Chapter 40 - The Flag Flutters and Soldiers Dance with Swords (3)
Each day began with a lesson from Ragna, focusing on a single point of concentration, followed by plunging into live combat.
This had become Enkrid's routine, repeated endlessly.
Countless repetitions.
Despite teetering on the edge of death repeatedly, the technique called "a single point of concentration" always seemed within reach yet just out of grasp.
Don't rush.
Enkrid shifted his mindset.
Let's start by breaking the flagpole.
As the battle resumed, Enkrid pondered ways to minimize losses.
Thinking and strategizing—these were among his greatest strengths.
Once again, the mist rolled in—deathly mist.
Appropriately named the Mist of massacre.
Of course, Enkrid didn't know the name of the spell.
He only recognized that succumbing to it wasn't an option.
When the mist enveloped them and before Rem could shout anything, Enkrid's voice rang out first:
"Get down!"
The warning caught everyone off guard.
Even the squad leaders instinctively lowered his head.
"Shields up!"
When Enkrid shouted again, his allies reflexively raised their shields.
Feeling vulnerable without one, he grabbed a shield for himself.
Running low to the ground, he angled the shield diagonally.
A volley of bolts and arrows thudded into its surface with sharp thunks.
The oil-soaked shield performed its job admirably.
I should've grabbed a shield sooner.
In past battles, he'd started fights after being struck by arrows or bolts while charging forward.
But those experiences had also taught him how to navigate while dodging projectiles.
Thinking as he ran, Enkrid knew from experience that escaping the mist's influence required closing the distance with the enemy.
And so, he pressed on.
Suddenly, he sprang to his left, narrowly dodging spear thrusts aimed at where he had been just moments ago.
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
The spears sliced through empty air.
He had memorized this pattern.
Facing death intentionally just to execute the single-point focus was pointless.
He decided instead to fight with every ounce of his being.
After dodging the spears, Enkrid rushed forward until he was almost nose-to-nose with the enemy.
It was only then that he could make out the figures through the mist.
A soldier, face full of shock, peered out from beneath his rounded leather helmet.
Enkrid kicked the soldier's ankle.
"Argh!"
The man lost balance and fell.
Enkrid smashed the edge of his shield against the man's head.
Crunch!
The sound of wood splintering rang out.
If the soldier survived that blow, it would be sheer luck.
Passing by the fallen man, Enkrid drew his longsword.
As he unsheathed it, he swung wide, startling three or four nearby enemies trying to close in.
Watching them flinch, Enkrid mapped his next route in his mind.
This was his reality, repeated daily for over 300 days.
He could navigate the terrain blindfolded, knowing the positions of the flagpoles and enemy formations.
To the enemy, Enkrid's movements likely appeared ghostly.
***
Ron, a soldier of the Grand Duchy of Aspen, was caught off guard by the movements of a Naurilian soldier who charged forward as soon as the mist descended.
Appearing suddenly from the left, the soldier cut down three or four of Ron's comrades before disappearing—no, it wasn't vanishing.
Upon closer inspection, the enemy was merely crouching low.
"Urgh!"
"Below us! Watch your feet!"
Ron knew the mist surrounding them was a spell or magic.
While it didn't obscure the vision of their allies, thicker patches of mist did obstruct certain areas—like the ground.
In other words, while everything above chest height was clear, the floor was hidden.
The enemy seemed to exploit this advantage with precision.
"Kill him!"
"Damn it!"
The chaos was palpable.
The enemy moved as if they had ten bodies.
Ron tightened his grip, ready to strike the moment the enemy appeared within range.
The tension was suffocating.
"Argh!"
"Gah!"
"There he is!"
The soldier roamed the misty ground as if it were his domain.
Ron swallowed hard, his throat dry.
He half-expected a blade to appear before him any second.
He even felt the urge to relieve himself.
But the enemy still hadn't shown up.
Just as the tension reached its peak—
"He's breaking the flagpole!"
A scream erupted from behind.
Ron whipped his head around.
The squad leader was collapsing forward, and next to him, the enemy rose, parting the mist like a skeleton warrior emerging from the grave.
Was he alone?
Could one person have caused this much havoc amidst the mist?
The enemy gripped his sword with both hands and swung at the flagpole.
Thwack!
The flagpole snapped in two with a heavy blow, and the banner toppled to the ground.
The fabric, once flapping noisily in the wind, now lay silent and still.
