Chapter 2 - Lantern
Through the eye slit of a leather helmet, a black dot appeared to be flying toward him.
Enkrid raised the shield fixed to the back of his left hand.
Thunk.
A heavy impact resonated through his arm.
He had aimed to deflect the blow while striking back, but only half succeeded, leaving his forearm tense and throbbing.
Enkrid slashed down with his blade over the helmet of the man who had lunged with a spear.
Crack.
The man reflexively twisted his neck, but the blade fell hard on his shoulder.
The dull thud of the impact on his scapula sent a stinging vibration through Enkrid's grip.
"Urgh... You're dead, bastard," muttered the enemy, gripping his spear closer and swinging it in a short arc.
It was a skilled move, well-practiced.
Without a second thought, Enkrid kicked the man squarely in the stomach with the sole of his boot.
"Ugh!"
The enemy staggered and fell, losing his balance.
Close combat in a chaotic battlefield—it was a brawl at best.
When the frontlines of ally and foe collided, chaos ensued.
Falling meant death, plain and simple.
Enkrid turned his gaze away from the fallen enemy, gripping his shield's handle tightly as he searched for allies.
Losing one's composure and charging blindly was a sure path to death.
Imitating a berserker in the melee didn't make one a berserker; it made one a corpse.
Why had Enkrid survived this long despite his meager talents?
Because he knew his limits.
Don't overstep, he reminded himself.
A blade swung in from nowhere, and he intercepted it with his shield.
The edge struck the rim of the shield, denting the iron band.
The oiled wooden shield began to warp under the strain.
At this rate, it wouldn't last more than a few more strikes.
Keep attacks short and simple.
After blocking, Enkrid tightened his grip on his sword and swung.
Thunk.
The satisfying impact of a solid blow echoed up his arm.
An unlucky enemy crumpled sideways, his head struck hard.
Before the fallen man could rise, an ally's spear drove deep into his chest.
The thickly layered gambeson couldn't withstand the force of the spear's thrust, and the tip plunged inward, piercing the flesh.
The wounded man thrashed, desperate to survive.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The allied soldier struck repeatedly, relentless and mechanical.
Eventually, the spearhead punched through the armor entirely and buried itself in the enemy's torso.
"Guh."
The man vomited blood, trembling as he clutched the spear lodged in his body.
"Let go! Damn it, let go, you bastard!"
The enemy clung stubbornly to the spear even in his final moments, forcing the allied soldier to discard the weapon and grab another from the ground.
Satisfied with what he'd seen, Enkrid stepped back, catching his breath.
"Whew... whew... whew."
He took in his position, the location of allies and enemies, and the shifting battlefield in his mind.
Step forward, and you'll die.
Charging into the enemy lines would mean becoming fertilizer for the battlefield, no different from the enemy with the massive hole in his abdomen who had just fallen.
Perhaps that man had grown overconfident from cutting down weaker or less fortunate foes in previous battles.
Or maybe he was simply unlucky to have crossed blades with Enkrid at the wrong moment.
The ground was rock-hard from days without rain, resembling stone more than earth.
Even though blood had been spilled over it, the dryness remained oppressive.
The lack of rain had parched everything.
The taste of blood rose in Enkrid's throat, dry and metallic.
Swallowing thickly, he scanned the field for his squad members.
Not that it mattered—they wouldn't be visible in this chaos.
Instead, a scream erupted nearby.
"Uwaaah!"
Two steps away, an allied soldier thrust forward with his spear.
What's he doing?
The thrust was fine, but he tripped over his own feet, his right foot catching on his left, and fell flat on his face.
Thud.
The clumsy motion disarmed him, leaving his weapon scattered on the ground.
Are you praying to be killed?
The sight of the fallen man lifting his head looked like he was bowing in supplication.
Shaking off the thought, Enkrid acted.
He advanced, raising his shield and bracing his muscles as he held his breath.
Thunk.
Crack.
An enemy blade crashed into his shield.
The impact reverberated through his arm, spreading to his entire body.
Though he blocked it in time, the oiled wooden shield splintered from the force.
Enkrid hurled the broken shield forward, putting all his strength into wide, sweeping slashes.
One from right to left, then another from left to right.
Whoosh, whoosh.
Clang!
On the second swing, his blade caught the enemy's weapon.
The clash sent sparks flying, and the enemy's weapon slipped from his grasp.
Enkrid seized the opportunity.
He didn't trust his mediocre swordsmanship but relied on the brute strength he had honed through rigorous training, more intense than that of most elite mercenaries.
