Chapter 87: Those Who Deserve to Die Must Die
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 87: Those Who Deserve to Die Must Die
"This is how you read an opponent’s intent and react."
Even while being thrashed by Rem, listening to Sachsen explain the sixth sense, and pushing his body to its absolute limits under Audin’s Isolation Technique, Encrid had remained a faithful student of Ragna’s swordsmanship.
Regardless of how quickly his skills improved, his consistency was staggering.
"Don't you ever get frustrated?" Ragna had once asked him.
Frustrated? There was no reason to be. Ragna’s teachings were a path—a milestone leading toward whatever lay beyond the basics.
How long had he wandered in the past, lost and without a map? Now, the moment he took a single step, the next path revealed itself immediately. To Encrid, it was nothing but pure joy.
How should he react when an opponent swung downward? What if the opponent was a demonic beast? What if a spear suddenly thrust from his blind spot? In what situation should he extend his sword, and how?
Once the basics were established, the next step was application.
It was impossible to prepare for every single scenario. The key was grasping the knack of it—the underlying principle. Naturally, that was far from easy.
"I thought we’d be done with this part quickly," Ragna had remarked.
But there was no such luck. Encrid knew his talent was abysmal. If he had even an ordinary level of talent, would he have struggled this much? Probably not.
Yet, he harbored no resentment. He would rather swing his sword one more time than waste a single second complaining.
"Applying swordsmanship only has meaning when you can read the opponent's moves and respond."
Whether the opponent was a demonic beast, a monster, or an enemy soldier, one simply had to observe their movements, distinguish feints from truth, and then slash or thrust.
Ragna taught tirelessly. Encrid, too, never tired, though his progress was agonizingly slow. He knew he lacked talent. He knew he had to put in several times the effort of anyone else.
Therefore, everything around him—every situation, every environment, and even the briefest moment—was nothing more than a tool for growth.
That was how Encrid lived.
*
As he dug through the cavern, four wolf demonic beasts leaped from the shadows.
Bark! Bark!
Snarling like feral hounds, they lunged without giving him a moment to breathe. The sight of the beasts kicking up dirt as they charged was enough to make a man’s knees buckle. Their eyes burned with wild ferocity, and between their panting, drooling jaws, yellow fangs gleamed blood-red in the torchlight.
The Beast's Heart.
Thanks to that boldness, Encrid didn't even blink as a blade-like claw swept past his eyes.
He remained calm. In the time it took to draw a few breaths, the wolves had closed the distance. Encrid merged his swordsmanship with his raw intuition. It was a reflexive reaction born of sheer audacity. He believed this, too, would serve as a stepping stone, and he intended to treat the life-or-death struggle as mere training.
There is no training as effective as real combat.
The only drawback was having to risk his life every single time.
He could not tolerate wasting today in vain. If he had wanted a life of merely surviving—clinging to a meager existence—he would have tilled fields and begged for the gods' blessings instead of chasing dreams.
Even though he cherished today so deeply, he had to press forward at the risk of his life. For this was the only way Encrid could sing of his dreams. He was not charging forward to die; he was risking his life to live.
Just as his intuition dictated. Following his instincts.
Snap!
The sound of fangs clashing shut echoed right in front of his nose. Encrid dodged the bite by pulling his left foot back, then pivoted his elbow to swing his sword in a vertical arc.
Thwack! Yelp!
He struck not with the edge, but with the flat of the blade. Hit squarely on the head by a blow packed with his full body weight, the wolf demonic beast collapsed instantly.
As he delivered the strike, he naturally stepped to the left. Though he had tossed his torch aside, it remained lit, casting long, flickering shadows. By stepping left, Encrid used his own body to block the light, momentarily blinding a second wolf just as he dodged its forepaw.
With a heavy whoosh, a powerful swipe tore through the space where Encrid's stomach had been a moment ago. If that had connected, his gambeson would have been shredded to rags.
Demonic beasts were monsters with the cunning of wild predators. Two of them craftily circled around to take his back. Sensing an opportunity, they lunged at Encrid's thighs, snapping jaws lined with teeth as sharp as daggers.
Screeech!
A strange sound echoed through the dark cavern.
It happened in an instant. Encrid spun on his heel and flicked his wrist. With a sharp thud, a Whistling Dagger embedded itself in the forehead of one of the charging wolves. It was a throw as fast as a flash of light.
Simultaneously, he pulled his thigh back to dodge the other beast and drove his knee upward—dodging and striking in one fluid motion.
Crack.
