Chapter 59: Flicking Sword Style
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 59: Flicking Sword Style
On his eighth "today," a quarrel tore into Encrid’s flank.
Piercing between his ribs, the bolt shredded his entrails.
This is unexpected.
It happened the moment he had dodged a flurry of whistling daggers and kicked away Rotten, who had lunged at him from behind. In that microscopic opening, the quarrel had found its mark. It had been impossible to dodge.
They were prepared.
They had been incredibly thorough.
Encrid knew that pulling the bolt out would only accelerate the end. Keeping it lodged inside, he lifted his head, only to see the hideous face of the half-elf looming over him.
Were all half-breeds this ugly? He didn't know. This was the first of his kind Encrid had ever encountered. He only knew that most were treated as dregs of society.
"You're remarkably quick-witted, aren't you?" the half-elf sneered. The bastard certainly loved the sound of his own voice.
"I suppose so. Whew."
Encrid steadied his breathing. He needed to map out the half-elf's position and distance in his mind for one final, desperate struggle.
Ting!
In a flash, Encrid drew a broad-bladed dagger and thrust upward. The weapon, a guard sword, grazed the half-elf's cheek with a sharp shhhk.
Tilting his head to dodge, the half-elf retaliated with a brutal kick to Encrid’s stomach.
Thud!
"Ugh."
A strangled groan escaped him. The arrowhead embedded in his gut churned through his insides. It hurt like hell. It had already been agonizing to move, but the kick sent a wave of white-hot pain through his vision.
"Not so fast."
It didn't take long for him to die. The half-elf's handiwork was clean and efficient.
His throat slit, Encrid closed his eyes.
*
In the "today" that followed, the half-elf, Rotten, Jack, and Bo all lunged at him simultaneously.
Though Encrid's hands fumbled and he died once more, he managed to kill Jack and Bo, and even took one of the half-elf's arms with him. The final blow was to his heart—pierced by an awl sword the half-elf had kept hidden at his waist.
After nine such "todays," the tenth morning dawned.
He finished his physical conditioning with Audin and met Sachsen. It was a repeating routine. Because he couldn't afford to waste a single day, Encrid gave his absolute all.
"Could you take a look at my stance?"
Disregarding the concept of equivalent exchange, Encrid demonstrated his dagger-throwing technique to draw Sachsen in. His proficiency was on a completely different level compared to when he had first learned it. After all, it was a skill he had grasped by the very edge of talent and carved into his own flesh through repetition.
Activating Single-Point Focus, Encrid relaxed his body, then suddenly snapped his muscles like a coiled spring. His hand sliced through the air, and the dagger flew forward with a sharp whoosh. While it wasn't as fast as a beam of light, it was several times swifter than before.
"The arm and hand are just the launchpad; you use the elasticity of your entire body—I understand that much. Does it look like I'm lacking anything?"
Gasp.
It was the first time Encrid had ever seen Sachsen’s mouth hang open. This was the squad member who always maintained a mask of calm. He was a man who rarely expressed emotion.
The mouth that had gaped in shock quickly snapped shut. Though his eyes still wavered, his expression returned to its usual stoicism. He had only lost his composure for a single second.
"Sachsen?"
"Where did you learn that?"
"I saw some bastard on the battlefield throwing daggers like a master."
"Throwing them?"
"I watched and learned."
"You watched... and learned?" Sachsen repeated the words like a parrot.
In truth, his surprise was natural. This kind of technique wasn't something one acquired through simple training. It was entirely separate from honing the basics. Without an innate, instinctual sense for it, even attempting to learn was nonsense.
Sachsen knew this all too well. That was why he was shocked. And yet, his squad leader had done it? Though Encrid's skills had been improving by leaps and bounds lately, this was a different beast entirely.
Staring blankly at the nodding Encrid, Sachsen finally spoke.
"That is enough. It is not a technique you need to delve deeper into. However, since what you are holding now has some weight, it would be better to impart a sense of heaviness rather than lightness to your fingertips."
Sachsen chose his words carefully. Encrid nodded.
"It is called the Flicking Sword Style," Sachsen added abruptly.