That strength had created this opening. Still, he didn't rush forward recklessly. In battle, opportunities often came with hidden dangers.
"Uwaaah!"
Disarmed, the enemy hesitated before raising his arms and charging like a bear.
Enkrid feinted a slash but instead threw his sword to the ground, crouched, and lifted the charging man onto his back.
The weight of the man's armor, weapons, and body pressed heavily on his back.
His waist and thighs screamed in protest, but Enkrid ignored the pain and stood upright with all his might.
"Urgh!"
The enemy flipped over his back and landed hard on the ground with a thud.
Enkrid didn't look back.
He knew his position was just inside the allied line, where three types of enemies typically appeared:
The unlucky fool pushed forward into the vanguard.
The overconfident idiot blinded by past victories.
The true warrior who commanded the battlefield.
The man he had just thrown was the first type, an unlucky fool.
Enkrid retrieved his sword from the ground.
Nearby, the clumsy allied soldier was picking himself up, his helmet split cleanly in half.
Blood trickled down his head.
Lucky bastard.
Moments ago, he had almost died, only to be saved by Enkrid's actions.
He even recognized the man.
"Bell, did getting your head split make you lose your senses?" Enkrid asked.
The soldier, Bell, wiped the blood from his face and grumbled, "Damn it... Barely made it out alive."
"If you're alive, watch my back."
Ordinary soldiers couldn't grasp the bigger picture of a battlefield.
Squad leaders like Enkrid served as intermediaries, relaying orders rather than commanding strategy.
Yet, Enkrid could sense it.
This isn't good.
Years of blood and steel had sharpened his instincts, if not his swordsmanship.
Something's about to go wrong.
"Alright, alright," Bell muttered, picking up his weapon.
Taking cautious steps, he advanced two paces.
Thwack.
A flash of light streaked through the air and pierced his head.
The arrow struck through the gap in his broken helmet, embedding itself deeply.
The impact dislodged his eye, which rolled off and struck Enkrid's leather armor.
Ah.
Bell died without a sound, his lips parting in a silent gasp.
Enkrid averted his gaze.
Far above, in the indistinct expanse of the sky, a fleeting flash of light caught his eye.
In that instant, he knew.
The next arrow was meant for him.
Enkrid closed his eyes.
How many people can remain composed at the moment of death?
Enkrid was no exception.
The moment he closed his eyes, fragments of his life, like the vivid details of a dream from the night before, surged forward.
His past flickered by in the commonly described manner of a life review.
Time seemed to slow.
The noise of the battlefield faded, and even the sensation of breathing felt sluggish.
Thump.
Thack!
That fleeting sensation vanished as quickly as it came.
The life review disappeared, and the battlefield's clamor returned, along with the reassuring awareness of his own breathing.
"Praying out of gratitude for being spared?"
It was one of his subordinates speaking.
One from his squad.
The soldier had shoved him, causing an arrow to embed itself harmlessly in the ground.
"Rem."
Enkrid called out his name.
"That damn 'Hawk-Eye' or whatever he's called is in this fight, so watch out for arrows."
"You think dodging will make a difference?"
"I'll deal with it, so just hold on."
This guy was also uniquely unhinged.
Enkrid thought so as he gave a small nod.
"You're not planning to give up on life, are you? I saw you skipping training and napping earlier today."
Rem's words jabbed at him.
"Are you regretting it now?"
"I'd feel uneasy if I saved someone eager to die."
"Damn it, who the hell wants to die?"
Living by the sword wasn't the same as seeking death.
"You always fight just fine, but at critical moments, you close your eyes."
"You think I do that on purpose?"
He felt like he'd already responded to something similar earlier.
Rem held a battle axe in his right hand and a broken spear in his left.
With his versatility in handling weapons—be it a sword, axe, or blunt weapon—this mix suited him.
He scratched his helmet-covered head with his axe hand.
Though, scratching his helmet didn't seem particularly satisfying.
"Damn, this helmet reeks like hell."
"Can't argue with that."
"Focus harder when it feels like you're about to die."
Rem's words were familiar.
Enkrid knew what they meant.
Rem often said:
In those moments when death feels imminent, when your life flashes before your eyes, people tap into a transcendent state of focus.
Use that in battle.
Damn it, but was that even possible?
That was talent—facing the brink of death with open eyes, staring down the enemy, and doing what needed to be done.
"Focus, my ass," Enkrid muttered.
"Well, you'd figure it out after dying a few hundred times, but you've only got one life. Anyway, see you out there."
Rem chuckled and sprinted back into the fray.
