Chapter 43 - Mitch Hurrier
The Duchy of Aspen was governed by three prominent families, with the Hurrier family representing martial strength.
Every child born into the Hurrier family, regardless of gender, was taught martial arts.
After assessing their talents, only the most promising children were selected for advanced training.
Talent, by its nature, is capricious, a game of chance dictated by the whims of fortune.
To gather such talent, the Hurrier family sought individuals from both direct and collateral branches without discrimination.
Mitch Hurrier was one such individual.
Born into a collateral branch, he had a different family name initially, but now, he was one of the Hurrier family.
Mitch Hurrier had shown extraordinary talent from a young age.
At fifteen, he could take on multiple adult soldiers.
The following year, he surpassed the standard of a regular soldier.
By eighteen, he proved his skill by defeating a swordsman at the village-level in a one-on-one duel.
By twenty-two, he could spar with individuals renowned across a city and hold his own.
Those who could rival him in swordsmanship were few, even rarer among his peers.
Such an environment nurtured arrogance in him.
"Why bother with relentless training when I can achieve it after a few tries?"
Why should he train until his thighs ached and swelled?
Why should he swing his sword until his palms bled?
He didn't want to.
He was content with the present.
Unlike the early days of wielding a sword, he no longer put in much effort.
Even so, his innate talent alone placed him among the top three fighters in the Grey Hounds.
For Mitch, this situation was unprecedented.
Clang!
The downward strike of his sword was deflected from below.
Distracted for a moment, he felt the opponent's blade graze his shoulder.
Mitch retaliated by thrusting his sword and kicking at his opponent's shin.
This was a tactic he often used against weaker opponents.
It wasn't easy to block a kick aimed at the legs while preoccupied with the sword.
Even if the kick was intercepted, it would create an opening.
However, his opponent dodged the thrust by twisting their shoulder and blocked the kick by lifting one leg, maintaining perfect balance.
This opponent had solid fundamentals.
"This wasn't his level a few days ago," Mitch thought, recalling their earlier encounter.
The opponent had approached without hesitation, casually saying:
"Hello, nice to meet you. Shall we risk our lives on a duel?"
He recognized the face—it was that soldier.
The one from the enemy unit that had launched a surprise attack.
Despite the obscuring mist spreading across the battlefield, how had they made it here?
There was no time to ponder further.
The opponent lunged with their sword, extending it in a straight line.
Clang!
Blocking the strike, Mitch thought it might be another feint operation.
Thus, he instructed his men to protect the rear while he handled this foe.
If the flag fell, the operation would face significant setbacks.
Protecting it was his duty here.
The enemy soldier countered with a strike aimed at Mitch's head.
Mitch intercepted the sword, deflecting it diagonally in a cross-pattern.
Tiiing!
The blades screeched as they slid past one another.
Both fighters pushed with force, creating a gap of over five paces between them.
Before either could strike again, Mitch spoke.
"Were you hiding your skill?"
"It just turned out that way."
"What's your name?"
"Enkrid."
This was the person Mitch had been dying to face—a foe he needed to kill to feel satisfied.
And now, they had come to him of their own accord.
Mitch licked his lips.
"Alright, Enkrid. I'll remember your name."
"No need to. I can always remind you later."
"Crazy bastard. You're going to die here."
Mitch raised his sword above his left shoulder.
Having clashed several times, he had gauged Enkrid's skill.
It was now time to showcase his full strength.
He believed he could sever Enkrid's neck within five exchanges.
And so, five exchanges passed.
Mitch furrowed his brows.
Frustration crept into his expression.
This was a first for him.
The opponent wasn't overwhelmingly superior, yet they managed to keep up, just barely.
Yet it felt as though they knew all his habits—blocking, enduring, and countering his attacks.
Mitch increased his speed and threw in feints, but the battle still didn't end.
As the clash dragged on, his focus narrowed.
The world faded, leaving only the sword and his opponent.
Mitch Hurrier felt as if he were holding a sword for the first time again.
That sensation when only he and his blade existed under the vast sky.
When every strike felt as if it would cleave the opponent, and every thrust felt as if it would pierce them.
Mitch fought with that same clarity.
He struck downward, curved his attacks, extended his reach, thrust, and spun his strikes.
And his opponent did the same.
Enkrid entered a state of heightened focus, exchanging blows with Mitch in that state.
The countless repetitions of that day had made Mitch's habits glaringly obvious.
Blocking the kicks and parrying the sword strikes became second nature.
But then, the opponent's swordplay changed.
The strikes grew fiercer, sharper—thrusting, twisting, slashing, with the blade spinning.
Clang! Bang! Thud-thud-thud!
When the blades clashed with full force, sparks flew.
