Chapter 38 - The Flag Flutters and Soldiers Dance with Swords (1)
"Do You really have to learn swordsmanship?"
Ragna had once asked this.
His tone was sharp, dripping with sarcasm.
It was his way of saying his body wasn't up to the task, and he was right.
Enkrid wasn't born with talent.
His body was clumsy, and he survived on sheer determination and effort.
Even so, he had spent countless hours learning swordsmanship, meeting numerous instructors, and pondering techniques on his own.
This had made his thinking flexible and his adaptability exceptional.
While learning something new was challenging, once he grasped it and entered real combat, the story changed. In truth, he did possess a kind of innate talent.
Flexibility and adaptability—those were Enkrid's strengths.
'Just use whatever works, however it works, whenever it's needed.'
By the standards of the Naurilia Kingdom, his skills were at best intermediate or slightly above.
In the mercenary world, he was also at an intermediate level.
Wherever he went, his abilities would be considered average.
]That was the current state of Enkrid's skills.
But his prowess in real combat was exceptional, independent of his skill level.
Having lived a life constrained by limited talent, Enkrid had learned to make the most of what he had.
A soldier's spearhead came flying toward him.
His sharpened ears caught the faint sound of the air being pierced.
Though his sight wasn't perfectly precise, he discerned the direction.
He mentally mapped out the opponent's movement.
'A step to the side.'
Enkrid moved his feet.
The Heart of the Beast lent him boldness.
With his left heel pressing down and his right foot retreating, he spun his body.
The spearhead zipped past him with a sharp whistle, missing him by a hair.
Even as spearheads emerged suddenly from the mist, Enkrid didn't falter.
There was no need.
He had already dodged that exact attack hundreds of times.
By now, he'd evaded that first thrust more than two hundred times in practice.
Instead of drawing his sword, Enkrid grabbed the middle of the spear shaft and yanked it toward him.
The enemy soldier, caught off guard, gasped in surprise.
"Huh?"
As the soldier's head emerged from the mist, Enkrid seized it and twisted.
Crack.
The soldier's neck snapped.
A broken neck meant certain death.
The lifeless soldier crumpled to the ground, and Enkrid picked up his spear.
He envisioned the enemy formation in his mind, recalling their positions before the mist had spread.
They were all clustered together.
'No matter where I throw this, it'll hit someone.'
With a firm stomp of his left foot, he hurled the spear with all his might.
The spear sliced through the air and struck something with a dull thud.
"Gah!"
A death rattle echoed.
"What was that?"
"Damn it!"
The shouts of the startled enemy soldiers followed.
Listening closely, Enkrid crouched low and charged forward.
Even if the enemy had the ability to see through the mist, spotting someone darting low to the ground would be difficult.
Thud, thud, thud!
Quarrels and arrows whizzed overhead.
"Ah!"
"Urgh!"
"Damn it, arrows!"
From behind, the cries and curses of his allies rang out.
His hair should have stood on end, but it didn't.
This was familiar territory.
The real problem was the lack of tension.
Enkrid closed the distance and drew his longsword.
Using his hearing, he judged the distance precisely.
Schring!
With his sword in both hands, he swung it, altering the horizontal slash into a downward one.
The original move was designed to block an opponent's blade and counterattack.
But Enkrid, as always, adapted it to suit his needs.
The stance was similar, but he shifted his grip to a thumb-up position, holding the blade at head level parallel to the ground.
This turned what was meant to be an upper-body horizontal slash into a low, horizontal sweep.
Though the stance was unconventional, and the power of the swing was diminished, the unexpected strike caught the enemy off guard.
Swish!
Thud! Thwack!
The blade met resistance.
"Agh!"
"What's happening?"
"It's the ground!"
So they noticed quickly.
Breaking through the mist, Enkrid leaped upward, finally catching sight of the enemy soldiers.
Though his field of vision was limited to the reach of his blade, even that was enough.
