Chapter 51: Complacency Kills (2)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 51: Complacency Kills (2)
"Lucky bastard."
One of the soldiers watching the spar spat the words. He was a fellow former mercenary and one of those who had grumbled most loudly when Encrid received his recent rewards.
Frowning, the man stepped forward.
"You're not tired yet, are you? How about another round?"
To be promoted, a soldier had to be recognized by three intermediate soldiers—or defeat all three. Facing just one wasn't enough to seal the deal.
"Uh, Squad Leader?"
Big-Eyes watched the shift in mood warily. With the opponent growling and the atmosphere thickening, the tension was palpable.
Encrid looked down at the fallen soldier, a hint of confusion flickering in his eyes.
Is this right?
He had only tripped the man once, and the match was already over.
The fallen soldier scrambled up, clutching his wrist. "Lucky bastard," he muttered again as he backed away. Tears were actually welling in the corners of his eyes from the sheer, sharp pain.
Well, it must hurt, Encrid thought. But surely not enough to cry over.
Encrid shifted his gaze toward his second opponent and took his stance.
"I'm not tired."
"Fine. Then I'm up next."
Encrid briefly reviewed the previous exchange.
I was lucky.
The soldier had been completely defenseless as he fell. He hadn't even thought to brace himself or protect his body. He had stepped into the ring with absolutely no expectation of being defeated.
Why?
The reason for his complacency was simple: he had underestimated his opponent.
But does a simple trip really decide a match? Does that even make sense?
He didn't know. If that was the case, he just had to try again.
His new opponent drew a spear.
There were two main types of infantry stationed in the Border Guard: light and heavy. Wielding a long spear was the hallmark of the heavy infantry—soldiers the Border Guard had poured significant Krona into training.
Their standing was entirely different from that of the light infantry. Even among intermediate soldiers, they were far better trained and more skilled.
The opponent aimed his short spear, designed for personal combat, and began to twirl the tip in a distracting rhythm. Encrid didn't let his eyes be drawn to the movement.
"When you fight, keep your eyes on the opponent's entire body."
Those were Ragna's words. Encrid remained faithful to them.
Whoosh!
The spear tip lunged, aiming for his flank. It was a swift thrust, like a hawk diving for its prey.
Slow.
But compared to the stabbing freak he had faced during his first repeated "today," it was agonizingly slow. Its trajectory was clear and easily avoidable.
Pivoting on his left foot, Encrid shifted his center of gravity to change his stance with sharp intuition. He didn't just dodge the spear; he caught the shaft under his arm.
With a dull thud, the spear was pinned. The opponent instinctively yanked it back.
Encrid lunged forward, riding the momentum of the pull.
"Ah!"
Expecting Encrid to resist, the soldier gasped in surprise when Encrid instead relaxed his posture and rushed forward with the spear. Startled, the soldier raised his left arm—one of the hands still gripping the spear—to form a desperate guard.
Encrid feinted a thrust toward the man's eyes with his sword, then swept his foot to hook the man's shin.
With his right foot hooking the leg, he extended his left foot forward, twisted his hips, and slammed his shoulder into the opponent's chest.
Thud!
With a heavy, winded gasp, the opponent crashed sideways onto the dirt. There was no need to even point a sword at him. Encrid simply looked down.
The heavy infantryman, a member of the 2nd Company, 3rd Platoon, stared up at Encrid from the dirt. In his eyes, the "troublemaker squad leader" looked twice as large as he had at the start of the match. It was the crushing weight of psychological pressure—the result of being utterly dominated.
Shit.
Even as he struggled for breath from the solid hit, he cursed the bastards who had badmouthed Encrid. That included himself.
Lowest rank, my ass.
Encrid looked down at him and asked, "More?"
"No, no... let's stop."
The second intermediate soldier backed away, and it was time for the third to step up.
"Idiots," one of the soldiers watching the promotion match muttered.
It was Andrew—the same Andrew who had gone on the scouting mission with Encrid. Andrew had already judged back then that Encrid was far beyond the intermediate level, but now he fought with even greater precision. Something had happened in the interim; his swordsmanship had matured completely.
Andrew silently praised himself for betting all his Krona on Encrid. At the same time, he measured the gap between them. He, too, had been dedicating himself to training.
Mac, standing right beside him, looked at Andrew and spoke. "What on earth happened to that bastard?"
"Why?"
"His skills have improved too much."
"How much?"
Seeing Andrew's expression, Mac shook his head. "It's different from before."
Previously, after the scouting mission, Mac had told Andrew that if he wanted to properly challenge the troublemaker squad leader, he needed to steel his resolve and gain more experience. Now, he had to take those words back.
"If you fight him now, it'll be tough. Even for me."
Mac was a skilled enough swordsman to guide Andrew's training, yet even he admitted it would be a struggle. Andrew nodded. It had to be at least this much. After all, this was the man who had knocked him down in a single blow—and the first person Andrew had ever felt naturally drawn to follow.
Nearby, Vengeance was also watching the spar. He had been returning from duty when he noticed the commotion at the sparring ground. He tucked his spear under his arm, took off his helmet, hung it on the spear tip, and watched.
Encrid had fought twice and laid his opponents low twice. It sounded simple, but anyone with a bit of discernment could see the truth.
If that's luck... then the Goddess of Fortune must have reincarnated as a man.
The third opponent did not step forward easily. Only then did Krais realize his squad leader was far better than expected. He, too, was quick-witted, and seeing the opening, he decided to act as a daring broker.
He personally pointed out the third opponent.
"You there, from the 2nd Platoon, right? How about a round?"
"Me?"
The crowd had grown significantly. Stepping up only to get humiliated wouldn't be a pretty sight.
"Who else would I be talking to? Why, you seemed so confident when you were whispering behind his back, calling him a male whore and whatnot."
