Chapter 41: Single-Point Focus
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 41: Single-Point Focus
Clang! Clang! Clang!
A thrust aimed at the eyes was followed immediately by a slash to the shoulder. After carving through the shoulder, the blade swept down to graze the thigh before lunging forward with full force.
Encrid’s eyes widened, tracking his opponent's posture, hand gestures, and footwork to predict the next move. Matching his defense to the anticipated strikes, he blocked them all.
Sparks flew between them, momentarily burning away patches of the thick fog. Through the gap, two eyes gleamed.
‘The shoulder.’
The opponent's line of attack aimed for his shoulder once more. Encrid pulled back his left foot, which had been half a step forward. In an instant, his left shoulder jerked back as the opponent's sword lunged forward with terrifying speed.
Swinging his left foot behind his right, he pivoted on his right big toe—a lateral spinning step.
Whoosh!
The blade grazed past his shoulder. Sensing an opportunity, Encrid swung his sword upward from a modified middle stance, the tip having been angled downward.
Normally, the side of the blade facing the opponent is the front edge, and the side facing the wielder is the back edge. By swinging upward from a lowered position, Encrid was striking with the back edge.
The back edge of Encrid's sword aimed straight for his opponent's chin. He expected the man to dodge.
‘Even if he dodges, it will leave an opening.’
Then, he could dictate the next line of attack exactly as he intended. This was a move forged through countless real battles—a plan to seize the upper hand with a single step and a follow-up strike.
"You arrogant bastard!"
Furious, the opponent swept the sword he had used to thrust at the shoulder into a horizontal slash. Encrid had to duck hastily to dodge the blow. Naturally, his upward-swinging sword failed to hit its mark.
Clang! Clang!
Instead, Encrid had to pull his sword close to his body and quickly raise it above his head to block the next attack. The opponent had only feigned the horizontal slash; instead, he had raised his sword high and brought it straight down. It was a vertical strike aimed at the crown of his head.
Having barely blocked the blow, both of them ground to a halt, their blades locked tightly against each other.
"You thought you could take me with a single step?" the opponent snarled, pressing down on Encrid's sword from above.
"Why? Am I not allowed to try?" Encrid retorted casually.
The soldier, who had identified himself as Mitch Hurier, expressed his fury through his eyes and facial expressions. He was remarkably talented at showing his rage.
"You really don't want to die peacefully, do you?"
"Actually, my dream is to die of old age."
When it came to getting under someone's skin, Encrid was no worse than Rem. In fact, he was even better at running his mouth. A thick vein bulged on Mitch's forehead.
"Fine. I'll chop off your limbs and stuff you in a cesspool until you rot of old age."
"Actually, I plan to die of old age with all my limbs intact, right next to my great-grandchildren."
"You little shit!"
Thud!
Mitch kicked forward, but Encrid deflected it with his own leg. Using that momentum, the two pushed apart, creating a distance of over two paces.
The moment the distance widened, Encrid tried to swing his sword, but Mitch did the opposite, using his feet to charge forward. Mitch rushed forward at such a terrifying speed that his body seemed to leave a long afterimage.
Seeing this, Encrid adjusted his sword's trajectory and swung downward.
Clang!
Their swords clashed once more. The blades crossed, emitting the harsh screech of grinding metal. Encrid tried to push him back with brute force, but Mitch's sword clung to his as if glued.
Mitch kept the blades locked and instantly twisted his wrist upward. With that single motion, the tip of his sword pointed toward Encrid's head, aligning parallel to the ground as he raised his weapon. In a split second, Mitch used the forte of his blade—the strong part near the hilt—to bind the tip of Encrid's sword.
Without pausing, Mitch thrust his sword straight forward. Even while huffing and puffing with rage, Mitch's swordsmanship remained flawlessly precise.
Screeech!
The friction of the sliding blades shrieked. If he stayed like this, he would end up with a hole in his throat. Encrid mirrored his opponent's movement, twisting his wrist to raise his sword.
Clink!
Sparks flew between them once more as Mitch instantly parried the blade away. Without even a moment to catch his breath, the next strike came.
This time, Encrid initiated. From the upper right to the lower left—a Diagonal Slash.
He had trained and tempered this move countless times. The skill he had honed by rolling through the dirt of real combat now shone brightly. A graceful arc was drawn in the air. The line fell toward Mitch's body.
Footwork, timing, posture, and strike. It was a textbook slash, flawless in every aspect.
