Chapter 45: Countless Battles (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 45: Countless Battles (1)
"Come at me!"
The Vengeance Platoon Leader roared, bringing his sword down in a heavy overhead strike. The Mustachioed Man met the attack with a level gaze, swinging his own blade in a mid-level horizontal slash.
Clang!
The moment their steel collided, the Mustachioed Man stepped into the clash, throwing his entire weight into a brutal shove.
Vengeance, who had overcommitted to his swing, was sent reeling.
"Ugh!"
He didn't just stumble; he lost his footing entirely, tumbling backward in a cloud of kicked-up dust. He rolled repeatedly until he came to a stop in an undignified heap right next to Encrid.
The Vengeance Platoon Leader and Encrid locked eyes.
A heavy silence hung between them.
Whoosh. A cold wind swept across the battlefield.
Vengeance’s face flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson.
Encrid carefully broke the silence. "...I thought you said you came to rescue me."
Vengeance’s pupils shook violently. "Why the hell is that bastard so strong?"
Encrid let out a hollow, dry laugh. Some rescue. You got blown away in a single strike.
Scrambling to his feet, the Vengeance Platoon Leader snatched up his fallen sword and resumed his stance.
"Shit. You bastard!" He glared at his opponent and screamed, "Fire!"
Half of Vengeance’s platoon were archers.
"Fire at will!"
At his command, a volley of arrows hissed through the air.
"Block them!"
"Shields up!"
The enemy soldiers trailing the Mustachioed Man rushed forward, raising their shields in a tight formation.
Thud-thud-thud!
The arrows thudded harmlessly into the wood and iron. Their timing was impeccable.
Peeking over the rim of his shield, the Mustachioed Man fixed Encrid with a predatory glare. Then, he snatched a shield from one of his subordinates and began to move.
Crazy bastard.
Encrid grit his teeth and forced himself up. A searing, white-hot pain flared from his back and the leg that had been pierced by the bolt. He didn't even have the luxury of groaning.
Growl.
Beside him, the leopard bared its fangs, its fur standing on end.
The Mustachioed Man closed the distance with terrifying speed, shield held high.
"You insane bastard!" Vengeance shouted in shock.
Enduring the agony, Encrid reached out and snatched the shortsword from Vengeance’s waist.
Clink.
In that heartbeat, the Mustachioed Man reached them. Encrid couldn't even dream of retreating.
Whoosh.
Vengeance swung his sword, attempting to intercept the charge at an angle. He intended to halt the man's momentum with sheer brute force.
The Mustachioed Man feigned the clash, but at the last second, he flicked his wrist. He pulled his sword back, letting Vengeance’s blade slide harmlessly past.
Swish.
Vengeance’s sword cut through nothing but air. Immediately after, the leopard lunged. But the Mustachioed Man was no ordinary soldier. Tilting his shield downward, he caught the pouncing beast mid-air and deflected its momentum outward.
Yowl!
Whimpering, the leopard was sent tumbling to the side. The entire exchange had happened in a matter of seconds.
Encrid, gripping the shortsword, pushed his concentration to its absolute limit. The world blurred until only he and his opponent remained in his mindscape.
It was a Single-Point Focus.
The combination of his injuries, the sudden surge of adrenaline, and his volatile emotions triggered a state of hyper-focus. For a split second, time seemed to stretch like taffy.
Encrid saw the bloodshot veins in the Mustachioed Man’s eyes. He saw the man’s grip—choking the very end of the hilt, just above the pommel. He was maximizing his reach to end this in one blow.
The blade traced a lethal arc. From high to low.
Encrid hadn't even seen the weapon being raised, yet the blade was already descending like the heavy iron of a guillotine.
The Mustachioed Man’s strike seemed to whisper: That’s enough. Go back and repeat this day once more.
Encrid refused.
He held his breath. There was no time to exhale, and even less time to complain about the pain.
He had been trained in heavy swordsmanship, but Ragna’s basics wouldn't save him here.
Then, what?
Of the dozens of styles he had studied, practiced, observed, and copied across his regressions... which one could save him now?
