Chapter 48: If the End Is in Sight, One Can Cross It Even by Crawling
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 48: If the End Is in Sight, One Can Cross It Even by Crawling
It was the first time military might of such caliber had been unleashed in a mere local skirmish.
Just as the enemy had prepared sorcery, the trump card played by this side was a Squire.
The impact that Squire had on the battlefield was nothing short of horrific.
Evading a rain of arrows by charging headlong, the Associate Knight drew his sword and slashed.
Whoosh.
The moment a silver line traced through the air, the heads of the three soldiers blocking his path were severed, left dangling by mere threads of skin.
The Squire pulled back his blade to recover his stance, then delivered a sharp, snapping downward strike. The sword descended like a bolt of black lightning before snapping upward in an instant.
The head of a soldier wielding an infantry short spear was caught in its trajectory.
Crack!
It didn't just cut; it crushed. Having shattered the soldier's skull with the sheer impact of the snap strike, the sword began to flutter like a butterfly.
The wings of that incoming butterfly instantly became a dirge steeped in terror. Thrusting into every opening, the flickering blade snuffed out the enemy's breath.
Seeing this, two soldiers raised thick wooden shields to block his path. As they braced themselves, covering their entire bodies, the butterfly's wings were halted by the heavy wood.
The sword thudded against the shields, leaving deep dents in the surface.
"Close in!" the enemy soldier shouted. Though drenched in cold sweat, he was doing his absolute best.
But doing one's best did not grant a reprieve from the Grim Reaper.
The figure in the red cloak gripped his sword with both hands and swung horizontally.
Crash! Screeech!
The sword battered the shield. The iron rim didn't split, but it buckled, barely holding together—yet the hand of the soldier holding it could not withstand the force.
"Aaargh!"
The wrist holding the shield twisted and snapped, the bone piercing through the skin. As the shield fell powerlessly to the ground, the sword sliced through the soldier's torso.
His upper body was severed, and his entrails spilled onto the earth with a wet thud. Blood splattered in every direction.
Terror seeped into the eyes of the surrounding soldiers.
"Fuck..."
One of the Azpen Principality soldiers cursed, on the verge of tears. Whether the man in the cloak heard him or not, his nose twitched, and he immediately kicked off the ground.
While his swordplay was terrifying, the most frightening thing about this man was his footwork. The moment he kicked off, he would flash across the field, severing necks and piercing chests. Shoving shields to block him or standing in his way clad in heavy armor—all of it seemed utterly futile.
"Fire!" one of the commanders shouted.
It was a desperate, bold decision. Thirty crossbowmen on standby unleashed their quarrels.
No one can dodge all of them at close range, the commander thought with certainty.
The man in the cloak shattered that certainty.
Boom!
Before the quarrels could reach him, he kicked off the ground and soared into the sky. The bolts sliced uselessly through empty air.
What goes up must come down. Tracing an arc through the air, the Squire landed ten paces in front of the Azpen Principality commander—right in the heart of the enemy camp.
"...Block him!"
The cry of the Azpen commander was pitiful. If only the Gray Dog unit were still here. But they had already retreated, driven away by the weight of defeat, Mitch Hurier's injury, and a host of other complicated circumstances.
"Huuuu."
Exhaling a long breath, the Squire swung his sword again. From top to bottom, then bottom to top.
Swish!
The blade bent, lashing out like a whip at the commander's guard.
Thud! Crackle!
The thick leather armor covering the guard's body was sliced clean through. Another guard wearing an iron helmet was struck in the head by the flat of the blade and sent flying.
Thud!
Blood poured from the nose of the guard who rolled across the dirt. On the outside, he looked fine, but the inside of his skull had been shattered by the impact, killing him instantly.
Having dealt with the guards, the Squire pierced a hole straight through the commander's neck.
Squelch.
Just like that, the Squire killed the enemy commander in the middle of his own lines, then turned to return.
His withdrawal was equally impressive. He kicked an enemy soldier away with a loud thud, then sprinted back in a few explosive bursts. From a distance, it looked as if a red streak was being drawn right through the center of the battlefield.
Encrid and his companions watched the fight from beginning to end.
Rem looked at the Squire and thought he was fairly decent.
He knows how to play the crowd.
The man knew how to wreak havoc in the heart of the enemy lines. By showing no mercy and demonstrating overwhelming power, he instilled absolute terror, allowing him to ravage the enemy ranks at will.
In particular, the way he avoided the crossbow ambush was impressive.