Krais sneered, the corner of his mouth curling. At this point, the man had no choice but to step forward.
"Pah! Fine, I'll do it."
The foul-mouthed soldier spat on the ground and stepped into the ring.
Encrid stood on the fine dirt, finishing his review of the second fight.
I've only been fighting excessively difficult battles.
These opponents were too easy. Rem and the other squad members had always said the soldier grading system was a mess.
"Just because they're intermediate doesn't mean they're all the same," Rem had told him. "Even if the senior level is decent, the variance is extreme. And do you really think a life-or-death battle is decided solely by skill? The continent is crawling with bastards who lack skill but use their heads to kill you."
Still, to be recognized here, he had to climb the ladder—or stand above the grading system itself.
Those who stood above the system were the owners of the red cloaks.
There were two battalions stationed in the Border Guard. Since they took turns on deployment to Greenpearl, usually one battalion and a reserve unit remained in the territory. The 1st Unit, Encrid’s unit, was currently stationed in the territory.
Half of the 2nd Unit was out on the Greenpearl Plains. Even if they weren't actively fighting, guarding the camp was a constant duty. Taking turns each year to guard the winter—that was the role of the Border Guard standing army.
In a territory with barely ten thousand people, there were two infantry battalions and a unit directly under the kingdom's control. Although this was the first time a member of the Red Cloak Knights had personally taken to the battlefield, knights were occasionally dispatched here. All of this was possible because the Border Guard was a territory directly under the crown.
In the past, when relations with Azpen were good, the Border Guard was a trading hub for spices and luxury goods. After Azpen began its war of aggression, it was transformed into a military fortress. The three watchtowers were a symbol of Naurilia glaring at Azpen.
Because of the nature of the territory, most of the garrisoned troops were highly skilled. It was a frontier, yet a gathering place for battle-hardened forces. That was the strength of the Border Guard.
Therefore, Encrid assumed the soldier before him possessed a high level of skill. He treated every opponent as a threat.
"You were spacing out, weren't you?" the opponent asked.
"No." Encrid flinched inwardly but shook his head.
Never underestimate your opponent.
It was a mantra uttered by countless instructors. To uphold that rule, he had even reminded himself of the territory’s bloody history.
Never underestimate them... there was a time when those words didn't resonate with me at all. Who am I to underestimate anyone?
But now, he had to steel his mind to keep those words close. He didn't laugh, but he felt a deep sense of satisfaction. It was a thrill separate from the joy of growth. Proving and displaying his skills—that was what brought Encrid pleasure.
"What are you smiling about?" the opponent asked again. Encrid realized a faint smile had played upon his lips.
"Fighting is fun."
"Crazy bastard."
Catching his breath, the opponent lunged, bringing his sword down in a heavy vertical strike. Encrid moved, tracking the trajectory of the blade. Drawing power from his feet, he channeled it through his knees to his waist. With that momentum, he struck the opponent's sword with his own.
Clang!
A crisp ring of clashing metal echoed.
The opponent's chest was wide open. As Encrid pulled back his deflected sword and feinted a thrust, the opponent scrambled to adopt a defensive stance. Encrid only feigned the thrust, raising his sword tip as he closed the distance.
Then, locking eyes with his flustered opponent, he bound their blades together, swept his left foot behind the man's heel, and pushed forward with all his strength on his sword hilt.
The opponent had barely managed to pull his sword to his chest. A sword bound to another blade could not be used to defend. The soldier was utterly helpless.
Crash!
His Achilles tendon hooked, he tripped and fell flat on his backside. Encrid held his blade right over the fallen man's crown.
It had all happened in an instant. With these three fights, Encrid had thoroughly demonstrated his skill.
The fallen soldier looked up, staring at the blade hovering over his head.
"...I lose," he muttered.
Naurilia had revered the strong since ancient times. It wasn't called the land of knights for nothing.
Andrew, Mac, Vengeance, the elf company commander who had slipped in to watch, and the rest of the troublemaker squad—no one spoke a word. Even the soldiers who had badmouthed Encrid were silent.
The slanting sunlight glinted off the blade, brushing across half of Encrid's face. The filtering light, the lengthening shadows, and the white steam rising from his shoulders in the freezing air conjured a strange illusion.
It was as if they were looking at Encrid standing in the middle of a battlefield, having torn through the sorcery and emerged alive. The truth that everyone had refused to acknowledge now forced its way into their minds.
The one who had shattered the Mist of Massacre was indeed the man standing before them.
"I thought there was no way..." someone muttered. It was an admission. They could criticize him when they didn't know his skill, but they couldn't do so now.
The second soldier who had been defeated spoke up. "I ran my mouth. I apologize."
Encrid nodded silently. The Border Guard was full of men like this—a rough army that tolerated no one without the skills to back it up. But if you proved yourself, they respected you instantly.
"Sorcery Breaker," someone muttered. There was no cheering, but the moniker seemed to stick.
Sorcery Breaker... that's a bit much, Encrid thought. He pondered for a moment, then spoke.
"I believe it's time to face a senior soldier."
He had finished off three intermediate soldiers with nothing but a simple trip. What was left?
He's already thinking of fighting again? Krais widened his eyes. His squad leader was truly unstoppable.
As Krais wondered if he had to set up another match—
Whistle.
Someone whistled and took a step forward. The soldier who stepped out spoke with a modest smile. "Interesting."
He wore an eagle epaulet, symbolizing his membership in the unit directly under the crown. They were a unit as famous as Azpen's "Gray Dogs." They were nicknamed the "Frontier Slaughterers," the most brutal unit within the Border Guard.
With a strength of two hundred, they were composed entirely of senior soldiers or higher.
The one who had stepped forward was one of them.