Chapter 1 - Prologue

A flash of light. Encrid had no idea what was happening. All he felt was pain, as though a red-hot skewer had pierced his throat. All he understood was that his leather-reinforced armor was useless. The hot, red liquid coursing through his body gushed out, and he lost consciousness.

Then he opens his eyes again. The start of a day.

It is not a dream. He has already been through this several times. He has no idea why it is happening. It simply happens. CLANG! The sound announcing morning. The night watch bangs a ladle against a pot. The same morning, for the third time.

Only then did Encrid truly grasp it. 'Again?' Whenever he died, the same day repeated. 1. My Dream Was to Be a Knight. The teacher who had taught Encrid swordsmanship was a good-natured man, not one to say unpleasant things. "You."

The teacher addressed Encrid, leaning on his sheathed sword, which he had planted upright on the ground. "Go back to your village. If you don't want to farm, join the village militia. You could at least make militia captain." Things might have been a little better if he had listened to that teacher, a man who had spent his share of years living by the sword.

But he hadn't. The trouble was something he had heard as a child. "Enkie, you're a genius." He had fought a foolish neighborhood boy three or four years his senior with wooden swords and won easily. He was eleven then, and it was the first time anyone had called him a genius.

He hadn't known at the time just how hopeless that kid was with a sword. At fifteen, Encrid beat one of the village adults in a wooden-sword match. After that, his confidence in his skills grew. No one in the little village where he was born knew how to use a sword properly. The closest thing they had was a former third-rate mercenary, a drifter who had lost a leg and wandered into the village.

He taught the village children swordsmanship. Encrid was among them. "You're a genius." At fifteen, he heard those words for the second time. Before, they had come from a village adult who knew nothing. This time, they came from a mercenary who claimed he had given up a knighthood and lost a leg for a lady. 'I'm a genius.'

That was what he thought. He found a dream. He decided to become a knight.

A knight who would serve a sovereign destined to unite the war-torn continent.

A knight who would put an end to war. Around that time, a bard's song spread across the continent. So far that it reached even Encrid's little village.

The words were simple, but the melody enchanted the ear, and the final lines stirred the heart. The knight who will end this war! The knight who will bathe war in twilight! We shall call him the Knight of Twilight! The Knight of the End! The knight of endings! The knight who will end the strife! A knight who would bring the wars to an end.

The bard's song set the hearts of boys and girls aflame. 'That'll be me.'

Encrid was no different. At eighteen, convinced that no one in the village could match him, Encrid left home. He had neither parents nor siblings. There were a few friends, but having been absorbed in the sword since childhood, he had few people he was truly attached to.

Amid all that, the boy had grown up and left. That was how his life as a mercenary began.

His skills weren't bad. His willingness to work hard was particularly commendable. But two months were enough for him to realize he was no genius. An unknown, so-called third-rate mercenary beat him and said,

"You're still green." He thought all he needed was a good teacher.

He saved money. He worked himself to the bone. He fought bands of thieves with his life all but hanging by a thread. With the money he earned, he sought out a school.

Big cities had a couple of swordsmanship schools each. He studied the sword.

His luck wasn't bad. His teacher was honest and conscientious.

The man told Encrid to put down his sword. "No. I won't."

Encrid did not give up. "He certainly works hard. He really does."

Everyone who saw him said the same thing. He had to. Hard work never betrayed him.

His palms split and his arm muscles trembled. He repeated the motions countless times. Among others of his own caliber, he did well enough. Encrid was exceptionally hardworking. Saving money and wandering from one school to another took him past twenty. By the time he was over twenty-five, he had accumulated enough experience and skill to earn himself a name as a mercenary.

Not that it amounted to much. Ask around a small city several times, and someone might finally say, "Oh, that fellow. He's decent with a sword." Even then, he had a sliver of hope.

Hope that he would get better. Then came the spring of his twenty-seventh year.

Encrid realized how little talent he had. A chance altercation on the road drove the lesson home. Five exchanges were all it took. His sword went flying, and a hole opened in his belly. Pressing his palm over the wound, Encrid asked,

"How old are you?" "Twelve." Twelve. He was speechless.

