Chapter 44: The Blue-Eyed Savior
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 44: The Blue-Eyed Savior
The Elf Company Commander’s ears twitched. Instantly, the chaos unfolding around her was mapped vividly in her mind, as clear as if she were seeing it with her own eyes.
Keen sensory perception was an innate gift of the elves.
Relying entirely on her hearing, she shifted two steps to the right.
Whoosh!
A long spear whistled through the space she had occupied a heartbeat ago. She stood at the absolute vanguard of her allies.
With a fluid motion, the Elf Company Commander deflected the enemy’s spear shaft upward. As she struck the wood, the sword in her hand glided forward like a blade of grass riding a gale. It pierced a hole through the enemy’s throat before snapping back in a blur.
Thuck! Spurt!
Blood erupted from the punctured wound.
She flicked her sword toward the ground, sending the crimson droplets clinging to the steel splattering into the dirt. She didn't stop. To stand still was to become an easy target for crossbow quarrels.
The Elf Company Commander swung her leaf-shaped sword as she sprinted.
Ting. Ting.
Two quarrels caught the edge of her blade and were swatted away.
The weapon she wielded was a sword known as Naidel. It was a unique elven blade—shorter and sharper than a standard human sword, with a streamlined silhouette resembling a willow leaf. When drawn, its distinct curve evoked the image of a small ferryboat.
Elven swordsmanship was a sophisticated blend of three styles: the soft sword, the orthodox sword, and the swift sword. The Naidel was a weapon forged specifically to master that trinity.
What the commander had just demonstrated was the pinnacle of that art. No ordinary soldier could withstand a technique that parried heavy spears while delivering thrusts as fast as beams of light.
This is bad.
Even as she cut down her foes, a deep sense of gloom settled over her.
Was sorcery always this devastating?
She had once fought a warrior under a berserker’s curse. A berserker charging without regard for his own life was violent and dangerous, but such a threat was temporary—it couldn't engulf an entire battlefield.
That had been the extent of her knowledge regarding sorcery. Naturally, she had been shaken when the fog rolled in.
To think sorcery could do this...
Fortunately, she had been prepared, and her reaction had been lightning-fast.
When the fog first descended, the Elf Company Commander had immediately ordered her unit into a circular formation, tightening their ranks. She had barked the commands to "Get down!" and "Shields!" the moment those shouts echoed across the field.
Once she gave the word, her platoon leaders had repeated her orders like frantic parrots, holding the line together. Suddenly losing all visibility was more than enough to induce a total rout, and it was only natural that the battle looked bleak. Yet, even in this chaos, she did what she had to do.
She had broken formation to single-handedly shred the enemy’s vanguard. If she didn't, her allies would be wiped out in an instant. At the very least, the 1st Company would hold, but...
That sprouted-potato bastard.
The Elf Company Commander cursed the battalion commander in her mind.
To an elf, botanical metaphors were second nature. Potato sprouts contained poison; when a potato sprouted, you had to scoop the eyes out before eating, or the toxin would build up in your body.
The current battalion commander was exactly like one of those toxic sprouts.
In a crisis like this, headquarters should have devised a countermeasure, yet there was no word from the battalion commander. No whistles, no shouts, no instructions whatsoever. He had led the unit with utter negligence, relying solely on his powerful political backers.
She had warned him countless times to prepare for sorcery, but he had never truly listened.
This kingdom was like a moldy peach—rotten to the core. How could they send such a piece of trash to the front lines as a battalion commander?
Even with luck on our side...
Would even ten out of a hundred survive? The fog had blinded them, and in war, blindness was fatal.
Just as she was predicting a grim end, the fog before her eyes suddenly vanished.
"Hm?"
The Elf Company Commander stopped in her tracks, Naidel still gripped firmly in her hand. She was taken aback; the fog had disappeared as abruptly as it had arrived.
The enemy was even more bewildered than she was.
"Huh?"
An enemy spearman directly in front of her froze, completely forgetting to thrust.
The commander’s confusion lasted only a second. She had fought well even while blinded; now that she could see, she didn't hesitate. She swung the Naidel in a clean arc, the blade slitting the enemy’s throat with surgical precision.
"Gurgle!"
Another enemy fell.
The company commander knew this was the turning point. Now was not the time to wonder why the fog had cleared.
"All units, about-face! Counterattack!"
Her shout triggered a chain reaction across the plains.
"Charge! Charge! Chaaarge!"
"Kill them! Kill them all!"
"You bastards!"
"Beat them to death!"
