Chapter 13 - Reflection
Enkrid, who had been unconscious for two straight days, slept for another half-day.
When he woke, there was bread and soup set before him.
A long shadow passed over the bread and soup before disappearing.
Turning his gaze to the half-open tent entrance, he guessed it was dawn.
There were no sounds of people coming and going, and only a few torch stands seemed to have been set up.
The light entering the tent was much dimmer than before.
Everyone inside the tent appeared to be asleep.
Enkrid reached for the bread.
"At least my arm moves fine."
Taking advantage of the motion, he tried to shift his body halfway upright.
Zing!
Pain shot up from his side, enough to make the back of his head throb.
"Still, this much is manageable."
Rem had said nothing was broken.
Enkrid's own assessment agreed.
Though his head had been shaken enough to knock him out, fortunately, there didn't seem to be any serious damage.
He wasn't dizzy, and his eyes, nose, and ears were all in working order.
Rip.
He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it into the cold soup, and popped it into his mouth.
"Even my tongue's fine."
He must have been quite hungry, as even this simple meal tasted good.
His tongue reacted to the subtle sweetness of the flour, while the soup—seasoned just slightly better than plain water—was sufficient to fill an empty stomach.
Enkrid chewed the bread and soup as if savoring a delicacy from a proper restaurant, deliberately and thoroughly swallowing each bite.
"If you eat too fast after fainting, it'll upset your stomach."
This was something he knew from experience.
Normally, it would be the duty of a medic tent soldier to explain such things.
The soldier he'd seen the previous evening, however, had looked too indifferent to bother.
Was a soldier assigned to a medic tent even necessary?
"Probably has connections."
Otherwise, why would someone perfectly healthy be stuck watching over injured soldiers?
Once his stomach was full, Enkrid forced himself into a seated position.
Lying down right after eating wasn't good for digestion.
If one was injured, eating well and resting were crucial.
Proper digestion was part of eating well.
"Phew."
With a small sigh, Enkrid stared blankly at the flickering light outside the tent entrance.
His gaze was on the swaying torchlight, but his mind was elsewhere, crowded with thoughts.
The repetitive days, today, and the day he had finally surpassed.
Enkrid reviewed and re-reviewed that "day."
He relived that moment repeatedly, even in his dreams.
In terms of the thrust itself, it was excellent—a flawless strike, even by his own standards.
"Reaching that point in the fight wasn't bad either."
He owed much to the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.
It was thanks to the countless repetitions he'd drilled into himself for this day.
But that didn't mean he'd done everything perfectly.
"It was still rough."
This was the conclusion he reached after countless reflections on that moment.
Someone passed by the tent.
Fwoosh.
The shadow of a soldier stretched long as it moved in front of a burning torch.
The elongated shadow transformed in Enkrid's imagination into the enemy he had thrust at.
'When I thrust.'
What if his opponent had evaded?
In his mind, the shadow dodged the thrust, then spun and counterattacked.
The blade easily sliced through the neck of the shadow representing Enkrid.
'Then it's me who dies.'
He had claimed to be prepared?
What a joke.
'It wasn't enough.'
If his opponent had been slightly smarter, slightly more experienced.
If they had lived just a little longer to see another battlefield.
"No, that's going too far."
That was an exaggeration.
Thinking like that led nowhere.
The shadow that had been fighting disappeared as he cleared his thoughts.
Enkrid stopped dwelling on what had already happened.
'Instead of dwelling on 'what if,' think about the next step.'
Rem had said he needed to put his full force into his thrusts.
But that didn't mean every attack could be like that.
He pondered.
Show the thrust only once.
Before that, keep unsettling the opponent.
When they fell for the provocation and tried to thrust, counterattack.
'Relying entirely on a single thrust.'
If it failed, it would mean death.
Was that truly the right approach?
A fight shouldn't be handled that way, and Enkrid knew it.
If things didn't work out, how would he face the next "today"?
"If the thrust didn't work, should I have relied on luck?"
No, he couldn't.
That wasn't acceptable.
Not luck, but skill.
Enkrid believed skill was the best way to seize the opportunities given to him.
Reflecting didn't lead to self-pity.
He was simply revisiting the facts, distinguishing between his shortcomings and successes.
As he always did after a fight or sparring session.
'If you fight until you're half-dead and survive, that fight becomes your asset, Enki.'
The old swordsman had been a teacher at a seaside town, teaching children swordsmanship.
Judging by skill alone, he wasn't even good enough to make a name for himself in a small commercial city, let alone a large one.
But as a teacher, he wasn't bad.
At least for Enkrid, he had been an excellent mentor.
"If you plan to live by the sword until you die, digest everything you gain from battle. Absorb it, process it, and absorb it again. That's your way to survive."
The old teacher's wisdom was born from experience.
He limped on his left foot.
His body was covered in scars.
Lessons learned through a lifetime of hardship.
That teacher had charged a hefty tuition fee.
It had been worth it.
Those lessons had been invaluable.
Now was the time to revisit what he had learned from him.
'There has to be another way.'
He couldn't put everything into every thrust.
If he did, it would be his life on the line.
Rem wouldn't fight that way either.
But when sparring with that madman, every swing of Rem's axe carried a crushing weight and palpable intent to kill.
'How can that be?'
The joy of successfully executing a thrust was fleeting.
Enkrid didn't let himself get carried away.
He was happy, of course.
Breaking through the wall with his effort brought great satisfaction.
But he didn't stop there.
Naturally, Enkrid began envisioning tomorrow.
After the thrust succeeded.
The future that had been invisible until then became clear.
He reached for that future's sun and kept moving forward.
"What if I thrust with all my strength but not my entire intent?"
He was drawing closer to the answer.
There was only so much he could figure out by thinking alone.