Even if it wasn't an equivalent exchange, Sachsen wasn't the type to hoard knowledge. Encrid corrected his posture immediately. It was an attitude deeply ingrained in him—the posture of active listening he had learned by observing Krang. There was a way to give one's absolute best even when just listening.
Seeing that intensity, Sachsen felt a flicker of amusement. It was a mere throwing technique; who else would listen with such gravity? Then again, if Encrid hadn't always shown this kind of attitude, Sachsen would have dismissed him as a squad leader long ago.
"It is a technique whose foundation was laid by a legendary assassin of the past named Georg. There is a rumor that he was inspired by Lionesis compiling the five sword forms, but the details are unknown."
It was a technique with history. Encrid's focus burned brighter. Ragna always showed the path forward alongside his explanations... and listening to Sachsen, Encrid's eyes shone with absolute seriousness.
Though it was named the Flicking Sword Style, it wasn't actually limited to swords. It covered throwing weapons in general. In the midst of this, even though he hadn't asked, the topic of whistling daggers came up.
"There is a throwing dagger called the whistle dagger. If you ever encounter it, avoid it. It is difficult to deal with. The reason the character for 'sword' was included in Georg's Flicking Sword Style was precisely because of the whistle dagger."
Sachsen explained that whistling daggers were originally made by layering thin blades together. He said that the realm Georg originally pursued was using just a single layer—a single-bladed dagger. He added that if only a single blade was thrown, it wouldn't make any sound at all, so it wouldn't even be called a whistling dagger.
How many layers was it?
Encrid reflexively recalled the dagger the half-elf had thrown. Raking his memory of the moment it had pierced his forearm, he remembered. The dagger lodged in his arm had three layers.
"Excuse me, aren't you on duty today?"
Bo had arrived at the front of the quarters to call Encrid. He had been so absorbed that he hadn't realized his shift was approaching.
"Ah, I forgot. Let's go. We're on the same shift today, right?"
"Yes, I'm Bo."
"I know. From the scout unit," Encrid replied casually, then turned to Sachsen. "I learned a lot."
"Is that so?"
Sachsen had never considered himself loose-lipped, but he had to admit that whenever he stood before his squad leader, he became unusually talkative. Though he only spoke of what was necessary, he had indeed shared much.
Did I go too far with the whistling dagger?
Why had he even brought that up? On second thought, it made sense. It was a topic bound to surface because of the stance Encrid had shown him.
The way he threw was similar.
Although Georg's Flicking Sword Style wasn't a throwing technique with a fixed form, it still had a basic framework. Yet the stance the squad leader had shown earlier was the spitting image of the whistling dagger technique. It was a clean posture, as if someone had physically corrected it for him.
Sachsen could never have known, but the one who had corrected Encrid's stance was none other than himself.
*
"Let's go this way."
Encrid changed the patrol route on a whim.
"Huh? Our orders were to patrol the market. Damn it, we'll get disciplined if we do this," Jack protested.
"I'll take responsibility."
A squad leader, promoted to senior soldier, and a talent coveted by both the 1st Company and the Border Guard. A late-blooming rookie who was only now drawing attention at the age of thirty. That was Encrid. There was nothing two ordinary soldiers from the scout unit could do to resist him.
"I said I'll take responsibility. We should take it easy on duty anyway. Let's go."
Encrid took the lead, acting as if it were only natural for them to follow.
"Leaving our patrol area is a disciplinable offense..." Bo muttered, looking at Jack.
Jack's hands moved busily in a series of signals.
What do we do?
I don't know.
Bo shook his head.
Even without looking, Encrid felt as if he could hear their silent conversation. Discussing it wouldn't yield any answers. There were some things in the world that couldn't be helped—just as one had to obey when a superior gave an order. And right now, their superior was him.
The assassin had prepared the place, the time, and the people. Was there any need to play along?
I'll change the location.
The opponent was an assassin; there was no reason to step onto the stage he had set. This was the answer Encrid had arrived at.
He moved as he pleased, strolling along the outer perimeter of the city gates, avoiding the urban areas where buildings provided cover. Jack and Bo were in a bind. They tried to persuade him to head to the market, but Encrid remained unyielding.
After they had walked for about half an hour, Encrid suddenly came to a halt.