A puff of dust rose as the flag hit the ground.
Through the dust, the enemy appeared to tilt his head as if in curiosity.
At least, that's how Ron perceived it.
Then the enemy moved again.
"Kill him! Kill him now!"
Someone clung to the enemy's leg, sacrificing themselves to hold him back.
It was a noble, selfless act befitting Aspen's elite troops.
The others swarmed him like bees.
With two spears impaled into his left side and five quarrels lodged in his thigh, the soldier bled profusely but managed to ask,
"Why hasn't the mist dissipated? Isn't the flag its medium?"
The squad leader's deputy scoffed in response, taking the fallen leader's place.
"Idiot, do you think there's only one flag? There are six decoys, and only one is real."
The deputy didn't mince words, knowing the enemy was as good as dead.
"So five were fakes, and only one was genuine, huh?"
"Crazy bastard."
"Why is this single-point focus so difficult? Then again, nothing's ever been easy."
"What nonsense are you rambling about?"
"Focus… focus…"
"Lunatic."
Crack!
Ron couldn't hold back any longer and swung his spear at the enemy's head.
The blow landed, splitting the head open and splattering blood.
The soldier convulsed on the ground, spitting blood foam.
"Guhhh…"
Turning away from the dying man, Ron moved on.
This one soldier had disrupted an entire flag unit from completing their mission, but the outcome of the battle was already decided.
The Grand Duchy of Aspen was victorious.
With the mist in play, defeat was impossible.
***
Pain flooded his body as death approached. To escape the agony, Enkrid drifted into thought.
How did I learn Heart of the Beast again?
The Heart of the Beast was honed by rolling across the battlefield on the brink of death.
But the single-point focus still eluded him.
Is the boldness granted by the Heart of the Beast getting in the way?
No, that didn't seem to be the issue.
Had it been easy, Enkrid would've been deemed exceptionally talented.
Though it might've frustrated others, Enkrid remained calm.
There was no need for impatience.
If it doesn't work, I'll keep trying until it does.
Resolute and steadfast, despair and frustration were foreign to him.
Death came, and morning followed.
He awakened to sunlight and wind, preparing himself anew.
"It's called single-point focus. Will you learn it?"
Ragna's teaching continued like clockwork, and Enkrid nodded each time.
No matter how much he learned, he couldn't fully grasp it.
Using the northern-style longsword, he refined its fundamentals under Ragna's guidance, gaining small insights along the way.
One such realization: everything must be learned properly from the beginning.
Does fear of death heighten awareness?
No matter how hard he tried, it still felt like wearing ill-fitting clothes.
That's when he asked.
"How did you learn it?"
"I just did."
Ragna replied kindly.
That made him even more annoying.
Why be kind now?
It felt better when he was spitting sharp words.
"Just like that?"
"Yes, I forgot everything around me, focused, and became one with the sword."
It wasn't a boast.
His tone was calm and composed.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it is."
What seemed trivial to Ragna felt like an unreachable star to Enkrid.
Still, jealousy or envy didn't rise.
If his spirit was fragile enough to break over this, he wouldn't have dreamed of becoming a knight in the first place.
They repeated the same exercise over and over.
Ragna, stopping his sword inches from Enkrid's face, tried to make him feel the fear of death.
In terms of sheer speed, Ragna seemed faster than Rem.
When watching them duel, Rem appeared quicker.
That duel between them was still vivid in Enkrid's mind.
But facing him firsthand, Ragna felt undeniably faster.
"What are you doing? The battle's calling. What about you? Using the squad leader as a practice dummy because you're still mad about losing to me last time?"
"Who's losing? Your thick skull?"
Why did these two always fight the moment they met?
"Let's just go."
Once again, it was the battlefield.
Enkrid had learned much through brushes with death.
One thing was clear: out of six flags, five were false.
"It's all about making the right choice."
It was time to test his luck.
This time, he charged toward the enemy before the mist even rose.
"...Squad leader?"
Ragna's startled voice came from behind.
To anyone watching, his actions must have seemed absurd.
"The squad leader's lost it!"
Even Rem shouted.
The others muttered, wondering what had come over him.
At that moment, the mist rolled in.
"What?!"
"I can't see!"
Enkrid shouted as he ran.
"Get down! Shields up!"
He expected them to follow his command instinctively, just like before.
But the outcome was different this time.
The allied response was delayed.
