Chapter 144 - Breaking Through Traps with Strength (2)
The commander of the Grey Hounds, now reduced to fewer than twenty men, furrowed his brows.
'They're just charging straight in?'
A trap had been set—a tempting, well-crafted one.
But he hadn't expected them to fall for it so easily.
In fact, he had planned to turn the trap against them.
The idea was simple: set up numerous similar traps at random.
If the enemy couldn't tell which ones were real and which were fake, what would they do?
Hesitate.
They wouldn't be able to charge in recklessly.
That alone would count as half a victory.
"If that happens, they'll have no choice but to retreat. They won't dare attack so easily."
That was the conclusion passed down to him from a military strategist who had taken a liking to him.
The Grey Hounds independent unit was now little more than a memory.
They had suffered consecutive defeats, and with Mitch Hurrier dead, someone had to take responsibility.
That responsibility had now fallen to him.
He needed to disrupt the enemy's rear forces and restrict their movements.
He had made extensive preparations to do so.
'And yet, it feels like everything was crushed before it even began.'
This was something else entirely.
The moment they locked eyes, the enemy charged in without the slightest hesitation, sword in hand, striking down anything in their path.
Cutting, slashing, and only then—only after the bodies had fallen—did they even seem to ask, 'So, do you want to fight?'
There was no need for words.
Their intent was clear in their stance, their actions, and their presence.
'Of course.'
He was screwed.
With the Naurilia army now moving from the rear, his own command post would be in turmoil.
So, what now?
Should he abandon everything?
The death of a Hurrier heir?
It didn't matter.
That family used their children as expendable tools anyway.
So then, where did his own path lie?
Dwelling on distractions would only dull his focus.
He shoved those thoughts aside.
The mustached commander steadied his mind and drew his sword.
—Sching.
A single breathless motion.
His blade was unsheathed and held upright before him.
'Simple solution: kill them all.'
The enemy's raiding unit had broken through the trap and charged in?
Was that really something to panic over?
No, this was an opportunity.
'I'll start with that one.'
The one who had put a hole in Mitch Hurrier's stomach.
Then, the blond swordsman beside him.
Next, the one wielding an axe.
He would need to conserve his strength.
Take them down one by one.
Watch for coordinated attacks.
With his thoughts in order, he locked eyes on his opponent.
But wait—was this bastard always like this?
A trained eye could tell a lot just from posture.
The aura was different.
This was the same one who had stabbed Mitch Hurrier and fled.
No mistake—his face was too memorable to forget.
He had survived that time.
He had even survived the assassins' attack.
Had he always been this formidable?
No, something had changed.
He had grown stronger.
But that changed nothing.
He was still someone who needed to be cut down.
And so were the ones standing behind him.
The mustached man's eyes gleamed.
Seeing that, Krais felt an uneasy tension creeping in.
'This guy isn't ordinary.'
Krais didn't have the ability to read an opponent's strength.
And that lack of certainty was what made him anxious.
The enemy had set a trap.
Krais had read their intentions.
So, he chose to smash through it with brute force.
That was how his Madmen squad operated.
They could break through anything with sheer strength.
He believed in that.
And yet, his unease wouldn't fully fade.
It was just in his nature.
He always assumed the worst-case scenario.
So then, how would this play out?
For now, it would begin with a duel between their squad leader and the mustached commander.
Krais' gaze shifted between the two.
The air felt unnaturally heavy.
The spring sunlight slipped between them.
Neither moved.
They stood, swords drawn.
The dust that had been swirling in the air scattered in the breeze.
In Krais' eyes, the two figures blurred for a brief moment.
—Clang!
Then, the clash of steel erupted.
Ragna stepped back, becoming a mere spectator.
'Not bad.'
The mustached man's sword was sharp.
It bore the marks of disciplined training and years of refinement.
It was like a well-polished table—rough edges smoothed away over time.
A finely crafted piece of furniture.
Something shaped by a master's hands.
That was the kind of opponent he was.
And Enkrid?
Ragna's squad leader was raw.
Even after countless refinements, he remained unfinished—an incomplete vessel.
One was nearing completion.
The other was still in the making.
"What, is this some kind of duel between commanders? Kinda dull."
The barbarian next to him muttered.
Ragna didn't bother responding.
Instead, Jaxen answered for him.
"If you're bored, start cleaning up."
