Chapter 6: My Grip Should Have Torn
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 6: My Grip Should Have Torn
The day that repeated over and over.
Encrid made every single one of those days count. He didn't waste a single second.
'I am mediocre.'
When it came to swordsmanship, he was no prodigy, let alone a genius. A natural-born talent was completely out of the question.
After his eighth failure, Encrid had a realization:
'I was trying to devour the whole meal with a single jab of my fork.'
He had been aiming for the impossible when he wasn't even a prodigy. So, Encrid broke down his tasks.
'I will take a quarter-step at a time.'
There was no time to be bored. Today repeated, but his skills grew with every loop. It was addictive. Encrid found the situation incredibly thrilling.
'There are plenty of advantages.'
Above all, the best part was the constant access to real combat—rich, dense experience bought at the cost of his own life. Encrid made full use of it, spending his days productively before heading out to the battlefield.
Training his Beast's Heart.
Learning new sword techniques.
Along with that, the repeating time allowed him to memorize everything happening around him. A prime example was the gambling game in the neighboring barracks that started right around breakfast.
"Fuck! You cheated, didn't you?"
"Cheated? You asshole, it's just luck."
A heartwarming morning scene.
It wasn't cheating. Encrid knew because he had seen it dozens of times. The dice always rolled the exact same numbers, and he knew exactly what they would be.
He walked past them, living another day. Repeating.
Repeated combat broadened Encrid’s perspective. To be precise, because he had so much time to think, the scope of his tactical mind expanded.
'I don't need to deflect the arrow to save Bell.'
That was a feat only first-rate mercenaries could pull off. Encrid gave up on that idea cleanly. By doing so, he was actually able to save Bell.
Thwack!
All he needed to do was find a sturdier shield.
The arrow embedded itself in the round shield. No matter how skilled an archer was, they couldn't pierce the head of a soldier hiding behind solid wood and iron.
"...Where did you spring from?" Bell asked with wide eyes, having tumbled to the ground.
"How long are you going to roll around in the dirt? Get the hell up."
Encrid casually wiped away his sweat with the back of his hand and kicked Bell's backside. Rubbing his rear, Bell headed back into the fray.
'Even if I save him here, will I see his face tomorrow?'
He didn't know. He had simply set this as his first checkpoint. Cutting through the battlefield to save Bell—that was the small goal Encrid had set for himself.
He finally accomplished it on his twenty-fifth "today."
"Oh, look at that. If it isn't the Mother of the monastery. Save me too if you have the time, instead of wasting it on some slacker from another unit."
Rem popping out of nowhere to spout nonsense was a daily routine. Every time Encrid saved Bell, Rem would spew a different variation of his crazy remarks.
And every time, Encrid would fire back.
"Mother" was the title for the nun in charge of a monastery.
"You're excommunicated. You look too filthy."
Monasteries didn't accept non-believers. Excommunication meant being cast out from the Mother’s embrace—in other words, being kicked out of the monastery. It was a rather sophisticated joke to share with Rem.
"A filthy world that discriminates based on looks. Ptooey."
Undeterred as always, Rem dashed forward. He was probably off to hunt down that Hawk's Eye or whatever he was called. Encrid knew without being told.
Even after repeating the day fifty times, Encrid still couldn't defeat the thrusting enemy soldier. He had managed to block the attacks a few times by sheer luck, but in those moments, some guy would pop out from the side swinging a hammer and crush his skull.
"No need to drag this out," the man who smashed Encrid's head would say.
Encrid never even saw the hit coming. His vision would simply spin, and the ground would rush up to meet him. He didn't even have the presence of mind to shake his head; he just felt a thick, sticky liquid flowing down his face. By the time he regained a sliver of consciousness, he would realize he was kneeling, having dropped his sword.
"Must be painful. Here is mercy."
Immediately, a blade would pierce his throat, leaving him to writhe in agony.
The blade dug into his neck. It was an agonizing pain he could never get used to. The sensation of a red-hot iron skewer tearing through his throat ravaged his brain.
As he died, Encrid blinked. The blood pooling in his eyes dyed the world red. Beyond that crimson-stained vision, through the gaps of a helmet, he saw the red eyes of the enemy soldier holding the sword.
They probably weren't actually red, but that was how they looked to him in his final moments. A shallow, sadistic joy lingered in the enemy soldier's eyes.
