Chapter 27 - Why Is He Considered Lowest-Ranked Soldier?
The name of the reconnaissance squad leader was Andrew.
His full name was Andrew Gardener.
Once a baron, he was now the sole heir of a fallen family.
Andrew had one dream: to restore the Gardener family during his lifetime.
"Andrew, you are our hope."
Those were his mother's last words, uttered as she succumbed to illness, and they remained vividly etched in his mind.
His mother had worked tirelessly, sewing for wages and serving as a maid in others' homes.
Every penny she earned was spent on Andrew—on his swordsmanship lessons, food, and clothing.
While his upbringing wasn't affluent, it wasn't lacking either.
Eventually, the strain of work took its toll, and she fell ill and passed away.
Her wish was just as clear as her words:
"Continue the family line and become an honorable person."
Andrew resolved to honor her wish.
To restore his family's glory, he had only one viable path.
It was, after all, an era of war.
Fighting and proving his skills on the battlefield was the key.
At a crucial time, when he needed training and connections, help arrived.
Before her death, Andrew's mother had reached out to a man who had once been like a sworn brother to her late husband.
"You have potential," the man had remarked.
Thus began Andrew's grueling training, followed by his enlistment in the army.
He started as a career soldier and, at a young age, rose to the rank of squad leader.
"I need achievements," he thought constantly.
Andrew was confident in his abilities, bolstered by the experience of killing several enemy soldiers in combat.
"Always be cautious."
His advisor and supporter frequently nagged him to the point of irritation.
But Andrew didn't dismiss the advice lightly.
"Staying alive is crucial too."
After all, he needed to survive to restore his family.
Yet he couldn't give up on living a daring life either.
Those who abandoned challenges were destined for failure—his father was a prime example.
His father, lacking talent, had spent his days swinging a sword but achieved nothing.
Eventually, he gave up on restoring the family's glory and squandered their remaining wealth.
He was stabbed to death in a brawl with a gambler.
"A life without a future is bleak," Andrew thought.
Thus, while dreaming of his family's revival, he also valued his own life.
That didn't mean there weren't annoyances along the way.
Among them was the troublesmakers squad leader who had caught Andrew's eye.
Andrew had earned his position through skill and relentless effort toward his noble goal.
But what about that man?
A soldier with the lowest level of skill, a payroll thief who had somehow landed in the squad leader's seat through sheer luck.
Could such a person even be considered fit for a career in the military?
Andrew saw shades of his father in the man's behavior.
"He'll probably just coast through life collecting his pay until he dies," Andrew thought.
Pretending to train by swinging a sword aimlessly was laughable enough.
And carrying a sword and scabbard to hone his skills as a mere foot soldier was even more absurd.
Of course, if Andrew had known Enkrid better, he wouldn't have thought so.
Now, the troublemaker squad leader was staring directly at Andrew.
Their eyes met.
An unpleasant tension flowed between them, culminating in Andrew narrowing his brows.
"What's with those eyes?" he thought.
As he prepared to speak, the troublesome squad leader beat him to it.
"Your glare is annoying," the man said.
Huh?
Was he talking to Andrew?
Andrew's brows furrowed even more, his expression darkening in response.
One of the soldiers accompanying Andrew stepped forward.
"What did you just say?"
The soldier had a scar on his forehead, a relic of his time as a brawler.
Andrew had once said to him:
"Follow me. I'll give you a better life than being a thug."
Since then, the man had become one of Andrew's loyal subordinates.
Though his skills were still rough, and some of his thuggish habits lingered, he was a decent fighter.
Andrew had brought three such men into his fold.
Now, those three quietly rose to surround the troublemakers squad leader.
***
Enkrid had reached a conclusion after reliving the same day multiple times.
"This won't work as a squad member."
To ensure his comrades followed his orders and moved as one, he needed to earn their trust.
How could he do that?
How did knights inspire loyalty the moment they stepped onto the battlefield?
The answer was simple: skill.
They commanded respect through their abilities.
So, what did he need to make his squad of ten move as a single unit?
What was required to earn their trust?
He couldn't forge personal connections or camaraderie in just one day.
The only option left was overwhelming force.
"Seems like your mouth is the problem. Want me to carve a pretty tattoo on it?"
The scarred soldier sneered, his eyes gleaming with menace—a face that had likely intimidated a few people in the past.
"Your lines never change," Enkrid thought, glancing at the positions of the three men.
For them, this might be a first, but for Enkrid, it was a scenario he had repeated multiple times.
Why the repetition?
The reason was straightforward.
Force and intimidation were most effective when they were overwhelming.
To achieve that, experience was essential.
Setting aside his Valah mercenary blade style, he had to rely solely on his raw skills.
The first hurdle to overcoming the repetitive cycle of today was subduing the three thuggish soldiers.
"Cat got your tongue?" the scarred soldier jeered.
Enkrid decided words were unnecessary.
So he took action.
He stepped forward silently.
The men reacted, flinching as one reached for his short sword.
Enkrid's left foot moved slowly at first, giving them just enough time to wonder what he was doing.
By the time they started questioning his actions, it was too late.
His right foot hit the ground with explosive force.
Mixing slow movements with fast ones naturally made the actions seem quicker.
It was a simple trick and a tactic to secure the initiative.