Several strikes grazed Enkrid's shoulder and side, drawing blood.
Though the wounds weren't deep, droplets of blood splattered into the air, and at least three moments passed where his life hung by a thread.
In those moments, Enkrid's focus deepened.
Deeper still.
He intentionally drove himself further into the state, discarding awareness of his surroundings.
He and his sword became the entire world.
Every fiber of his being was fully attuned.
Only Mitch Hurrier's sword filled his vision.
Likewise, Mitch Hurrier saw only Enkrid's blade.
The two fought like madmen.
Every strike was a gamble for their lives.
Even the spectators were breathless as deadly blows were exchanged.
Having failed to decapitate each other, both bore fresh cuts on their necks.
In his concentrated state, Mitch deployed his ultimate technique.
He shifted his stance, stepping back with his left foot and forward with his right, creating an unfamiliar distance.
He let his sword hang behind his hip, obscuring its tip.
"Hup."
With a short breath, he tensed his muscles.
This technique combined defensive and offensive elements.
It was a devastating reverse swing called Wheel Slash, drawing a wide arc from below.
By altering his stance to conceal the sword's starting point, Mitch created an unblockable strike.
Enkrid, now in an even deeper state of immersion, had gained more than just swordsmanship from this duel.
"I see it."
He couldn't visually perceive it, but every movement Mitch made played out vividly in his mind.
His sharpened hearing caught every detail—the sound of shifting feet, the controlled breaths as Mitch adjusted his stance.
The countless times he had faced Wheel Slash in the past imprinted an unmistakable image in his mind.
He felt as though he could see the hidden blade and even hear Mitch's breaths.
All this information came together to predict the timing of the Wheel Slash.
Whoosh.
The blade carved through the air, rising from below with a deadly arc.
In his hyper-focused state, Enkrid instinctively brought his sword down to meet the strike.
Enkrid's sword collided with the incoming blade of his opponent, Mitch, with a sharp clang.
The sheer force of their clash caused a crack to form in Enkrid's weapon.
Mitch's momentary surprise at his countered strike disrupted his focus, but Enkrid remained unwavering.
Taking advantage of the opening, Enkrid allowed his blade to slide along Mitch's, producing an eerie, screeching sound as the metal surfaces scraped against each other.
Mitch instinctively tried to lift his sword, but Enkrid pressed down with superior strength, leveraging his training and physical power.
The downward force overpowered Mitch's upward resistance, sending Mitch's weapon off balance.
In a swift follow-up, Enkrid lunged forward, his sword tip piercing Mitch's chest.
Though Mitch wore armor, the impact drove deep, leaving a bleeding wound.
Retrieving his sword quickly, Enkrid stepped back to catch his breath, his body trembling from the exertion.
Mitch staggered, blood pooling from his chest wound.
He managed to stay on his feet, glaring defiantly at Enkrid.
"I should've countered… If I'd deflected and created an opening, I'd have had the upper hand. You agree, don't you?"
"Victory is determined by results," Enkrid replied.
"Fair enough," Mitch admitted with a bitter laugh.
"Still, it stings. I should never have neglected my training."
His vision blurred as blood loss took its toll, but before Enkrid could deliver the finishing blow, reinforcements arrived.
A burly man with a thick mustache blocked Enkrid's path, slamming a weapon onto Enkrid's sword.
The impact forced Enkrid back a few steps.
"Protect Mitch!" the mustached man shouted, as soldiers moved to shield the wounded Mitch.
One of them applied a powder to his chest, quickly staunching the bleeding.
Enkrid analyzed the mustached man.
His breathing was labored, but his stance revealed no openings.
It was clear this man had experience.
Even so, Enkrid wasn't here for duels; he had an objective.
"You think bigger conduits for sorcery are more flawed, don't you?" Enkrid asked, watching as Mitch was carried away.
His question caught the mustached man off guard, his eyes narrowing.
Enkrid seized the distraction, kicking up dirt and grass into the man's face before bolting toward the enemy banner.
Crossbow bolts whizzed through the air.
One grazed Enkrid's shoulder, but he pressed on, weaving through the enemy lines.
As he neared the banner, he grabbed a discarded throwing knife and launched it at the flag.
The heavy fabric resisted the blades, leaving only minor damage.
Undeterred, Enkrid reached for a fallen spear, hurling it with all his strength.
The spear pierced the banner, tearing a hole in it. The magical conduit was compromised, disrupting the enemy's sorcery.
A veil of mist began lifting from the battlefield as Enkrid took a deep breath of relief.
The mustached man, enraged by the sight, roared, "You think you'll escape alive after this, you madman?"
Enkrid raised his sword, aligning it with his body for defense.
There was still work to be done.