Chapter 41 - A Single Point of Focus
Tat-tat-tat-tat.
The blade pierced toward the eyes, slashed the shoulder, and then swept downward toward the thigh.
Enkrid took everything in: the opponent's gestures, the movement of his hands and feet, and predicted the next attack.
Matching his defense to the predicted trajectory, Enkrid successfully blocked each strike.
Sparks flew between them, clearing a portion of the fog.
Through it, his opponent's glowing eyes shone.
"The shoulder."
The next attack aimed once again at his shoulder.
Enkrid swiftly pulled his left foot, which was positioned half a step forward, back.
His left shoulder tilted away just as the opponent's blade shot forward with ferocity.
Rotating on his right big toe, he turned his body sideways, narrowly avoiding the strike.
The sword brushed past his shoulder with a sharp whizz.
Seizing the opportunity, Enkrid shifted into a modified middle stance.
From this oblique posture, he swung his sword upward.
In swordsmanship terms, the blade's edge facing the opponent is the "front edge," and the one facing oneself is the "back edge."
Swinging upward from a lowered position brought the back edge into play.
The back edge of Enkrid's sword targeted the opponent's jaw.
Expecting his opponent to dodge, Enkrid thought to himself:
"Even if he dodges, it'll create an opening."
With this opening, he planned to guide the fight toward his intended conclusion—a skill honed through countless battles.
A single step and a coordinated strike were enough to seize victory.
"Cocky bastard!"
Enraged, the opponent swung his sword horizontally instead of retreating after the thrust to Enkrid's shoulder.
Enkrid ducked quickly to avoid the attack, abandoning his rising strike.
Tat-tat!
Rather than follow through with his abandoned attack, Enkrid pulled his blade close to his body and raised it above his head to block the next strike.
The opponent feigned the horizontal slash, instead lifting his sword and bringing it down in a vertical chop aimed at Enkrid's crown.
Barely deflecting the blow, their swords locked.
"Do you think you can take me down with just one step?" the opponent sneered as he pressed down from above.
"Why, can't I?" Enkrid retorted, his voice calm yet sharp.
The opponent, who had introduced himself as Mitch Hurrier, flared with anger.
He had a knack for expressing his rage through his face alone, his emotions plain for all to see.
"You really don't want to die peacefully, do you?"
"Nope. My wish is to grow old and die naturally,"
Enkrid replied without missing a beat.
When it came to provoking others, Enkrid could hold his own against even Rem.
No, perhaps he was better at it.
A thick vein throbbed visibly on Mitch's forehead.
"Fine. I'll cut off your limbs and throw you into a cesspool to live until you rot."
"Wrong again. I'll die of old age with my great-grandchildren by my side."
"You little—!"
Thud!
Mitch aimed a kick at Enkrid, who countered it with his own foot.
The clash forced both men to retreat, putting a two-step gap between them.
Without hesitation, Enkrid swung his sword to close the distance, while Mitch charged forward, relying on his speed.
Mitch's rapid advance left a streak of afterimages, almost as if his body was tearing through space itself.
Noting this, Enkrid adjusted his sword's trajectory and brought it down in a diagonal slash.
Clang!
Their blades collided once more, the grinding of steel echoing as sparks flew.
Enkrid tried to push Mitch back with brute strength, but Mitch's sword clung to his like glue. In an instant, Mitch twisted his wrist, raising the tip of his blade toward Enkrid's head.
Using the stronger portion of his blade near the hilt, Mitch trapped Enkrid's sword and shoved forward with precision, even as his ragged breaths betrayed his fury.
Ting-ting-ting!
The scraping of metal filled the air. If Enkrid didn't act, his throat would be pierced.
Mimicking Mitch's move, Enkrid twisted his wrist and raised his sword.
Ting!
The locked blades parted, and sparks flew once again. Mitch immediately deflected Enkrid's sword, forcing him to block the next relentless strike.
This time, Enkrid initiated the attack.
From the upper right to the lower left—a diagonal slash. It was a textbook strike, polished through endless training and refined in countless battles.
The flowing arc of the slash shone brilliantly as it descended toward Mitch.
The step, the timing, the posture, and the strike—all came together in perfect harmony.
But Mitch intercepted the slash with his own blade.
The moment their swords met, Enkrid felt as if he had struck something soft, like cotton, rather than a blade.
Mitch's sword deflected Enkrid's strike with a gentle curve, then reversed direction. Its back edge now descended toward Enkrid's head.
Mitch traced a small circle with his wrist, redirecting the momentum effortlessly.
"Hup!"
Enkrid inhaled sharply, realizing he had no time to block.
He twisted his body to the side just in time to avoid the blow.
Whoosh!
Mitch's blade slashed through the space where Enkrid's head had been, leaving him off-balance.
The next strike grazed Enkrid's right forearm, leaving a shallow but bleeding wound.
There was no time for words.
'The abdomen.'
Enkrid deflected the thrust aimed at his gut, evaded the next diagonal slash targeting his thigh, and retaliated with a horizontal slash to create distance.
But Mitch didn't relent.
Instead of retreating, Mitch swung upward, closing the gap between them.
Their swords danced in an intense exchange of blows.
Enkrid was forced into a defensive stance, barely managing to block and dodge each attack.
'Upper strike, diagonal, thrust.'
He poured everything he had into his movements—the foundation of his training, honed through battles.
He slashed, thrust, retreated, and pressed forward.
He even used his feet when necessary.
But Mitch read every move, blocking or evading as needed, leaving Enkrid with only minor opportunities.
The wounds on Enkrid's body accumulated: his arm, shoulder, and thigh all bore cuts.
His movements slowed as the injuries piled up.
Even his helmet was knocked off, a strike grazing his forehead and leaving a bleeding gash.