Arrows and bolts rained down, tearing through their ranks.
Enemy soldiers armed with spears closed in, thrusting at the panicked allies.
"Why?"
It was a matter of timing.
He had to allow them a moment to catch their breath after their initial shock.
He already knew this mistake all too well.
It was fine.
He'd do better next time.
Others might joke that Lady Luck had kissed him or handed him a sack full of coins.
But Enkrid knew himself well.
He wasn't particularly lucky.
The second flag required an intense battle.
Even without achieving perfect focus, his skills improved as real combat layered over his newly acquired basics.
"Still a long way to go."
For Enkrid, the standard was always Rem and Ragna.
It took three grueling days to take down the second banner.
When he finally broke it, a dagger-wielding enemy officer coughed up blood while laughing mockingly.
"It's a decoy!"
"I know."
Enkrid nodded, even as two arrows pierced his thigh.
"...What?"
"Four more to go."
"What did you say?"
"Focus. Focus."
Was he failing because of his lack of focus?
Perfect concentration was still beyond his reach.
Ignoring the enemy officer's taunts, Enkrid summoned every bit of focus he could muster.
With daring movements, he deflected enemy spears, dodging and counterattacking with precision.
His upward slash, far more refined than before, split an enemy's jaw, cleaving from mouth to nose.
A bolt suddenly struck his side with a dull thud.
Thanks to his armor, he wasn't fatally wounded, but five crossbowmen stood nearby, their weapons aimed.
Around 80 enemies guarded the banner.
It was an overwhelming number to face alone.
"I'll have to attack the flag while planning my retreat."
He thought carefully, calculating his options.
To break the flag, to achieve perfect focus, he needed to surpass death itself.
The third flag cost him five days.
The fourth flag demanded seven.
"If I were the enemy commander..."
He would hide the final flag in the safest place.
Before the mist could roll in, he spent two precious days scanning the enemy formation.
And finally, he saw it.
The unit protecting the last flag, hidden deep within their lines.
This time, Enkrid warned his allies clearly and dashed forward.
Everyone stayed low and kept their shields up.
"Rem, follow me!"
He brought Rem along.
"Follow you... what?"
"Just follow me!"
Shouting, he sprinted forward, and Rem followed reluctantly.
"What insane plan is this?"
Instead of answering, Enkrid charged toward the flag-guarding unit with Rem at his side.
"Just the two of them?!"
Enemy soldiers roared in fury.
Enkrid skillfully shifted aside, using the mist for cover and leaving the brunt of the fight to Rem.
"Who's casting the spell?"
Rem's voice, cold as icy flames, rang out as he swung his axe.
When Enkrid glanced back, he barely saw the axe before an enemy's head was sent flying.
Blood sprayed like a fountain before the body crumpled to the ground.
"I'll get answers from the next one."
Rem unleashed his fury.
While observing him, Enkrid mentally mapped the enemy's movements.
It took five grueling days to reach the unit guarding the innermost banner.
Using his wits, Enkrid avoided a head-on clash, sneaking around the side and keeping low.
As he approached the banner stealthily, someone blocked his way.
"Am I dreaming?"
The man blocking him spoke.
Who was this guy?
"By the grace of the gods, my wish has been granted. I've wanted to kill you with my own hands."
Enkrid tilted his head, unable to place the man.
"...Forgot me in just a few days?"
For this man, it had only been days, but for Enkrid, repeated battles had stretched this campaign into what felt like a year.
"Apologies. Could you introduce yourself?"
Enkrid asked politely, making veins bulge on the man's forehead.
"Platoon leader of the Grey Hounds, Mitch Hurrier!"
Even hearing the name, Enkrid drew a blank.
"I see."
Nodding, he further enraged Mitch, who glared daggers at him.
"You bastard..."
Seething, Mitch drew his sword.
The sound of steel rang out as he pointed it at Enkrid.
Something about it jogged Enkrid's memory.
"Where did I see him...?"
"Wait a moment."
Enkrid raised a hand, halting Mitch.
"What is it?"
"I truly don't remember. Who are you again?"
"You'll remember once I stab you!"
Mitch lunged at him, and Enkrid drew his longsword to meet him.
Clang!
Their blades clashed, the sound echoing as steel sang against steel.
The two exchanged blows, and Mitch couldn't hide his surprise.
"This bastard...!"
Enkrid's skills had grown immensely.