Having died so many times, Encrid was starting to notice the strangest details. It was likely thanks to his trained Beast's Heart.
'He's a sick bastard.'
His goal wasn't to grant mercy; he killed like that because he took pleasure in murder. The bastard always shoved the blade into his neck and drew it out slowly. He probably got off on feeling another person's final breath fade through the steel.
Even upon realizing this, Encrid remained calm. Having crossed the threshold of death countless times, a natural boldness had taken root. It was only natural.
And then.
"Are you having a secret rendezvous behind my back or something?"
On the eighty-sixth loop, Rem suddenly spoke up. Encrid furrowed his brows. What kind of nonsense was this?
"What?"
"The Beast's Heart—you learned it from me. But there's no way you could have trained it to this level on your own."
The axe blade stopped a mere finger's width from Encrid's eyeball. Any closer, and the sheer wind pressure alone would have damaged his cornea. Because of that, Encrid could only see half of Rem's face past the finely honed edge.
Yet, even in such a moment, his breathing didn't falter. This was the power granted by the Beast's Heart—and the boldness that allowed him to endure, knowing pain was bound to follow.
Looking at Rem's questioning eyes past the axe blade, Encrid thought:
'I guess something like this can happen.'
Since his Beast's Heart had been trained through the repeating days, it must have seemed absurd to the very man who had taught him. The only reason he was realizing this now was because Rem was usually the type of squad member who didn't think twice about anything. Rem talked a lot of nonsense, but he wasn't one to question things.
But the Beast's Heart was a different story. Because he had taught it himself.
Encrid didn't offer a pathetic excuse. There was no need. He could think about it all day, and then handle it when "today" restarted.
Thud.
Rem pulled his axe back. Encrid's vision cleared. There wasn't even a scratch on his face. Rem wielded the heavy axe as if it were an extension of his own hand. Having pulled back the weapon, Rem scratched his head with the butt of the handle.
"I don't get it. I was wondering if you learned from someone else besides me."
Even as he spoke, his face showed he knew how ridiculous it sounded. Encrid was the leader of the Sasa-sa Squad, and this godforsaken squad was a bunch of troublemakers who wouldn't listen to a word unless he was around. Encrid had never left the squad since learning the Beast's Heart from Rem.
Therefore, even if he wanted to learn from someone else, he wouldn't have had the time. Rem had been watching Encrid the entire time. Unless he had somehow learned it in secret while on night watch—but that was equally impossible.
"Your swordplay is at a level where I wouldn't be surprised if you kicked the bucket this afternoon, so how the hell is it that only the hide of your heart has gotten so thick?"
What a way with words.
He was going to die this afternoon. Rem had said it without knowing the truth, but Encrid couldn't help but feel there was a sharp reality hidden in those words.
"I've crossed the brink of death about eighty times."
Answering vaguely, Encrid realized he wouldn't be able to learn any more of the Beast's Heart from Rem. No excuse could perfectly resolve the doubts of this barbarian-born man.
'I can't exactly tell him that I learn from him every single day as it repeats, and that dying over and over is how I got this way.'
But he could probably gloss over it. Rem wasn't a particularly meticulous man. And indeed, it didn't take much effort.
"Let's go with that. They say the Goddess of Fortune sometimes drops a coin without realizing it."
It was a common saying for soldiers who survived through a series of unimaginable coincidences. Did that saying really apply to mastering a secret technique like this? But what did it matter? As long as Rem let it slide, that was enough.
"Well, it makes things more interesting than before. You've gotten a bit better. What kind of crazy stunt have you been pulling in secret?"
"Something painful enough to kill me."
Encrid wasn't lying.
"Right, a man's gotta have a few secrets. That's what makes him manly. I know a thing or two about that."
Rem didn't even care. Just like before, he only said what he wanted to say and raised his axe.
"Another round?" Rem asked.
Encrid raised his sword without a word.
If saving the tumbling soldier, Bell, was his first goal... then his second and final goal was to kill the Stabbing Freak who took pleasure in murdering people. His preparations for that were steady.
And so came the hundred and eleventh day, during his sparring session with Rem.
Encrid pulled his arm back, flexing his muscles. He extended his left foot, attempting to stomp on Rem's foot. Rem quickly pulled back. Seeing this, Encrid pivoted his waist around his left foot—which had stomped the ground instead of Rem's foot—and thrust his sword with all his might.
