Chapter 36 - Mist of Massacre
Ragna was taken aback but quickly stopped overthinking.
'He's always been an odd guy, anyway.'
In his eyes, Enkrid wasn't exactly normal to begin with.
"So, from now on?" Enkrid asked.
"Let's do it," Ragna replied.
Under the clear sky, the two began anew, starting not with swords but by selecting the right weapons.
"With your strength, there's no reason to stick to a light weapon. A heavier longsword would suit you better. Let's swap," Ragna said, handing over the sword hanging at his waist.
Enkrid found this unexpectedly generous.
Would anyone normally give away a weapon they were accustomed to?
"I haven't used it enough to get attached," Ragna added.
It wasn't a great sword, as Enkrid discovered upon receiving it.
His previous weapon seemed better, but he accepted it nonetheless.
After all, it was Ragna teaching him now, and he decided to follow his advice.
"Alright."
From an arming sword to a longsword—it had a longer grip for two-handed use, an extended blade by a hand's breadth, and greater weight.
Though not crafted from the finest materials, the sword's balance and finish were respectable.
"Place your right hand forward, left hand back," Ragna instructed.
After switching weapons, Enkrid learned anew how to grip and handle it.
He became deeply engrossed in the process, and so did Ragna.
Teaching someone like Enkrid was stimulating in itself.
The two spent hours immersed in their training, losing track of time until well past midday.
It wasn't until Rem appeared that they noticed their missed meal.
"Skipping lunch for playtime? What are you guys doing?"
Only then did Enkrid realize how long they had been training.
"Now that you mention it, I am hungry," Ragna muttered.
"Hey, did you mess with our captain, you punk?" Rem asked.
"Shut up, you barbarian."
"Why don't you shut up, you lazy bastard?"
They bickered as usual while Enkrid, drenched in sweat, let his sword hang low.
He was exhausted.
While he'd resolved to start fresh, it wasn't something that could be achieved overnight.
'Not enough.'
Time was his biggest obstacle.
Originally, he had planned to focus on refining techniques to improve over time.
However, today's training revealed the opposite.
"Basic skills are lacking."
It was something he hadn't anticipated.
Moreover, having an expert like Ragna guide him made a profound difference compared to practicing alone.
"Why is your stance like that?"
"You're losing grip strength."
"Are you trying to stab or slash?"
"What's your intent right now?"
"You're hopeless. Let's start with learning to walk properly."
The downpour of criticism was relentless, yet each comment became a valuable asset.
Pausing his bickering with Rem, Ragna suddenly asked Enkrid, "Don't you have any ambition to flaunt your sword skills?"
Ragna remembered why he first picked up a sword as a child.
Surely, Enkrid also harbored pride, competitiveness, and desire.
After all, his daydreams included standing as a lady's protector and receiving her favor—a handkerchief, perhaps.
Of course, he wanted recognition.
It was human nature.
"Plenty. I want to show off, big time," Enkrid admitted.
He yearned for cheers and dreamed of becoming a bard's hero.
Naturally, such desires were part of him.
Ragna nodded, sensing the honesty in his words.
"What are you rambling about? Anyway, get ready. Orders have come in. The enemy's been spotted."
Once again, it was time for battle.
Enkrid nodded as Ragna glanced at him, feeling a pang of regret.
'Can he survive today?'
With an unfamiliar weapon and inadequate fundamentals, Enkrid was bound to be in danger.
Ragna believed the man lacked natural talent.
Mastery wouldn't come in a day.
For a moment, Ragna blamed himself.
'Am I sending him to his death?'
He sighed with a mix of regret and determination.
'I'll stay close.'
For today, he resolved to protect him as much as possible.
"The enemy!"
Before they could even fortify their makeshift defenses, enemy infantry emerged from the tall grass and fields ahead, advancing rapidly.
Their march was unusually swift, and their formations stood out. Groups of soldiers carried tall banners, and their flags flapped in the strong winds suddenly blowing from the enemy's direction.
Squinting through the gusts, Enkrid sensed something ominous.
His instincts, honed for survival over the years, screamed that this battlefield wouldn't be easy.
That intuition proved correct in moments.
"What the hell?"
Vengeance, a platoon leader muttered in disbelief.
Now, thick fog began rolling in between the Vengeance and Enkrid, spreading across the battlefield.
***
"We've been ambushed!"
Even before her lieutenant reported it, the fairy company commander had already sensed it.
The battlefield itself seemed to warn her through her heightened fairy instincts.
'Magic? Sorcery?'
Thick mist enveloped the battlefield, clearly unnatural.
As a creature attuned to nature, the commander could feel its artificial origin.
The mist grew denser until visibility dropped to zero.
"Commander!"
Hearing the panic in her lieutenant's voice, the commander realized an unsettling truth.
'No one's prepared for this.'
The sudden blindness must have thrown everyone into chaos.
It wasn't just her unit; the entire army would be affected
. If this mist was a deliberate strategy, it wouldn't stop here.
Her fears materialized swiftly.
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
Bolts and arrows rained down, invisible in the fog—a deadly surprise from unseen attackers.
Soldiers fell as quarrels struck them.
Even the lieutenant collapsed with an arrow to the head.
The commander leapt back, narrowly avoiding the same fate.
Two arrows deflected off her blade as she retreated, pulling a fallen soldier's body in front of her for cover.
Without such measures, she would become a blind target.
Mist and arrows.
'A well-prepared strategy.'
They had been utterly outmaneuvered.
***
"Got them!"
The commander of the Aspen Principality's forces felt exhilaration swell in his chest.
Soon, he would decorate this battlefield with the name of victory.