If it were me, I would have jumped into the crossbowmen first.
But the opponent showed signs of proper military training. It wasn't for nothing that people called him an expert in war. Instead of dealing with the crossbowmen first, he ignored them. When they finally targeted him, he unleashed his conserved leg strength to leap over the volley and pounce on the commander.
He was like a flying tiger.
Ragna gauged the opponent's level and compared it to his own. This was someone who had walked the path he was destined to take.
At that level...
He could reach it before long. Even without taking shortcuts, even without painstaking training.
While Rem analyzed strategy, Ragna gauged the ceiling of the man's ability.
His swordsmanship is sharp.
It was heavy swordsmanship built upon a foundation of speed. At first glance, it looked like orthodox swordsmanship, but it was a deception. He mixed Swift Sword and Heavy Sword styles. He clearly had an excellent teacher.
Normally, when one mixed two styles, the basics tended to be clumsy. Yet, no such clumsiness could be seen in the red-cloaked Squire.
Well, he is a Squire, after all.
Having gauged the level, Ragna felt his motivation drain away. The path was already visible, and the destination was clear. Seeing someone who had gone ahead of him didn't spark any competitive fire.
There was only the task of walking the path left. It was only painful because the discipline was tedious. All that remained was to hone his sword with dry, hollow emotions—a problem born of having talent that was simply too outstanding.
Sachsen gauged the opponent's skill and looked for openings.
At least five times.
The enemy could have harmed the Squire. It wasn't a matter of ability, but of strategy. It was partly because the commander was incompetent, and partly because they were flustered by an unexpected strike. If it had been Sachsen, he would have ended the Squire before things reached that point.
The religious fanatic squad member watched the movements and nodded.
"He is a brother well-versed in guiding souls to the side of God."
It was his way of saying the man fought incredibly well.
"Looks like we won't even need to fall back."
Big-Eyes shook his head in amazement. A single person was manipulating the flow of the battlefield at will. It felt as though victory had been promised before the first blow was even struck.
And Encrid...
So this is a knight.
He was deeply shaken. His heart pounded so wildly that his entire body trembled. The fine hairs on his skin stood on end, and a chill ran down his spine. At the same time, a hot warmth welled up from his gut.
His eyes did not drift from the Squire.
On the current continent, Squires—Associate Knights—were the main force of any order of knights. They were the stage right before a true knight, who could single-handedly change the course of a war.
That slaughtering machine had just dominated the battlefield. He had killed the enemy commander and returned leisurely.
How can he do that?
The owner of the cloak was neither a beastman nor a Frok. Yet, how could he display such power? A symbol of military might capable of cutting down a thousand men alone—that was a knight.
What made that possible? What had allowed that man to reach the limits of humanity?
Encrid did not know. Perhaps because he did not know, he was all the more mesmerized. At the same time, he felt something pop in his head.
"Sometimes, you can learn just by watching."
The words of the sword instructor from the great territory flashed through his mind. His excitement subsided, and even without intending to, a single-point focus activated on its own.
As his superhuman concentration took hold, he began to understand the meaning behind the opponent's steps. He could see the intent behind the swung sword.
Heavy Sword Style.
The heavy sword of power. Being able to swing a sword by building up physical strength meant, by extension, that one could also swing it quickly. The opponent had blended the subtleties of heavy swordsmanship into swift swordsmanship. Even Encrid could see that now.
He drew back his foot.
It was a movement that seemed to subtly define the range of his line of attack.
No. He isn't defining it; it was already defined.
The Northern-style heavy swordsmanship he had learned from Ragna built its foundation around the line of attack. The Squire's method was slightly different.
He drew a circle around himself.
It was swordsmanship based on Central Continental basics. Using his own body as the axis, he drew a circle and slaughtered any opponent within it. If they were caught, he slashed; if they approached, he thrust.
At first glance, it looked like he was using his feet to toy with the enemy, but the reality was different.
He maintains his range.
He used his feet only in short, precise bursts when necessary. A few of his sword strikes were impressive, but in truth, most of his attacks were thrusts.
Encrid watched and watched again. He gathered the incoming information and organized it in his mind.
Does Heavy Sword Style always have to mean striking down with pure force?
The trump card Mitch Hurier had shown was a move of the Heavy Sword Style, rather than the Orthodox Sword or Soft Sword. The wheel slash that cut through whatever blocked it.
Why did he make that his secret technique? To deceive the opponent?
