Chapter 60: Barely Ten Times
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 60: Barely Ten Times
"Amusing? That’s my line."
The half-elf, draped in rags, licked his lips and let his arms dangle loosely. The pale backs of his hands peeked out from beneath the tattered cloth.
One look was enough to know: it was a ready stance.
The moment those hands moved, a horrific whistling would tear through the air.
“If you try to dodge after seeing the projectile, it’s already too late. Watch the hands.”
This was Sachsen’s method for countering the Whistling Daggers—his way of dealing with those who specialized in throwing weapons.
Catching a fired arrow with one’s eyes was a fool's errand.
“Unless you are a true Knight, it is nearly impossible. But even if you aren’t a Knight, there is a way to dodge a flying arrow.”
The art of selective vision: Seontuan.
Even if an enemy cleverly hides their hands, they cannot completely conceal the movement of their arms.
Keep the enemy in your sights.
Take in their hands and arms.
Then, perceive their entire body and move.
That was the key.
Sachsen’s voice had been quiet and gentle, yet his words sank deep into Encrid's mind.
When Rem taught, he primarily used his body; he was the type whose limbs moved before his words. Sachsen was the opposite. He would explain the theory softly first, then demonstrate. To him, understanding with the mind came before the action.
Ragna was half-hearted until his interest was piqued, but once invested, he would demonstrate and explain simultaneously, riding the flow of the moment.
Audin was similar to Rem, but his tone was like that of a god of eternal positivity. In a way, he might have been the worst of them all.
“You can do it, brother.”
“It’s alright, brother. That much won’t send you to the God’s embrace.”
“Does it hurt? That means it’s going well.”
The process of learning those exercises had been far from easy. But Encrid had reaped immense benefits from the hardship.
Here, on the outskirts of the territory beneath the shadow of the fortress wall, the air was several times colder than in the sunlit areas. Yet, a comfortable warmth circulated through his body. There was no stiffness. He had to credit that to the exercises he had learned from Audin.
Even as stray thoughts crossed his mind, Encrid’s eyes never strayed from the half-elf.
The way to dodge the Whistling Daggers was to watch the fingertips. The hand might be quicker than the eye, but there was no hiding the swing of the arm. Trace, feel, and see the trajectory.
If he could see it, he could dodge it. It was something he had already done countless times.
Keeping his eyes locked on his target—that was Encrid’s sole task right now.
At the same time, Encrid also let his hands hang loose. The half-elf was in a similar position. Though Encrid’s throwing skills weren’t quite at the level of the Whistling Daggers, they were still formidable.
How can I land a blow on him?
The half-elf was thrilled.
Originally, this was supposed to be a tedious, mundane job—a mere request to assassinate a common soldier. There was no reason for him to find it interesting.
As an assassin, the half-elf had two peculiar habits. One was exploiting an opponent’s carelessness to pierce their heart. The other was killing a first-rate warrior or better in a head-on clash. Both were to his taste.
Initially, believing he wouldn’t find satisfaction here, he had focused on the former.
But this is going to be fun.
Now, his interest had shifted to the latter.
The half-elf repeatedly licked his lips—a habit when he was concentrating. His eyes constantly searched for a gap in his opponent’s defense, but none were easily found. A clear premonition struck him: no matter how he threw his Whistling Daggers right now, his opponent would dodge them.
But that was fine.
So, you’re bracing yourself for my daggers, are you?
He didn’t know how, but his opponent had dismantled his prepared setup by the simplest of means: by changing the location.
Things had gone awry. Three people were dead, and though there had been a commotion, no one was approaching.
The original location chosen for the assassination was the middle of a bustling market. The crowd and noise would have momentarily dulled the target’s cognitive abilities. On top of that, Jack and Bo, the two disposable pawns, were supposed to distract him with nonsense.
And that wasn’t all. He had brought a skilled crossbowman to hide on the rooftops and had Rotten tailing them in secret.
All of these preparations had been completely derailed by a single change of venue. There were no buildings nearby to hide in. Before they could even begin, two of his idiots had been killed. And the moment they crossed paths, the crossbowman had been taken out by an unexpected dagger throw.
Did he calculate all of this?
He licked his lips once more. As his concentration reached its peak, his lips kept drying up. The half-elf retraced the target’s actions leading up to this moment.
He calculated it.
He had calculated every single detail. He didn’t know how, but the target had known beforehand.
The information leaked.
Where it leaked from didn’t matter; only the result did. Disposing of Jack and Bo, then immediately taking out the crossbowman—it was clean.
The target’s calculations, his methods, even his Flicking Sword Style... the assassin reached a conclusion.
He’s in the same line of work.
