Chapter 116 - Maddeningly Unfair
"It's how you hold the sword."
The third-rate mercenary from Enkrid's hometown hadn't even known how to properly grip a sword.
The first thing he learned from his instructor:
How to press the blade with his thumb.
How to grip with his right hand in front and left hand behind.
The way to hold the pommel, how to use the ricasso.
Though he often wielded the sword with both hands...
'Even with one hand...'
It seemed possible.
Using the Isolation technique, his already considerable strength increased.
He tried wielding the longsword with just his left hand.
Whoosh.
The sword made a circular arc as he swung, but he wasn't satisfied with the result.
Still, it was possible.
He thrust, slashed, thrust and slashed again.
Cutting diagonally, slicing horizontally.
He even mimicked binding techniques.
Imagining opponents, he thought he wouldn't last even a single exchange against Rem or the squad members.
It wasn't an issue with one-handed swordsmanship, but his unfamiliarity with his left hand.
He shifted to a new opponent—no face, but someone who could handle a sword decently.
As he visualized, opponents similar to his past self appeared.
Trash with skills and personalities that didn't match, like the one from his mercenary days who shot thin swords like arrows.
Enkrid conjured these images, swinging his sword repeatedly.
Schrrkk!
Dragging his foot across the ground, he made a wide swing with the sword.
Sweat dripped from his body, scattering droplets in all directions.
Pebbles caught underfoot shot into the air.
Reacting instinctively, Enkrid struck the airborne pebble with the flat of his blade.
Tick!
The pebble ricocheted off the boot tip from an imprecise strike.
"If you grip it properly, you should be able to cut as you intend."
The instructor's words echoed in his mind.
Even cutting a scarecrow that stood still wasn't an easy task.
But Enkrid could at least manage that.
Although it was much harder with his left hand.
'Things never go as planned.'
He started rebuilding, retracing the path his right hand had once taken, now with his left.
The process required repetition and adaptation to regain the sense.
What might bore others energized Enkrid.
As he retraced with his left hand, he also reflected on what he missed with his right.
Before long, Enkrid closed his eyes.
What he saw wasn't the present, but the past—his past self.
Deeper, deeper still, he delved into his memories.
'What if I had done it that way back then?'
He revisited the countless battles he'd replayed in his mind:
Battlefields, fights, monsters, beasts, people.
The swords he wielded against all of them.
The blades, hands, bodies.
Stumbling, getting his head cracked open.
Barely surviving against monsters.
Living as if he had two lives.
Enkrid kept moving forward.
A singular focus naturally took hold, blocking out everything else.
Yet, with the Heart of the Beast stabilizing him, he avoided mistakes born of excitement.
Boldness and composure—among the most valuable weapons in Enkrid's arsenal—felt like a companion reinforcing his resolve.
Swinging his sword again and again, repeating the process.
Eventually, it felt like he was mastering his left hand twice as fast as he had with his right.
Snap.
Sweat soaked his body, and the leather strap on his grip snapped.
Weakened, his hand dropped, the sword's tip hitting the ground.
Though it wasn't enough to truly strain his muscles,
He felt the strain of using muscles he rarely activated.
His left arm tingled slightly.
"You really are insane."
A voice snapped Enkrid out of his daze.
He turned his focus toward it.
"Haven't you been on the battlefield?"
Enkrid's gaze shifted to the figure, his head tilting slightly.
"Our squad is assigned to defensive positions. Hand it over."
It was Vengeance, the leader of the 3rd Platoon, 2nd Company.
Enkrid had already noticed his presence but hadn't paid it much mind.
Approaching him, Vengeance took Enkrid's sword and tied the leather strap back with practiced skill.
Pulling it taut on both sides, he wrapped and secured it inside the grip.
"I'm just helping because it looked difficult to do one-handed."
Since when had Vengeance been this considerate?
Was it since he'd saved him from the fire?
Curious, Enkrid asked.
"Why did you hate me before?"
At that, Vengeance chewed on his lip before replying.
"Jenny."
"Jenny?"
Who's Jenny?
Enkrid blinked.
His memory wasn't bad.
If he didn't remember, it meant one of two things:
Either she wasn't worth remembering,
Or it was someone he didn't know.
