Chapter 5 - Valen-Style Swordsmanship
"Uh? Huh? How did you know?"
"I'm not a prophet."
At Enkrid's response, Rem shook out the bug from his boot onto the ground and spoke confidently.
"Did you put it in there?"
"I didn't."
"Sure."
Rem kept his suspicious gaze fixed on him.
Enkrid didn't care about Rem's accusatory look.
That wasn't the issue at hand.
He stomped on the bug that Rem had dropped.
Squelch.
A distinctly unpleasant sensation spread from the sole of his boot.
"Ugh."
Spitting onto the ground, Enkrid rubbed the remains of the bug into the dirt and said:
"Can you teach me the Heart of the Beast?"
"Huh? You remembered that?"
Rem straightened his boots and stood up.
"That's not something easy to forget."
"Didn't stop you from drowning your guts in booze, wanting to forget."
Back then, he'd kept seeing the scene of his head being cut off by an axe in his dreams.
Life felt unbearable.
"Can you teach me, or not?"
"You're fired up today, huh? Alright, let's do it."
Rem nodded.
"Jaxen, can you handle morning duty? I'll take over tomorrow."
Since they needed strength to train, wasting time on chores like cleaning dishes was unnecessary.
"Sure, no problem."
Jaxen, a squad member who was always cheerful and got along well with others, replied.
He had such a mild personality that it was hard to understand why he was part of this unit.
When Enkrid first met him, he assumed Jaxen was some sort of mediator within the squad.
Jaxen casually dusted off his reddish-brown hair and stepped out of the tent.
Watching him leave, Rem snorted and blew his nose.
"That guy always gives me a bad vibe."
It was true that if Jaxen had been an effective mediator, Enkrid might never have ended up in this squad.
Jaxen got along well with other units but didn't get along with the Fourth Squad members—except for Enkrid.
For some reason, Enkrid had a knack for earning his squadmates' trust.
Whether it was because he silently took on all sorts of tasks or because of his mediocre skills that seemed destined to keep him as a low-ranking squad leader, even Enkrid didn't know.
He just figured it had to be one of the two.
Rem headed out of the tent, and Enkrid followed.
"That guy feels off. Something about him doesn't sit right with me. You should keep your distance."
And what about you?
Enkrid only asked the question in his mind.
Was this the same guy who broke his superior officer's jaw in his last unit, giving advice about keeping distance?
Rem might have been his benefactor, but to others—especially those from his former unit—he was a walking disaster.
The first squad members glared daggers at him whenever they crossed paths.
No one would warm up to someone who'd done that to their squad leader.
Enkrid didn't argue.
It wouldn't change anything.
Time wasted arguing would be better spent practicing the Heart of the Beast.
There was much to learn from Rem beyond that technique.
"Especially since he's close with the First Squad members. That makes it even worse."
Alright, if you say so.
When Enkrid didn't respond, Rem stopped in his tracks.
"What?"
"Squad leader, you're acting weird today. Normally, you'd have something to say by now."
That was true.
Normally, he'd have remarked on how ridiculous it was for someone who broke his superior's jaw to give advice.
Or maybe he would have suggested ignoring Jaxen entirely if friendliness wasn't possible.
Instead of encouraging them to get along, Enkrid preferred to keep people apart to avoid conflicts.
That was his secret to leading the chaotic, death-laden Fourth Squad.
"Nothing to say."
Enkrid cut the conversation short.
Rem scratched the back of his head.
"Strange day, huh."
They ate breakfast and made their way to a clearing outside the barracks.
Training on the battlefield might seem odd to others, but for Enkrid, it was routine.
Those who knew him wouldn't see it as anything unusual.
Even passersby didn't spare them a second glance.
And so, the Heart of the Beast training resumed.
"Have you been secretly learning from someone else? Not that you'd have had the chance."
"I just practiced what I've been taught."
"Practice alone got you this far?"
Each near-death experience brought a new layer of understanding.
Enkrid found it easier to focus than before.
Rem eyed him suspiciously but eventually shrugged.
"Fine. If you say so. Squad leader, you've got talent, I'll give you that."
Rem echoed a sentiment he'd expressed the day before.
Talent, huh?
That would have been nice.
Moments ago, Enkrid failed to evade Rem's axe again.
The blade had stopped just shy of his throat.
A mere flick of the wrist would have left a deep scar on his neck.
"That was close," Rem chuckled.
He seemed pleased with Enkrid's progress, his laughter tinged with satisfaction.
Enkrid noticed it, too.
"What kind of trick lets you swing an axe like that?"
That axe strike just now—it was faster than the thrust that had killed him before.
The axe blade had approached so quickly, it felt like it would graze his skin any second.
Even though Enkrid didn't blink, he couldn't track its movement.
"Talent?"
Enkrid was reminded once again what an irritating bastard Rem could be.
He'd always been like this.
"If training were enough, everyone would be a master swordsman, wouldn't they?"
Rem laughed heartily.
Just as Enkrid had picked up on his satisfaction earlier, he now realized Rem took delight in teasing him.
He was an odd one.
Then again, was anyone in this squad not odd?
"What if I train more? Work harder? Practice endlessly, even without sleep?"
Enkrid's question came out instinctively.
It was a dilemma he'd grappled with for a long time.
If he lacked talent, should he give up?
Enkrid chose not to.
Instead of giving up, he pressed forward.
If geniuses could take ten steps at a time, he'd take a quarter-step at a time, but he'd keep going.
"Man, you really are strange today. Did you drink some potion of seriousness or something?"
Rem chuckled, hanging his axe on the strap at his waist.
"No."
"Squad leader."
Rem's tone grew serious as he called out to him.
Their eyes met.
After a brief silence, Rem spoke.