Either someone who did similar work, or someone deeply experienced in it.
It was a misunderstanding, but a reasonable one. The opponent had read the assassination methods and countered them head-on. Even if information had leaked, such a response could only be expected from a veteran of the shadows.
Then, what methods do I have left?
A few options remained. He had three types of poison on his person. And behind his waist was his custom, shortened weapon—a long, forearm-length awl. The weapon was called a Needle, one of the favorite weapons of the elves alongside the Naidel.
Draw and pierce. That was all it took.
Only one person had ever survived this technique—a certain man named Frok. That dog-like bastard, Frok.
“Why the hell do you look so damn ugly?”
That crazy frog bastard had insulted his appearance without a second thought.
The half-elf had a complex about his looks. Elves were supposed to be beautiful, but half-elves were often excluded from that blessing. Ever since the day he met Frok, the half-elf made sure to finish his jobs by bursting his target’s heart.
Licking his lips when concentrating, and always aiming for the heart for the finishing blow—these had hardened into unbreakable habits.
Poison would be a waste.
Thinking of Frok made him want to split his opponent’s heart open. And it didn’t feel like it would be a difficult task.
Close the distance, then pierce him with the Needle in one breath.
The opponent might have talent in swordsmanship, but that only applied to a conventional head-on fight. The half-elf trusted his trump card.
So, how to close the distance?
While pondering his options, he felt the idiot Rotten flinch.
Useless fool.
The half-elf spoke. “Don’t move, idiot.”
At those words, Rotten swallowed hard. He had been about to stealthily take a step back. The sheer pressure in the air made him desperate to flee. Having worked in the Thieves’ Guild for a long time, Rotten knew this was the scent of death. His sixth sense was frantically ringing alarm bells.
“How many do you have?”
After keeping Rotten in place with his words, the half-elf raised his voice toward the front.
Encrid shrugged. The assassin was likely asking about the number of daggers in his hands.
“I only have two,” the half-elf lied.
“I have one,” Encrid answered honestly, fully aware of the deception.
“Seems like I have the advantage, then?”
“That’s just your opinion.”
The dagger Encrid had thrown earlier was a trump card he had badgered Krais to get for him since morning. He had asked for something thin and light, and Krais had delivered. As a result, some poor soldier had lost his meat-carving knife, and Encrid had ended up with a throwing knife whose blade had been ground down until it was only as long as a finger.
“You really are entertaining,” the elf murmured.
If things went south, the Whistling Daggers would fly. Yet, Encrid agreed with the elf’s sentiment. Tension warmed his entire body. A single misplaced blink, and the hand of death would tighten around his throat.
Yet, it was thrilling. Measuring his skills against his opponent’s and clashing. Pitting his prepared moves against the enemy's. A competitive fire and a burning desire to win filled his chest—a feeling he could rarely afford before.
When had he ever had the luxury of aiming for victory? He had been too busy struggling just to survive.
But what about now?
This repeating "today"—this day where he had faced death on countless thin lines—had changed him. Thanks to that, it wasn’t just his swordsmanship that had evolved. Though he was naturally someone who never gave up, he had never been able to easily hope for victory, especially against opponents of this caliber.
But now...
I can win.
He wanted to win, and he could win. It was a fundamental shift in mindset.
“Pick up the corpse. Use it as a shield.”
The half-elf spoke to Rotten, completely unconcerned that Encrid could hear him.
“If he throws at you, he’ll die too. He won’t make that move. Grab the crossbow as well.”
The half-elf chose the most rational, efficient method: exploiting the advantage of numbers.
Rotten hesitated. The half-elf explained the situation in a calm tone. “We are inside the territory. Won’t the patrol soldiers pass by here soon?”
It was true. Encrid would have the advantage simply by dragging out the time. Soon, the patrol soldiers would arrive, and it would be over. Rotten knew that the moment they were caught, his stomach would be ripped open; he had no chance of survival if he didn't act.
“Damn it.”
Rotten cursed the situation and carefully lifted the corpse. He was so tense that his back was drenched in sweat.
When did he get that strong?
Because he kept glaring at Encrid while moving, Rotten’s actions were sluggish. He groped the ground, setting the crossbow aside first, then lifted the corpse that had died with a dagger in its head. It was heavy. He grunted, straining his muscles. If he stumbled here, it was over.
Rotten concentrated, a drop of sweat dripping from his forehead onto the corpse.
Just move carefully. That bastard can't throw his knife now—
Just as he thought that and raised the corpse as a shield—
Whoosh, shhhk!
Encrid’s arm moved. The dagger flew.
It happened before the corpse could fully cover Rotten's body. Rotten desperately twisted his torso, and the flying dagger lodged deep into his shoulder.
