Chapter 405: The Eye that Sees an Inch Ahead
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 405: The Eye that Sees an Inch Ahead
The Will of Rejection, awakened by the blade of a certain mad shepherd.
The Will of Acceleration, obtained later through his relentless pursuit of speed.
The Will known as the Crushing Sword, born from pure intimidation.
Encrid had awakened these Wills through his own strength and forged a path forward. In doing so, he naturally looked back at the road he had traveled and envisioned the path he would take.
The Crushing Sword was a heavy blade; the sword of the moment was a swift one.
The Will of Rejection was a way to steel his mind. There was also the Snake Sword—a counter-based style not yet imbued with Will, but built on the principle that striking softly does not turn a blade into a ball of cotton.
And now, the moment had come.
He had previously clashed with the sword of that pulse-severing bastard. He hadn't fought blindly, intoxicated by the thrill of battle; he had seen everything there was to see. He had experienced it firsthand, absorbing the blows with his own body.
Through his post-combat reflections, he had realized the truth.
What was the secret of Pulse-Severing Swordsmanship?
It was the eyes.
The bastard’s Will resided in his eyes. By observing, understanding, and judging, he severed the pulse. Therefore, he could not sever the pulse of an opponent superior to himself. It was a half-baked technique at best.
Encrid had also witnessed the Iron Wall Technique Liebart used before his transformation—an absolute defense utilizing shield and armor. It was essentially a technique designed to exhaust the opponent through a war of attrition.
What was the core element that made it possible? Was it the stamina to maintain the wall? The core strength developed to endure? Solid leg power?
No. Only one thing mattered most.
Persistence.
A persistent Will.
It was the technique that manifested Will for the longest duration of anything Encrid had ever seen. The defense of the Iron Wall was the art of centering the power of Will within one's body and holding out.
Eyes, and persistence.
He analyzed it, reflected on it, and realized it.
To this, he added his own offensive instincts. He infused it with the acute sensitivity gained from flinging open the Gate of the Sixth Sense. What he was truly attempting was to imbue the Capturing Sword, an orthodox style, with Will.
The reason this was possible was clear: he had done it before.
It happened when he fought the centaur leader who wielded a glaive. His senses had run wild, predicting the opponent's actions based on countless experiences. His heightened five senses allowed him to glimpse the future, enabling him to dodge and parry.
It was the moment when accumulated experience reached a tipping point and brought enlightenment. The moment when resolve became Will, shining brightly enough to interfere with reality. The moment when the intangible power of Will manifested in the physical world.
Encrid’s eyes took in his opponent’s entire body. The twitch of a muscle, the shifting of a finger, the direction of a foot, the subtle fluctuations in breathing, and even the movement of drifting dust.
His five senses surged. It was a deluge of information that would have made an ordinary man’s head explode. Encrid filtered the noise, accepting only what was vital.
This was a feat made possible by the experiences of death accumulated through today’s repetitions. Thanks to those deaths, his ability to judge what was necessary had developed beyond measure.
The fact that he had barely managed to block that thread-thin sword meant he could react to it. It was an undeniably lethal moment, but precisely because of the stakes, Encrid gave the technique a name.
By naming it, one could truly perceive and master it.
The Eye that Sees an Inch Ahead.
This was the name of his Will-based technique. Encrid foresaw his opponent’s next move. As before, the experience was familiar, but this time it was several times clearer and more vivid.
Thus, the sword built upon countless deaths drew a line toward the future—toward tomorrow.
If it had been Ragna, he might have reached this peak in an instant. But Encrid had walked his own path to get here, and he felt no need to envy another’s talent. This was the decisive difference between Encrid and the opponent before him.
Knowing neither frustration nor despair, he simply forgot envy and forged ahead.
Whoosh.
For the first time, he dodged the thread-like sword. Liebart’s blade grazed past, shearing off a lock of hair from the back of Encrid’s head. The severed strands burst and scattered into the air.
In that brief window, Encrid thrust his sword with minimal movement.
In truth, this was the result of reading and re-reading his opponent’s moves a thousand times over. It was a strike unleashed after using Spark to block based on the Capturing Sword and enduring the impact with the Crushing Sword.
The tip of his gladius, now shortened and chipped, pierced the opponent’s chest. Even if he had turned into a monster, he wouldn't have grown a second heart.
Shlick!
The sensation of the blade digging into muscle traveled up the hilt. The moment he thrust, Encrid leaned his body backward. Liebart’s left fist swept through the space where Encrid’s head had been a millisecond prior. It was a punch that would have shattered bone had it connected.
