Chapter 10 - The blade struck
"Ghhk."
The man with the throwing axe let out a death rattle.
A poison-coated dagger pierced his side, and a spear tip buried itself in his throat.
"Grrraaaagh..."
His eyes dimmed as he choked on blood and foam.
That was the end of him.
Enkrid stepped back, watching the life fade from the enemy's eyes.
"Waaaaah!"
An allied soldier nearby bellowed ferociously.
In response, an enemy soldier ahead roared back, "Raaaargh!"
Both men were towering figures, their collision akin to a pair of charging wagons.
Locked in a ferocious grip, they spun in a deadly dance.
Watching them, Enkrid stepped further back.
What must one do to survive?
The lessons learned over 120 close brushes with death were countless.
Survival on the battlefield meant one thing: avoid combat as much as possible.
Enkrid held back, letting others clash around him.
"Die!"
"Bastard!"
Swords, spears, axes, and clubs swung with curses rather than war cries.
"Don't you dare harm my brother, you bastard!"
A dying soldier left behind his final words.
"Save it. I'm not taking responsibility for your brother," came the cold reply of a comrade pretending indifference.
"Kill! Kill!"
A frantic rookie, driven mad by the chaos of war, screamed nonsensically.
"Look at that maniac."
"Leave him be; he's trying to play berserker," a veteran advised, protecting his squadmates.
"My name is Bar—" Thunk!
An enemy soldier, caught up in flair, died while shouting his name.
An ally sneered while withdrawing his spear from the fallen foe.
Thud.
A step disturbed the ground, stirring a cloud of dust.
The sun's rays illuminated the floating particles.
Beside the drifting dust, an enemy soldier spewed blood.
Nearby, an allied soldier lay with a shattered skull.
Flesh scattered across the ground, blood staining the earth.
Even with caution, survival was impossible without action in the heart of battle.
Inhale, exhale.
Short breaths in, long ones out—Enkrid regulated his breathing.
As he steadied himself, a spear's glint darted through the dusty air.
Enkrid gripped his shield lightly, deflecting the spear with a clang.
The loosened grip let the force pass through without resistance.
Simultaneously, a club swung diagonally at him.
Crouching forward, Enkrid dodged the club and launched himself at the wielder.
Thud!
He slammed into the enemy's chest with his shoulder, toppling him.
Drawing his dagger, he drove it into the enemy's thigh.
Rip!
The blade tore through thick fabric, carving a deep gash in the enemy's leg.
"You bastard!"
The enemy shouted, shoving Enkrid away.
Using the momentum, Enkrid regained his footing and swung his sword horizontally.
The enemy, crippled by the leg wound, couldn't evade and took the blade to the neck.
Thunk!
The blade partially lodged itself, but Enkrid yanked it free with a forceful pull.
Crunch.
Muscle, nerves, tendons, and bone gave way as the blade tore out.
Blood gushed as the soldier clutched at his throat.
As expected, his hand couldn't staunch such a wound.
Enkrid didn't look back.
Someone else would handle the spearman who'd struck his shield.
"You bastard!"
It was Bell.
Saving him earlier wasn't a waste—Bell now guarded his flank.
A loyal ally.
Clang!
Clang!
The clash of steel echoed continuously.
Ignoring the felled foe, Enkrid picked up a stone from the ground.
He immediately hurled it.
The enemy fighting Bell hesitated after the stone struck his back.
Whack!
Bell seized the opening, slamming his spear shaft into the enemy's head.
A solid blow.
"Guess that evens the score," Bell panted.
"Do you really think so?"
Settling a debt of life that easily?
"Maybe just halfway," Bell admitted, scratching his bloodied helmet.
Not exactly satisfying.
Bell stepped back, showing more caution after being knocked down once.
Enkrid moved with the battlefield's flow, shifting step by step.
"Help me! Gurgle..."
A soldier choking on blood pleaded for his life.
Enkrid recognized him—a compulsive gambler who'd escaped death numerous times.
"I can't save you," Enkrid stated calmly.
Despite countless attempts, it was simply impossible.
Treading carefully, Enkrid scanned the battlefield for the perverted enemy who reveled in stabbing.
It wasn't difficult to find him.
The moment he spotted the target, Enkrid drew his last dagger.
Timing his steps, he threw it in rhythm.
Thunk!
The dagger sliced through the air, a near-impossible trajectory for most to evade.
Clang!
The enemy twisted, taking the dagger to his shoulder.
The blade deflected off his scapula.