This was what a real genius looked like. "Sorry. It was my first real fight."

The child wasn't a noble, or even a commoner, but a former serf. And had only been wielding a sword for half a year. "That was excessive. Put this toward your treatment."

The man who called himself the child's teacher tossed him a purse. The wound wasn't fatal. No organs had been damaged, and the blade hadn't gone very deep.

He kept the purse anyway. From the age of eleven until now, he had spent sixteen years swinging a sword until his palms split open. Yet he had lost to a twelve-year-old child with a mere six months of training.

It would be a lie to say he wasn't depressed. But he didn't let bitterness fester. What reason was there to live such a dark, dreary life? 'It's not as if I've lost an arm or a leg.' Encrid knew he wasn't a genius, but that didn't mean he had to give up. And so he went back to living by the sword. He had spent roughly ten years as a mercenary. Even if he couldn't become an outstanding knight or swordsman, he could become a seasoned soldier.

Encrid quit mercenary work and underwent military training. It was the best choice available to him. He could hardly take up farming at this point. A third-rate swordsman with a mercenary background. It was an apt description. "Think the army's a joke? Think we take just anyone?"

Some sneered. "Keep at it."

Others patted his shoulder. At times he earned recognition; at others he fell behind.

And so he reached thirty. The Kingdom of Naurilia. The Cyprus Division.

Fourth Regiment, Fourth Battalion, Fourth Company, Fourth Platoon.

The so-called Four-Four Platoon was where Encrid served. He commanded ten men, directly beneath the platoon commander. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! The night watch struck a piece of metal, waking the whole barracks. "... What a fucking unsettling dream."

Roused by the noise, Encrid muttered to himself. "What were you dreaming about?"

The man beside him rose from a field bed made of layers of cotton cloth and shoved his feet into his boots. For all his slouching insolence, he was more skilled than Encrid. "My whole life." "That's ominous. Tch. Ah, a bug."

Apparently there was a bug inside his boot. The man pulled it back off, shook it out, then put it on again. Spotting the bug on the floor, he spat on it and ground it beneath his foot.

A smear of thick bodily fluid mixed with spit remained on the floor. Watching him, Encrid got up and gathered his gear: a breastplate with a throwing knife slotted over the heart, bracers to protect his arms, shin guards, and the rest. He put on an underlayer of armor made from thick, layered cloth, then leather armor over it.

The armor consisted of several layers of leather, but it was hardly sturdy. A well-sharpened blade could slice right through it. His bracers, reinforced with oiled wood, were at least a little better than what the others wore. "Heard the last ten-man commander had a dream like that before he croaked."

Encrid muttered, vaguely recalling such a rumor. "So you're due to croak today?"

His subordinate laughed, and Encrid cuffed him on the back of the head. "I'm not dying. Don't jinx me." He got up, poured water into a pot, and tossed in a few pieces of jerky. Then he added a few edible vegetables and brought it to a boil.

Breakfast. "We fighting today?"

At the question from the man beside him, Encrid shook his head. "No idea." He was only a lowly ten-man commander. Above the four ten-man commanders was a single platoon commander.

Even that platoon commander probably didn't know. Encrid's mediocre swordsmanship and lack of noble birth kept him a ten-man commander, a squad leader. But when it came to experience on the battlefield, he could eat most company commanders alive.

His men knew that. It was why they respected him. "So, Captain, what did you dream of being as a kid?"

His subordinate ambled over and asked. "A knight." "... Will you hit me if I laugh?" "I won't." "Pfft." "So you actually laugh at me? Getting sloppy, you little shit."

He kicked the man's backside as he spoke. His subordinate pretended it hurt.

"Come on, though. A knight?" What was a knight?

Someone who could turn the tide of a battlefield.

A monster who could face a thousand alone.

A hero who could single-handedly cut down hundreds of enemies. Even the unit they belonged to—the division—was named after a knight.

The Cyprus Division. In other words, Sir Cyprus's army.

And he dreamed of being a knight like that? "Nice to see you dream big." "Dreams are supposed to be big, you little punk."