Blood streamed from his forehead, splattering with each movement.
'The shoulder.'
There was no time to breathe or think—only to react, defend, and counter.
Enkrid managed to land a few strikes, but only at the cost of taking several himself.
Still, he remained focused.
Each breath was a fight for survival.
Mitch, too, felt the strain.
When Mitch first encountered this madman attacking their camp, he thought him unskilled.
The man's limits were obvious even after a few exchanges.
But now...
In just a few days, this same man had grown so much that Mitch wondered if he was even the same person.
"Is he a twin?"
Distracted by the thought, Mitch almost paid dearly when Enkrid's blade narrowly missed piercing his throat.
"This bastard."
Shaking off the distraction, Mitch focused entirely on killing his opponent.
And so did Enkrid.
They were locked in a deadly rhythm: evade, block, counter.
Openings appeared but were too dangerous to exploit.
Hesitating in this battle was akin to boarding the ferryman's boat on the River of Death.
But even if he were to die today, Enkrid resolved to live each moment with purpose.
That was why each passing day mattered more.
'The chest. No, the abdomen.'
Enkrid evaded a deceptive thrust.
He deflected and diverted the blade, which fell from above like an eagle swooping down.
The deflection was clumsy, lacking refinement—it was closer to blocking than truly diverting.
Enkrid's use of the heavy sword style relied heavily on overpowering the opponent with raw strength.
In contrast, he occasionally mixed in precise sword styles and flowing techniques.
The precise sword style followed strict patterns, cornering the opponent into counterable situations.
The flowing sword style, on the other hand, diverted attacks to create openings.
Clang.
Blades met, emitting a heated resonance.
Enkrid was fully focused, unable to let his guard down for even a moment.
Even a blink could spell defeat.
In this exchange of blows, nothing else mattered.
Thoughts of flags, victory, or swordsmanship evaporated.
All that remained was the act of slashing, thrusting, and swinging at the opponent before him.
The world faded, leaving only one thing: the sword and himself, himself and the sword.
The opponent's blade, the sword, and the opponent.
Eventually, even himself and his opponent disappeared.
Lost in the moment, Enkrid achieved a state of selflessness.
Only the sword remained.
The rhythm of swinging, cutting, thrusting, blocking, and evading filled every fiber of Enkrid's being. An endless euphoria rose, fueling an insatiable desire.
Clang! Clang! Clink! Bang! Shiiing!
Steel met steel in countless variations, each clash producing a symphony of noise.
But nothing lasts forever.
Knowing this, Enkrid thought, Just a little longer.
He instinctively understood that this wasn't a moment that could easily be recreated.
He had felt this once before—cleanly cutting through an opponent without resistance.
It was a perfect strike, an experience he had spent years trying to replicate without success.
Even now, while he wished this moment would last forever, he knew it wouldn't.
Bang!
A heavy sword strike descended, imbued with Enkrid's full intent.
His opponent skillfully diverted the force, creating an opening in Enkrid's guard.
Thud!
The opponent didn't miss.
A blade, like a heated skewer, pierced Enkrid's chest.
"Phew..."
With a sword embedded in his chest, Enkrid's arms stopped.
His limbs trembled from the strain of full exertion.
Lowering his weapon with trembling hands, Enkrid looked up to see his opponent, drenched in sweat.
"I remember now," Enkrid said, blood trickling from his lips.
"Finally?"
"You're the guy from the fire, aren't you?"
Being struck seemed to jog his memory.
The encounter had been memorable.
"Mitch Hurrier. Platoon Leader of the Aspen Principality."
"Enkrid, Squad Leader of the Naurilia Kingdom."
Both men were drenched in blood and sweat, as though caught in a storm.
They stared at each other in silence.
For the first time, Enkrid felt no animosity toward the man who had stabbed him.
He only yearned to fight him again.
Mitch's face remained stoic, but his eyes betrayed a change.
The rage had subsided, replaced by something indescribable.
"The dream is over," Mitch said.
A dream?
Oh.
"It was a lie. What kind of swordsman wishes to die of old age."
"Right. Now die already."
With that, Mitch withdrew his blade.
The searing pain spread, making Enkrid's mind go blank.
He dropped to one knee, blood pouring from his mouth.
"Is it an enemy attack?"
Aspen soldiers had encircled them.
One of them stepped closer, speaking.
When did they get here?
Enkrid glanced around.
The area was swarming with enemies.
"Yes, he slipped in to strike from behind. It seems he's skilled in ambush tactics."
"Pity, isn't it, Platoon Leader?"
"...No, it isn't."
Mitch stared at Enkrid.
Truthfully, he felt a pang of regret.
Finding an opponent of this caliber was rare.
The fight had brought him to a realm he had never experienced before.
Regret was inevitable.
Yet, Enkrid's expression was devoid of such emotions.
Instead, he looked relieved, like a child holding a wooden sword for the first time.
"What are you?" Mitch asked, confused.
But Enkrid wasn't listening anymore.
He was dying, and a single thought consumed him.
Ragna, you fool. It's not the fear of death you need.
What was necessary wasn't the intensity of near-death focus but an opponent who could push you to your limits—someone who could elevate your skills and emotions through mutual risk.
A true rival.
In that sense, Mitch Hurrier was perfect.
He was a rival worthy of the title.
As Enkrid lay dying, he realized this.
The sensations and clarity he had experienced moments ago were what Ragna referred to as a single point of focus.
He had achieved it.
And he now knew he could chase that experience again.
That fleeting moment could be recreated, though it wouldn't be easy.
Mitch Hurrier's existence made it possible.
Knowing this, how could he not smile?
Seeing the path ahead, Enkrid died with a grin.
"Was he insane?"
Mitch could only tilt his head, puzzled by the sight of Enkrid smiling in death.