No. Just because the methods of the sword were divided into five didn't mean they were entirely different styles. All five sword styles shared common ground. Striking down blindly with raw power wasn't the only correct answer for the Heavy Sword Style.
His eyes rolled. His brain whirled. Encrid's fingers twitched.
"Good view, eh? Hmm?"
Rem was about to speak to him, but stopped. Since Ragna had lost interest in the Squire's movements, he turned around at the sound.
"Don't touch him," Ragna whispered. He recognized the squad leader's state at a single glance.
Whether on a battlefield, in a tavern, a back alley, or in the arms of a lover... enlightenment came like a prank played by the Goddess of Fortune. Suddenly, abruptly, unexpectedly—it came silently, shaking the brain without warning.
"Let's guard his flanks," Sachsen spoke up first. Ragna stood on the right, and Rem stood on the left. The religious fanatic moved silently to stand behind Encrid.
Big-Eyes whispered, asking what was going on. Rem answered him.
"Looks like the squad leader is about to break out of his shell. It's about time. He's been swinging his sword day and night by himself all this time."
Rem acknowledged the squad leader's efforts. He deserved this kind of luck.
Of course, this was no mere stroke of luck. It was the natural result of countless real battles, rolling in the dirt, and rebuilding his swordsmanship from the basics.
Seeing Encrid's current state sparked more motivation in Ragna than the Squire had.
How can someone be like this?
What was it that drove the squad leader so? Knowing clearly that there was an end, that his limits were set in stone, how could he still refuse to let go of the sword?
That was what Ragna found fascinating. As always, the squad leader piqued his interest far more than the opponent who had just ravaged the enemy lines.
Immediately after the Squire returned, the shout of the allied commander rang through the air.
"Cha-a-arge!"
Soon, the allies surged forward in a swarm. Battle cries and shouts mingled as the infantry ran, making the ground rumble, yet... Encrid merely stared into empty space with a vacant gaze.
He was still in a trance.
Because of their exploits in the previous battle, the Troublemaker Squad was allowed to remain as bystanders. No one criticized them for standing still. In fact, the aura radiating from the four of them—excluding Big-Eyes—was so fierce that no one dared to approach.
Even though they had just seen a Squire running wild, the allies who saw the Troublemaker Squad up close found them far more terrifying.
Leaving them be, the battle rushed toward its conclusion.
This winter and next spring would likely be very busy. They would have to spend the winter on stockpiled resources and rebuild their fortifications. A new border would be drawn between Naurilia and Azpen.
While the allies charged, Encrid was retracing the basics he had learned. Common ground, swordsmanship, Valen-style mercenary sword, Northern-style heavy swordsmanship. All of these were the weapons he had studied.
There was no need to confine those weapons within the rigid frame of basic forms. One could parry and deflect even with a heavy sword. Bind—the technique of sticking the swords together—was the foundation of parrying. He hadn't even realized it when he was learning.
This trance, this untimely enlightenment, did not instantly boost Encrid's skills. Or rather, while it elevated his insight, his talent was so meager that he could not immediately assimilate it into his body.
However, Encrid now clearly understood his own limits. Which meant that as long as he had time, he could train to his limit and then surpass it.
The edge of the cliff, once so dizzyingly high and endless. The very top of the cliff, once hidden by clouds, was beginning to come into view.
If the wall blocking one's path is too high and wide, and its end cannot be seen, it is impossible to cross. But if the end is in sight, no matter how distant, high, or wide it may be...
If one could not walk, one could cross it even by crawling.
Encrid realized this.
"Ah..."
He was so happy he could drool. In fact, he actually woke from his trance with drool running down his chin.
"Hey, why are you drooling?" Rem chided from the side.
Encrid opened his eyes and looked around. Before he knew it, not a single ally was in sight.
"They've all charged. If you're tired, you should rest in the barracks. Why are you dozing off on your feet?"
"Ah."
"What do you mean, 'Ah'? Let's head back. There's nothing left for us to do in this battle anyway."
It was exactly as he said. The cloaked knight had returned to the main camp, and the battle was over. The enemy looked ready to flee past a mere retreat and run all the way back to their own country.
Now was the time to withdraw. It was time to return to the territory.
Encrid turned around, looking at the setting sun. Having witnessed the Squire's military might, a fire was lit in his chest once more. Because Encrid's destination, his ideal, was right before his eyes.
Once again, his old dream reared its head.
What must I do to become a knight?
Simply building up military strength would never be enough. First, he would have to prove his worth.
His time as a low-class soldier was over.
Encrid murmured to himself.