Chapter 43: Mitch Hurier
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 43: Mitch Hurier
The Azpen Principality was ruled by three great families, and among them, the Hurier family stood as the ultimate symbol of military might.
In the Hurier household, every child—regardless of gender—was steeped in martial arts from the moment they could walk. They were subjected to rigorous evaluations, with the family gathering and cultivating only those who showed true promise.
Talent was a fickle thing, and the whims of the Goddess of Fortune were notoriously unpredictable. To capture that elusive spark, the Hurier family recruited talent from every corner of their bloodline, ignoring the distinction between direct and collateral branches.
Mitch Hurier was one such find.
Born into a distant collateral branch with a different surname, he had earned his place as a true member of the Hurier family through blood and steel.
Mitch’s talent had been undeniable since childhood. At fifteen, he could already overpower two or three seasoned soldiers at once. By sixteen, he had far surpassed the capabilities of ordinary men-at-arms. At eighteen, he proved his worth by slaying a champion swordsman who represented an entire town in a formal duel. By twenty-two, he held his own even when sparring with warriors famous throughout the territory.
There were few who could match his blade, and even fewer among his own age group.
Such an environment was a breeding ground for arrogance.
‘Why bother struggling when I can master it in a few tries?’
Why should he train until his thighs felt like they would burst? Why should he swing a sword until the skin on his palms shredded? He saw no need for such drudgery. He was satisfied with his current standing and had long since abandoned the desperate effort he’d exerted when he first picked up a blade.
Yet, through sheer, raw talent alone, he had risen to become one of the top three fighters in the Gray Dog.
For Mitch, a situation like this was a first.
Clash!
He swept his blade upward, parrying a heavy downward strike. In the brief moment his guard wavered, the enemy’s blade grazed his shoulder. Mitch snarled, thrusting his sword forward while simultaneously lashing out with a kick aimed at his opponent’s shin.
It was a dirty trick he often used to finish off those weaker than him. When a man’s focus was entirely consumed by the play of blades, a low kick was nearly impossible to block. Even if they managed to stop it, it would create the opening Mitch needed to kill.
But this opponent reacted as if he had seen the move a thousand times. He twisted his shoulder to dodge the thrust and lifted his leg in a perfect check to block the kick.
His balance didn't even flicker. The bastard’s basics were rock solid.
‘He definitely wasn't this good a moment ago.’
Mitch recalled the start of the encounter. The man had approached him with an eerie calmness and casually spat out:
"Hello. Nice to meet you. Since we're both here, shall we put our lives on the line and have a go?"
The face was familiar. It was definitely that bastard—the enemy soldier who had spearheaded the night raid. A thick, vision-obscuring fog had blanketed the field, so how had he navigated all the way here?
There was no time for questions. The opponent lunged first, his sword extending in a long, predatory thrust.
Clang!
Mitch blocked the strike, his mind racing. This could be a diversion. He had already ordered his men to guard the rear while he handled this pest. If the flagpole fell, the entire operation would suffer a catastrophic setback. That was why he was stationed here.
If the company commander of the Gray Dog was the hammer meant to crush the enemy’s retreat, Mitch was the anvil meant to hold this ground.
Having blocked the kick, the enemy soldier brought his sword down again, aiming directly for the crown of Mitch’s head. Mitch crossed his blade with the opponent’s, catching the strike and deflecting it.
Shhhriiiing!
The blades ground against each other at a sharp angle, sparks showering the grass. At the final moment, both men exerted a burst of strength, pushing off to create distance.
A gap of five paces opened between them. Before lunging again, Mitch spoke.
"Were you hiding your skills?"
"It just turned out that way," the man replied.
"What's your name?"
"Encrid."
This was the bastard Mitch had been itching to find. He had felt he wouldn't be satisfied until he personally carved the life out of him. And now, the man had delivered himself right to his doorstep.
Mitch licked his lips, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Right. Encrid. I'll remember that name."
"You don't have to. If you forget, I'll just tell you again."
"Crazy bastard. You die here."
Mitch raised his sword over his left shoulder. After those few exchanges, he had gauged the other’s level. Now, it was time to show him the true gap in their strength.
Five exchanges at most. Mitch was certain he would have Encrid’s head within that time.
But five exchanges passed. Then ten.
Mitch’s brow furrowed into a deep scowl. This was a first. It wasn't that the opponent was overwhelmingly superior—that wasn't it at all. It felt as if the man was barely keeping up, hanging on by a thread.
Yet, as if he knew every one of Mitch’s habits and tics, the opponent blocked, endured, and parried every killing blow.
Mitch increased his speed. He wove in complex feints. Still, the fight continued.
As the blades clashed again and again, Mitch’s vision narrowed until the rest of the battlefield vanished. There was only the opponent and the sword. The blade and himself. Himself and the blade.
Mitch Hurier felt as if he were holding a sword for the very first time. It was that primal sensation from his youth—the feeling that only he and the steel existed under the heavens.
He felt that if he swung, the opponent would be cut. If he thrust, he would pierce. If he struck, he would shatter.
