Chapter 21 - Sparring and Reflection
Crash.
A bolt of lightning split the clear sky, followed by the soft patter of raindrops.
"Ugh, this ruins the mood," grumbled Ragna.
"Hmph," Rem replied curtly.
The heated argument between the two fizzled out as they averted their gazes, avoiding further confrontation.
That was the end of their spat.
Together, they sought shelter from the rain, retreating into the barracks.
The sudden downpour was bizarre, especially since the skies had been so clear.
It seemed the weather had taken a turn for the absurd.
Late autumn was no time for unexpected showers, and this kind of rain—void of even a single dark cloud—was a rare sight.
"Rain out of nowhere," Krais muttered, staring at the raindrops falling from the seemingly clear sky.
Enkrid also glanced upward, replaying events that had occurred in his absence.
The idea of a "curse" still lingered, though he dismissed it as mere superstition.
"So, would they say even this rain is part of the curse?"
"Maybe," Krais said with a shrug.
"Over the past three days, one scout tripped and broke his nose, another fractured his arm, and Rotten got bitten by a snake."
All three were part of the reconnaissance team.
The first scout, though agile enough to perform somersaults, probably shouldn't have tried such stunts in full armor—it was a miracle his broken nose was the extent of the damage.
The second, Jack, had a foul mouth and an overconfidence in his spear skills.
His broken arm came from a sparring match, and Enkrid was willing to bet his opponent had deliberately targeted it.
Finally, Rotten, despite being in the reconnaissance unit, lacked a cautious nature.
It wasn't snake season, but there were areas of the plains where the creatures were prevalent.
In short, all these incidents were explainable.
"And let's not forget the guy who burned himself on a pot."
Krais's tone was one of amusement rather than concern.
If he truly believed in the curse, he wouldn't be speaking so lightheartedly.
To him, it was just idle chatter.
"Oh, and the medic tent caught fire. Weren't you there, squad leader? Hear anything about it?"
The medic tent fire—was that being attributed to the curse too?
"Yeah, I saw it burn," Enkrid replied nonchalantly.
Krais whipped his head around. "You actually saw it? Did the fire just suddenly flare up? I heard rumors about an infiltrator."
'No,' Enkrid thought. 'I set it on fire.'
The infiltrator theory held some truth, as there had been a raid.
But whether the raiders were truly enemies remained unclear.
Krang's identity was still a mystery, though Enkrid suspected he was at least a noble's illegitimate child.
If so, the attackers might not have been enemy soldiers but allies in disguise.
As for curses?
There was no point discussing nonsense.
The leadership would soon crack down on such rumors—no commander would tolerate them spreading within their ranks.
"Hey, squad leader! Did you see anything or not?"
Krais pressed him for an answer.
Enkrid met his wide-eyed gaze, deliberating.
Krais was too much of a blabbermouth to hear the truth.
Even if he weren't, there was no reason to explain.
Enkrid had already decided to keep quiet.
"All I saw was the tent burning," he finally said.
"Huh?"
"Didn't you know?"
"Not at all! So, no enemy attack? It really just caught fire out of nowhere?"
"A sentry fell asleep, a gust of wind toppled the torch stand, and the oil barrels nearby caught fire. From there, the flames spread to the tent."
Enkrid mimed a spark igniting and flames spreading with his hand.
"Nothing special, then."
"And you're not worried that I almost died in the blaze?"
"Well, you're standing here, aren't you?"
'Is that supposed to be reassuring?' Enkrid wondered.
"So, if you're alive and well, does that make you a ghost, squad leader?"
Rem chimed in from behind, laughing.
'Does he think that's a joke?' Enkrid thought as he turned toward him.
"'And so the Lord says, let the restless spirits rest,'" recited one of the more devout squad members, as if performing an exorcism.
If Enkrid had actually been a ghost, he imagined those words would be rather unpleasant.
"Only my hair got a little singed," he muttered.
The scorched ends of his bangs had been hastily trimmed with a knife, leaving his hair looking noticeably uneven.
"With black hair, it's not even noticeable," Rem teased with a grin.
"And what about your ash-colored mop? Is that just a pile of cinders?"
"Ah, you got me! My hair's just a pile of ash."
Was this genuinely amusing to him?
Even though no one else was laughing, Rem continued to crack jokes.
Soon, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
The idle chatter ended there.
Krais left to tend to some business, and Enkrid lay down to nap, lulled by the soft drip of water from the edge of the tent.
It was a sweet, restful sleep.
When he awoke, the headache that had plagued him earlier was gone, and his fatigue had dissipated.
Enkrid stretched, twisting his waist from side to side. The pain in his ribs was completely gone.
