Chapter 101 - When Luck Does not follow (3)
The third plan—disguising themselves as merchants at dawn two days later to infiltrate Cross Guard—wasn't particularly difficult to propose.
"I have a bad feeling about this."
It was the same reason they dismissed the idea of climbing over the fortress wall.
Torres supported the idea, Finn gave a nonchalant nod, and the group settled on it.
"Well, I guess we're staying here another night."
Their campsite was a dugout shelter, prepared well in advance.
Upon hearing the news, the cook soldier grinned and asked, "Shall I bring out that for tonight's side dish?"
The forward reconnaissance team, led by Ranger Finn, usually stayed on missions for an average of six months.
Though unexpected events sometimes cut their time short, forcing a return in just one or two months, this time they had already been stationed here for eight months.
Naturally, they'd resorted to various survival tactics, including salting the meat of captured game to make ham.
"Well then, shall we have a drink with it?"
Finn eagerly jumped on the suggestion.
Despite being a unit that should have been more on edge than even those at the frontlines, they were either unusually thick-skinned or desensitized.
'Or maybe… they're so sharp during ordinary days that they allow themselves to relax like this when the time is right.'
Even at their makeshift dining area, where smoke rose from their cooking, vigilance was never neglected.
The soldiers maintained constant rotations, patrolling the perimeter in wide circles, with two sharp-eyed members always watching the surroundings.
Watching this unit, a phrase came to mind:
"Those who are too rigid break easily. You need to know how to bend when necessary."
Who had said that?
'It wasn't a drill instructor.'
It was a paladin from a wandering order, who had briefly passed through a rural town.
Pressed for time, he couldn't give a full lesson but instead suggested a short, intense sparring match.
Despite his rugged appearance, with a hearty laugh and a habit of stroking his beard, he was a respected clergyman and an extraordinary warrior.
"Flexibility doesn't mean weakness. A solid foundation ensures you won't break. Need me to simplify it? Stop screaming every time you swing your sword."
He'd commented that every swing of Enkrid's sword sounded like he was shouting defiantly, as though refusing to break.
"Relax your muscles. A supple body lets the blade spring forth more effectively."
The laughing paladin's face overlapped with the faces of his squad members, especially Rem's.
Through countless sparring sessions, Rem's strength had proven to be both powerful and flexible.
Rem's mastery of the axe, rooted in ease and control, came from confidence—not overconfidence, but a deep-seated trust in his abilities.
'No, it's not just that.'
Rem's whip-like forearms and fluid axe strikes.
His relaxed yet controlled movements.
All these elements led to a simple truth: Rem used only as much force as necessary.
And what about Ragna?
Though his swordplay seemed almost lethargic, it was a seamless fusion of unthinkable skill.
The same went for Jaxen and Audin.
Jaxen, despite his stiff demeanor, always maintained an air of composure.
Audin would tease Enkrid during their bouts, twisting his arms playfully, but he also provided insightful advice.
But what about Enkrid himself?
'My shoulders.'
No—his whole body was always tense during combat.
He fought as though every connection, every movement, required his full power.
He had always believed that anything less than his best was meaningless.
And that very belief had burdened his shoulders.
Enkrid swung his sword at the air.
The swing was far lighter than usual, almost disappointingly so.
'This is just letting go of power.'
Letting go of power didn't mean diminishing the essence of swordsmanship.
Clarity emerged: methods, paths, signposts—everything seemed faintly visible now.
Knowing wasn't the same as doing, of course.
Enkrid knew this all too well—he was painfully aware of his own limits.
The revelation that he needed to let go of the tension in his shoulders was just a start.
Yet even that realization made his heart race with excitement.
The joy of knowing he could walk a better path—a euphoric sense of clarity filled him.
For Enkrid, the sword was life, and life was the sword. It was his companion on the journey toward his dreams.
And with that elation came a question:
'Is struggling desperately the only way forward?'
He had resolved never to waste a single day for the sake of tomorrow.
He'd fortified his will countless times.
Clinging on and thrashing around wasn't difficult; he had always done so.
'But it's not always necessary.'
With that thought, he swung his sword downward.
Whoosh.
The sound of the blade slicing through the air was different from before.