Mitch gave in to the instinct. He struck down, curved his arcs, extended his reach, thrust with precision, and spun his blade in a whirlwind of steel.
And the opponent did the exact same thing.
*
Encrid surrendered himself to his state of focus. Within that trance-like immersion, he traded blows with Mitch.
Thanks to the countless repetitions of this day, his opponent’s habits were as clear as day. Block the foot, parry the sword.
Then, in an instant, the enemy’s sword changed. It became fiercer, sharper, and more erratic than before. Thrusting, curving, slashing—the blade was a blur.
Clang! Clang! Screeech!
As they clashed with everything they had, sparks erupted from the steel. A few strikes grazed Encrid’s shoulder; another sliced his flank. Though the wounds weren't deep, droplets of blood sprayed into the air. He danced through at least three life-threatening moments in the blink of an eye.
In response, Encrid’s immersion deepened. Deeper.
He intentionally pushed himself into a state of self-forgetfulness, letting the world around him dissolve. He entered a realm where only he and his sword remained.
Single-Point Focus was fully activated.
In his eyes, only Mitch Hurier’s sword existed. In Mitch’s eyes, only Encrid’s sword existed.
The two fought like madmen, staking their lives on every micro-movement. They traded attacks so dizzying and violent that any onlooker would have broken into a cold sweat just watching.
Slash.
Having failed to slit each other’s throats, both men now bled from shallow cuts on their necks.
Mitch, still locked in his state of focus, prepared his finishing move. He pulled his left foot back and stepped forward with his right, creating a new, unfamiliar distance. He let the tip of his sword dangle behind his hip, hidden from view.
"Hup."
With a sharp intake of breath, his muscles coiled like springs.
Orthodox Sword and Soft Sword. Both were styles primarily focused on defense. However, Mitch had mastered a hidden technique designed for a sudden, lethal reversal.
It was called the Wheel Slash—a technique that drew a massive, explosive circle from bottom to top. By shifting his posture and hiding the blade behind his body, he concealed the attack’s origin, making it an "unblockable" strike. The strange footwork from a moment ago had been entirely for the sake of this one move.
As his opponent prepared the Wheel Slash, Encrid’s state of self-forgetfulness reached its zenith. What he gained in that moment was more than just swordsmanship.
‘I can see it.’
Though the blade was hidden from his eyes, his opponent’s movements were drawn perfectly in his mind’s eye. Having entered Single-Point Focus, his hearing had become terrifyingly acute.
From the sound of a foot shifting to the whistle of the sword drawing back as Mitch gathered his breath—every vibration was compiled into data, forming a vivid image in his mind.
Encrid had died to the Wheel Slash more than ten times in previous loops. Because he possessed the agonizing experience of being slaughtered by this move repeatedly, the image in his mind was clearer than reality itself. He could feel the hidden sword as if it were glowing, and he could hear the rhythm of his opponent’s lungs.
He read the timing perfectly.
Whoosh.
The sound of the blade carving through the air pierced his ears. The blade surged upward from the grass in a lethal, curving arc.
Lost in his trance, Encrid struck downward reflexively. It was a trajectory designed specifically to intercept the Wheel Slash.
Clang!
The rising sword met the descending blade. Both men had poured so much force into the collision that Encrid’s sword let out a sharp snap, a crack spider-webbing through the steel.
Mitch was visibly shaken. The shock of having his "unblockable" strike countered shattered his focus.
But Encrid didn't waver. His cracked sword slid along Mitch’s blade with a horrific, ear-piercing screech.
Screeeeech!
Mitch reflexively tried to lift his sword to recover, but Encrid pressed down with overwhelming weight. It was basic physics—pressing down from above was naturally more advantageous than lifting from below. Furthermore, thanks to his relentless, daily conditioning, Encrid’s raw physical strength was superior.
In a contest of pure muscle, Mitch was no match.
Pressing the blades together, Encrid stepped his left foot forward, put his weight into his shoulder, and shoved the sword down, flicking Mitch’s guard away.
Shiiing!
Mitch’s sword was deflected toward the dirt.
In that opening, Encrid stepped in and twisted his waist. The sword in his hand became a single, focused point and lunged forward.
The tip of the blade pierced Mitch’s chest with a sickening, wet thud. Even through the armor, the force was too immense to be stopped.
The blade didn't go all the way through, but it bit deep. Encrid yanked the sword back. With a squelch, the blood-stained steel slid out.
"Huu... huu..."
Encrid lowered his sword, panting heavily. He had burned every ounce of energy in that brief window. His limbs were trembling with exhaustion.
Blood gushed from Mitch’s chest. The nobleman stumbled back like a drunkard, his legs shaking, before he forced himself to stand tall, using the last of his strength to stay upright.
For a second, Mitch’s pupils dilated, but he forced them back into focus.
"I should have... gone for a counter," Mitch wheezed. Blood soaked through his tunic, turning the fabric a dark, heavy crimson. "If I had blocked, deflected, and waited for the opening... it would have been my victory. You admit that, right?"
"Isn't victory decided by the result?" Encrid countered.