Unperturbed, Encrid gathered the dishes as he spoke. It was his turn to wash up today. He didn't know how other ten-man squads did things, but in his squad, everyone shared the chores equally. A ten-man commander did little more than receive orders and pass them on. Usually, the job went to whoever was best with a spear or sword.

In that respect, Encrid was a little unusual. He was weaker in combat than the other squad members. But he could bring together men who had all but been driven out of their previous squads. The other units called Encrid's outfit the Four-Four Trouble Squad: the troublemakers of Four-Four Platoon.

Encrid was that squad's leader. "I'll lend you a hand." "Then shut that mouth and follow me." "Will do."

His subordinate snickered. How had this fellow wound up here? He was an odd one, but Encrid wasn't particularly curious about his personal history. So he didn't ask. The squad members liked that about him. He didn't ask about their pasts or pry into their present circumstances. Nor did he make any special demands.

Encrid suspected that was why they all followed him. As he washed the dishes, clattering them together, his subordinate splashed in the stream and asked,

"Why'd you want to become a knight?" The man had come along to help, only to play in the water.

Would he laugh if Encrid said he'd fallen in love with a bard's song?

Encrid considered for a moment before answering. "I wanted to be good with a sword. Figured if I was going to do it anyway, becoming a knight would be nice." "A boy at heart, aren't you?"

His subordinate snickered again. "I told you to shut that mouth." "So that's why you've been dancing around with your sword morning and night?" "Hard work never betrays you." His palms were covered in calluses from countless swings of his sword. "So, even now?" Did he still want to become a knight?

How could he? He knew better than anyone that it was beyond him.

But he wouldn't give up. He would simply endure in silence and keep moving forward. Encrid wasn't blind to reality. His dream had merely fallen silent before it, and in that silence, he had become nothing more than a soldier who earned his living by the sword. "If you're done washing, let's go." "Let's." It was an idle conversation.

They got up and returned to the barracks. Would they clash with the kingdom they were fighting in a localized war? Or would they attack the recently formed bandit gang said to be targeting their supplies?

He had no idea what they would do. 'The air feels foul.'

It always did on a battlefield. But today, it felt worse. The wait was long. With nothing in particular to do, he considered practicing his swordsmanship, then took a nap instead.

Some days, you simply didn't want to do anything. 'Hard to keep at it like I used to.' Relentless effort. He had put that in.

And this was the result.

A ten-man commander on the level of a third-rate mercenary. Only when the sun had moved a good two handspans west of its zenith did the platoon commander shout,

"Four-Four Company, everyone assemble!" They were going into battle.

The company assembled, taking its place in the army's ranks. Encrid's ten-man squad did the same. A cold tension wrapped around him.

Encrid clasped the amulet necklace he had acquired as a mercenary, then slipped it beneath his clothes. 'Didn't she say this would save my life?' It was probably bullshit, but soldiers heading into battle were quick to believe in superstition.

Ask Encrid himself whether he believed in this amulet, though, and his answer would have been, "Hard to say."

He had simply looked into the eyes of the old woman who gave it to him, and her earnest tone had moved him. 'Nothing to lose.' He had risked his life fighting, and this amulet was his only reward. Half of what had allowed him to kill the monster was luck; one wrong turn, and he would have been the one to die.

Despite the perilous hunt, the tiny slash-and-burn farming village had no money to pay him. He had happened to be passing through when they clung to his trouser legs, begging him to deal with the monster. 'What a joke.' Risking his life out of sympathy was madness.

But Encrid did not regret it.

That was what a knight did. His dream had fallen silent before reality, been devoured and torn apart, yet traces remained.

He had wanted to become a knight.

He had wanted to become a war hero.

But now he was just another soldier. "Raaaaah!"

A roar erupted. Encrid joined in, shouting until the veins stood out in his neck. Ahead, a wave of soldiers comes surging toward them. The slowly sinking sun spreads a long twilight glow.

Shattering that glow, the two armies charged. Encrid ran to meet the enemy, too. "Let's try to stay alive out there!"

His perpetually smiling subordinate shouted and dashed ahead. Soon, spears and swords on both sides began tearing into flesh and spilling blood.

Today's battle would be fought hand to hand.