The resources expended to reach this moment were no small matter.
Failure was not an option.
As the mist thickened, the commander shouted, "Fire!"
The command, tinged with joy and excitement, rang out, and the prepared arrows and quarrels rained down upon the enemy.
What Aspen had prepared was a sorcery.
A spell known as the "Mist of Massacre," capable of blinding their foes.
At the commander's cry, the sorcerer grinned with satisfaction.
The spell had worked.
It was a sorcery created using the blood of one hundred newborn lambs, calves, and foals, as well as water untouched by human hands from a pristine lake.
The materials used were anything but ordinary.
Much had been sacrificed for this sorcery, though the commander wasn't aware of it.
Regardless, the sorcerer had devoted himself entirely to the task.
The terrain, the weather—all those rituals to summon rain had been for this moment.
The wet ground was crucial for the spell's activation.
The blood-soaked banner and pole served as the spell's medium.
The soldiers protected by the pole were unaffected by the mist—this was the crux of the sorcerer's efforts.
But to dismiss this as mere trickery would be wrong.
Though the enemy could not see, Aspen's troops could.
Even an imbecile would understand how decisive this advantage was in a large-scale battlefield.
The sorcerer cared little for the outcome of the battle or its stakes.
He was content with the spell's success.
"Happy, are you?"
The platoon leader guarding the pole asked.
He was the same skilled swordsman who had cornered Enkrid before.
"Of course. It was nearly a failure," the sorcerer replied, recalling the enemy's prior night raid.
The spell's preparations had almost been undone by the attack.
Thinking about it still made him shudder.
The platoon leader, listening to the sorcerer, thought of the bastard who had led the raid.
"That bastard."
As a member of the Grey Hounds and a relentless romanticist, he wanted to kill that man with his own hands.
Somewhere in the enemy ranks, that man was undoubtedly lurking.
The Aspen platoon leader hadn't forgotten his face, illuminated by torchlight—a fair and delicate visage.
He longed to meet him again.
***
As the thick mist rolled in, a damp smell filled the air.
At the same time, visibility vanished.
Vengeance, visible moments ago, was gone.
Not just him—Ragna, who had been right beside him, had vanished as well.
"Sorcery!"
Someone shouted.
No, it was Rem's voice, laced with frustration.
"Which damned bastard?"
Sorcery?
What Sorcery?
Enkrid ducked instinctively as the thought crossed his mind.
Arrows and quarrels rained down from above.
"Stay low. Do not lift your head," a voice beside him said. It was Ragna.
Thud! Thump!
The sound of impacts echoed overhead.
The ominous feeling became a reality.
Still crouched, Enkrid pondered.
"Sorcery, huh?"
Why would there be a sorcerer here?
Even among the indigenous tribes of the western frontier, sorcerers were exceedingly rare.
Why here, of all places?
But questioning it was meaningless now.
Enkrid dismissed the thought.
Suddenly, a spear tip lunged toward him out of the mist.
Thump.
The Beast's Heart reacted.
Boldness surged within him.
Without it, his body would have frozen, and he would have died.
Enkrid twisted left reflexively and swung his sword upward.
Clang!
The oil-soaked spear shaft resisted the crude slash.
The spear deflected away.
The tip had emerged from the mist without warning.
Enkrid gauged the spear's origin and attempted to advance.
But another spear shot toward him.
Clang!
He barely deflected this one as well.
He realized his stance was off and his weight poorly distributed.
The only thing he had done right was gripping his sword tightly.
Everything Ragna had scolded him about during training seemed forgotten.
"How troublesome," he thought.
He had never expected to master it all after one lesson.
What now?
"Back," Ragna instructed.
Enkrid moved in the opposite direction.
Thanks to Jaxen, his hearing had sharpened.
Though he couldn't see, he could hear.
"Argh!"
"Ugh!"
"Kill them!"
"Dammit!"
Amid the screams and curses echoing around him, Enkrid dashed forward.
"…Squad Leader!"
Ragna's startled shout came from behind.
And then—
Squish!
A spear pierced through his neck.
"Dead on," he thought.
Better a clean death than a crude wound.
A wave of excruciating pain spread from his neck to his entire body.
Darkness began to descend over his vision.
"Crazy bastard," the soldier who had stabbed him muttered, startled by Enkrid's sudden charge.
"Die already."
The soldier kicked Enkrid, pulling the spear out.
The second wave of pain was even worse.
Enkrid felt death closing in.
A few more breaths, and darkness would consume him.
And he welcomed it.
What were agony and the fear of death when compared to this?
"It's enough," he thought.
Today had begun with learning the basics from Ragna.
And he had loved every moment of it.
"Heh."
Bleeding profusely, Enkrid laughed.
The enemy soldier shivered at the sight.
Truly, this man was insane.
The darkness came.
When he opened his eyes again, a new day had begun.
"Why go that far?"
Ragna asked.
This time, Enkrid scratched his head before answering.
"Because I want to wield a sword well."
It wasn't the original answer, but the destination was the same.
"Do you want to learn the sword?"
Of course.
Ragna offered again, and Enkrid accepted.
The second day of learning the basics began.
And then, they stood on the battlefield.
The mist spread once more.
"What the hell?"
Rem cursed again.
This time, Enkrid deflected spear shafts three times before letting the tip pierce his neck again.
Unluckily, it grazed him.
His neck bled, dripping onto the ground.
"Damn it."
The thought of bleeding out felt unbearable.
Before he could dwell on it, another enemy soldier thrust his spear.
He was grateful.
Thud.
And he died again.
Thus began the third dawn.