Despite the instinctive move, it was near-perfect defense.
Their eyes met.
The enemy immediately located Enkrid's position.
This one was no ordinary soldier.
The stabbing fanatic charged, dirt flying from his bloodied boots with every step.
The distance between them was minimal.
It was time to test everything Enkrid had learned through his repeated deaths and rebirths.
His body felt sharper than ever—he was ready.
The enemy slashed downward.
Enkrid raised his shield.
Thwack!
The blade struck with substantial force, sending vibrations through the shield.
"Swordsmanship's foundation? Strength," one instructor had declared.
"Overcome strength with technique? Hah, try beating a Frog with just technique."
"Ever heard of someone parrying a Giant and surviving?"
"The basics of swordsmanship are muscle. Muscle means survival."
That instructor's harsh lessons had forged Enkrid's body well.
Enkrid held firm, matching the enemy's strength.
"Hmmph!"
The stabbing fanatic scoffed, kicking at Enkrid's ankle.
Enkrid blocked with his shin guard.
The steel-reinforced boots turned the kick into a weapon of their own.
Thud.
Pain shot up his leg, but the bones remained intact.
That was enough.
He shoved the shield outward and slashed upward.
Whoosh!
The enemy anticipated the strike, retreating just out of range before lunging in deeper.
The opening from Enkrid's slash was precisely what he'd waited for.
"Hah!"
Enkrid roared, swinging his shield like a club.
The stabbing fanatic tucked his chin just in time.
Smack!
The shield struck his head, sending him sprawling sideways.
Enkrid prepared another slash but retreated as the enemy, still on the ground, swung a dagger diagonally.
Had he pressed forward, the blade would have struck just above his shin guard.
Even in a split second, the enemy had calculated the weak spot.
The world called such precision talent.
Enkrid had to die repeatedly to learn the heart of the beast.
This enemy hadn't.
Still, there was no polished mastery here—only raw ability.
Enkrid recognized the signs.
This was a novice, perhaps someone with little battlefield experience.
Otherwise, he wouldn't charge so recklessly.
He had nearly fallen to Enkrid's stabbing earlier as well.
Raw talent, radiant but unrefined.
Enkrid wasn't envious.
"I can do it."
Confidence surged within him.
He had a gut feeling that all his efforts leading up to today hadn't been in vain.
It was time for his struggles, intertwined with death, to bear fruit.
"You bastard."
Venomous eyes glared back at him.
The opponent stood up slowly.
In the brief interval, another ally stepped in between Enkrid and his enemy.
The "Stabbing Maniac" crouched without hesitation and used the hand holding his sword to strike the ally's shin.
Crack.
The sound of bone breaking echoed.
Whenever an ally intervened, the sequence was always the same.
Right after the strike to the shin, the dagger would pierce the ally's neck in a single fluid motion.
A seamless attack pattern, like flowing water.
But Enkrid already knew this pattern.
The dagger moved toward the shocked soldier, who could do nothing but widen his eyes.
Just as the blade was about to pierce his neck—
Whisk!
The soldier's body was yanked backward.
Scrrrch, crunch.
Instead of stabbing through the soldier's throat, the blade grazed his cheek, skimmed his temple, and scratched his helmet.
"Gasp!"
The startled ally fell backward, landing on his rear, so shocked he couldn't even speak—he just gasped for air.
Enkrid stood in front of the soldier, flexing and unflexing the hand that had grabbed the ally's collar instead of his sword.
"Fall back."
This was his fight.
That was his opponent.
The person who would confirm what he had achieved.
Thump.
His heart pounded.
Enkrid was overwhelmed by a flurry of emotions—wondering if it was right to face this moment head-on, doubting if he could defeat his opponent, and yet brimming with an irrepressible fighting spirit.
Deep down, he felt an inexplicable conviction: to progress forward, he had to overcome the enemy before him.
"No holding back."
The Stabbing Maniac sneered.
'Look at him, such foolishness.'
It was proof that, despite his talent, he lacked experience.
If he were truly serious, he wouldn't have wasted time talking—he would have created an opening instead.
But since he hadn't, Enkrid decided to do it for him.
Huff, huff.
He deliberately exaggerated his breathing.
He flinched at every gesture the opponent made.
The once-fiery red eyes of his enemy seemed dull brown now.
And those brown eyes glimmered.
The Stabbing Maniac stepped in and slashed his sword.
Whoosh!
The speed was on an entirely different level than before.
Thud.
Enkrid's heart raced.