And it was incredibly, no, overwhelmingly effective.
"Ugh!"
The scarred soldier attempted to thrust his fist, holding his breath.
But Enkrid was faster, delivering a sharp kick to the soldier's shin.
Thud!
As the shin was swept aside, the soldier's stance crumbled.
Enkrid immediately followed up, striking the opponent's temple with his reinforced glove.
It was a clean, decisive swing.
Crack!
"Ugh!"
With a short cry, the soldier staggered and fell to the side.
Enkrid's movements flowed seamlessly afterward.
He turned to avoid an incoming shortsword aimed at an exposed spot.
As though choreographed, he grabbed the wrist of the soldier wielding the weapon and twisted it.
The key was to apply just enough pressure without causing serious injury.
Snap.
Crack.
Twisting the wrist and striking at an angle under the soldier's chin rendered the second opponent unconscious.
He caught the falling soldier, carefully laying him on the ground.
Then, as he stood, Enkrid picked up the dropped shortsword and, without a change in his breathing, asked:
"Anyone else?"
The last remaining soldier among those who stepped forward was drenched in cold sweat.
It was their side that had drawn weapons first.
Even if Enkrid struck now, no one could argue against it.
"What's the meaning of this?"
The reconnaissance squad leader, who had been silently watching, finally intervened.
"I didn't like you from the start. A brat barely out of diapers pretending to lead."
Enkrid ignored the frightened soldier, turning to face the squad leader.
If it didn't warrant anger, he could usually let things slide.
He rarely assigned much weight to others' words or actions.
That was how it had been until now.
But if anger was justified?
Then he had no reason to hold back.
"I just don't want to end up wiped out on a pointless recon mission under a leader like you. Let's settle this with skill."
Defying a superior was a serious offense.
However, the situation was unusual.
Enkrid was, in fact, a squad leader by rank.
Had the opponent respected that, things might have been different.
Instead, they outright dismissed him, letting their displeasure show.
No one could fault Enkrid for not tolerating it.
Even the higher-ups wouldn't care who led the recon squad between the two.
Hadn't the platoon leader departed with a simple "Take care of the young squad leader"?
Now was the time.
Not just watching his back, but stepping forward to take charge.
"…So, whoever wins the fight takes command of the squad?"
The recon squad leader frowned and asked.
"That's right. I have no intention of working under someone weaker than me."
In truth, except for Krais, most of the troublemakers in the squad were stronger fighters than Enkrid.
But excuses were just that—excuses.
It was better if the opponent took the bait and lashed out.
"Come at me, you wet-behind-the-ears brat. Have you even been with a woman? Or is your boyhood still incomplete?"
Andrew's expression hardened.
He had yet to experience his first time.
He had spent that time training his body instead.
The remark felt like an insult to his dedication, his efforts, and everything he'd done to reach this point.
Clang.
The squad leader drew his shortsword.
"Feel free to draw your weapon. Length doesn't equal skill."
"Well…"
A gruff soldier nearby initially tried to intervene, but then shook his head and sighed, stepping back.
He had worked as a mercenary for quite some time.
Situations like this weren't uncommon.
There had been friction from the start.
It might be better to resolve it now.
Lingering resentment would only cause more problems.
Besides, he knew Andrew well.
He had even taught the young man swordsmanship.
Though still a rookie in some ways, Andrew knew how to handle a blade and had a straightforward, grounded nature.
Above all, he could distinguish right from wrong.
"This won't be easy," the soldier thought.
If it came to it, he would step in.
One thing stood out: the so-called troublemaker squad leader didn't seem ordinary.
His stance, foot placement, and the thick, calloused hands told a story.
They were marks of hard-earned experience, not something gained overnight.
"Fine. I'll fight barehanded."
"This bastard?"
Enkrid's opponent was incensed.
That was his weakness—letting emotions take control too easily.
The gruff soldier made a mental note to address it later.
For now, he decided to watch calmly.
This wouldn't be a quick fight.
Neither of them was exceptional, but neither were they sloppy.
Still, he secretly bet on Andrew.
Though emotional, Andrew had a solid foundation and natural talent.
The troublemaker squad leader gestured for Andrew to attack.
Enkrid rushed in.
And then—
Crack!
"…One hit?"
What was that?
The gruff soldier's eyes widened in disbelief.
As Andrew charged, Enkrid made a faint motion with his left hand.
Sensing it, Andrew slashed with his shortsword.
But the opponent read the sword's trajectory perfectly, striking the blade flat with the leather gauntlet on his left hand.
In that instant, Andrew's chest was exposed.
The squad leader stepped into the opening and moved with explosive precision in the tight space.
Smack!
Using the ground to pivot, he twisted his body and drove his elbow into Andrew's solar plexus with pinpoint accuracy.
It was over in one blow.
"Urgh…"
Andrew let out a strangled groan.
His legs buckled, his breath caught in his throat, and his limbs went limp.
That was the nature of a vital strike.
With a choking sound, Andrew curled over, his back arching like a shrimp.
In a real battle, he'd have been dead.
"What… kind of strength…"
The gruff soldier could only gape in astonishment.
The force had penetrated through thick fabric armor.
The troublemakers squad leader's skills surpassed those of most mercenaries.
And yet, a question lingered.
"Why is someone like this ranked as a mere low-tier soldier?"