild with frenzy, most were bound to panic.
Until he experienced three deaths, Encrid had been the same, but now he was different.
I can do this.
That thrust—he felt he might actually be able to face it now.
What Encrid had done wasn't enough to change the tide of the battle. It was merely one soldier fighting slightly better. There was no shift in the overall situation. But for Encrid personally, it was a massive change.
After taking down a couple of enemy soldiers like that...
"Ack!"
Bell tripped again. Encrid's newfound composure gave him the time to pull Bell up.
"Are you alright?"
"Damn it, why is there a rock sticking out here?"
It was a dry plain. A protruding rock was hardly a rare sight. However, Bell had tripped over his own feet. Bell was just being stupid.
"Get a grip." He grabbed Bell's hand and pulled him up.
"Thanks, you saved me."
Encrid didn't loosen his grip, holding Bell's hand tightly.
"...My hand," Bell muttered, asking him to let go.
Encrid saw it in his mind—the helmet split in half, the blood-stained head, and Bell's eyes. The flash of light was an arrow, and that arrow would pierce Bell's head. He already knew this. However, noticing an arrow flying in the middle of a chaotic melee was exceedingly difficult.
Encrid tried to pull the hand he was holding. Bell stumbled, losing his balance, but managed to brace himself and stand firm.
Thud.
His head shattered. An arrow flew in and obliterated Bell's skull. Blood splattered onto Encrid's breastplate.
The moment Encrid saw Bell's head burst, he ducked. With a whoosh, something chilling passed right over his head. An arrow, surely. The arrow struck the corpse of a fallen ally behind him with a dull thud.
"Did you offer a prayer to the Goddess of Fortune or something?"
The moment he dodged, Rem's voice reached his ears. He hadn't been able to save Bell's head, but he had saved his own. Of course, even if he hadn't, Rem would have saved him. It was the fourth time, the exact same situation.
"Well, something like that."
When he gave a vague reply, Rem chuckled. His teeth were visible through the gaps in his helmet. For a guy who looked reasonably pretty, his way of speaking and actions were violent to the extreme.
"Fine by me. They say the one who shot this arrow is a guy called Hawk's Nipple or whatever, so I'm off to find him. Pray to the Goddess ten more times."
"I'll pray on your behalf too, so you don't die on the way."
"I'd appreciate that. Don't forget this."
Rem tapped his own left chest with the handle of his axe and headed back into the fray. He was going to catch Hawk's Eye, or Hawk's Claw, or whatever it was.
Encrid nodded, hoping he would be able to ask Rem tonight whether he had killed the archer.
Allies and enemies swarmed into the space Rem had vacated. As the gap closed, Encrid judged that the flow of the battle was far from favorable. He already had three experiences of this. His allies were being pushed back.
Still, there was only one thing he could do: Survive.
Encrid felt a strange excitement wash over him. Because in just a little while, he would meet that highly skilled soldier.
Before long, it became reality. That thrust aimed for his head once again. Instead of dodging, Encrid met the incoming blade with his own.
Cl-cl-cl-clang!
Sparks flew in the air. He locked eyes with the enemy soldier.
You blocked this? the man's eyes seemed to ask.
"You're not bad," the enemy soldier spoke, thrusting his sword again.
Once, twice, thrice.
The first he blocked with his shield, the second he dodged by rolling to the side, and the third he countered by swinging his sword. Encrid's blade, tracing a tight path, sliced through empty air.
And the moment the enemy soldier pulled his arm back again, something struck Encrid's waist from behind.
Thwack!
"Ugh."
He swallowed the groan that instinctively rose to his throat. Then came another thrust. He intentionally shifted his center of gravity forward, attempting to roll as if falling over. The intention was good, but the timing was bad.
Squish.
The blade shattered his collarbone beside his neck and sank deep inside. It felt as if a red-hot branding iron was searing his flesh and bone.
"Gah!"
It was so painful that he couldn't even scream. As he tried to grab the embedded blade with his hand, the opponent smoothly withdrew it. Perhaps the man had put a lot of effort into sharpening his sword, for the blade was incredibly sharp. An even more horrific pain followed as the sword was pulled out. It hurt so much that his vision turned white.
Encrid gritted his teeth and looked back. He saw a hulking enemy soldier standing awkwardly, a club in his hand. That must have been what struck his waist.
"This is mercy," the bastard who had killed him three times spoke as he brought his sword straight down.
That was the end. His eyes closed. Darkness seeped into his vision.
Clang, clang, clang.
The sound of a ladle striking a pot echoed once more.
"Fifth time."
Damn it. I thought I had it.
"What's the fifth time?" Rem, sitting next to him, asked.
"A bug in my boot," Encrid spoke as he stood up.
He had died again, but he had learned something. No, it was a lesson he had bought by pouring gold coins into training halls over the years: nothing is achieved on the first try.
So what should he do?
If once wasn't enough, do it ten times. If ten times wasn't enough, do it a hundred times. Normally, dying once would be the end of it. Fortunately, Encrid could repeat this process endlessly.