But he didn't panic or shut his eyes.
The heart of the beast is always bold.
"Watch until the very end and just dodge."
That's what Rem always said.
At first, Enkrid thought he was teasing, but now he understood.
He could see it.
Enkrid shifted his weight to his ankles and twisted his body.
The blade narrowly grazed his shoulder.
After dodging, he swung his sword horizontally.
Ting.
The enemy raised his dagger vertically to intercept.
Enkrid's sword and the Stabbing Maniac's dagger formed a cross.
Ting, ting, ting!
As Enkrid pushed against the dagger, sparks flew from the friction.
The Stabbing Maniac angled his dagger and redirected the blade to the side.
Enkrid abandoned the attack and raised his shield close to his body.
Bang!
The blade struck the edge of the shield, scattering more sparks.
The Stabbing Maniac had withdrawn his sword in an instant and swung again.
But Enkrid had seen this pattern before.
He turned his head sharply, noticing that the enemy had disappeared from view.
Without hesitation, Enkrid raised his sword vertically and slammed it into the ground.
The Stabbing Maniac, who had been charging low, halted.
The sword pierced the blood-soaked ground with a thud, and the opponent froze in an awkward crouch, lifting only his head.
His eyes radiated a chilling intent to kill.
"Cheap tricks."
He ground his teeth audibly.
'Tricks are still skill, you bastard.'
Enkrid didn't respond.
Instead, he kicked dirt toward the enemy with the tip of his boot.
Fwoosh!
"Ugh!"
The Stabbing Maniac quickly shielded his face with his forearm.
Even now, he reflexively reacted.
It wasn't the first time Enkrid had seen such a scene, and it wasn't impressive anymore.
"You bastard!"
When the enemy had the upper hand, he gloated and spoke of mercy.
But when he was cornered, he lost his temper instantly.
Enkrid had long since figured out his personality.
The Stabbing Maniac lunged again, closing the distance.
Clang! Clink! Thud!
Enkrid blocked a relentless series of strikes with his shield.
The shield creaked under the pressure.
The opponent closed in further, switching to his dagger, aiming for Enkrid's side.
It was the same move that had killed him in the past.
This time, Enkrid raised his elbow.
Thunk!
The dagger stopped, caught against the tough leather of his armor.
At the same time, Enkrid leaned forward and thrust his head.
The Valen mercenary technique: headbutt.
Smack!
"Urgh!"
The Stabbing Maniac staggered, and Enkrid's head spun briefly.
In the past, this would've been the moment when another enemy struck him from behind with a club.
But not today.
There was no one throwing axes either.
Instead, there was Bell.
"Damn it, I'll help!"
Bell shouted.
"Stop anyone else from interfering," Enkrid replied.
This is my fight.
Suppressing the urge to vomit, Enkrid steadied himself, hearing his enemy curse.
"You crazy bastard."
If I'm dizzy, you must be too.
The dizziness passed quickly.
"I'll enjoy watching you struggle as you die."
The Stabbing Maniac took a stance—one foot forward, the other back, like a charging cavalryman.
From that stance came a thrust as swift as an arrow.
The tension constricted Enkrid's heart.
He steadied his breathing to release it.
Stay bold.
Could today's repetition overcome the wall of talent?
The answer awaited.
The Stabbing Maniac moved.
He was nothing more than a point, moving faster than sight.
He became light, a blade poised to pierce Enkrid's body—or so it seemed.
Enkrid narrowly dodged.
Swish.
The blade grazed his side, leaving a fiery pain behind.
Ignoring it, Enkrid stepped forward, pulling his sword arm back as though nocking an arrow.
Shifting his weight onto his left foot, he balanced himself.
He'd learned by watching, by enduring stabs, and by sparring with Rem.
Tap.
Balance, not brute strength, guided his advance.
He poured his will into the blade.
Pierce.
His resolute will imbued the sword, and as he unleashed his taut muscles, the blade struck.
Thunk!
The well-sharpened sword pierced through thick leather and cloth, reaching the enemy's heart.
The sword, his hand, and his arm felt like one.
Finally, he could savor the fruits of his labor.
"Hey!"
Someone shouted.
But Enkrid didn't hear it.
Before he could bask in victory—
Wham!
A colossal force struck his left side, launching him into the air.
What?
This was something he had never experienced in any of the 125 iterations of "today."
"Frog!"
Whether it was Bell or someone else, he couldn't tell.
The shout echoed faintly as Enkrid's vision went black.
He passed out.