His voice was as calm as ever.
"To think so many would wish to stand by my lord's side today—it must be a blessed day indeed."
The religious brute chimed in from nearby.
Aside from the mustached man before Enkrid, the rest of the enemy had surrounded them, spears in hand.
At a glance, they were outnumbered at least three to one.
Nearly fifty opponents.
Even those who had been hiding inside supply wagons had emerged, all armed.
Though they weren't heavy infantry, some among them wore chainmail.
Three of them, in fact.
Yet, despite all this, the squad remained unfazed.
Did they leave their guts somewhere?
Or were they so hardened that their courage was just jammed halfway down their throats?
—Clank.
"Should we start after they're done?"
One of the chainmail-clad soldiers casually remarked, motioning toward the duel with his thumb.
His attitude exuded confidence.
Even though those who had just been slain by Ragna's sword lay sprawled on the ground, he remained unfazed.
"Let's do it, then."
The one who answered was Krais.
Winning the duel first would certainly be an advantage.
That was a given.
With the clash of metal, Enkrid and the mustache-faced man sent sparks flying.
Ragna withdrew his attention from his surroundings.
It didn't concern him.
His eyes followed Enkrid's hands and feet, his sword, and his movements.
Between completion and incompletion, who held the advantage?
Clang!
Sizzle—!
'Completion does.'
That was only natural.
But if the vessel itself was different, even an incomplete one could alter the outcome.
'It's over.'
Ragna reached a conclusion inwardly.
The difference in skill was obvious, but more than that, their mindsets were worlds apart.
Even a winnable battle could be lost with the wrong mindset.
Blades, feet, swords, air, dust, heat.
Even as such things grazed past, Enkrid paid them no mind.
He neither saw them nor felt them.
His entire focus was on the sword.
"Hah!"
His opponent, the mustached man, let out a spirited shout as he swung his sword down.
It was a well-trained strike, following the fundamentals of heavy swordsmanship—an imposing and weighty blow.
Enkrid gripped his sword with both hands, tilting it horizontally while bending his knees.
He absorbed the force, diverting it to the side.
Screeeech!
Blade met blade, and sparks scattered.
His opponent countered with brute strength, while Enkrid relied on finesse.
Then the flow reversed.
This time, Enkrid struck down with power, and the mustached man parried, deflecting the force.
It was an impeccably smooth and refined technique.
Even beyond Mitch Hurier.
Not that Mitch Hurier crossed Enkrid's mind at this moment.
His eyes, ears, hands, and feet—all were singularly devoted to wielding his sword and fighting.
He observed everything, employing singular focus, the instincts of a beast, and the sensitivity of a blade.
He connected dots into lines.
He used those lines to carve through his opponent.
He read the intent behind every block and dodge.
Over a dozen exchanges took place.
Twice, Enkrid faced danger.
Once, his wrist nearly got slashed, but he deflected the attack with his sword's guard.
The second time, his opponent repeatedly struck horizontally and vertically before abruptly switching to a thrust.
Aimed straight for his abdomen.
Enkrid quickly raised his blade, blocking the pointed tip and deflecting it to the side.
To anyone watching, it was a near-miraculous defense.
Had his timing been even slightly off, a fresh hole would have been torn through the middle of his leather armor.
"Hmph."
The mustached man scoffed when his unexpected thrust missed.
A clear declaration of intent—he would kill him next.
Enkrid ignored him.
After surviving two close calls, Enkrid's footwork shifted as he stepped left.
Not willing to give up a favorable position, the mustached man adjusted his steps as well.
They circled each other within striking distance.
During the exchange of positions, Enkrid deliberately used his right shoulder to conceal his left hand.
After adjusting his stance, he gripped his sword with only his right hand while his left reached toward his waist.
The mustached man understood Enkrid's intent.
Years of duels and extensive combat experience allowed him to predict the next move.
That extra sword had been a lingering concern.
And he had already witnessed Enkrid wield two blades before.
'The left hand.'
The moment he saw Enkrid's left hand descend, the mustached man swung his sword forcefully.
A heavy diagonal slash from the upper right to the lower left.
A decisive blow from a heavy sword.
It would end this fight.
His victory was assured.
Enkrid did not draw his second sword.
He only pretended to.
Then, with breath carefully controlled over several exchanges, he unleashed his strike.
'Heart of the Beast.'