Because he had been defeated countless times, he had researched. Because he had always maintained the heart of a student, he had watched.
His body moved on instinct. A shortsword was too brittle for a direct block; the blade would shatter under that much force.
The Mustachioed Man was already savoring his victory. He was certain he was about to claim the life of the irritating brat before him.
Whoosh. Clink—screeeech. Slash!
The Mustachioed Man’s strike failed.
It merely grazed Encrid’s shoulder. Though blood erupted from the deep wound, he was alive. The killing blow had missed.
"You..."
Instead of following up, the Mustachioed Man froze, his eyes widening like a startled rabbit's. His gaze was filled with pure, unadulterated disbelief.
"Where did you learn that?!" the man roared.
Encrid answered honestly. "I learned it while fighting."
Mitch Hurier had shown Encrid the Soft Sword style—the art of deflecting—countless times. His mastery of the technique was peerless. And in this moment of life or death, it had manifested unconsciously.
The moment the blade descended, Encrid had met it with his shortsword and guided it to the side, dispersing the kinetic energy. He had caught the blow with the center of his blade to absorb the impact, then loosened his grip just enough to let the momentum slide harmlessly away.
If his timing or the distribution of force had been off by even a fraction, his arm would have been severed.
Even Encrid was inwardly stunned. It actually worked.
Though he had suffered under it and researched it a thousand times, this was the first time he had ever successfully executed it. A technique he had never rigorously trained had saved his life.
It was a miracle. For someone as dreadfully untalented as Encrid, it was an impossibility made real.
His heart hammered against his ribs. The Soft Sword style’s deflecting technique was something that usually required years of specialized training to even mimic.
"You bastard!"
Vengeance, having recovered from his missed swing, spun around and charged with a roar.
The Mustachioed Man turned, parried Vengeance’s blade, and snapped his shield back into position.
Thunk!
An arrow buried itself in the shield. A marksman had targeted him, but his reflexes were too sharp.
Clang! Clang!
The Mustachioed Man traded blows with Vengeance, his eyes still burning with a fixated rage as he glared at Encrid.
Encrid simply stared at the shortsword in his hand.
It was too late for the enemy to try for another kill. If he stayed bogged down here, he would be swarmed. The Mustachioed Man began to retreat.
"Fall back!" he commanded his men. As he turned to run, he threw one last look at Encrid. "You... I won't forget you."
Encrid replied with total sincerity. "You can forget me, you know."
He meant it. Why bother remembering a face you'd never see again?
Vengeance’s platoon didn't pursue. They were the vanguard, but they were already too far ahead of the main force. Pushing deeper was a suicide mission.
"Hey, your shoulder!"
Vengeance glared at the retreating enemy before rushing to Encrid’s side. Blood was streaming down Encrid’s arm. The deflection hadn't been perfect, but it had been enough.
Encrid smiled. It actually worked.
He tried to recall the sensation of the move, but the memory was a blur. His body had simply acted. A rush of pure, intoxicating joy welled up inside him. It was a feeling he had never known before.
"Hey, you crazy bastard, is this something to laugh about?" Vengeance grumbled, wrapping a cloth tightly around the wound. "We don't have real bandages! Fall back immediately. Get behind the 3rd Platoon!"
Vengeance began the withdrawal. The battle was won. The Company Commander had ordered them to harry the rear, not to overextend. After being scorched by sorcery earlier, the army needed to reorganize.
"You've lost too much blood," Vengeance said, slinging Encrid’s arm over his shoulder.
Encrid looked at him, his voice weak. "We have to take the leopard, too."
They had saved each other. He couldn't leave it behind.
"You lunatic, worry about your own skin first." Despite the curse, Vengeance reached down and scooped up the fallen beast.
Encrid saw blood trickling from the leopard’s mouth. So that wetness on my back was...
Even with bleeding gums, the cat hadn't let go of him. Encrid pulled the leopard into his arms. It felt light. How had such a small body exerted such terrifying strength?
Whimper.
The leopard let out a soft, pained groan.
"Let's move!"