He could see the enemy, their weapons, and his own sword.
The situation had shifted.
Three soldiers with bleeding shins limped, their legs slashed.
All three were armed with crossbows.
One gritted his teeth and raised his crossbow.
Enkrid sidestepped diagonally forward with his left foot, his right following in quick succession.
Thwip!
The quarrel pierced the air where he had been.
Enkrid didn't stop at dodging.
He brought his longsword down in a heavy overhand strike.
The crossbowman instinctively drew a shortsword, crossing it with the longsword to block.
But Enkrid pressed down with brute strength.
Clang!
The shortsword gave way, its tip denting the soldier's leather helmet and crushing his skull beneath.
It wasn't a clean cut but a brutal smash.
Crunch.
Foaming blood spurted from the shattered head as the soldier toppled backward.
Red curtains of blood streamed down his face through the dented helmet.
"Urgh…"
The mortally wounded soldier slumped, his eyes glazing over.
Enkrid recovered his blade and sidestepped, moving just as another soldier's spear hurtled toward where he had stood.
The spear grazed his left side, tearing his cloth armor slightly—that was all.
Dodging, he swung his sword, slowly rather than quickly.
The spearman reflexively drew back, attempting to block with the shaft.
Clunk.
Blade met shaft.
The sword slid down the spear's length as Enkrid advanced.
With a binding motion, he followed up with a slash.
Scrape, scrape, scrape!
The sound of the spear shaft being carved echoed.
Thud!
The blade pierced the soldier's chest, shredding flesh and shattering bone.
Enkrid withdrew the blade, and blood gushed forth.
Blood sprayed onto his chest.
Crouching slightly, he straightened his posture.
Until now, he had only mastered the basics.
It had been a time of shedding bad habits and building a new foundation.
Truthfully, he had just barely regained his former level.
However, having honed his swordsmanship with the fundamentals of Valen-style mercenary swordplay, he was in a league of his own.
It was like giving wings to a lion.
Enkrid's flexible thinking produced results that exceeded his abilities.
Amid the remaining soldiers, his blood-soaked blade danced silently. Enkrid performed his deadly sword dance.
***
"Damn it!"
The battalion commander of Naurilia thought he was trapped in a nightmare.
'They've outmaneuvered us.'
If the enemy had prepared for this, so had they.
But losing their entire force here meant all preparations would be for naught.
"Retreat! Retreat!"
Cries to fall back echoed from all directions.
The battalion commander was far from composed.
"Gah!"
Even as their troops retreated, quarrels rained down from behind.
'Damn crossbow units!'
A sense of dread overtook him.
It was astounding how they'd managed to hide such a number of crossbows.
But where?
The reconnaissance reports had already hinted at the answer.
'The tall grasslands!'
Now wasn't the time for idle thoughts.
The commander's mind tried to escape reality.
"Get it together! Regroup!"
Two competent company commanders attempted to rally the troops, but the enemy was no ordinary force.
The unit harrying them from behind was the Gray Hounds—a fiercely independent company of Aspen Dutchy.
The commander realized they had been utterly outmaneuvered.
He fought desperately to regain his composure.
"It's the Mist of Massacre! Aspen deployed a sorcerer!"
Those bastards.
"How do we dispel the fog?"
Few of his aides had answers.
"Bring me someone who knows!"
Visibility was nearly zero, and their troops were being pummeled on both sides.
At this rate, they would be annihilated.
No, annihilation was inevitable.
Soon, an aide returned with an answer.
"We must destroy the medium of the spell!"
The medium?
The banners.
"Charge for the banners!"
The commander shouted.
"…We don't know where they are," the aide responded bleakly.
The enemy's initial positions had shifted like clockwork gears, spinning in circles, making it impossible to pinpoint their location.
The commander couldn't erase the word "annihilation" from his mind.
While he struggled in anguish, the fairy company commander in charge of the 4th Company realized the enemy wouldn't let them retreat so easily.