Boom!
His heart pounded.
Blood surged through his body like an explosion.
The coursing blood fueled his muscles.
His strength surged to nearly double its normal power—a burst of monstrous might.
No war cry.
Just two pairs of bloodshot eyes locked onto each other.
A single strike would determine life or death.
Faced with the incoming heavy sword slash, Enkrid swung his blade horizontally with just his right hand.
Clang! Clang! Crack!
Three resounding noises exploded in near unison.
Blades collided.
Their footing shifted.
Their positions reversed.
"…You planned this?"
"From the start."
Backs turned to each other, the mustached man asked, and Enkrid answered.
His opponent's blade was untainted by blood.
But it was also split in half.
Enkrid's sword, on the other hand, remained intact.
Forged from Valerian steel mixed with Noir wrought iron.
'A fine blade.'
At least, to him, it was.
The mustached man toppled forward.
His chest had been cleaved open.
Blood gushed forth.
His ribs had been cut and shattered, unable to shield his heart.
Even a Frog would die if their heart was destroyed.
The mustached man's death was inevitable.
Enkrid didn't know, but that man had been the last hope of the Grey Hounds.
In short, the name 'Grey Hounds' had now faded into history.
"Haa."
Enkrid exhaled once and flicked his sword.
His opponent was conscious of his left hand.
That's why he had answered, 'from the beginning.'
It was something he had shown for this very moment.
The mercenary swordsmanship of Valen—showing a move in advance.
A technique that planted attack patterns in the opponent's mind, making their thoughts more complicated.
'It works.'
That thought crossed his mind, and now he could wield his sword as he intended.
More than the joy of victory, that came first.
'It works.'
That thrill filled his chest first.
Just because he used dual swords didn't mean they had to be the focus.
It was enough to use whatever was necessary at the right moment.
'Spears, other weapons, even shields.'
Even things he had once given up on now felt within his reach.
Trying them all out wouldn't be a bad idea.
Of course, they wouldn't feel as natural in his hands as a sword did, but even just experiencing them would have value.
That thought crossed his mind.
"Not bad."
Enkrid muttered those words as he finally killed his opponent.
"I don't know why, but watching the squad leader fight always gets me excited."
Rem spoke up, his face actually—no, definitely—filled with excitement.
His lips curled into a wide grin as he laughed.
The three men in chainmail remained composed, indifferent even to the death of the one with the mustache.
"Hm, he wasn't someone who should've died like that."
"A shame."
"He underestimated his opponent. When facing an enemy at full strength, you must respond in kind."
That was the conversation between the three in chainmail.
So, you guys do have eyes.
Rem nodded inwardly.
They were right.
Enkrid had fought with everything he had, but his opponent had hesitated, worrying about what came next.
A weaker fighter worrying about the aftermath of the battle?
What nonsense.
Of course, he died.
"Hey, should I finish this in one go?"
Rem stepped forward.
Thunk.
"You're being too greedy, brother."
A hand, large and heavy like a bear's, landed on Rem's shoulder.
Audin shook his head.
"Aren't you going to move your hand?"
Rem's excitement now carried a dangerous edge, reflected in both his tone and his gaze.
Yet Audin merely chuckled and shook his head again.
"You're too greedy, my savage brother."
"This bastard—"
Swoosh.
Thud.
Rem's axe moved, a clean, vertical slash.
Audin, despite his large frame, stepped back with surprising agility.
A chill passed between them.
At some point, Audin's smiling face had hardened like a statue.
The three men in chainmail watching them were bewildered.
What the hell are these guys?
Why are they fighting each other?
Are they really arguing over who gets to fight us?
It was disregard.
Contempt.
Mockery.
"Crazy bastards."
Finally, one of the chainmail-clad men stepped forward.
His weapon was a rounded iron mace.
As he lunged, a sword blocked his path.
"You're mine."
A blond man with red eyes—his gaze burning as if holding a fire within.
Then came a sword strike, fierce like a raging flame.
The man wielding the mace swung his large, round shield like a weapon.
An attack and a defense in one motion.
Thud!
Ragna's sword struck the shield and rebounded like a swallow skimming the water's surface, returning to its original position.
"Cutting in line?!"
Seeing that, Rem leapt forward.
"If you break the order, the Lord will be displeased, brother!"
Audin moved as well.
And so, the battle continued.