He felt refreshed and invigorated.
The barracks were empty.
From outside, he could hear footsteps and muffled voices of soldiers grumbling about the erratic weather.
"What's with the rain starting and stopping like that?"
Enkrid pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out.
Most of the squad was scattered around, taking advantage of their personal time.
Not seeing Jaxen or Krais was no surprise, but the others were nearby.
Spotting Rem scribbling something on the damp ground, Enkrid approached him.
"Looks like you're free."
"Does it?" Rem replied without looking up.
"You're right. I'm so bored I was just debating whose skull to crack next."
Rem's talent for picking fights with squadmates was one of his specialties.
His hobby involved provoking someone until they snapped, then beating them senseless.
Since Enkrid had joined, this behavior had become less frequent, but Rem hadn't abandoned it entirely.
"Then spar with me," Enkrid suggested.
"Sparring?"
"Yeah. A match."
Rem shrugged and nodded.
This wasn't anything new.
Enkrid's sparring requests were a regular occurrence.
"Fine by me."
The two headed to the clearing behind the barracks.
Thanks to the strange weather, no one else was around, and even if they were, no one would care.
Enkrid stood ten paces away from Rem.
Rem grinned, rolling his wrists.
The sunlight glinted off his axe blade, freshly sharpened and ready for use.
Though the rain had stopped, the air was thick with humidity and carried the earthy scent of wet soil.
The ground was soft but not muddy, offering decent footing.
The sunlight, partially obscured by clouds, wasn't blinding.
"A perfect day for a fight," Rem remarked.
"Is it?" Enkrid replied as he awakened the Heart of the Beast.
He refused to let time go to waste, striving to make every day count.
Physical training, sharpening his senses, and honing his mind were all part of his regimen.
'Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship won't work here.'
After countless bouts with Rem, he'd learned that thrusting attacks were ineffective against him.
The question was, what approach would work?
Considering his weapon, the pressure Rem exuded, and his own experiences, Enkrid calculated his strategy.
How could he land an effective strike?
Now was the time to test the answer he'd reached after much deliberation.
With a soft scrape, Rem stepped forward, planting his foot confidently.
There was no hesitation in his movement, only bold assurance.
"So, I have to make the first move?"
Enkrid didn't reply.
Instead, he focused on Rem's breathing, stealing his rhythm.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Rem's breaths were long and steady.
The moment Rem exhaled, Enkrid closed the distance in an instant.
Enkrid propelled himself forward with a powerful push from his hind legs.
As the distance between them closed—
Whoosh!
The sword in his grasp slashed horizontally through the air.
Rem leaned back, arching his waist as if lying down, narrowly avoiding the strike.
It was a feat only possible due to his precise anticipation of the sword's trajectory.
Even while half-reclined, Rem's gaze never wavered from Enkrid.
Enkrid, noticing this, reflexively pulled his sword back to guard himself.
Whoosh!
Clang!
A flying axe struck his blade.
The impact wasn't overwhelming.
No matter how strong Rem was, an axe thrown from a reclining position couldn't carry much force.
Still in that position—
Whoosh, whoosh!
The axes kept flying.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Enkrid gripped his sword tightly with both hands, blocking each strike.
He tried to find a moment to regroup and launch a counterattack, but Rem didn't give him the chance.
Enkrid felt as if he were standing beneath a relentless guillotine.
The torrent of axe attacks only stopped when Rem fully rose to his feet.
Though there was a brief pause, Enkrid neither retreated nor adjusted his stance.
As Rem straightened his back, he pulled his arm backward.
Instead of stepping back and steadying his breath—
Thrust!
Enkrid lunged forward, delivering a thrust he had practiced countless times.
It was a precise extension of his blade from his current stance, determined to land the strike.
Everything happened in an instant.
The blade shot forward, aiming for Rem's midsection.
But as it neared, Enkrid's vision suddenly caught a mix of blue sky and an inverted image of Rem's face.
"What?"
Rem's upside-down face filled his vision.
Whoosh!
In the moment of the thrust, Rem had kicked Enkrid's ankle.
The instantaneous move threw off the blade's aim, causing it to slice through empty air.
Instead of swinging his axe, Rem released it entirely, grabbing Enkrid by the collar and hurling him to the side.
"Urgh!"
Rolling to the ground, Enkrid quickly pieced together what had happened.
It had been a trick.
Rem had only pretended to prepare for another axe swing, using that moment to his advantage.
"Phew…"
Sprawled on the ground, Enkrid shook his head in disbelief.
The sheer strength was overwhelming.