The foot stomp was a feint. A move calculated to exploit Rem's retreat. He channeled power into his muscles and thrust.
In that split second, Encrid saw Rem's arm bend like a whip. It was such an unrealistic sight that even the axe in his hand seemed to bend.
Clang!
It happened in a flash. The axe blade, seemingly bent, shot upward like a bolt of lightning and struck Encrid's sword head-on.
The sword flew upward. Slipped from Encrid's grip, the blade soared, spun in midair, and landed on the ground with a sharp clack. It was the sound of the flat of the blade accidentally striking a stone embedded in the dirt.
He watched the sword roll across the ground.
"Let me see."
Rem stepped forward abruptly and grabbed Encrid's wrist. His hand was trembling from the shock of losing his weapon. Rem looked at Encrid's hand, clicked his tongue, and said:
"This should have bled a little."
"What?"
"That thrust was decent. It was good, but... it was missing something. I'm not great at explaining this, but just now, your grip should have torn. You shouldn't have dropped your sword."
"You're saying I shouldn't let go of my sword even if I die?" Encrid asked, his right hand still held captive. It was a phrase he had heard countless times from his swordsmanship teachers.
Counting the days that repeated was a grueling task. Encrid kept track by slightly varying how he began each day. Besides, his memory had been exceptionally sharp since childhood. Until now, that memory hadn't been of much help in swordsmanship. Now, of course, it was—especially when reflecting on what his teachers had taught him.
"What kind of bullshit is that? If needed, you throw your sword right into the enemy's face. Ah, whatever. Let's make this simple. That thrust just now—where were you aiming?"
Rem snorted as he spoke. Encrid couldn't answer easily.
This thrust was his trump card. It was a technique he had stolen and learned after having his own throat pierced over a hundred times by that enemy soldier. From the overall posture, the positioning of the feet, the shift in center of gravity, the movement of the muscles, the direction of the toes, to the shape of the hand gripping the hilt—he had stolen and mimicked every single detail.
"That strike just now, it looked decent on the surface, but... dammit. This is incredibly hard to explain. Here, look at this."
Rem lowered his axe and drew a large circle on the dirt. It was roughly the size of a human head.
"Let's say our destination is somewhere around here." Rem spun his axe over the circle and poked a single dot. "But in reality, this is where we're going."
At first, Encrid wondered what on earth he meant. But the time he had spent learning from his teachers hadn't been in vain. Despite the terrible explanation, he understood it instantly, like the sharp taste of pickled fruit rolling on his tongue.
'The target point.'
What had been carried in the thrust he had just delivered? Had he wanted to be praised for doing well? Because he mimicked it well, had he wanted validation that he possessed even an ant's speck of talent?
What was the point? What was a sword meant for?
To slash and pierce an opponent—it was a lethal weapon. Among its uses, the thrust was the very foundation of swordsmanship, aiming for a single point. It was especially prominent in rapier swordsmanship. He had heard that some knights used thin blades designed to pierce the gaps in armor as their primary weapon.
"I really can't explain it any better than this. You dropped your sword so easily because you assumed I would naturally dodge or block it. But that thrust just now should have been absolute. A clear declaration: 'I am going to pierce you. You cannot dodge.' You had to show that with absolute certainty."
Even after speaking, Rem seemed to be pondering whether he had explained it properly. Since he was a guy who always marched to the beat of his own drum, he was terrible at explaining things. However, if the listener managed to understand, even an explanation that sounded like a neighbor's dog barking could be considered brilliant.
To Encrid, it was a brilliant explanation.
'Because I lacked conviction in my sword.'
The thrust from moments ago had been that of a third-rate mercenary. On the hundred and eleventh day, Encrid realized this.
Until the hundred and twenty-third day, he practiced thrusting with all his might. And on the hundred and twenty-fourth day, his grip tore under Rem's lightning-fast axe strike.
It hadn't just torn; it had burst open. Blood dripped down his hand.
Encrid looked at it and laughed. Because he had achieved what he wanted.
"Have you completely lost your mind now? Do you have any idea how dangerous a crazy ally is on the battlefield? Seriously, why the hell do you keep laughing?"
Seeing this, Rem showed a rare flash of panic, but Encrid couldn't hold back his laughter.
"Fuck, stop laughing. You look like a lunatic!" Rem said, watching him.
This was what happened on his hundred and twenty-fourth "today."