Chapter 9: A Man Who Changes Day by Day
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 9: A Man Who Changes Day by Day
The battle briefing wasn't some grand presentation on strategy. It was simply a command to prepare.
As soon as Encrid heard the orders, he headed toward the rear barracks. By now, the "Sewing Genius"—who had skipped the briefing by sending a subordinate in his place under the pretext of being sick—should have finished the gear.
"You didn't give me any thread, you know."
Sure enough, Encrid was greeted by hand, knee, and elbow guards made of woven, sturdy leather. They looked quite decent.
"Thread?"
When Encrid feigned ignorance, the booze-loving squad leader snorted. "What did you expect me to do when you only left the leather?"
What else? Encrid thought. 'You’d just unravel a blanket, twist the fibers, and make it yourself.'
This was something they had done several times before. Even without being provided thread, this man—having received a "wriggling gift"—always managed to do a fine job on his own.
"I forgot."
"You don't look like you forgot at all."
Despite the deep frown from a lingering hangover, the man was quick-witted.
"No, really. I forgot."
"Tsk."
He clearly didn't believe it. But what did that matter? Encrid gathered the leather guards. The stitching was meticulous. Encrid had made them himself in previous loops, but the quality was undeniably better when this man handled it. He was satisfied.
"I feel like I've been conned," the squad leader grumbled.
"Good work."
Encrid patted him on the shoulder and returned to his barracks. As soon as he arrived, he gave a brief announcement that there would be a battle in the afternoon, then sat down and busied his hands.
Shring.
Encrid drew his sword, held a pair of deerskin gloves in both hands, and sliced through them. After stretching out the leather—which was cut so roughly it was almost torn in half—he quickly fashioned a sheath for his throwing knives. Finally, he used his sword to slice the ends of the leather into several long strips, tied them into knots, and fastened it like a belt.
This wasn't his first or second time doing this. Having repeated the process dozens of times, it was second nature. His movements were seamless.
Watching this, Rem poked his head over Encrid’s shoulder. "What are you doing? You’ve got a small knife, so why are you using that big one for this?"
"Just testing if the blade is sharp."
"Handy, aren't you? If only your sword skills were half as good."
The bastard always had to throw in a jab. Not that it actually hurt. Even back when his skills had stagnated and he made no progress, such remarks hadn't bothered him. Encrid ignored him.
"I went through all the trouble of getting those for you, and you just tear them up to make a lousy sheath?" Krais asked, poking his head over the opposite shoulder.
Why are these bastards so interested in me? Encrid wondered. Did they have a few screws loose? Did they actually think he was their mother?
That's a horrifying thought.
"Because I'm done with them."
"I have no idea what's going on in that head of yours. You didn't eat something weird, did you?"
"Come to think of it, you've been running around all day until your feet sweat. Is something going on?"
"Nothing's going on," Encrid brushed them off.
Wiping his blade once more, he sat quietly and closed his eyes. He recalled the battlefields he had experienced countless times. The events flashed before him like a panorama.
A battlefield he had repeated one hundred and twenty-five times.
Encrid turned the memories over in his mind. All these miscellaneous preparations were for survival, not for improving his swordsmanship.
The battlefield is no training ground.
Even if his sword skills were lacking, his experience of surviving for so long wouldn't just vanish. Was it really the sword that had kept Encrid alive all this time? No. Circumstances, luck, preparation, and composure—he had survived by mixing all of those together.
Therefore, "today" would be the same. He would do his absolute best to survive.
Encrid resolved to break out of this cycle today.
*
"Charge!"
The battle cry of his allies echoed. Encrid was soon swept into the thick of the fray.
He didn't panic. He didn't rush forward in excitement, either. Raising his head, he scanned the battlefield while regulating his breathing.
Whew.
At the end of that short, calm breath, he saw them. He saw the enemy; he saw his allies. The charging enemies, the flowing allies.
Shring.
He drew his sword. A blade flew toward him. Encrid deflected the spearhead with the shield in his left hand.
Thud!
It was a motion he had repeated countless times. There were no mistakes. Deflecting the spearhead, he took a step forward.
"Whoa!"
He slid his right foot behind the flustered enemy's heel, bending his knees to brace for the impact. Everything happened in a single breath. As if they had rehearsed it, the tripped opponent naturally tumbled backward.
Thud!
The man landed flat on the back of his head and blinked, his expression one of utter bewilderment. He probably didn't even know how he had been taken down. He had tried to thrust his spear and retreat, only for his foot to get caught, sending him sprawling. It had happened in the blink of an eye.
Passing by his fallen opponent, Encrid kicked him square in the chin with the tip of his boot.
Crack!
With a sharp sound, fragments of teeth and blood spilled from the man's mouth. Knocked out. Encrid didn't even feel the need to kill him.
Moving forward, he raised his left arm.
Clang! Screeech!
A club slammed against his shield and slid off, scraping against Encrid's elbow.
Grind!
It was a club studded with thorns. But there was no injury; the leather guard wrapped around his elbow had done its job.