"If you don't sleep, you'll die."
Thud.
Rem's words were followed by his cheeks trembling as he struggled to hold back laughter before bursting out.
It was his answer to Enkrid's earlier question about practicing without rest.
"Screw you."
Enkrid responded with the universal gesture of disdain—raising his middle finger.
Rhem chuckled and suggested they head for lunch.
Enkrid didn't plead to learn more.
You can't fill your belly in one bite, and he understood that truth better than anyone.
After lunch, he reviewed his swordsmanship.
Thrusting, slashing, and swinging—basic techniques of swordsmanship.
After mastering these fundamentals, he learned the Valen mercenary swordsmanship.
It wasn't subpar.
He had invested significant time and money into learning it—far beyond what a handful of silver coins could buy.
Valen mercenary swordsmanship.
Though it didn't reach knightly levels, it was renowned among mercenaries, and Valen's swordsmanship stood out.
If categorized, it would fall under the "Illusion Sword" style.
The original manner in which Valen used it was unknown, but Enkrid had incorporated several techniques into his repertoire.
He poured his effort into mastering them.
"After death, each day repeated itself, but the lessons etched into the body remained."
The Heart of the Beast was not learned with the mind but ingrained into the body.
This meant that what his body retained stayed intact.
He pushed himself to exhaustion, wielding his sword until the calloused skin of his palms, already thickened, split open anew.
Ordinary soldiers didn't use swords; spears were their primary weapons.
His role as a squad leader granted him the privilege of wielding a sword.
And Enkrid had no intention of letting it go.
He trained relentlessly.
Despite the pain in his grip, he endured.
Even as his stomach churned from undigested food, he persisted.
He focused all his senses on the tips of his toes and fingers.
Illusion Sword techniques revolved around deception.
They encouraged the use of any means to mislead an opponent.
Some of Valen's swordsmanship techniques had already spread throughout the mercenary world—for instance, feigning a fall to deliver a surprise thrust.
Call it dishonorable if you like.
Why would survival tactics be considered disgraceful?
If someone claimed knights wouldn't stoop to such tactics, Enkrid wouldn't argue.
They had their values, and he had his own.
The half-day allocated for training passed swiftly.
His legs didn't tremble; if they had, the daily physical conditioning he had undergone would have been meaningless.
Enkrid's legs were sturdy.
"A strong body is quite the asset."
Rem commented as Enkrid returned.
A messenger had just arrived.
This was the sixth repeat of the day, and by glancing at the sky, Enkrid could estimate the time.
"A body trained for over 20 years," Enkrid replied casually, moving back to his squad's position.
"Make sure that sturdy body doesn't end up as just another training dummy," Rem quipped before battle, his laughter ringing again.
"You're on duty tomorrow," Jaxen added nearby.
One seemed to mock him, while the other appeared resolute not to take cooking duty two days in a row.
No matter the tone, both seemed to want him to return alive.
"See you later."
The sixth day began anew, and Enkrid killed enemies more efficiently than the previous one.
The first enemy lunged, but Enkrid tripped him and smashed his head with a shield edge.
The second fell to a feint before being stabbed.
Valen mercenary swordsmanship wasn't common knowledge; he had sought it out and paid to learn it.
The wavering tip of his sword became a mirage, obscuring his enemy's focus.
His efforts bore fruit.
He felt the satisfaction of growth, a fulfillment filling his chest.
Even amidst the repetitions, his progress wasn't negligible.
Despite his death and resurrection, Enkrid didn't squander a single day.
Quite the opposite—he fought more fiercely, immersed himself further, and honed his focus.
He lived with yearning and fervent hope, never letting opportunities slip away.
And so, Enkrid fought, cutting down enemies, striking, and toppling them.
The repetition of battles granted him new experiences.
"The Heart of the Beast."
He began to perceive what had previously been invisible.
Eventually, he reached the moment where Bell fell.
Fighting daily at the same location, he always saw Bell fall.
He couldn't retreat or relocate at will.
Recklessly crossing the frontlines was tantamount to suicide; it was no easy feat to alter one's position on the battlefield.
"I'm not at that level."
Enkrid knew himself well.
Though he had grown confident, he wasn't capable of weaving through enemy ranks or attempting reckless gambits.
He couldn't yet foresee the flight of a seasoned archer's arrows.
Thud!
Bell's head exploded once again.
"Damn it."
He had resolved to save him this time but failed again.
Immediately, Enkrid ducked.
An arrow whistled through the air as if preordained, its piercing sound lingering in his ears.
His movements were almost instinctual, as though he had anticipated it.
"You're sharp today, aren't you?"
Rem commented as he approached.
"Go slit the throat of that archer."
"Was planning on it anyway. Stay sharp."
Rem departed, leaving Enkrid to face another enemy.
This time, a soldier thrust a spear at him.
Enkrid failed again.
He evaded a club swung from behind but was struck by a throwing axe from another direction.
It was infuriating.
Morning broke for the seventh time.
"I put a bug in your boot."
Enkrid told Rem.
"Are you insane?"
"No, I'm not. Staying calm in such situations—that's the Heart of the Beast, right?"
"Hmm?"
"Teach me."
When the day restarted, Rem blinked, then agreed.
Enkrid trained, practiced, and wielded his sword.
This time, he didn't try to save Bell.
To save him, he needed to predict the flight of arrows.
If he couldn't, he'd have to rely on luck.
How did Rem dodge those arrows?
With that question in mind, Enkrid moved his body.
Another thrust led to his death.
"I'll show mercy,"
he muttered bitterly.
That cursed mercy.
And so he died.
Through the eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth…
Over a hundred deaths later, Enkrid continued to repeat the day, always beginning with his death.