That was fine.
This moment wasn't all the time he had.
The faceless boatman had said so.
This wasn't the end.
The walls would keep appearing.
'The boatman said it would repeat?'
Then he would bet his life and challenge them again.
Knowing such moments would come again made his heart race.
A strange warmth started from his lower abdomen, spreading through his body.
Now wasn't the time to be pushing himself.
'Rest first.'
His throbbing side told him that he needed several days of complete rest—even his own untrained diagnosis could confirm that.
'But how did I even end up here?'
What usually happened when a soldier was injured?
Regardless of the severity, they'd either receive treatment in their assigned barracks until they passed or—
'If they're lucky, they might have a physician nearby.'
Or, if fortune rained down in heaps, perhaps a priest's prayer could heal them.
Sacred healing, after all, required a combination of luck and strong connections.
It was something only the upper ranks truly had access to.
But Enkrid wasn't any of those cases.
Which meant that someone must have intervened to bring him here.
'No clue who.'
As the occasional burp escaped him, it seemed his digestion had settled.
Enkrid lay down and slept.
He slept deeply.
Eating and resting were the best remedies for injuries, after all.
The next day, when he opened his eyes, they were met with a pair of large, round ones staring back at him.
"Move your face away."
He pushed at Big Eyes' face with his hand, but Big Eyes withdrew before he could touch him.
"I didn't want to wake you since you seemed so sound asleep. Good timing, though."
"Sure."
If he hadn't, it wouldn't have been a surprise if this guy had woken him with a kick instead.
"Come on, who do you think got you in here?"
Big Eyes puffed out his chest as he spoke.
So it had been him.
Of course, there weren't many others among the squad capable of pulling off such a maneuver besides Big Eyes or Jaxen.
"I had to open my purse for this, you know. You owe me."
Not that he'd asked to be brought here.
Still, credit where credit was due.
The medical barracks had better food, were situated in the rear, and best of all, excused him from all duties.
If he weren't here, he'd likely have been hobbling around, clutching his side, trying to manage his squad.
'But will the squad run smoothly without me?'
That was unnecessary worrying.
The weakest member of Squad 444 worrying about the others?
How absurd.
'Ah, wait. The weakest member is this guy.'
Big Eyes was hopeless in combat.
That didn't mean he was talentless.
Somehow, whenever battle broke out, he'd conveniently retreat to the rear as part of some "special unit."
Impressive, really.
And this time, Enkrid had benefitted from those very talents.
"Should I bow my head in gratitude or something?"
"No need for grand gestures. Just don't forget this."
'Why does it matter so much if I remember?'
"Fine."
"Good. Well, I've got things to do. See you around."
Even with his supposed busyness, Big Eyes had found time to visit.
How considerate.
It wasn't just Big Eyes and Rem who had come.
Jaxen, passing by, tossed him a small jar.
"Rub this on your side once a day. Should help with the pain. Just don't mention where you got it."
"Especially not to our squad, right?"
Jaxen shrugged and walked off.
The small green jar looked like it contained crushed herbs.
If it had been made specifically for him, it was a touching gesture.
Of course, it wasn't.
He'd seen this sort of ointment a few times before, though this was his first time using it.
Dipping his fingers in, he spread the salve over his side.
Each movement sent sharp pain shooting through him, but the area soon grew warm, and the pain dulled noticeably.
'This is good.'
Deciding to use it sparingly, he carefully sealed the jar and placed it under his bed.
'But wait—are the medical barracks near ours? Doesn't seem like a casual detour.'
Not that it mattered.
He had the ointment now, and that was enough.
More squad members trickled in throughout the day.
"Sorry, brother squad leader. Wish I could do more for you," said one, sounding like they'd held back on helping him.
"Without you, the squad's a mess. Here, take this."
Another tossed him half an eaten apple before leaving.
The last visitor was clearly just passing by—this guy frequently got lost.
He'd overheard the soldier outside muttering, "The captain's in the medical barracks? Why?"
'Didn't even know I was injured, huh?'
Raising a squad was a thankless job.
'Not that I raised them.'
Every single member, aside from himself, was perfectly capable in both fighting and retreating.
'I should focus on my own problems.'
Even if the squad was in chaos, it couldn't be all that bad.
They'd manage.
They always did.
What mattered more now was—
"You, bastard."
A new visitor.
The unwelcome guest entered around midday.
The medical barracks were spacious, capable of housing over ten patients.
Yet only three currently occupied the space: Enkrid, with his aching side, a platoon leader staring daggers at him, and a blonde man idly twitching his fingers as he stared at the ceiling.
The platoon leader, glaring at him, spoke first.
"Bottom-tier soldier, ex-mercenary, and somehow a squad leader? Do you take turns offering your ass to your men? How'd you land this position?"
This guy.
The platoon leader was familiar—from a neighboring company, this guy seemed to thrive on antagonizing him.
His name was Vengeance.
Whoever had named him must have had a sense of humor.
Why did Vengeance hate him?
No idea.
From their first encounter, he'd been growling like an angry dog.
"And now you're lounging in the medical barracks. You've got it easy, huh?"
'Can't argue with that.'
Enkrid's life was admittedly quite comfortable—except for the fact that Vengeance was here.
"Good to see you, platoon leader."
"Oh, it's 'good' to see me?"
Would "terrible" be better?
Enkrid was an adult.
He knew how to wear a mask.
"Yes, a little."
"A little?"
"Not overly thrilled, to be honest."
"You bastard."
Vengeance's temper flared, though he made no move to attack.
Not that he could.
Word was, he'd taken a deep cut to the thigh in a previous battle and could barely stand.
Which meant—
'Now's the perfect time to mess with him.'
Enkrid was an adult.
He knew how to wear a mask—and how to rile up a foe.