Enkrid prided himself on his strength, believing few could match him. Yet, Rem had thrown him with one hand as if he weighed nothing.
Sure, he wasn't wearing armor, making him relatively light, but this was still a show of monstrous strength.
Looking up from his seated position, Enkrid saw Rem's face.
His expression was unusual.
Normally, Rem smiled throughout their sparring sessions.
But not this time.
His lips were set straight, and his face was calm.
He wasn't smiling.
"Hey, what've you been eating behind my back?" Rem asked with a serious expression.
Thinking about it, the reaction was natural.
Rem likely had no memory of assisting him with thrust training.
After all, during that first session, Enkrid had only been assigned to kitchen duty.
"I thought it before, but your skills have grown quite a bit. That thrust—pretty good. Not bad at all."
"Really?"
"Yes. I don't flatter."
"Sure you don't."
Enkrid dismissed it as a joke, coming from someone who was always spouting nonsense.
"I'm serious."
"Got it. Let's review, then."
"...You really never change, do you? How is it that you're always so consistent?"
Post-sparring reviews were a routine for Enkrid.
No matter how little there was to gain, he would doggedly analyze the session, determined to learn something.
While most opponents often had little feedback to offer, that wasn't the case today.
Things had changed.
Today's spar had left Rem with plenty to say, a testament to how much Enkrid had improved.
"For starters, waiting for my axe was too obvious. Even if I don't fall for it, you should at least try to deceive me."
Rem started to speak, and Enkrid nodded attentively, as always.
Rem chuckled at the sight of Enkrid's focused demeanor.
He always began with the main points, leaving minor details for later—a style Enkrid deeply respected.
Enkrid listened intently to every word.
For three days, there were no battles. During that time, Enkrid sparred with Rem three more times.
"You should work on your lower body. Something about your balance feels off," Rem remarked.
Though he often made offhanded remarks, Rem had a sharp eye for identifying core issues.
Enkrid took those words to heart and reflected on them deeply.
Afterward, he threw himself into even more rigorous training.
While others rested during their free time, Enkrid trained.
During personal maintenance hours, soldiers often engaged in their own activities—writing letters or focusing on rest.
But apart from eating and sleeping, Enkrid devoted everything to honing his skills.
To an observer, his lifestyle might seem extreme.
To Enkrid, however, it was a state of peace.
The gradual improvement he felt each day brought unparalleled satisfaction.
Even the increased strain on his body from the training didn't faze him.
"What a relentless guy. Back at it as soon as he's out of the infirmary," someone remarked.
"He seemed quiet lately, but now he's back at it again."
"If I trained like that, I'd be a knight by now."
"Hah! What nonsense."
Amid his grueling exercises, Enkrid focused his hearing to distract from the pain in his muscles.
When his body screamed in agony, concentrating on external sounds made the suffering fade.
Nearby, he overheard the idle chatter of two soldiers from another squad.
Though they were part of the same platoon, the distance between them felt significant.
Pushing his hearing further, Enkrid strained to pick up more distant sounds.
The rustling of fabric behind him hinted at movement, and he tried to guess what action it corresponded to.
Listening to footsteps, he attempted to identify who they belonged to.
He guessed wrong half the time, but he could recognize familiar steps.
Light, swift, yet with an oddly lively rhythm against the dirt—
"Big Eyes."
He was right.
"Still training? You're insane," Krais said, approaching.
Enkrid ignored him.
As he repeated a squat motion, his legs began to tremble.
Sweat trickled from his scalp, pooling at the tips of his eyebrows.
The erratic weather had finally cleared, returning to its usual dry, arid state.
On such a day, sweating profusely might seem odd.
Especially in a battlefield, where a fight could break out at any moment, such rigorous training seemed out of place.
But for those around him, this was simply Enkrid's way.
"Doesn't that exhaust you? How do you keep it up every day?" Krais asked, sitting nearby and chewing on a piece of jerky.
A droplet of sweat slid down Enkrid's brow, falling to the ground.
A dull ache radiated from his thighs, his muscles trembling violently as nausea crept in.
He had reached his limit.
Finally, Enkrid collapsed, drenched in sweat.
As he sat there with his eyes closed, the cool breeze brushed against his damp forehead and ears.
Another day's training was complete.
As he basked in the wind, enjoying the moment—
Thud, thud.
Heavy footsteps approached from behind and came to a stop.
"You're as relentless as ever."
Tilting his head back, Enkrid looked up at the source of the voice.
A shadow stretched over his face, blocking the sunlight.
Though the man's face was obscured by the backlight, his rugged beard was unmistakable.
"Got a moment to talk?"
It was the leader of the 4th Squad.