"Grr!"
The enemy gritted his teeth. Beneath the helmet that only covered half his face, his jaw muscles tensed. This guy was a handful to deal with properly. Among his past "todays," there were many times Encrid had lost his left arm to this bastard.
Grip the hilt, left foot forward. It was the Valen-style drawing technique.
Their eyes met. Once the sword was drawn, a fierce clash would be unavoidable. Both the enemy and Encrid knew this. The moment their eyes locked, an unspoken agreement was made: they would clash sword against club.
The opponent's eyes locked onto Encrid's right hand.
Shring.
Before the sword could even be drawn an inch, Encrid's left hand moved first. A throwing knife tucked at his waist flew through the air. Startled, the club-wielding enemy raised his arm.
Thud!
The blade sank into the enemy's arm. Even with a gambeson, the fabric around the arms could never be too thick, or it would restrict movement. The blade easily pierced through to the flesh.
"You cowardly bastard!" the enemy spat.
Cowardly? Underhanded? There was no such thing in a fight to the death. Encrid silently sheathed his sword with a click. The Valen-style drawing technique was, in truth, a feint—pretending to draw a sword while throwing a dagger or a stone.
"You... bastard!"
Veins bulged on the forehead of the enraged enemy. That would only make the poison spread faster. The man collapsed forward mid-charge, the paralysis poison taking full effect.
Thud!
He planted his nose right into the dirt, letting out ragged, choking gasps. Encrid calmly walked past him. He kicked his next opponent in the groin and shoved him aside. For the one after that, he quietly walked up and pushed him from behind. An ally's warhammer slammed into the head of the stumbling, panicked enemy.
Crack!
Even with a helmet, a blow from a blunt weapon would shatter a skull—especially when it was a leather helmet, not an iron one.
Encrid wasn't performing any spectacular feats. He was simply making the necessary movements at every precise moment. Of course, all of this translated into minor victories for the allies around him.
"Thanks to you, I'm alive," said a man whose face he didn't even know.
Encrid gave a brief nod and passed by. It wasn't a big deal.
"I owe you one."
"Squad Leader? Was that luck or skill? Either way, buy me a drink later!"
"Fuck, I almost died."
There were plenty of others like them. It was an incomparable growth compared to his very first death. And at the center of it all, naturally, was the Beast's Heart.
Be still. And calm.
The Beast's Heart did not flutter easily. Because it harbored wildness, it could look upon everything with composure. In the middle of the battlefield, Encrid felt the steady thrumming of his heart and walked on.
A battlefield repeated dozens of times. But that didn't mean he wasn't tense.
The more familiar you get, the more likely you are to be caught off guard by variables.
Just because today was repeating didn't mean everyone he met would repeat the exact same actions. Depending on how Encrid responded, his opponents' actions changed as well. Therefore, his priority was to walk slowly and take in his surroundings.
Right about here.
Swish.
Someone slashed a dagger from below. It was a novel attack, aiming for his legs after falling during the fight.
I've been hit by this before.
He had tried to dodge it a few times in the past. Then, he had found an easier way. It was just like blocking an arrow: if you can't dodge it, block it.
Thud.
The dagger struck his leather greaves, failing to cut Encrid's shin. It was only natural.
"Huh?"
The foolish enemy's single gasp served as his last words. Encrid slammed the iron rim of his shield into the back of the man sprawled on the ground.
Thud!
"Ack!"
The scream was short and quiet.
"Uwahhh!"
Instead, the roar of the battlefield filled his ears. Encrid's struggle alone couldn't change the course of the battle; it only made things slightly easier for those immediately around him.
I can't save everyone.
This was a battlefield, a place where the dead numbered in the hundreds. Trying to save everyone was foolish and naive.
"Hah, bring it on! You bastards!"
The owner of the shout was a spearman from another squad. Encrid didn't even need to look at his face to know who it was. The number of enemies Encrid had taken down while walking exceeded five. That guy shouting so triumphantly had actually died dozens of times in previous loops. If Encrid hadn't stepped in, he would have died today, too. Usually, he would get his shin slashed, roll on the ground, and die.
Encrid straightened his back, took a deep breath, and exhaled.
That's the first step.
Having repeated this battle dozens of times, Encrid had set his own standards. His first goal was to join the front lines without getting hurt.
No injuries.
He had just achieved that goal. The second was to find familiar faces in the chaos. Of course, he had to avoid getting injured even in the melee. Only then would he be able to properly face that Stabbing Freak.
Rolling through this battlefield over a hundred times, he had only one thought: I want to fight him in perfect condition.
Would the things he had learned, practiced, and trained by repeating today actually work? Could he win against that freak who preferred "mercy"? Would his efforts so far allow him to get past today?
Thump.
His heart beat. Apart from the boldness granted by the Beast's Heart, he felt a personal drive.
I will get past today.
Because his goal was set and his purpose was clear, Encrid's heart raced. Back to the battlefield. He walked, and sometimes, he ran.
