Chapter 40: The Flag Flutters, the Soldier Dances with His Blade (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 40: The Flag Flutters, the Soldier Dances with His Blade (3)
Every day, after receiving a lesson in Single-Point Focus from Ragna, he threw himself into the meat grinder of real combat.
This was the "today" Encrid lived on loop.
Countless repetitions.
Despite dying over and over, the technique known as Single-Point Focus remained a phantom—teasingly close, yet impossible to grasp.
‘Don't get impatient.’
Encrid shifted his strategy. First, he would break the flagpole.
As the battle commenced once more, Encrid pondered how to minimize casualties. Agonizing over problems and finding solutions was one of his few specialties.
The mist rolled in again. A shroud of death. It was the reason this sorcery was dubbed the Mist of Massacre.
Of course, Encrid didn't actually know the name of the spell. He only knew that he couldn't allow his men to be slaughtered like cattle.
Before the mist could fully settle and before Rem could bark an order, Encrid spoke first.
"Everyone, get down!"
Caught off guard by the sudden command, even the platoon leader reflexively ducked his head.
"Shields up!"
At Encrid’s second shout, his allies raised their shields by instinct. Having felt the vulnerability of an empty left hand in previous lives, Encrid had brought a shield of his own this time.
Lowering his stance into a sprint, he angled the shield. Thud-thud-thud! Several quarrels and arrows slammed into the wood. The oiled surface did its job perfectly, glancing the projectiles away.
‘I should have brought a shield from the start.’
In previous runs, he had been picked off by arrows while rushing this area before the real fight even began. On the bright side, those failures had forced him to master a route that allowed him to close the distance while dodging.
With that experience guiding him, he charged. He knew that to escape the mist's primary effects, he had to get as close to the enemy as possible.
As he ran, Encrid suddenly kicked off the ground, throwing himself to the left.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Spearheads whistled through the air where he had stood a split second before. It was a pattern he had already memorized.
He couldn't trigger Single-Point Focus by intentionally putting himself in mortal danger; he had to struggle desperately for survival.
Encrid resolved to do exactly that. After dodging the spears, he lunged forward, closing in right under the enemy's nose.
Only then did the enemy appear through the haze. Inside a round leather helmet, a face filled with sheer panic was revealed. Encrid kicked the startled soldier's ankle.
"Whoa!"
As the man lost his balance, Encrid slammed the edge of his shield into the man's head.
Crack!
The sound was like wood splitting. If the man survived that, it would be a miracle.
Stepping over the fallen soldier, he drew his longsword. He swung it in a wide arc the moment it cleared the scabbard, forcing three or four nearby soldiers into a panicked retreat. Watching them, Encrid mapped out his route in his mind.
He had repeated this "today" for nearly three hundred days. He could navigate this path with his eyes closed. He knew the location of every flagpole and the exact deployment of the enemy soldiers.
From the enemy's perspective, Encrid’s movements were those of a ghost.
*
Ron, a soldier of the Azpen Principality, was bewildered by the Naurilian soldier who had charged the moment the mist rolled in.
The man had suddenly popped out from the left, cut down several allies, and then vanished into thin air. At least, that was how it seemed. It felt as though he had simply ceased to exist.
In reality, he had just dropped his stance incredibly low.
"Garg!"
"He's down low! Watch your feet!"
Ron knew the mist surrounding them was a product of sorcery. Because of that, it didn't block the vision of his own allies. However, the denser patches still obstructed their view to some extent—specifically around their feet.
While they could see clearly from the chest up, the ground was a murky blur. The enemy was acting as if he knew this perfectly.
"Kill him!"
"You son of a—!"
Chaos erupted. The enemy soldier moved as if he possessed ten bodies. Ron tensed, planning to smash the intruder's head the instant he appeared.
Tension hung thick in the air.
"Ack!"
"Ugh!"
"Over here!"
The bastard was still navigating the low-lying mist as if it were his own backyard. Ron swallowed hard, feeling as if a blade might fly at his throat at any second. He felt a sudden, primal urge to urinate. Yet, the enemy didn't show himself. Just as the tension reached its breaking point—
"The flagpole—gark!"
A scream erupted from behind. It was the platoon leader's voice. Ron whipped his head around. He saw the platoon leader collapsing, and beside him, the enemy soldier rising from the haze like a skeleton climbing out of its grave.
‘Was he alone?’
To think a single man had caused all this havoc!
The bastard gripped his sword with both hands and struck the flagpole.
Crack!
With a heavy blow, the wood snapped. The flag tilted and fell. The banner, which had been fluttering noisily in the wind just moments ago, lost both its sound and its motion.