Vengeance supported Encrid as they limped away from the carnage. Halfway back, Encrid’s vision began to swim. The world blurred as blood loss took its toll.
The Ferryman of the Black River appeared in the shimmering air beside him.
"Hey, why do you go so far?" the entity asked.
Encrid knew he was hallucinating, but the voice felt real. He lacked the strength to speak, so the Ferryman continued.
"You can just start over."
"It repeats anyway. Countless times, over and over."
"Why go to such lengths?"
"Today will just start again, so what's wrong with living half-heartedly?"
"Settle down. Stop. Hone your skills and face today again. If you die, you can start an even more perfect 'today'."
"Ah, is it the fear of death? No, you get used to that. What does it matter if you lose your mind a little? Who's watching? Who would know? This 'today' belongs solely to you."
Encrid couldn't open his mouth. He was being dragged now, his toes scraping the dirt.
But he answered in his mind.
Why should I settle?
Just because it repeats, just because I have another chance... why should that mean I don't give my all?
If I do that, I’ll stay in the exact same place forever.
Living like that means being a prisoner of 'today'.
And then, there is no tomorrow.
If there is no tomorrow, there are no dreams. And without dreams, nothing has meaning.
I refuse to stop.
Even if his steps were only a fraction of a normal man's. He wanted to move forward. He wanted to live. Even if he could never become a knight, he would struggle until his last breath to become one.
Thump.
His strength failed. His foot caught on a stone, and his knees buckled.
"Don't you dare die on me," Vengeance muttered in his ear.
His vision went dark. The Ferryman had vanished.
Encrid finally understood the true nature of his curse.
If I start over, I feel like I could do better.
It was a seductive thought. But Encrid was different. He wanted to walk toward tomorrow. He knew instinctively that a failed tomorrow was worth more than a perfect today.
If I settle, it's over.
That was the curse. If he repeated today perfectly forever, he would never see the sun rise on a new day.
As his consciousness faded, he asked himself: Was this the best I could do?
He didn't know. Only God knew what a perfect day looked like. Encrid’s "today" had been held together by luck and desperation. There was no guarantee that luck would return if the loop reset.
So, he would do what he always did. He would walk toward tomorrow.
He felt a warmth in his arms. Looking down through the haze, he saw the black panther staring up at him with lake-blue eyes.
Then, the world vanished.
He thought he might die. If he did, the day would reset. But he wouldn't be discouraged. He would simply struggle to survive all over again.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
*
"Did I choose wrong?"
The Ferryman of the Black River stood in the void. Encrid heard the faint murmur.
The Ferryman turned his head. As always, his face was nothing but a smooth, featureless black mirror.
"We'll see."
At those words, Encrid snapped awake. He was staring at the canvas ceiling of a tent.
"Oh, you're alive? I really thought you were a goner this time."
Rem’s voice drifted over.
Encrid’s entire body was a map of agony. His shoulder, back, leg, flank—everything throbbed. His head spun.
"That last slash to your shoulder was deep. Don't know who hit you, but they knew what they were doing," Rem continued babbling.
Encrid blinked, his mind slowly anchoring itself back to reality. He felt a weight and a warmth by his side. He lowered his hand, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches in his shoulder.
His fingers brushed against soft, thick fur.
Purr.
The black panther let out a low, contented vibration.
I made it. I passed today.
"Passing out is becoming a habit for you," Rem remarked.
"Do you think I do it for fun? I'm thirsty."
"Is that so?"
Rem sat nearby with his arms crossed. Big-Eyes stood behind him and quickly brought over a cup of water. Encrid drank greedily, the liquid soothing his parched throat like rain on cracked earth.
"Wow, our Squad Leader really is a cockroach. Look at him, he's actually drinking," Big-Eyes joked.
"He lost too much blood," Sachsen added nonchalantly from the corner.
Further back, the devout squad member was whispering a prayer. "Lord, I offer my thanks for answering my plea..."
Ragna watched him quietly before asking, "Are you alright?"
"Not enough to die."
It was a boast he could only make because he was alive. Because he had survived the loop and greeted the next morning.
Encrid smiled faintly and lay back down, closing his eyes against the light.