"Uwahhh!"
"Fuck, save me!"
"Dammit!"
"You bastards!"
Amidst the duet of curses and battle cries, Encrid whipped his head around, scanning in all directions.
The guy crouching and looking for an opening.
That was the one he was looking for. He wasn't hard to spot. He saw a bulky figure sneaking around among the enemy soldiers.
That's one.
He saw a task he had to resolve before facing the Stabbing Freak.
The Back-of-the-Head Clubber.
He had even given him a nickname. If left alive, this bastard would repeatedly strike the back of Encrid's head during the fight. Perhaps it was fate. Of course, Encrid didn't believe in fate.
Everything is decided from birth? What a load of bullshit.
If his sword broke, he would use the broken blade. If he had no weapon, he would use his fists. If he had no teeth, he would use his gums. If talent wasn't enough...
I'll crawl my way up like this.
What kind of people were knights, truly? What was this martial power that could change the course of a battlefield? An unattainable desire becomes a delusion. However, if it was within reach, it became a dream.
Encrid had not given up on his dream.
"Whew."
He exhaled.
Flick.
He pulled out a dagger and drew his arm back with all his might. In the middle of the chaotic battlefield, he felt the weight of the dagger at his fingertips. Locking his eyes on the target, he drew an imaginary straight line.
It was a throwing technique taught to him by the winner of a dagger-throwing contest at some tavern. He had practiced this dozens of times as well. He lightly lifted his left foot, stepped down, twisted his waist, and thrust his right hand forward. At the very end, he focused on the sensation in his fingertips and snapped his wrist.
Swish!
The dagger flew along the imaginary line Encrid had drawn.
"Ugh!"
The flying dagger lodged itself near the clubber's shoulder. Since his armor was flimsy, it wasn't a difficult task.
"Which son of a bitch..."
The man cursed, looking around. There was no need to make eye contact. Without a priest or an antidote, he would have to quietly lie down soon anyway. Soon, the man collapsed, and Encrid calmly began searching for his second target.
This time, it was the Throwing Axe Guy.
This bastard also repeatedly threw axes to interfere. He had to be taken out beforehand so he wouldn't disrupt the duel.
"Oh God!"
A devout ally's cry echoed. Curses and murderous words filled the air. Encrid scanned his surroundings, walking precisely toward what he wanted. He blocked minor attacks with his shield. When he saw an opening, he tripped them. He struck heads with the flat of his blade. For those foolishly wearing their helmets too low, he brought his sword down from above.
Just doing that made things much easier for the allies standing near him.
Three daggers left.
The Throwing Axe Guy was nowhere to be seen.
His position changes every time.
Still, he was roughly in the right area.
Bell first.
It was time to save the ally whose head would otherwise be pierced by that Hawk's Eye guy.
To the right from here.
He walked, watching his allies' movements. After blocking a few attacks, he discarded his broken shield. No matter how many times he repeated this, it always broke.
Around here.
Even on a battlefield repeated over a hundred times, some things naturally became familiar to the eyes and body, even if they changed slightly. A shield was rolling on the ground. Encrid stepped on the edge of it. Resting on a half-buried stone, the shield flipped up into the air with a clack.
He caught it deftly. It was a move bordering on a circus trick, but having repeated it countless times, it was much easier than bending over to pick it up.
"...Well, that's a neat trick."
It was the voice of an ally who happened to witness it.
"Enemy behind you."
In several of his "todays," this guy had stared blankly at him and died. Warned, the soldier spun around. He immediately faced an enemy charging with a spear.
"Fuck, you rat-like bastard!"
Soon, the two clashed in a life-or-death struggle. The ally would win; it was a fight Encrid had watched about twenty times. Therefore, there was no need to watch.
On this battlefield, which was more than just familiar, Encrid mapped out the area in his head, dividing it into sectors.
Let's go to Bell first.
He moved his feet.
"Argh!"
Bell fell.
Thud.
The shield blocked the arrow.
"Whoa, what? I'm alive?"
"Keep your head down and crawl back. Arrows are flying."
Bell faithfully followed his advice. Among his repeated "todays," the second arrow had pierced Bell's head dozens of times. Crawling back was indeed the right choice.
"...What? Did you secretly start dating the Goddess of Fortune?"
It was Rem. What a barbarian—he casually uttered blasphemy that would make a devout believer faint.
"Not even a scratch on you?"
Facing the Stabbing Freak in perfect condition. That was Encrid's ultimate goal today.
"Why don't you go do your job?"
"I will. I will, but you look different today."
"I'm a man who changes day by day."
Among his repeated "todays," no two days were the same. Every day was a day of growth.
"...I think you need some medicine, Squad Leader," Rem said before departing.
Was I being too smug just now? Encrid wondered. Maybe. But what could he do? It was the truth.
Just then, the Throwing Axe Guy caught Encrid's eye. An enemy soldier with axes dangling from his waist.
Why wait? Encrid drew a poisoned dagger.