As morale shifted, so did the flow of the battle. The Elf Company Commander pulled back her Naidel and held her ground as her company surged past her like a rising tide.
"Company Commander!" the 1st Platoon Leader shouted as he ran by.
"Grind them to dust," she replied.
The 1st Platoon Leader answered with a fierce, bloodthirsty battle cry.
"Aaaaargh!"
The air of the battlefield grew hot with aggression. The gloom that had hung over the Naurilian army vanished in an instant.
Only then did the Elf Company Commander allow herself to wonder why the fog had lifted.
Could it be? That squad leader?
She had no logical reason to think so, but she felt he was the one behind it. It was pure intuition—and an elf’s intuition was rarely wrong.
*
The commander of the Gray Dog, an independent company of the Azpen Principality, had moved to block the enemy's retreat. He was positioned exactly where the fog was clearing.
His plan had been simple: slaughter the Naurilian soldiers as they emerged from the mist in a panic. Nothing could be easier.
But then, the fog vanished.
"What the hell is this? Why is the fog clearing?"
"Commander, the enemy is turning back!"
There were no hills to obstruct their view on the Greenpearl Plains. They could clearly see the Naurilian army pivoting to strike.
The company commander assessed the situation in an instant. Whether the shaman had botched the ritual or the sorcery itself was flawed, something had gone horribly wrong. At this rate, their carefully prepared strategy would collapse.
"We strike them from behind! Don't try to break through—harrow them from the flanks! Follow me!"
The commander of the Gray Dog dashed forward, swearing that whoever had cleared the fog would pay dearly.
*
Encrid realized his calculations had been fatally flawed.
The quarrel lodged in his back, just behind his right shoulder, made it impossible to swing his sword properly with his right hand. To make matters worse, his opponent was slightly more skilled than Mitch Hurier.
Even when he tried to use Single-Point Focus, there were always bastards thrusting spears at his blind spots. He would have been lucky if it were just spearmen; five crossbowmen were tailing him, keeping their weapons trained on his every move.
Because of them, another quarrel was now embedded in his thigh.
Running is out of the question with this leg.
His cracked sword had finally snapped, leaving him with only a jagged half-blade.
His opponent utilized a heavy sword style, delivering crushing, weighted strikes. Covered in a mixture of his own blood and the gore of his enemies, Encrid was completely drenched in red.
Seeing him hold his ground with a broken sword in such a state, the mustachioed man couldn't help but feel a flicker of grim admiration. Encrid was an enemy, a smart-mouthed brat, and the one who had ruined their sorcery... but his sheer grit was remarkable.
Even now, there wasn't a trace of surrender in the boy's eyes.
"What is it that keeps you going?" the mustachioed man asked.
Encrid caught his breath, keeping the crossbowmen in his peripheral vision. "What do you mean?"
"I'm asking why you haven't given up yet."
Encrid answered without a moment's hesitation. "Whew. I'm a squad leader, you see."
"And?"
"I've got guys named Rem and Ragna in my squad."
"Hmm?"
"Those two fight so well, I don't even know why they're just squad members."
"Are you saying those two are coming to save you?"
"That was one of the scenarios, yeah."
Since he had made it this far, he had assumed they would be nearby. But they weren't. He couldn't see them anywhere. He had thought they would have shown up by now.
If they hadn't arrived yet, it meant they weren't coming. That was the reality.
At that very moment, Rem had decimated an enemy unit and was currently cutting through the Tall Grass Field. Ragna, halted by the fog, had joined the main force once it cleared. Neither of them had any idea where their squad leader was.
The mustachioed man took a step forward, sword raised. Encrid dragged his injured right foot and retreated.
Even so, his eyes were far too alive.
Encrid’s gaze was still searching for an opening. With that leg? Where did he think he could go?
Encrid looked at the mustachioed man and realized he was an incredibly thorough bastard. But that didn't mean he was giving up on "today."
He could just die and repeat the day. He knew that. He knew it all too well. But he didn't believe he had suffered a fatal wound just yet. Above all, if he had spent his past "todays" meaninglessly, the Encrid of now wouldn't exist.
Until the very moment of death, Encrid would fight back. He would do everything in his power to survive today. Struggling and refusing to give up until the bitter end—that was who he was.
"It's a shame you're an enemy," the mustachioed man said, taking another step forward.
Encrid could retreat no further. Behind him, a spearman glared at him with murderous intent. He glanced back once, then looked forward again. The mustachioed man raised his sword, gripping it with both hands. The blade of the bastard sword reflected the sunlight filtering through the dispersing fog.
Right? Left? Which way should I dodge?