"That's not wrong... but it's just so frustrating. No, actually... you're right. I shouldn't have neglected my training. In the end, I was overpowered by pure strength."
Mitch’s eyes began to glaze over. The sheer volume of blood loss meant he was a dead man walking.
Encrid raised his sword and took two steps forward to finish it.
"Stop him!"
Just as he was about to thrust, a group of soldiers rushed in. A heavy whoosh signaled a new attack, and Encrid raised his sword at an angle to protect his vitals.
Clang! Clang!
Heavy impacts vibrated through his arm. Encrid retreated two steps and sized up the newcomer. It was a man with a thick mustache, standing protectively in front of the dying Mitch.
"Protect Mitch!" the man roared.
Three or four more soldiers swarmed in, forming a wall. They immediately began sprinkling a powdered medicine over Mitch’s chest. The torrential bleeding slowed to a trickle.
"You bastard! How dare you come here alone!" the mustachioed man glared, his eyes burning with rage. He kept glancing back at Mitch with genuine concern.
Is that guy someone important? Encrid wondered, catching his breath.
The mustachioed man’s breathing was ragged, but his stance was disciplined. He had just returned from checking the flagpole, assuming Mitch would easily handle the intruder. The reality was a shock to his system.
Encrid didn't let the victory go to his head. This was a battlefield, not a duel. He still had a mission.
"I heard that the larger the medium for sorcery, the worse it is for the caster if it's damaged. Is that true?" Encrid asked, watching as two soldiers began to carry the unconscious Mitch Hurier away.
The mustachioed man narrowed his eyes. "You bastard... you know too much."
"I know enough."
Encrid dug his toe into the dirt and kicked upward. A cloud of soil and weeds flew into the man’s face. As the soldier instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, Encrid bolted.
"Catch him! Don't let him near the flagpole!"
Encrid ran.
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
Crossbow bolts hissed through the air. He twisted his body, but one bolt buried itself in the back of his right shoulder.
‘I can ignore this.’
He sprinted in a straight line toward the flagpole. An enemy soldier blocked his path with a short spear. Charging like a rhinoceros, Encrid waited until he was five paces away before veering sharply to the right.
The crossbow bolt intended for Encrid’s back struck the spearman instead.
"Argh! My eye!" the soldier screamed as the bolt found its mark. Several others were hit in the chaos.
"Cease fire! Stop shooting!" a commander barked.
Encrid maintained a semi-focused state, his Blade's Sense mapping out the enemy positions through sound alone. He spun on his heel and dove into the cluster of crossbowmen.
"Huh?!"
He brought his blade down on the crown of a startled soldier’s head, splitting it with a wet crack. Using the recoil of the strike, he whipped the sword around in a wide, lethal circle.
Whoosh!
The surrounding soldiers scrambled back in terror.
"Gray Dogs! Pursue him!" the mustachioed man screamed, closing in.
Encrid wove through the crossbowmen, sprinting in a jagged pattern.
Squelch!
He ran a man through the neck without slowing down. He scooped a fallen crossbow bolt off the ground and hurled it like a dart. It clattered harmlessly off a soldier’s armor, but as the man lowered his guard, Encrid followed up with a throwing knife that embedded itself in the man’s forehead.
"Huu!"
Exhaling in sharp bursts, Encrid navigated the enemy lines as if he were a ghost. He had two goals. First, destroy the flagpole. Second, hope his own commander would finally wake up and support him.
"You son of a bitch!" the mustachioed man roared, his face purple with rage.
After a series of desperate maneuvers, Encrid finally reached the base of the flagpole. He threw every remaining knife in his belt.
Thwip-thwip-thwip!
Five blades flew. They all struck the fluttering flag, but the thick, enchanted cloth held firm. The enemy soldiers gasped, their eyes fixed on the flag.
"Shit!"
"Block him! Kill him!"
Beneath the flagpole, a man dressed in shamanic robes began to scream. While everyone was distracted by the knives, Encrid dropped and rolled across the ground. It was a sudden, seemingly random move, and in the chaos, no one paid it any mind.
The mustachioed soldier lunged, certain he had the kill. Got you, you bastard.
But Encrid was already springing up, gripping a discarded short spear he had snatched from the dirt during his roll.
"Stop him!" the shaman shrieked.
Encrid didn't use words. He planted his left foot, twisted his entire body, and unleashed the spear with every ounce of strength he possessed.
The spear flew with a sharp, whip-like crack.
Rip!
The spear tore through the center of the flag, leaving a gaping hole.
In sorcery, if the medium is damaged, the spell unravels. He didn't need to topple the massive pole; he just needed to ruin the symbol.
As the surrounding fog began to thin and dissipate, Encrid let out a long, ragged sigh of relief.
"You crazy bastard," the mustachioed man hissed, his eyes blazing. "Do you really think you're getting out of here alive?"
Encrid raised his cracked sword, centering it before his body in a perfect defensive stance. He gave a small, tired nod.
"Maybe?"
The odds were fifty-fifty. Life or death. To anyone else, those were terrifying stakes.
But not to Encrid.
If he failed, he would simply do it again.