Hearing it, Enkrid's lips curved into a faint smile.
That simple strike brought back memories.
When had it been?
In the tall grass, alongside Andrew and Enri.
It was that kind of strike—deceptively simple, leaving no sensation in the hands.
The kind of strike only those called geniuses seemed to execute effortlessly.
Though he had tried countless times to replicate that "sensationless" strike, he had never succeeded—until now.
'It worked.'
It had just happened, right here in his hands.
How could he not feel elated?
"That swing just now… it felt different somehow," Finn remarked.
"Indeed. A rare kind of slash," Torres agreed, seated beside Finn.
Finn added, "But seriously, is he okay? Why does he keep grinning like that by himself?"
"Don't ask me. I've only seen him a few times. Everyone knows he's not exactly normal."
Enkrid let their chatter wash over him, focusing only on swinging his sword again and again.
As he moved, his thoughts continued to flow.
'Struggle if you must, but…'
What if he struggled without tensing his shoulders?
In the monotony of today, was flailing around truly the only solution?
Was screaming out with all his might the only path forward?
What mattered was his determination to keep walking toward tomorrow.
To seize whatever lessons and insights he could along the way.
And as he smiled, immersed in this clarity…
"Man, with that face, even grinning like that doesn't make him look crazy. Anyone else would just seem nuts," Finn quipped, sipping her drink.
"What about me?"
Torres chimed in, oblivious to his own lack of comedic timing.
He was ignored outright.
A few squad members chuckled, patting him on the shoulder.
It had only been a few days since they met, but they were already quick to accept him into their circle.
While he swung his sword fiercely, Finn, Torres, and a few other squad members shared a few drinks.
There wasn't much to drink, nor was it hard liquor.
It was cheap fruit wine, the kind you could easily find in the city.
With it, they ate a few slices of salted and smoked ham, cut up from the provisions they treated as a makeshift dining hall in the forest.
"I should definitely open a restaurant."
These words naturally slipped out to the scout who dreamed of becoming a chef.
Enkrid couldn't even touch the alcohol.
He had no intention of drinking today, and even if he wanted to, there was none left.
By the time he was done swinging his sword and washing up, the rest had already finished it off.
"What, with that face, you're thinking of drinking too?"
Torres grumbled without much reason.
Although it wasn't a time for laughing and chatting, it was still a moment to loosen up just a little.
Of course, even during moments like these, there were always a few who remained sharp, like antennae sensing danger.
Finn was one of them.
Though she had a sip or two, she still had the responsibility of looking out for everyone.
The night came as they returned to the cave.
Whether heading for the burrow they jokingly called the "rabbit hole" or the city walls, no one was supposed to remain here today.
The plan was to vacate the outpost once Finn left and regroup somewhere closer to the main force.
That plan fell apart when they decided to disguise themselves as merchants, and now they faced a night that shouldn't have existed.
The two moons rose, casting a blue glow across the surroundings.
Before entering the cave, Enkrid tilted his head back to look at the twin moons.
The large, ever-present moon hung full and bright.
The smaller, second moon was visible only when it was full.
"Bright."
The surroundings were illuminated.
Staying awake all night wouldn't change anything; today would repeat itself anyway.
He had already learned this while tunneling beneath the shoemaker's shop in the city.
So there was no point in resisting sleep and exhausting himself unnecessarily.
As the deep night was just beginning, he thought to himself: compared to today's repetition of yesterday, this was likely when they had just reached the city walls.
Awooooo!
A howl erupted from nearby.
Enkrid had a rough idea why his sixth sense hadn't kicked in when he was killed by the mage.
The reason his sense of foreboding hadn't activated.
'The spells interfere.'
The mage with the thorny rose or rose vines had been above his head the entire time he was climbing the city walls.
She had interfered, dulling his ability to sense danger from above.
He hadn't heard the sounds or felt the ominous presence.
What about now?
"Shit! Wake up! We're under attack!"
The shout came from a scout keeping watch.
First, there was the howl of a wolf.
Then the soldier's urgent warning.
Finally, came the sound.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Something was sprinting toward them.
And then, a monster appeared, silhouetted against the moonlight.
There's a species known as beastkin, who live on the far eastern edge of the continent—humanoids with traits of beasts.