Yet, Mitch caught Encrid's sword with his own. In that instant, Encrid felt as though he were cutting through a soft ball of cotton rather than a solid blade. Mitch's sword bent fluidly, parrying Encrid's blade aside before snapping back in the opposite direction, its back edge descending toward Encrid's head. Mitch had rotated his wrist, drawing a small circle with his sword.
"Hup!"
Gasping for air, Encrid didn't even dare to block; instead, he twisted his body to the side.
Whoosh.
Mitch's sword sliced through the empty air where Encrid's head had been a split second ago. He had dodged, but it threw off his balance. The descending blade sliced into Encrid's right forearm. It wasn't a deep wound, but blood began to trickle down.
There was no more time for banter.
‘The abdomen.’
He had to deflect a thrust aimed at his stomach, then dodge a diagonal downward slash targeting his thigh. Dodging, blocking, and swinging his sword whenever he saw an opening. He tried to force his opponent back with a High Horizontal Slash, but the enemy was relentless.
Instead of retreating, Mitch deflected the sword upward and continued to close the distance. A distance where swords held a conversation.
Encrid was pushed onto the defensive, struggling just to block and dodge.
‘High strike, diagonal, thrust.’
He poured out everything he had built into his muscle memory and forged in real combat. Thrusting, slashing, pulling, binding, and even kicking whenever an opening appeared. Mitch read every single attack, blocking what needed to be blocked and dodging what needed to be dodged.
And in the process, he carved wounds into Encrid's body, one by one. First his forearm, then his shoulder, his thigh—minor cuts began to accumulate. Encrid dodged by the skin of his teeth—truly by the narrowest of margins. He was so thoroughly on the defensive that he felt incredibly lucky to have survived the strike that blew off his helmet and sliced his forehead.
The blood pouring from his forehead splattered in all directions due to his violent movements.
‘Next is the shoulder.’
There was no time to breathe. No time to think. There was only the endless cycle of blocking, dodging, and striking back. Even amidst this, he managed occasional counterattacks. Though he had to take three or four cuts just to land one of his own, he could still keep up the offense, so Encrid focused.
It felt as though a single misstep in his breathing would mean instant death.
Mitch felt the exact same way. When Mitch had first seen the crazy bastard raiding their camp, the guy's skills had been downright pathetic. Even after exchanging only a few blows, his limits had been glaringly obvious. Mitch had recognized that.
But what was this now? In just a few days, the man's skills had improved so much that Mitch questioned if he was even the same person. It would be more believable if they were twins.
‘Is he a twin?’
The moment his mind wandered, the opponent's sword unerringly targeted his openings. Mitch realized that the thrust which had just grazed his cheek could have easily put a hole in his neck if he had been a fraction of a second slower.
‘This bastard.’
Mitch focused. He had no room to worry about trivial things like what was happening around him or where he currently was. He concentrated his mind entirely on killing his opponent.
Encrid was the same. Dodge and block. Block and dodge. In the midst of it, openings appeared. Though some were visible, he didn't even dare to exploit them. Yet, if he hesitated when a genuine opening to thrust his sword appeared, he would immediately find himself boarding the ferry prepared by the Ferryman of the Black River.
Even though dying meant repeating today all over again, Encrid had no intention of wasting a single "today." He gave it his absolute all. That was precisely why repeating today held meaning.
‘The chest... no, the stomach.’
He dodged a feinted thrust. He blocked and deflected the arc of a blade that swooped down from above like a diving eagle. His deflecting technique was clumsy, as he had never properly learned it. It was closer to a crude block than a true deflection.
The Heavy Sword Style that Encrid used was fundamentally about overpowering the opponent with sheer force. In contrast, Mitch used a blend of the Orthodox Sword Style and the Soft Sword Style. The Orthodox Sword Style was classically about cornering the opponent along set paths before delivering a counterstrike. The Soft Sword Style was about deflecting the opponent's attacks to create openings.
Clang!
The clash of their swords radiated a scorching heat. Encrid fought with every fiber of his being; he couldn't afford to let even a single nerve slacken. A single blink would cost him the battle.
And now, as they traded blows, there was no flagpole, no victory or defeat, and no formal swordsmanship in Encrid's mind. Only slashing, thrusting, and swinging his sword at the opponent before him remained. Everything around him vanished, leaving only one thing.
The sword and I, I and the sword. The opponent's sword, the sword and the opponent. Once more, I with my sword, and the opponent with his.
Eventually, he forgot himself, and he forgot his opponent.
Manga—self-forgetfulness. Having forgotten himself, only the sword remained.