It was the former.
Still looking puzzled, Enkrid prompted him, and Vengeance raised his voice.
"Herb seller Jenny!"
Herb seller Jenny?
Enkrid maintained his clueless expression.
Vengeance muttered a curse under his breath before shouting,
"I hated you because of your damn face!"
This guy's personality was all over the place.
He'd just helped fix his sword but was now yelling at him.
"It's that smug face of yours—I just can't stand it!"
Growling, Vengeance stood abruptly.
"Take care of your sword."
He claimed to dislike him but still showed concern?
As Vengeance walked off, Enkrid chuckled softly and rested his chin on his hand.
"I never cared. You were the one interested. My interest was in the herbs, not her."
He couldn't believe Vengeance didn't remember.
Enkrid often visited the town.
Over time, women would develop crushes on him, enchanted by his face.
It was nothing but the fantasy of young women in a remote town.
Now that he thought about it, he did recall an herb seller named Jenny.
But he'd pretended not to know to tease Vengeance.
Messing with him was amusing.
It made sense why Rem enjoyed teasing the other soldiers so much.
"Who cares!"
Vengeance yelled again, clearly agitated.
He had an oddly endearing side to him.
But calling him "cute" would be too far.
He was sharp, skilled, and took good care of his subordinates.
'If his luck holds, he won't die easily.'
Meow.
Lost in thought, Enkrid heard Esther's cry.
"Why are you so sluggish? Hungry?"
Chirp.
At Enkrid's question, Esther squinted her eyes, giving him a look that resembled a glare.
"Are you hurt?"
He stroked her fur as he spoke.
Esther purred and closed her eyes.
The reason for her fatigue was simple: she'd spent the night absorbing the exhaustion from Enkrid's body into her own.
'Stupid human.'
Though she cursed him inwardly, she didn't dislike him.
His relentless drive for improvement mirrored her own.
Even though exploring the world of spells had left her in this state,
Her determination was no less than his.
Lowering her head, Esther drifted off to sleep.
Fatigue had piled up, and today's magic was on hold.
She was completely drained.
After all, drawing on parts of the spell world with her body was always a makeshift solution.
Beep!
Just as sleep was about to take over, a sharp noise snapped Esther awake.
The hand scratching Enkrid's head froze in response.
Lifting her head, Esther caught a glimpse of Enkrid's jawline.
He tilted his head from side to side before standing up.
"Captain!"
Enkrid placed Esther gently on the ground.
From the distance, Krais could be seen sprinting toward them.
A piercing whistle echoed in the air.
Beeeep!
A long tone.
It was a signal—one of Naurilia's military warning systems using a whistle.
A continuous, elongated tone signified only one thing: an enemy ambush.
"Which direction..."
Enkrid began to ask Krais but stopped mid-sentence.
Even before the whistle faded, the shouts of their allies broke through the air.
"Ambush! Enemy forces! Enemy forces!"
"Counterattack!"
"Hold your ground!"
"Shit, this is chaos!"
The chaotic cacophony of panic and urgency filled the night.
Tat-tat-tat!
Amidst it all, the metallic clangs of weapons clashed, and blood began to spray across the battlefield.
"Aaaargh!"
Shrieks of agony mixed with the cries of death.
Enkrid's eyes locked onto the approaching attackers.
Their pace was neither hurried nor sluggish—steady and deliberate.
Crunch.
The sound of boots crushing gravel announced their presence.
It was a step that seemed detached from time itself, as if the figure moved in a separate reality.
The spring rain had stopped, leaving a warm breeze in its wake.
The gravel path, now sunlit, still retained its gentle warmth.
Stepping across the gravel, the figure came into view—a broad-shouldered man clad in a thin but sturdy leather armor.
His helmet, distinctively from the Grand Duchy of Aspen, covered his head down to his brow, leaving only his ears exposed.
Water dripped from his faded brown hair, plastered to his head as though he'd just crossed a river.
Behind him, two enemy soldiers swung short spears, their expertise evident in their precise movements.
Clang. Thud.
Their strikes, blocks, and thrusts bore the telltale signs of elite training.
Enkrid recognized this level of skill.