"Huh? Why are you stopping?"
Having walked past Encrid, the two took two more steps before turning around. They had slowly given up on the market, but they had been secretly leaving signals along the path.
The time had come. Staring at them quietly, Encrid asked, "Why did you do it?"
They blinked blankly. Jack and Bo looked at Encrid, then locked eyes with each other.
What the hell is this bastard talking about?
How should I know?
"Excuse me?" Bo asked.
"I asked why you did it."
"What are you talking about? Speak so we can understand, damn it," Jack growled.
"Don't you think making excuses is pathetic when you've already stepped back and put your hands on your hilts?"
At Encrid's words, the two locked eyes once more. And then—
Clang!
Both drew their swords. Bo drew a thin-bladed, stiletto-style dagger. Jack drew a thick shortsword.
Encrid stood his ground.
"Fuck, you're quick on the uptake."
"You'll have to die here."
Though their plan had gone awry, their task remained clear. Jack and Bo nodded to each other. As they hesitated, Encrid drew his own blade.
Shring!
His well-honed longsword caught the sunlight. Without pausing, he took a large step forward and swept his sword in a semi-circle. As he swung in such a wide arc, Jack and Bo read the distance and dodged.
They didn't stop there. Because Encrid had swung so widely, he appeared full of openings. Bo lunged, aiming for the gap. He had always been a soldier with excellent coordination. Pushing off his back foot, Bo rushed forward. It was the exact moment Encrid's center of gravity shifted to the right.
Just as Bo closed the distance—
Thud!
Out of nowhere, a blade shot out from under Encrid's left armpit. The blade pierced straight through Bo's throat.
Valen-style Mercenary Sword: Shadow Thrust.
It began by feigning a wide swing to lure the enemy in. Then, supporting the longsword with only the left hand and concealing the right hand with the body, the wielder would draw the dagger at their right waist and thrust it through the armpit.
The opponent never expected a blade to emerge from there. Bo, trusting his own reflexes, had closed the distance too much. Encrid had anticipated that exact reaction. There was no way a man who prided himself on agility would miss an opportunity to close the gap.
Just because he had laid his foundation with Northern-style Heavy Swordsmanship didn't mean he had to forget what he had learned before. This was the realization he had gained from his battle with the mustache soldier in his final moments against Azpen.
The basics were just the foundation; adding to or subtracting from them was up to the wielder. One could swing a heavy sword and then let it flow smoothly, or even aim for a counter. Mixing in the Valen-style Mercenary Sword was perfectly fine. As long as the skeletal foundation didn't shake, that was all that mattered.
Gurgling, Bo collapsed. Blood poured from his throat, soaking the earth.
"...Damn it, we're screwed."
Jack's face turned pale. He had neither the confidence to run nor the confidence to fight. But what else could he do?
"Why did you do it?"
"What's it to you, fucker?"
Jack remained defiant. Since Encrid had no intention of showing mercy, their clash was brief.
A short, snapping downward strike of the longsword. Jack chose to dodge rather than block. Anticipating that movement, Encrid smoothly transitioned the snap-strike into a horizontal slash.
Rip! Slash!
The blade carved a hole in Jack's flank.
"Huff... fuck."
That was Jack's end. Falling with a curse instead of a death rattle, he collapsed.
Encrid paused and waited. It was only after he had planted his sword in the ground and caught his breath that the others arrived. A quarrel flew from behind with a sharp twang.
Tilting his head to dodge, Encrid saw a masked man, Rotten stepping forward hesitantly, and finally, the assassin clad in rags.
With his sword still planted, Encrid asked, "You're all coming at once, right?"
It didn't seem like they were interested in a fair fight.
The man with the crossbow aimed again. Encrid took a short breath. He completely relaxed his body. Leaving his sword in the ground, he let his arms hang loose. His hands swayed like pendulums.
Then, his right hand whipped upward, releasing the dagger he held.
Swish!
The Flicking Sword Style, utilizing the elasticity of his entire body.
The flying blade embedded itself directly into the forehead of the masked crossbowman. It was indeed like a beam of light.
Seeing this, the half-elf's shoulders flinched.
"Interesting," he muttered.
Those were the exact words Encrid wanted to say.