Chapter 807: Can You Beat Him?
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 807: Can You Beat Him?
As always, Encrid enjoyed watching people rush at him. A natural smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Sinar, watching him, asked without blinking an eye, "Why are you smiling like Rem?"
Encrid shot back immediately, "Why the sudden insult?"
Standing beside him, Ragna spoke up. "Even if it wasn't the most pleasant expression, comparing him to Rem is going too far."
Sachsen added his own piece. "That’s just a straight-up slur."
Even Audin chuckled and chimed in. "For a brief moment, the Commander’s true feelings slipped out. You were thinking of beating them to death just now, weren't you?"
Of course not. Encrid turned his head and saw Rem, who had been badgering the soldiers, pull out his axe and mutter to it:
"Huh? You want to split them all open too? I know, I know. I completely understand. But we have to hold back. If we beat all these bastards to death, who's going to be our meat shields?"
There was Rem, having a full conversation with his Descent Weapon.
Right in front of him, a soldier who was being tapped on the thigh under the guise of "posture correction" until it bruised broke out in a cold sweat.
Wasn't the Order of Madness called that because they fought like berserkers? Why do they just seem like actual madmen?
Since this was daily life for them, Ropode and Pel didn't even turn their heads. In truth, the two of them were too busy trying to kill each other anyway.
Their skill gap was minimal, and they knew each other's habits inside out. Victory would not be easily decided.
Pel attempted a bold move, momentarily throwing his sword to grab and twist Ropode's elbow, but Ropode had recently been properly relearning the Valaf-style Martial Arts he had previously picked up over someone's shoulder.
Of course, it was a secret from Pel. This meant that when Pel threw his sword and closed the distance, Ropode dropped his sword as well. A moment later, the two were rolling around on the ground like dogs in a brawl.
Tumbling through the mud created by the rain, they both looked like stray dogs soaked to the bone.
They didn't care about getting wet or dirty; they were willing to let go of their swords if it meant winning. It was a sheer, raw determination to do whatever it took to grasp victory.
Such extraordinary resolve shone in their eyes. One didn't even need a discerning eye to recognize it; a natural aura of grit radiated from them.
"They've improved."
Seeing this, Frok marveled once more. Since she had helped them get to where they were today, she felt a genuine sense of accomplishment.
Of course, Luagarne enjoyed watching Encrid's changes the most. Her life was currently reaching new heights of happiness every day.
Extinguishing the Embers.
It was a swordsmanship based on insight, experience, and high-speed thought. No, it would be more accurate to call it a style of combat rather than mere swordsmanship.
As shown by how he had subdued Aisia earlier, it was not an art that relied solely on the blade.
His experience of blocking the Balrog's attacks became his nourishment.
Was he just lucky?
If not, there were too many incomprehensible aspects. She had concluded that it was based on insight and experience. Even if she conceded the insight, what about the experience?
Unless he had fought countless times against adversaries on the level of the Balrog...
Although she hadn't witnessed his battles firsthand, Luagarne knew Encrid. He was far too different before and after fighting the Balrog. This was a thought that occurred to her as she identified and studied the subtle shifts in him.
"Beat them to death? This is a spar. While injuries are inevitable, I have no such intentions."
Encrid spoke, subtly releasing his intimidation. The soldier standing before him, hoping to learn a thing or two, looked almost pitiful.
Just the fact that his legs weren't shaking showed that the soldier had grit. Was his name Lieban?
So, while the man himself hasn't changed...
His skills have improved to an absurd degree.
Can a mouse defeat a snake just by standing before it?
Only by facing an enemy akin to a natural predator does one's skill grow. If this wasn't a mystery, what was?
Croak, puff, puff.
Lost in thought, the excited Frok's cheeks puffed up and deflated. Her nostrils flared as she snorted. Part of the reason her mood lifted so easily was likely because she was thoroughly enjoying being drenched in the rain. To a Frok, swamps and rain offered a warmth akin to a human sitting in front of a fireplace on a cold winter day, peeling and eating roasted potatoes.
The pupils of the watching soldiers shook violently.
Why is that Frok suddenly acting like that?
It wasn't that no one knew the habits of the Frok, but seeing one so visibly excited was a rare sight.
And what was with that elf over there?
Her appearance was superior even compared to other elves, but the words coming out of her mouth shattered all expectations.
There were elves among the Royal Guard as well. Though they weren't from Kirhais, the characteristically emotionless nature of their race was unlikely to change. The soldiers knew this. Yet, that elf over there seemed entirely different.
"Don't kill him. How pitiful," she said.
She spoke like that now, but it was half-jest. Upon closer reflection, it was clearly a joke—though half the soldiers present couldn't even begin to comprehend an elf's sense of humor.
"I told you, I'm not going to kill him," Encrid replied as he sheathed his sword, unbuckled the scabbard from his belt, and held it in his hand.
Click—
The sound of the latch was more chilling than the sound of a sword being drawn. At least, it was to the soldiers facing him.
"I'm starting to regret volunteering to challenge him," one of the soldiers muttered.
Not that he intended to back out. His words said one thing, but his eyes said another. Though they didn't burn with passion, the coldness reflected in his languid gaze made his determination to somehow make a mark glaringly obvious.
"Lieban, you don't plan on taking all night, do you?" Encrid asked.
"Of course not, Sir."
His tone was steeped in respect and deference.
The only reason Lieban's legs weren't shaking was his absolute trust in Encrid. He knew he wouldn't be killed. But the pressure was real.
Somehow, amidst the crushing pressure, Lieban managed to draw his sword and swing. His technique didn't trace a graceful arc, nor was it a spectacular strike by any metric, but the soldiers with a discerning eye nodded inwardly.