The Grey Hounds, the relentless lovers special unit of Aspen known for their tenacity, were often deployed for such ambushes.
And among them, the leader strode directly toward Enkrid.
Rumble!
Esther, who had barely been dozing off moments ago, bared her fangs in a low growl.
"Esther, stay back," Enkrid said, shielding her with his body.
"Still alive, I see," the man said.
Enkrid recognized the face.
It was Mitch Hurrier, a platoon leader from the Grey Hounds.
A man Enkrid had once wounded in the chest with his sword.
Now, soaked from head to toe, Mitch had clearly pushed himself—crossing rivers, marching through the night, and launching a surprise attack.
But even so, Enkrid was in worse condition.
Will my wrist hold out? he wondered.
He had no answer.
Mitch Hurrier, catching his breath, tilted his head skyward and muttered, "Gratitude."
A prayer to the gods, perhaps.
"I've been wanting to meet you again, Enkrid," Mitch said, lowering his gaze.
"It's an honor you remembered my name."
"Of course."
Shing.
The sound of a blade being drawn.
The instant Mitch drew his sword, Enkrid felt the chilling premonition of death.
Even if his wrist had been in perfect shape, Mitch was a formidable opponent.
Enkrid's trained eye could immediately assess the skill gap between them.
"You opened my eyes," Mitch murmured cryptically.
There was no need to understand his words.
Mitch didn't expect Enkrid to.
It was merely an expression of joy in the moment—a thrill born of facing the opponent he longed to defeat.
For Mitch, this wasn't just an ambush. It was a chance to prove himself.
Mitch's blade descended in a clean, vertical slash.
Clang!
Enkrid switched his sword to his right hand to block, but...
Crack.
The splint supporting his injured wrist broke.
Pain shot through him, and his grip weakened.
His fingers trembled.
"You're injured," Mitch observed.
Would he show mercy?
Of course not.
In war, there was no room for kindness.
Exploiting an opponent's weakness wasn't dishonorable—it was expected.
"Unlucky bastard," Mitch muttered with a faint smile.
Clang.
Enkrid managed to parry another strike, but his strength was fading.
This is it.
I'll die next.
Just as that grim thought crossed his mind—
"You son of a bitch!"
Vengeance, drenched in blood, charged at Mitch Hurrier, thrusting a spear at his back.
Whoosh!
The spearhead gleamed sharply as it closed in.
Without even looking, Mitch pivoted on his left foot, spinning to avoid the attack.
His blade slashed diagonally in response.
Thwack!
His sword struck the middle of the spear shaft.
Vengeance refused to let go, lifting the spear to strike Mitch's chest.
But it was a futile struggle.
Mitch's footwork shifted seamlessly, and his sword traced a perfect horizontal arc.
Slice.
Vengeance's neck was slashed.
Though he tried to retreat, it was too late.
Blood spurted as his half-severed neck gave way.
Dropping his spear, Vengeance clutched his throat and collapsed to his knees.
Standing over him, Mitch looked at Enkrid and said, "Your neck will follow."
Slash!
Mitch completed the job, severing Vengeance's head entirely.
The head rolled across the ground.
Even knowing death would bring this wretched day back again, Enkrid's frustration boiled over.
It was infuriating.
Esther, the blue-eyed panther, lunged to attack, but an enemy soldier intercepted her with a short spear.
"Stupid beast," the soldier muttered, driving Esther back.
She wouldn't last much longer if she didn't flee.
"Go, Esther," Enkrid said.
But Mitch Hurrier was already upon him, raising his blade high.
The man was a liar.
He had promised to sever Enkrid's neck, but instead, he thrust his sword into Enkrid's chest.
"Now that I think about it, this was the spot where I was stabbed," Mitch remarked indifferently, driving the blade through Enkrid's heart.
Enkrid couldn't even muster the strength to throw his dagger.
His injured wrist rendered him powerless.
"Too bad we couldn't fight properly. Farewell," Mitch said, withdrawing his blade.
Schlk.
Blood poured from the gaping wound as Enkrid crumpled forward.
Through his dimming vision, he saw Vengeance's severed head and Esther being thrown aside.
Damn it.
It was maddeningly unfair.
And strangely surreal.