She was right, and it was not good news.
'Without a reversal, we're all dead.'
She thought the battlefield needed a new wind, but no such wind blew.
The battle ended in a crushing defeat.
Barely escaping death, the fairy company commander survived.
As she fled, the fog dissipated.
Their forces were annihilated.
Fewer than fifty allies survived.
***
Clang!
Enkrid had fought valiantly—exceptionally, in fact—and he was satisfied.
Though their forces were nearly wiped out, he alone had felled close to twenty soldiers.
Blood dripped from his hand gripping the sword.
A gash on his forearm from earlier left him weak.
'I can't muster any strength.'
He had spent all his time mastering the basics.
Ragna had told him not to spar recklessly until his bad habits were corrected—until he was fully ready.
And then, almost as an afterthought, Ragna had said, "Though this isn't exactly battlefield advice."
Even Ragna must have realized how absurd that sounded.
Avoid fighting to fix bad habits in the middle of a battlefield?
That was as good as telling him to die quietly.
But Enkrid managed it.
Instead of simply surrendering his life, he excluded death from the equation.
And today, for the first time, he showcased his skills in real combat.
'It's different.'
Until now, he'd fought using mercenary swordsmanship and whatever means necessary to survive.
That part hadn't changed.
What had changed was the swordsmanship at the core of his technique.
'I want to learn more.'
His hunger for mastery surged.
He couldn't settle for just the basics.
Having singlehandedly decimated two squads, Enkrid stood his ground.
The enemy hesitated to approach.
For some reason, holding his position allowed Enkrid a clearer view.
The sorcerous fog no longer obstructed him.
He saw the enemy forming a semicircle before him.
Each one held a crossbow.
"Fight me like a man, one-on-one," Enkrid taunted, eager to test his skill once more.
"You lunatic," muttered someone who seemed to be the enemy squad leader.
Twang!
The crossbows sang, and quarrels pierced his body.
A bolt embedded in his eye brought searing pain.
'It hurts.'
Yet he felt a strange satisfaction.
As death loomed, Enkrid recalled his purpose amidst this endless cycle of combat.
Ragna had always emphasized the fundamentals.
"Train and train again. Fight for your life, and eventually… well, someday it'll stick."
It was an irresponsible statement, yet it held meaning.
Enkrid needed more real combat experience.
Death's shadow loomed over him.
In his final moments, an enemy soldier looked down at him and said, "What a tenacious bastard."
Even then, Enkrid's grip on his sword remained firm.
His blood pooled beneath him.
"No matter what, even if you're dying, never let go of your sword. That's rule number one."
Countless instructors had said it.
Ragna said it.
Rem had said it.
And Enkrid obeyed.
"Spit!"
An enemy soldier, enraged over his fallen comrades, spat on Enkrid's face.
And that was the end.
Morning came.
Another new day began.
Enkrid reflected on what he had gained from yesterday's battle.
'I need more real combat experience.'
That was his conclusion.
He sought out Ragna once again for guidance.
"Your basics are solid, but you fight like someone who's spent their whole life training alone. Where did you learn swordsmanship?"
It was true, as Enkrid had also realized.
What he needed now was actual combat.
"Here and there."
"...Here and there? Hmm, fine, let's go with that. Anyway, it's better to train until your body naturally remembers the moves. And whoever your teacher was, they did a great job."
That teacher was you.
Ragna unknowingly praised himself.
Enkrid simply nodded and devoted himself to sparring.
And oh, how he enjoyed it.
Through repeated battles, Enkrid eventually cut down thirty soldiers on his own.
It wasn't pure skill alone—arrows and bolts rained down constantly.
He dodged them, weaving through chaos.
Again and again, the days repeated.
And he swung his sword once more.
Eventually, the so-called basics became a perfect, seamless part of him.
"When it comes to fundamentals, there's nothing more I can teach you."
Even Ragna admitted as much, acknowledging Enkrid's remarkable progress.