Encrid dodged as if falling backward, and even with his posture disrupted, he kicked the hilt of his embedded sword with the sole of his foot.
Crack! Shliiiick!
The tip of the blade burst through the monster's back.
"Ack!"
Liebart coughed up a spray of dark red blood that showered over Encrid’s face. Encrid rolled backward through the crimson mist, concealing the Whistle Dagger in his left hand while gripping Silver with his right.
Dark blood dripped along his jawline. Without so much as blinking, Encrid raised his sword from a kneeling position. His eyes stung with pain, and his head throbbed. His wild senses, combined with his sixth sense, had predicted the future; it was only natural that his brain screamed in protest.
He wouldn't be able to use this against a true knight yet. But the thing in front of him was no knight. Having fought him, Encrid felt that truth clearly.
"Damn God..." Liebart wheezed, staring at the sword embedded in his chest. Soon, blood began to stream from his eyes as well.
His gaze did not land on Encrid. He was looking back at his past.
He had been called a genius. They said he was the hero who would rebuild his family. He had forged ahead and ahead, but what had he actually grasped? What had he seen upon reaching the end of the road?
Nothing but a cliff with no end in sight. Nothing but a darkness with no future. Nothing but a wall that refused to let his hands reach beyond it.
"Fucking God."
He resented the world. He cursed it endlessly.
Liebart pulled the piece of iron from his chest with his own hands. Blood gushed from the hole left by the blade. It was a fatal wound—one he could never survive.
No, perhaps he could. Liebart knew the Count’s secret. If he went to the Count, perhaps his life could be pieced back together. Was he not already a chimera? There was nothing wrong with struggling to cling to life a little longer.
But even if he lived, what then? There was no turning back now.
Even with this, I still can't become a knight?
Even though he had discarded his humanity for that sole purpose?
So, this was the end.
His eyes turned toward the bastard who had dragged him back to reality. Having arrived once more in a world painted only with resentment and despair, Liebart spat a final curse at his opponent.
"You, too... will end up the same way."
Struggling desperately to become a knight.
"Though you won't even make it out of here alive."
It was a curse filled with the desire for Encrid to drop dead. Encrid didn't pay it the slightest bit of attention. He didn't even bother to reply.
Liebart collapsed like a broken doll. His knees buckled, and he fell face-first. Dark red blood pooled around his body, soaking into the earth.
Encrid stared at it blankly and thought: Blood, earth, death.
He still didn't like it.
The battle still raged elsewhere, but the area around Encrid was deathly silent. No one cheered for victory; no one lamented the defeat. The aftermath of the clash between Encrid and Liebart was simply too overwhelming for words.
Watching the fight from the rear, the old commander of the Kingdom’s army clenched his fists.
"Have you ever seen a clash between knight orders? Just now... I witnessed something far greater," the commander muttered. His adjutant nodded silently. He agreed.
Shivers ran down the commander’s spine. As he kept his eyes fixed on the battlefield, Encrid’s voice rang out.
"This war ends here."
It sounded like a command to the world itself.
"Everyone, stop fighting. I will end this goddamned war," he said once more.
If he didn't like it, he would stop it. How could he stop a fight that had already begun? If words didn't work, he would tear them apart by force. And if anyone tried to instigate more fighting in the meantime, he would simply smash them across the bridge of their nose.
Between stopping Rem, Ragna, Sachsen, and Audin, his knack for breaking up fights already exceeded that of any veteran knight.
"What, you're telling us to stop fighting now?"
Rem asked as he approached. He hadn't been the only one watching.
"So, what do we do now?" Ragna was there too.
"It wasn't bad," Sachsen added, joining them.
All three had been hacking through the enemy. Sensing Liebart’s transformation, they had made their way here. Ragna had just finished cutting through a crowd of shield-bearers, refining his skills in the process. Rem had just split the head of a bastard swinging two hammers and sliced an elf’s torso clean in half. Sachsen had systematically eliminated the lieutenants of the Five Weapons hidden throughout the field.
They were simply out of the enemy’s league from the start.
The three of them could have intervened in Encrid’s fight, but they hadn't. Watching a sword style evolve right before their eyes... it would be a lie to say they weren't surprised. That was why they had stayed back. His determination to change and win was vivid.
Rem, Ragna, and Sachsen felt a flicker of inward admiration. Now, they truly wouldn't be able to face him as if it were a joke.