Thud.
The fallen flag kicked up a cloud of dust. Through the grit, the enemy soldier seemed to tilt his head in confusion. At least, that was how it looked to Ron. Then, the enemy moved again.
"Kill him! Kill him!"
A dying soldier managed to grab the enemy's pant leg. It was a magnificent display—a deed worthy of an elite soldier of Azpen, disregarding his own life for the kill. Allies swarmed over the intruder like a flock of hornets.
With two spears pierced through his left flank and five quarrels embedded in his thigh, the bleeding enemy soldier asked, "Why isn't the mist clearing? This should be the medium for the sorcery."
In place of the dead platoon leader, a squad leader snorted. "You idiot, why do you think we have six flagpoles?"
The squad leader didn't mince his words. The bastard was going to die anyway; knowing the truth wouldn't change a thing.
"So five of them are decoys, and only one is real."
"Crazy bastard."
"Why is Single-Point Focus so hard? Well, I suppose nothing has ever been easy for me."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Whew. Focus, focus, focus..."
"Insane lunatic."
Smack!
The enemy soldier kept muttering to himself even after getting his answer. Unable to watch the rambling any longer, Ron swung his spear shaft. The skull burst, spraying blood. The man writhed on the ground, coughing up gore.
"Gurgle..."
Turning away from the foaming mess, Ron looked back at the field. Although this lone bastard had prevented one flag unit from fulfilling its duty, the tide of battle had already turned.
It was a crushing victory for the Azpen Principality. As long as this mist remained, they could not lose.
*
The agonizing pain of death filled his entire body. To drown out the sensation, Encrid lost himself in thought.
‘How did I learn Beast's Heart again?’
For Blade's Sense, the assassin's help had been immense. For Beast's Heart, rolling around on the battlefield on the verge of death had done the trick.
But Single-Point Focus was not coming easily. Was the boldness granted by Beast's Heart getting in the way? That didn't seem right.
If he could have mastered it in just a few tries, Encrid would have been a genius. He had every reason to feel frustrated, but he remained calm. He wasn't anxious. There was no need to be.
‘If it doesn't work, I'll just keep trying until it does.’
With a mind as resilient as iron, he knew neither despair nor frustration.
Death claimed him once more, and he opened his eyes to the morning. Letting the sunlight and wind wash over him, he steeled his resolve.
"It is called Single-Point Focus. Will you learn it?"
Ragna continued to teach him as if following a set script, and Encrid nodded. No matter how much he practiced, he couldn't grasp the essence.
Through Northern-style heavy swordsmanship—specifically, by rebuilding his fundamentals under Ragna this time—he had realized something. It was a small but vital truth: whatever you learn, you must learn it properly from the very beginning.
‘The fear of death sharpens your senses?’
No matter how hard he tried, the technique felt like wearing clothes that didn't fit. He finally asked, "How did you learn it?"
"It just happened for me," Ragna replied kindly.
Which only made him more annoying. Why was he being so polite now? Encrid almost preferred when Ragna spat venom.
"It just... happened?"
"Yes. I forgot my surroundings, focused, and quickly became one with my sword."
He wasn't boasting. His tone was completely flat, stating a simple fact.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it is."
What was trivial to Ragna was like an unreachable star to Encrid. Even so, neither jealousy nor envy welled up inside him. If his heart were fragile enough to break over this, he would never have dared to dream of becoming a knight in the first place.
He repeated the process. Ragna stopped his sword inches from Encrid’s eyes, telling him to feel the fear of death. In terms of pure speed, Ragna seemed faster than Rem. Yet, when the two of them had fought, Rem had looked faster.
The memory of their sparring match was still vividly etched in Encrid’s mind. But now that he was facing Ragna himself, the man felt like lightning.
"What are you doing? They're calling for assembly. And what about you? Are you using the squad leader as a straw dummy for practice? Are you still sore about getting beaten by me before?"
"Who got beaten? Your skull?"
Why did these two fight every single time they met?
"Let's go."
Once again, they were on the battlefield. Encrid had learned many things through death. One of them was that five of the six flagpoles were fakes.
‘So I have to guess right.’
It was time to test his luck. This time, before the mist could even rise, he dashed toward the rapidly approaching enemy.
"...Squad Leader?" Ragna’s bewildered voice came from behind. To anyone else, it looked like madness.
"Squad Leader, have you lost your mind?!" Rem shouted. The others whispered, wondering if he had finally snapped.
Right at that moment, the mist rolled in.
"Whoa!"
"I can't see!"
Encrid shouted as he ran. "Get down! Shields!"