Swinging, slashing, thrusting, blocking, and dodging were the only things that filled Encrid's entire being. An endless ecstasy welled up within him, while a deep thirst boiled in tandem.
Clang! Clank! Ting! Crash! Screeech!
The metals clashed in various ways, spewing out all kinds of noise. But nothing could last forever. Knowing this, Encrid wished this moment would stretch on.
‘Just a little longer.’
He knew instinctively that this was not a state easily reached simply by repeating today. He had experienced it once before—a time when he had cut through an opponent without feeling even a shred of resistance in his sword-wielding hand. The experience of delivering a perfectly clean strike.
How hard had he tried to recreate that experience? It had been incredibly difficult. He hadn't succeeded even once since then. It was the same now. Though he wished this would last forever, having forgotten himself with only the sword remaining, all things had to come to an end.
Clang!
His opponent brilliantly deflected a downward strike that carried the essence of the Heavy Sword Style. The force was redirected completely outward, and at the same time, an opening appeared in Encrid's chest.
Thuck!
The opponent did not miss the opening. The blade, turning into a white-hot iron skewer, pierced straight through his chest.
"Phew..."
With the sword embedded in his chest, Encrid's arms stopped moving. His limbs trembled violently. Because he had focused so intensely and poured in all his strength, his muscles had reached their absolute limit. Letting his sword dangle from his trembling arm, Encrid raised his head. He saw his opponent, drenched in sweat.
"I remember now," Encrid spoke, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
"Only now?"
"I'm right, aren't I? You're the guy who was holding the torch."
Now that he had been stabbed, the memory slowly resurfaced. The man had been that memorable.
"I am Mitch Hurier. A platoon leader of the Azpen Principality."
"Encrid. A squad leader of the Naurilia Kingdom."
Encrid was drenched in blood and sweat. It poured down his forehead, soaking his entire body as if he had been caught in a downpour. His opponent was in the same state. The two stared at each other in silence.
It was a feeling Encrid had never experienced before. He felt no ill will toward the opponent who had just run him through. He only felt a desperate desire to fight him once more.
Mitch Hurier's face was expressionless, but his eyes told a different story. The light in them had changed. His anger had subsided, replaced by an indescribable emotion.
"Your dream has been shattered."
Dream? Ah.
"It was a lie. How could a swordsman's dream be to die of old age?"
"Right. Now die."
Mitch spoke and pulled his sword out with a wet slide. The pain rushed in, turning his mind blank. Encrid endured the agony and sank to one knee. With a gurgle, blood welled up from his throat and spilled out of his mouth.
"What is it? Has the enemy arrived?"
Before they knew it, a crowd of Azpen soldiers had surrounded them. One of them approached, speaking up.
‘I didn't even see them.’
Encrid glanced around. The area was crawling with enemy soldiers.
"Yeah. He snuck all the way here. Seems like his specialty is striking from behind," Mitch replied.
"You look disappointed, Platoon Leader."
"...I'm not."
Mitch spoke, staring intently at Encrid. To be honest, he was disappointed. It wasn't easy to meet an opponent like this. Fighting with his life on the line had made him feel as though he had stepped into a new realm. Naturally, a sense of lingering regret arose.
Yet, not a single trace of such emotion could be seen on his opponent's face. Instead, the man looked somewhat relieved, and even excited, like a child who had just been handed a new toy.
"What are you?" Mitch asked in bewilderment, but Encrid was no longer listening.
He was dying, and a single thought dominated his mind.
‘Ragna, you crazy bastard. It wasn't the fear of death that I needed.’
The prerequisite to drawing out Single-Point Focus wasn't the concentration born from the moment of death. It was an opponent with whom he could clash for a long time, risking their lives, to stimulate and elevate their abilities, emotions, and everything else. An opponent against whom he had to pour out his entire being just to survive. A battle filled with an exhilarating tension where looking away for even a split second meant instant death.
He needed a worthy rival.
In that regard, Mitch Hurier was perfect. He was truly a worthy rival. Encrid realized this as he lay dying. That sensation and experience from earlier was exactly what Ragna had called Single-Point Focus.
And he had just achieved it.
Furthermore, by repeating today once more, he would have the opportunity to relive that sensation and experience. To summon at will that very moment he had wished would last just a little longer—that was Single-Point Focus.
Would it be easy? Probably not. But he would keep trying until he succeeded. The existence of Mitch Hurier would make it possible.
Encrid realized this. So how could he not be excited? Seeing the path forward once again, Encrid died with a smile on his face.
"Was he a crazy bastard?"
Mitch could only tilt his head in confusion as he watched Encrid die with a smile.