What a fighter.
Enkrid refocused on the battle.
He fought with allied soldiers at his side, over and over.
Enkrid thrust his sword forward.
If lucky, he'd skewer the enemy. If not, they'd dodge.
And if neither?
Thunk.
The sword would land a blunt blow, unable to pierce the enemy's armor, merely pushing them back.
"Hm."
The struck enemy groaned and staggered back, only for a passing ally's war hammer to smash into their head.
Bang.
Enkrid cleared his mind of distractions.
The constant effort to block, dodge, and counter the onslaught of blades, spears, and clubs wore on his nerves.
Without a shield, he felt exposed, so he picked up a fallen axe to use as a makeshift one.
With his allies still nearby, he blocked, struck, and stabbed.
When opportunities arose, he executed clumsy sword techniques he'd learned.
Stepping forward with his left foot, shifting his weight, and extending his sword tip without losing control of his arm.
A thrust.
With just the right tension in his muscles, sufficient focus, and an eye for openings, it should have worked.
Ting. Tch-tch-tch-tch.
Enkrid's thrust only partially succeeded.
"Damn."
He'd aimed for the gap between the enemy's helmet and chest plate, but they moved, and his strike veered off.
A long gash appeared on their neck—not a fatal wound, though.
The bloodied enemy locked eyes with Enkrid.
Their gaze brimmed with malice.
They clenched their jaw with a grinding noise.
Danger.
The instinct honed on countless battlefields screamed at him.
As Enkrid stepped back, an ally filled the gap.
The enemy crouched silently, striking the ally's shin with a weapon-clenched fist.
Crack.
A bone-snapping sound followed.
"Argh!"
As the injured ally collapsed, the enemy drew a dagger and drove it into the fallen soldier's throat.
The swift stab-and-pull motion felt almost rehearsed, as if part of a grim play.
Blood sprayed, staining the enemy's armor.
They shoved the dead soldier aside.
Ah.
A fleeting life review.
The boundary between life and death.
Images flooded Enkrid's mind like an illuminating lantern casting shadows.
Those shadows depicted his life.
Like the dream he had last night.
At the edge of it all, as everything slipped away, the enemy's blade drove into Enkrid's neck.
The enemy had mirrored his thrust—perfectly.
A flawless strike.
At least, it seemed so to Enkrid.
As fiery pain coursed from his neck through his body, Enkrid faced the moment between life and death.
He realized what Rem's "focus" meant.
But it was too late.
"Do you have to die to learn it?"
He silently cursed Rem as his eyes shut.
His thoughts wandered.
Longing.
Yearning.
Desire.
"I wanted to master the sword."
"I wanted to be a knight."
"I wanted to be a hero."
But Enkrid hadn't achieved any of it.
He was destined for a modest life, earning enough to settle in a quiet village and live out his days.
Yet, he couldn't bring himself to do that.
The fire in his heart wouldn't allow it.
To the very end, he spent every coin earned on the battlefield on training schools.
"I could've done better."
If only he had more time.
He believed that if he practiced more, sacrificing sleep and leisure like prodigies and geniuses, he could've succeeded.
As the final images of his life faded, a face appeared—the first and only person he'd ever saved alone.
"The talisman will act on your wish, sir knight."
It was a gift from the village elder, an old woman with missing teeth whose words whistled as she spoke.
Regret and longing filled his heart with a new emotion—one he'd never felt before.
Regret.
"Would things have been different if I swung my sword a few more times?"
The weight of death pressed down.
Beyond his closed eyes, a black river loomed.
Enkrid regretted taking a nap instead of training that day.
Perhaps, if he had trained, his final thrust would have succeeded.
***
A faceless ferryman sat on a small boat in the black river.
The ferryman asked, "Do you truly believe that?"
Huh?
"You're amusing."
What?
"Then let's do this."
The ferryman's voice seemed to come from nowhere.
Beneath their black hood, where a face should be, there was only shadow.
Enkrid couldn't say a word.
He passed out and then opened his eyes again.
Clang, clang, clang.
The sound of a night guard striking metal.
Or rather, hitting a pot with a ladle.
The familiar sound of morning.
"..."
Turning silently to the side, he saw...
"A bad dream, huh?"
Rem, grumbling, pulled on his boots while sitting on his cot.
"Damn bug."
A bug in his boot.
Enkrid blinked.
Everything in his dream had been so vivid it felt real.
"Spit."
Rem shook out the bug, spat on it, and crushed it underfoot.
The ground bore the messy remnants of bug guts and spit.