He thought they would follow his orders just like before, but the outcome changed. His allies' reaction was too slow. Arrows and quarrels tore through the ranks. The unit fell into a panic until the enemy soldiers closed in and began the slaughter.
‘Why?’
The timing was the issue. He should have given them a moment to catch their breath after the initial shock. It was a mistake born of his own foreknowledge.
That was fine. He just had to do better next time.
Others might talk about how the Goddess of Fortune had kissed them. But Encrid knew himself well. He was not a lucky man.
This was his second guess at the flagpole. It required the same fierce battle as before. Although Single-Point Focus still eluded him, his skills had grown by leaps and bounds as real combat was layered over his new fundamentals.
‘I still have a long way to go, though.’
Encrid’s benchmarks were Rem and Ragna. It took three "todays" to break the second flagpole. When he finally snapped it, the enemy platoon leader, who had a dagger buried in his stomach, spat blood and sneered.
"It's a decoy!"
"I know," Encrid nodded, two arrows sticking out of his thigh.
"...What?"
"Four left."
"What did you say?"
"Focus, focus..."
Was it because he lacked concentration? Single-Point Focus was incredibly difficult. Ignoring the enemy platoon leader babbling beside him, Encrid channeled his focus. He boldly deflected and parried the enemy's spears, swinging his sword.
An Upward Slash, now several times more familiar than before, sliced through an enemy's jaw. It split open with a wet crack, cleaving vertically from mouth to nose.
A quarrel flew in from the side, slamming into his flank with a heavy thud. Thanks to his armor, it wasn't fatal, but there were five crossbowmen positioned in a spot he hadn't noticed.
The number of enemy soldiers near the flagpole was roughly eighty. It was a number he couldn't handle alone.
‘I need to attack the flagpole while keeping an escape route in mind.’
He planned and died, transcending death to find a way.
The third flagpole took five "todays."
The fourth flagpole took seven "todays."
‘If I were the enemy commander...’
I would hide the real flagpole in the safest place.
Before the mist rolled in, he spent two "todays" just studying the enemy's formation. Only then did he see it: a single flag unit surrounded by the elite of the enemy. It was at the very center.
Encrid issued his warnings without a single mistake and ran. Everyone ducked and raised their shields perfectly.
"Rem, follow me!"
He brought Rem along this time.
"Sorcer—what?"
"Just follow me!"
He dashed forward, Rem close behind.
"What kind of crazy stunt are you pulling now?"
Instead of answering, Encrid charged toward the flag unit.
"With just the two of you?!" an enemy soldier roared. Watching him, Encrid subtly slipped away. He lowered his stance, hiding in the mist, and dumped the enemy soldiers onto Rem.
"The sorcery... who's behind it?" Rem spoke in a voice like a cold flame and swung his axe.
Looking back, Encrid couldn't even see the axe clearly, but an enemy soldier's head flew off with a dull thud. Blood erupted from the severed neck like a fountain.
"I'll get my answer from the next guy," Rem growled, going wild.
Watching him, Encrid mapped out the enemy's movements. It took five "todays" just to make contact with the innermost flag unit. Only after struggling through five runs did he manage to penetrate deep into that unit.
Encrid used his head. Instead of charging head-on, he slipped in from the flank, biding his time. He stealthily approached the flagpole.
Then, someone blocked his path.
"Am I dreaming?" the man said.
Who is this bastard?
"God has blessed me and granted my wish. I wanted nothing more than to kill you with my own hands."
Encrid tilted his head. He couldn't remember who this was.
"...You forgot me in just a few days?"
While it had only been a few days for his opponent, Encrid had been on this battlefield for a year due to his repetitions.
"I'm sorry. Could you introduce yourself?"
Encrid spoke politely, causing a vein to bulge on the man's forehead.
"I am Mitch Hurier, platoon leader of the Azpen Principality!"
Even hearing the name, Encrid couldn't recall him.
"I see."
As Encrid nodded, Mitch glared at him. "You son of a bitch."
Extremely agitated, Mitch drew his sword. Seeing him level the blade with a sharp clang, Encrid felt a flicker of recognition.
‘Where did I see him?’
"Wait." Encrid raised a hand. Mitch, keeping his sword tip aimed at his throat, asked, "What?"
"I really don't remember. Who are you?"
"You'll remember once you taste my blade!"
The man lunged. Encrid drew his longsword to meet him.
Clang! Clang!
Blade met blade, steel clashing against steel in a resonant echo. The two locked blades and then pushed apart. Mitch was inwardly shocked.
‘This bastard?’
His skills had improved dramatically.