No matter which way he moved, a fatal blow seemed unavoidable. Still, he refused to die quietly.
If I can't dodge...
Encrid tightly gripped his broken sword. If he couldn't go left, right, or backward, then forward was the only way. The moment the sword swung down, he would charge.
Twang!
With the sharp snap of a bowstring, a quarrel flew through the air and lodged itself in his left shoulder. Taking advantage of his focus on the sword, one of the soldiers had fired.
Encrid let out a sharp grunt, swallowing the pain. "Well, that's cheap."
"Thanks for the compliment," the mustachioed man replied. There was no humor in his voice.
Even if he killed the soldier before him, the war was already turning against them. A single soldier's life versus the outcome of the battle—even a child knew which held more value. But letting this boy go made even less sense.
Whoosh!
The sword swung down. A heavy strike, backed by immense power.
Encrid didn't close his eyes. He watched the descending blade until the very end. The Beast's Heart granted him a terrifying audacity. Without so much as a blink, Encrid thought: If my body were in perfect condition, how would I block this?
Even at the edge of death, his mind remained entirely focused on the sword.
And just before the blade could split his forehead—
"Argh!"
A soldier's scream echoed from behind. Simultaneously, a black shadow struck the mustachioed man's sword.
Clang!
Encrid couldn't even make out what the shadow was. He only knew it wasn't a sword or an arrow. A weapon wouldn't spin mid-air upon impact and land gracefully on the ground.
"...Huh?"
Encrid finally identified the shadow.
Blue eyes. Fur like black silk. It was a black panther.
In that instant, a distant memory surfaced. It should have been a recent memory, but because he had repeated "today" so many times, it felt like a lifetime ago. A memory that could easily have been forgotten, yet remained.
The moment he saw the black fur and blue eyes, it rushed back. It was the beast he had met in the Tall Grass Field.
"You?"
Growl.
The black panther had grown since then; its body was noticeably larger. It glared at the mustachioed man before letting out a ferocious roar. Hiss!
"What the hell is this now?" The mustachioed man's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. Then, his face contorted with rage. "Kill it!"
Two crossbowmen aimed at the panther and fired.
"Whoa, watch out!" Encrid shouted.
The panther fluidly twisted its torso, lightly bouncing off the ground to dodge the quarrels with ease. Then, with a powerful leap, it lunged.
The mustachioed man reflexively brought his sword down, but the panther didn't even go near him. It looked like a streak of black silk stretching across the field. It was too fast.
The panther's target was the crossbowmen.
"Argh!"
The panther's claws were incredibly sharp; with a single swipe, it severed a crossbowman's Achilles tendon, sending blood spraying. Leather boots offered no protection against such a strike.
Clang!
As the panther attacked, another soldier drew his shortsword. What the panther did next was even more astonishing. Instead of targeting the soldier, it kicked the crossbow.
Springing off the ground with its forepaws, it sliced the crossbow's string with its hind claws. It then used the weapon as a stepping stone to leap toward the next man. Upon landing, it did the exact same thing, severing the string of the next crossbow.
Did it do that on purpose?
If it were just once, it could be a coincidence. But cutting the strings of all five remaining crossbows was a feat of intelligence.
"A mere beast dares..." The mustachioed man's face flushed red with fury.
The panther ignored him. It swiftly darted across the ground, returned to Encrid's side, and bit down on the scruff of his neck.
Growl!
Snorting as if displeased, the panther began to run, dragging him along. The creature possessed immense strength. Though his legs dragged through the dirt, they moved as fast as Encrid could run on his own.
His back scraped against the ground, and fresh cuts opened on his limbs. As he was dragged, he felt something warm trickling down his neck.
"Pursue them!" the mustachioed man roared.
Escaping still seemed impossible.
"Just run away," Encrid told the beast. The panther didn't reply.
Warm liquid kept flowing from his neck, the mustachioed man was hot on their heels, and Encrid was fleeing while scraping against the earth. This kind of escape had a limit. The panther's physical boundaries were obvious, and the mustachioed man had no intention of letting them go.
"I told you to run away," Encrid repeated.
Then, a dark shadow loomed overhead.
"I've come to save you."
"Huh?"
It was an entirely unexpected reinforcement. An ally drenched in blood from head to toe—a platoon leader he knew well, one he used to tease relentlessly.
"Platoon Leader Vengeance?"
"Yeah. I'm here."
He raised his sword and stepped in front of Encrid. And he wasn't alone. Allied soldiers came rushing in behind him—an entire platoon that had pushed through the front lines to reach this position.
The time Encrid—and the panther—had bought was not in vain.