The impact wasn't enough to kill it; the wolf did not back down. Instead, it tried to stomp on Encrid's instep with its heavy forepaw. Pulling his knee back, Encrid retreated half a step, positioning himself between the two beasts blocking him from the front and back.
He was surrounded.
Yet, even in a crisis, Encrid's eyes were not focused on the wolves.
Focus, and focus again.
The world didn't slow down like it had before. Nor was it a state where only points and lines remained. Rather, the movements of the demonic beasts were simply crystal clear. He could picture their next actions in his mind before they even happened.
Since he could grasp their intent, Encrid's actions became simple. There was no need for complex feints or wild swings.
He swung his lowered sword in a wide arc. The cavern was too narrow for horizontal swings, but it was tall enough for a massive vertical semi-circle.
What was the essence of the Heavy Sword Style? He recalled the basics. It was a style designed to crush everything with a single blow.
Howl!
The two wolves lunged simultaneously. Encrid executed the movements he had already visualized.
Whoosh—Thud! Rip! Crunch!
The longsword, swung with every ounce of his strength, did its job. The wolf on the side of the blade was split open from chest to jaw. The other, struck by the downward momentum that completed the arc, had its skull pulverized.
If his timing had been off by even a fraction of a second, he would have been bitten. This blow was a feat of raw, calculated power.
"Fuuu."
Encrid exhaled, calming his racing heart.
One left.
Only one beast remained. While it hesitated, Encrid leaped forward. Curiously, he ran not toward the front of the beast, but to its left. As if it hadn't even seen him, the beast leaped in that same direction—straight into his path.
Pivot on the left foot.
In a state of extreme concentration, he did exactly as his intuition and accumulated experience dictated. He planted his foot and thrust. A straight, honest thrust. The tip of the blade plunged into the wolf's open mouth and pierced through the back of its skull.
Squelch!
With a wet sound, the full weight of the wolf slumped onto his arms. Relaxing his muscles, he slammed the carcass into the ground with a heavy thud.
Encrid stepped on the head of the beast and wrenched his sword free. With a wet schlick, the blade came loose, spilling dark blood onto the floor. The corpse gave one final, pathetic tremor.
Whimper.
The last beast’s life faded away.
Leaving the carcasses behind, Encrid let his arms hang loose and reflected on the exchange.
I can see it.
The movements of the demonic beasts were simple—driven entirely by instinct. Thus, they were easily caught by his sixth sense. A single point of focus combined with instinctive intuition. It was a succession of strikes relying entirely on the sensation created by the union of the two.
I can do this.
Now, he felt he could truly demonstrate what Ragna meant by "applying" swordsmanship. Read the opponent's intentions. After that, all that remained was to strike them down with a sword tempered by the basics.
"It's something you already know how to do. It's just a process of formalizing it and making it second nature," Ragna’s voice echoed in his mind.
Yes, that was right. He had always done this. However, doing it knowingly versus doing it unconsciously was the difference between a house cat and a tiger.
Encrid clenched and unclenched his hand, reflecting on the feeling. Even as he moved forward with his torch, he continued to visualize the sword in his mind. Having a technique "stick" to the body after a single try was a privilege reserved for the talented. For him, he had to ponder and repeat it until it was etched into his soul.
Encrid treated everything as training.
After that, no more monsters appeared. Instead, at the end of the passage, he found a tunnel connected to the city sewers. Only then did his attention shift from his sword to his surroundings.
He's insane.
To dig a tunnel of this scale all the way here... what was the point? Spell traps were expensive; they weren't cheap mousetraps. What was the intention behind laying them to block all six forks in the path? Even a wealthy merchant with Krona to burn would hesitate at such an expense.
On top of that, there were ghouls and demonic beasts. Why block the way to this extent? What was waiting at the end?
Part of the answer came into view.
"Crazy bastard," the words slipped from Encrid's mouth.
He had reached a wider section of the foul-smelling sewer. In the torchlight, he saw things hanging from the walls like laundry. Nails had been driven into the stone, with ropes tied to them.
They were not clothes. They were the very body parts that should have been wearing them.
It was a scene of unspeakable carnage—human entrails, flesh, and bone. A tragedy so gruesome that even Encrid, who had seen the worst of war, felt a wave of nausea.
Crazy bastard.
This was someone who absolutely had to die. Because he deserved to die. Wasn't purging a monster like this the duty of a knight? He knew that merely dreaming didn't make one a knight, but he could not turn a blind eye to this.
Here and there, he saw relatively intact corpses. One of them seemed to be alive. It blinked, then opened its mouth.
"Gurgle..."
It couldn't speak. Naturally—how could a human with nothing left but a head speak? The very fact that it was opening its eyes in that state was grotesque.