He overcame that pressure. He shook it off and managed to swing his sword in the end. That in itself is impressive.
Just as these thoughts crossed the soldiers' minds, Encrid spoke.
"Have you been slacking off?"
With those words, Encrid kicked Lieban's thigh. With a light tap, he sprang off the ground, his right leg whipping forward as if slicing through the man's leg.
Thud!
It sounded like muscle bursting, though of course, that wasn't actually the case.
"Ugh."
Lieban's posture collapsed before he could even let out a proper scream. Yet, he didn't fall. He held his ground on his right leg alone. All sensation below his hip on the struck thigh had vanished, as if it had truly been severed. Still, he endured.
"Your spirit isn't bad."
That was Encrid's assessment.
Objectively speaking, Lieban's skills had improved considerably as well.
However, Encrid's standard was the Border Guard Standing Army. We are talking about people who, if they didn't run, would be poked from behind with a blade to force them to run; who had to sprint through the Pen-Hanil Mountains carrying nothing but an axe; who frequently served as punching bags for that genius named Ragna; and who, if they didn't lift stones heavier than their own body weight every day, would hear, "Brother, are you someone who breaks his promises?"
"Next."
Encrid continued the spars without pause. One of them left a particular impression. It was the fellow with the cold, distant eyes.
Talent.
The way he swung his sword was highly inventive. The girl named Brunhild suddenly came to mind. The child he had met in the Pen-Hanil Mountains was also a genius.
This soldier possessed comparable talent.
However, his training and experience were still far too lacking. Even before their swords clashed, simply standing opposite him made his state of preparation easy to gauge.
The type to rely on talent and slack off on training.
He was of the Ragna variety. Encrid delivered a lesson to him with utmost sincerity.
"If you rely solely on talent and act smug, the Westerners will capture you."
With those words, Encrid tripped him and threw a punch that grazed his jaw. With that single blow, the soldier's legs gave out, and he collapsed.
"And your spirit is inferior to Lieban's."
The assessment was cold. Though the soldier had no idea what the previous remark meant.
The man immediately retched, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the ground.
With a sickening heave, yellow bile trickled down the corners of his mouth. Kneeling in the muddy water, the man couldn't even lift his head.
"At this rate, you won't beat Lieban even if you have a lifetime."
This man, who usually spent his time in leisure, was likely throwing up his guts for the first time in a very long while.
But for Lieban, this is probably a frequent occurrence due to his grueling training.
Talent does not define everything. The sum of daily time and effort surpasses raw talent.
Encrid himself was the proof of that. No, he wanted to be the proof.
Though he had reached this point with the help of the Ferryman, he remained a man who valued effort far more than talent.
"Take him away."
The man who had rolled in the mud stared blankly at Encrid's retreating back with hazy eyes.
Next, an elf challenged him, and Encrid showed no mercy there either.
"Just because agility is your strength, do you think that's all you need to rely on?"
Each of his words was worth its weight in gold, provided the listener could properly digest them.
Of course, Rem's teachings were no different.
"If you have neither spirit nor grit, what do you do? You roll."
Rem curled the corners of his mouth even sharper than Encrid's smile. Looking at that face, it wasn't hard for the soldiers to picture a sadist who derived perverted pleasure from inflicting pain.
They had spent several days like this. Yet, there were no deserters. These men, too, had been carefully selected to be here.
Encrid was pleased with that as well.
* * *
The next day, Encrid set out around lunchtime to escort Krang. The midday sun had completely dried up the rain from yesterday.
It was a hot day. A day when sweat would flow easily.
He wore a dark green cloak draped over his back, Dawn Forge on his left hip, the broken Penna on his right, and the Balrog's armor beneath his outer coat.
Regardless of his skill, moving out fully equipped with his best gear was a habit carried over from his mercenary days.
But hadn't they mentioned some suspicious movements?
Is an inspection really appropriate at a time like this?
Though doubts arose, it was not Encrid's place to interfere.
Just as he headed toward the front of the inner castle to meet Krang, he heard the captain of the Royal Guard kneeling on one knee, pouring out his heart in a passionate voice.
"Your Highness! You must have at least twenty Royal Guards, Sir Matthew instead of Sir Aisia, at least three close escorts, and another two hundred from the security force as a bare minimum defense before you can set out! What rests upon Your Highness's shoulders is not merely your own head, is it?"
Isn't that a bit too bold? Encrid thought, but no one around seemed surprised. Matthew and Marcus were also present, but they merely listened as if it were a matter of course.
From this, Encrid could surmise the usual relationship between Krang and the captain of the Royal Guard.
An informal, close relationship.
The close escorts—a group that would even cross lines for the sake of the king's safety.
That was the shield protecting the king: the Royal Guard.
"I told you, it's fine," Krang shook his head dismissively.
"Your Highness."
The captain of the Royal Guard showed no intention of backing down. However, Krang was just as stubborn, and he also enjoyed outwitting his opponents.
In other words, he was highly adept at setting the stage by creating situations where the other party could neither refuse nor reject.
Krang then pointed at Encrid, who had just arrived. His extended index finger and the smirk on his face looked incredibly confident.
"Can you beat him?"
The words that followed turned the Royal Guard leader's face pale as ash.
Who in this land could guarantee a victory over the Commander of the Order of Madness right now?
No matter how confident one was in their skills, this was a knight who had just returned from slaughtering hordes of monsters.
The Royal Guard captain's mouth shut tight like a clam.
Though he had skipped all context, the point of Krang's words was singular.
It meant that even without hundreds of soldiers, the mere presence of a knight hailed as a disaster was more than enough to replace them.