But the creature now before them was considered a failure, even among those beastkin.
A failed creation of their maker.
These creatures always thirsted for blood and harbored a deep hatred for humans.
Awooooo!
The owner of the howl stepped forward.
Its ankles jutted backward, as though it stood on its toes.
Its entire body was covered in gray fur, and its glowing yellow eyes gleamed with a beast's ferocity.
Its snout protruded sharply, revealing rows of glinting fangs.
The name of the monster silhouetted against the moonlight was Lycanthrope.
In other words, a werewolf.
Naturally, these creatures were not classified as part of the beastkin species.
Like most monsters, they couldn't be reasoned with.
The one leading the pack was one-eyed.
A scar ran across its left eye, leaving only a single glowing yellow orb to survey the surroundings.
It opened its mouth.
Kaaaah!
The monster's roar echoed.
To Enkrid's ears, it sounded like a command to charge.
"Stay alert!"
He shouted instinctively.
How would this night end?
It felt like a fifty-fifty chance.
Either it would end uneventfully, or something would happen.
The outcome was the latter.
Werewolves.
And not just one or two.
The pack split off in all directions, except for the leader.
Even under the bright moonlight, it was difficult to spot them all at once.
All that remained were the sound of clawed feet pounding the ground and shadows cutting through the darkness.
Between the trees, in the places where the moonlight couldn't reach, glowing yellow eyes streaked like beams of light.
The ones that burst into the moonlit clearing circled the gathered humans, running in dizzying loops.
They moved so fast that their afterimages lingered in the air.
"Damn it."
Enkrid realized something here.
It was the lack of foreboding.
Why hadn't he sensed anything?
Why had Finn, a veteran scout, detected the werewolves so late?
"Someone must've interfered."
Which meant a mage was likely involved here too.
The mere fact that werewolves had gathered in such numbers was strange.
He didn't know what spell the mage had cast, but the result was clear in front of him.
Even with a quick count, there were more than ten of them.
"Over ten. That's bad."
Torres, back to back with him, muttered.
Enkrid drew his sword.
Sching!
Staying alive was all they could think about now.
He didn't plan to die quietly, of course.
'Not a chance.'
As always, he would take one more step forward toward tomorrow.
Enkrid steadied himself and raised his sword.
The name of the monsters was Lycanthrope.
Beasts imbued with magic in their hearts.
They were far more formidable than ghouls or other flesh-eating monsters.
Taking down even a single werewolf usually required an entire trained squad.
It wasn't advisable to hunt them in smaller groups, as casualties were all but guaranteed.
And when a pack of them formed, it was recommended not to engage even with a platoon.
Yet now…
"Damn, there's over twenty of them."
The number had grown in such a short time.
Their side had ten people, including Torres and himself.
The werewolves numbered over twenty.
And, as if to prove Enkrid's suspicion about a mage's involvement, the pack attacked in a coordinated encirclement.
Even without strategy, werewolves were dangerous monsters, driven wild by their instincts.
When the dual moons shone, they grew even stronger.
And now, they were attacking in formation?
How could he describe this?
"We're screwed."
Torres's bitter remark was the answer.
There was no way out.
Enkrid fought fiercely.
He killed three werewolves and severed the arm of a fourth.
He even managed to toss a whistle dagger, injuring the one-eyed leader.
It was a fierce resistance, leaving marks of defiance against the Lycanthrope pack.
Torres fought just as hard.
Though he fell before Enkrid, he still took down two of them.
Finn managed to kill one and was tackling her second before she was overwhelmed.
As for the other squad members, they stood no chance.
Enkrid, blood dripping from his shredded arm, stumbled.
Just as he was about to deliver a final strike, his foot caught on something.
It was a head.
The head of the scout who had dreamed of becoming a chef.
"This is… irritating."
Even knowing death would reset the day, seeing something like this was never pleasant.
"Grrrr!"
Six werewolves leaped onto him at once.
Surviving was impossible.
Being torn apart while alive was a first for him.
Naturally, it was excruciating.
As time passed, the pain faded.
How much time had gone by?
When he opened his eyes, the pain was gone.
Before him was a soundless, rippling black river.
A small boat floated in the river, along with its ferryman.