"Gurgle, gurgle..."
What did it want to say? He couldn't even guess. If it were Encrid, he would have begged for death. He couldn't comprehend how it was even moving, nor did he want to know how the rope had been threaded through its skull.
"Who are you?" a voice spoke.
Encrid's gaze shifted. At the end of the path decorated with human remains, the face of the necromancer came into view. He was a pale, fair-skinned young man wearing a dull green robe, his hair grown long.
Encrid asked, "This... is your work, I assume?"
The man seemed to ponder for a moment, then spoke to himself.
"...How did you get all the way here? Does God love me? To throw a test subject my way even when I'm just sitting still... Now, let's see. You look like a member of the standing army. A well-trained body. Good. Very good."
The young man's voice was light and cheerful. He sounded like a blacksmith who had just received high-quality iron, or a merchant closing a profitable deal. He even sounded like a youth confessing his feelings. It was utterly bizarre.
"What should I make out of you?"
Encrid raised his torch high, looking past the flickering shadows. He saw a bizarre corpse, its body stitched together from various parts, propped up against the wall. Its eyes were closed, and it didn't breathe.
"Isn't it lovely? This one will be my greatest masterpiece. Its name is Vamilo."
Encrid reached a conclusion. There was no need for more words. This was a complete and utter lunatic.
Encrid hurled his torch.
Whoosh, whoosh! The torch spun rapidly, drawing a fiery arc as it flew toward the madman's head.
Thud.
The madman deflected the torch simply by raising his hand. A spell. He was a mage.
But was that a reason to stop? No. Those who deserved to die must die. Encrid did not halt his steps. Kicking off the ground, he lowered his stance and charged through the sticky filth of the sewer. With a sharp splash, he closed the distance.
Harnessing his momentum, he swung. Following the blade from bottom to top, a diagonal slash cut through the darkness where the torchlight had vanished.
*
Esther usually stayed close to him at night, but on days when Encrid was in the territory, she sometimes wandered the vicinity.
Staying close only at night is enough.
There was no need to be attached to him at all times. On a day like any other, she would normally have stayed in the barracks to pass the time.
Clang.
"Farewell."
As she was seeing Encrid off, he had caught her off guard and flicked the tip of her nose.
Hiss!
This bastard?
"I'm off," he had said, and then he left.
Afterward, Esther had stealthily followed him.
What is he up to, flicking my nose like that?
It was a tailing born of pure curiosity. Her decision to follow him had started from that whimsical flick—something that hadn't happened in "yesterday's today."
Pitter-patter.
The black panther moved through the alleys, leaping across rooftops. Her steps were light and nimble; moving unnoticed by humans was child's play. Thus, Esther set foot into the underground area Encrid had entered.
What is he up to now?
Then, she caught the foul scent of spells.
If things go wrong...
The human she had chosen might die. That would be troublesome. He was a human she still needed. She had to go inside.
Spotting and avoiding spell traps was nothing to Esther. Once, she had sung of the stars; she had been a witch who embraced the heavens. Crude traps like these were beneath her.
And so, she watched the man fight the ghouls.
Has his skill improved?
She had no deep knowledge of swordsmanship, but because she had watched Encrid every single day, without fail—
It has.
She could see the extent of his growth. Then came the moment he killed the wolf demonic beasts. Even to Esther, this was strange.
What is this?
The man named Encrid was displaying movements that seemed almost possessed. To Esther's eyes, which pierced through the darkness, his movements were a series of incomprehensible feats. He swung, slashed, and thrust. He kicked with his feet and knees.
She had thought it was a chaotic melee, but he didn't sustain a single fatal wound. At most, he had a few scratches on his armor. Could such a result come from a mere brawl?
Are the demonic beasts half-witted?
It didn't seem so. Of course, if she had her original power, such beasts wouldn't even dare lift their heads in her presence.
But he's still going?
It was about time he turned back. Yet Encrid kept pressing forward, and eventually, Esther witnessed the scene of carnage. She wasn't particularly shocked; she had seen all kinds of lunatics among those who formulated spells.
In the end, she realized what lay beyond was a mage.
What should I do?
Should she help him? With the measly amount of power she had gathered so far? If she did, it would take even longer to reclaim her true body. Though she had infused some of her energy into Encrid's armor in her own way...
He's being a pain.
Ultimately, she suspended her judgment and followed, keeping herself hidden. She watched him confront the mage. Encrid exchanged a few words and immediately launched an attack.
Afterward, Esther was shocked, and shocked again. And with good reason.
The man named Encrid filled the vision of the Lake Panther. And the man was currently performing an utterly absurd feat.