“Ugh!”
Rotten swallowed a scream. At the exact moment he was struck, the elf’s hands also moved. Both hands, up and down, exactly four times.
Preeeeeeeet!
The whistling sounds overlapped, ringing out in a shrill chorus. Four daggers had been thrown.
Even as Encrid threw the knife in his hand, his eyes never left the half-elf. Because he hadn’t blinked even once, he read the trajectory of the incoming Whistling Daggers. He immediately spread his feet, lowering his stance until he was pressing himself to the ground. He bent his waist and placed both hands on the dirt.
Four Whistling Daggers flew through the space where Encrid’s head and chest had been a split second ago.
All of this occurred in the span of barely half a breath. And in the time it took to inhale the remaining half-breath, the half-elf’s hands moved again.
It was a staggered attack, launched after a microscopic delay. Two more Whistling Daggers flew, targeting the head and thigh of the crouched Encrid.
Encrid rolled sideways reflexively.
Thud, thud!
The daggers bit into the dirt. Rolling across the ground, Encrid hurriedly raised his head to find his enemy. If he lost track of the assassin now, it was over.
The enemy was not in his direct line of sight. Rotten, clutching his shoulder, and the rags fluttering in the air were the first things to catch his eye.
Encrid’s eyes pierced through the fluttering rags. He wasn’t there. The assassin was nowhere to be seen. He had missed him because he had instinctively looked for the position from which the daggers were thrown.
In that brief window, the half-elf had lowered his posture and was already charging forward. He was within Encrid's widened field of vision now. His ears perked up, signaling the location of the boots kicking off the ground.
Only then did Encrid’s eyes lock onto the half-elf. The distance had been closed in an instant. It was a mere few paces.
*
Distract with the rags, then close the distance. The opponent wouldn’t have expected him to close in so quickly. This was the half-elf’s plan.
His prediction was correct. Encrid’s expression was one of pure bewilderment.
Yet, he still moved.
Ping!
You bastard.
The half-elf cursed internally, completely forgetting his own lie. There was a third dagger in his opponent’s hand.
But it wasn’t aimed at him.
The guy had realized that having superior numbers was an advantage. If Rotten kept him in check with the crossbow, it would be over.
With a sharp shhhk, the flying dagger pierced the forehead of Rotten, who had reached for the crossbow instead of using the corpse as a shield.
Of course, the half-elf didn’t actually see that scene unfold. He simply ran forward with all his might. Just like that, they were within two paces.
He reached for his waist. He saw his opponent desperately grasping for his longsword after throwing the dagger. Far faster than drawing and slashing, the half-elf’s short, awl-like sword thrust toward Encrid’s heart.
Clang! T-t-ting!
Blocked?
The half-elf was shocked. Utterly, terrifyingly shocked. This was not supposed to be blocked. It was his trump card, his fatal blow. Without prior knowledge, it was absolutely impossible to stop.
Yet, it was blocked. To him, it was an infuriating injustice.
But Encrid had already seen the awl sword—the Needle—during his ninth death.
Instead of drawing his longsword, Encrid used the flat of the Guard Sword—which he had already drawn when throwing the dagger—to block, twist, and deflect the Needle.
Though it wasn't a perfect Soft Sword Style, he could mimic it closely enough. Instead of the Needle piercing through, the Guard Sword's blade merely shattered under the concentrated force.
The shards of the blade scattered like a halo of light before his chest.
Releasing his grip on the broken Guard Sword, Encrid drew his longsword.
All of this happened in a single breath. Block, discard, draw. There was no hesitation. It was a seamless sequence of fluid motions. Bringing down the drawn longsword from above with all his might was like the crashing of a waterfall.
It all unfolded in the brief instant it took for the shattered shards to hit the ground.
Even in his shock, the half-elf managed to block above his head with the Needle. It was too late to dodge, making this the best possible defense he could muster.
But Encrid fully utilized the basics of the Heavy Sword Style. It was a strike meant to shatter and crush whatever blocked its path.
Clang!
The Needle snapped like a twig. Sparks flew as the longsword’s blade crashed down onto the half-elf’s head, performing the sword’s true duty.
Thud, crack!
The ugly appearance of the half-elf, which Frok had once so ruthlessly insulted, could no longer be seen. His face had been split in half.
The blade of the longsword sliced down through the elf’s jaw. Without even a death rattle, the assassin collapsed face-first, blood pouring from his ruined features.
“Phew.”
Encrid exhaled the breath he had been holding. Then, after sheathing his sword, he thought:
Ten times. It was barely ten times.
The number of times it took to bring an end to this repeating today. It was the shortest loop he had ever experienced.