The battle wouldn't stop easily just because Encrid spoke, but starting from where he stood, the fighting slowly ground to a halt.
"Tell them to stop fighting," Encrid said with a deep sigh. He was exhausted, but he had no intention of repeating this day. He had to move forward.
Rem, for some reason, truly liked this leader of theirs. It was incredibly foolish, but that declaration to end the war—that sheer arrogance—was entirely to his liking. Encrid wasn't saying it because he knew he could do it; he was saying he would keep going until it was done.
It was resolve. It was Will. That was why Rem liked it.
"Anyone who keeps fighting dies by my axe! Everyone, freeze!"
What Encrid had shown was terrifying, but Rem had also run amok like a madman. Moreover, he possessed a madness that didn't care whether he was crushing ally or foe. Rem unleashed that pressure now. His gleaming eyes and blood-soaked axe demanded attention.
Naturally, people stopped.
"If you want to keep fighting, I will be your opponent," Ragna stepped forward as well.
Sachsen cleverly cast his gaze toward the rear, singling out the enemy commanders. His eyes forced a choice upon them, carrying a murderous intent that promised to slaughter them one by one if they ordered more killing.
"Everyone, halt!" one of the commanders shouted at the top of his lungs.
More than a few commanders had been awed by Encrid.
"Fall back! Fall back!"
"No more needless killing!"
Far in the back, even Marcus beat the drum. It was a signal to temporarily cease engagement.
Boom! Boom!
There weren't only fools under the Count’s command. Though they knew of the Chimera Unit and respected the Count’s vision, many were beginning to wonder: Is this right?
It felt less like a fight to win and more like a fight to die. Those who felt that way moved to stop the slaughter.
"Stop! Stop and fall back!"
Something occurred that even a bard would find absurd: the fighting stopped.
Encrid looked at the quieted battlefield and walked in one direction. The sky was dusky; clouds blocked the sunlight, casting a gloom over the midday hour. Even so, Encrid’s figure was etched into everyone’s minds.
Behind him followed Rem, Ragna, and Sachsen. Finally, Dunchabel, who had appeared out of the chaos, joined them.
As they moved forward, the Count, veins bulging on his forehead, came out to meet them. Five guards stood with him, wielding swords, spears, and axes.
Looking at those five, Encrid couldn't tell if Liebart was the fool or if the Count was the bastard. A foul, bestial stench wafted strongly from the guards.
"That panther bitch... her schemes are quite bold."
Though his mouth was smiling, the Count’s face was a mask of fury. His face seemed split—the upper half was enraged, while the lower half maintained a twisted grin. It was clear that something wasn't going his way.
"My schemes are even bolder. Shall I show you?"
When Encrid retorted, the Count’s smile widened. The teeth revealed as the corners of his mouth curled upward looked strangely black.
"Do you think Liebart was everything?" the Count said, gesturing awkwardly. Esther had clearly done something to hinder him.
At the Count’s signal, the five guards stepped forward.
Crack-crack-crack.
Their muscles twisted and expanded. Fur sprouted from their skin. They couldn't even be called werewolves; because monster parts had been transplanted into them, they were a grotesque mix of beast and man.
"They look disgusting," Rem said, resting his axe on his shoulder.
If Liebart was the "completed" version, these ones seemed slightly broken. Setting aside their knight-mimicking strength, it certainly wasn't normal for parts of their faces to swell with bubble-filled blisters.
Still, five was a lot. Encrid inwardly pondered whether he could handle even one in his current state. He had pushed his body to its limit against Liebart.
Even so, he had no intention of backing down.
"I will end the war."
It was a declaration. An expression of his Will. An intimidation made manifest.
Encrid took a step forward. The five guards glared at him with blood-red eyes.
"Going alone?" Rem asked from his left.
"Two of them are mine," Ragna said from his right.
"You just need to stand back and watch," Sachsen said, standing three paces away.
Dunchabel grit her teeth and stood beside Rem.
It was a precarious balance. The Count looked at them and sneered, "Time is on my side."
A taut tension filled the space between the two groups. It felt as though if a single dry leaf fell, the entire field would burst into flames.
Step, step.
In that silence, bold yet calm footsteps echoed from behind Encrid. He didn't turn his head; he didn't need to.
"Brothers and sisters, please step back for a moment."
Reinforcements.
A man with a bear-like build approached and stood right behind Encrid.
"Who dared to torment my fiancée?"
He was not alone. Another voice, thin yet pleasant to the ear, accompanied him.