Chapter 106 - Dodge and Dodge Again

It was when he had parted ways with Leona Roquefried. In front of Border Guard's walls, the bodyguard named Mattis had drawn everyone's attention at once. It had clearly been deliberate.

That was presence. ["Killing intent becomes presence. Once your Sixth Sense opens, you can do it. It's easy. Ah, though it might be a little difficult for you, Platoon Commander."] That crazy bastard Jaxon. Always so sharp-tongued. Had his tongue been forged in a smithy? There were blades in his words.

Not that Encrid let it bother him. He simply called him a crazy bastard and moved on. In the end, Jaxon was right, too. His Sixth Sense had opened, and he had already used something like presence on the job to catch a spy, but making it second nature had been difficult. He had learned it anew this time. Once he relaxed his shoulders, it came more easily than expected.

And hadn't he put it to use? When telling Torres and Pin to be more cautious, he had spoken with his presence raised. And now.

"Break off to the side. I'll draw the rest away." "What?" Pin reacted.

"What kind of bullshit is that?" Torres reacted too. He had only just met Pin, and Torres wasn't much different. They hardly seemed close enough to risk their lives for one another. "Fuck that. Rangers don't abandon their comrades."

"Neither do I." So why were these two so eager? Their eyes shone with firm determination.

Yes, they were both very decent people. He understood that, but... "Get lost. You're in the way."

Encrid was cold. There was no time to explain everything. He had tried explaining on another today, but neither would come unstuck, as though they were ticks. "... Why is that so attractive?" Pin muttered.

"You bastard!"

Veins bulged on Torres's neck, but both of them understood. Encrid meant it. "Wait at the farthest point where you can still see me. Rejoin me when it's over. I have a plan. We can all survive."

He was outright giving orders. Having tried this several times, he knew showing determination worked better than explaining. There was no time to explain every detail anyway. Soon, Torres said, "I'll see you later."

His words carried a double meaning as he broke off to the side first. Pin followed, looking back twice. Watching them leave, Encrid thought. Even with those two splitting off, every enemy spearman had to follow him. How could he make that happen?

He already knew the answer. He glanced back and shouted.

"Roooger! Take off your helmet!"

Meaningless words to anyone who knew nothing. "Roooger! You who killed your hair and sent it ahead to heaven!"

Encrid cried out like a bard composing verse. During those seventy-eight todays, he had heard what sort of man Roger was. Though his feud with Pin had a different cause, apparently his nickname was the commander who never took off his helmet.

That had left quite an impression. From crown to forehead, a desert lay atop his head. And it was his shame. "Do you carry a barren wasteland upon your head, where not a single blade of grass grows?"

At first, he had wondered whether this would work. Testing it had been easy. When Roger captured him on another today, he had happened to knock his helmet off.

["So you're bald."]

Those few words had made Roger's eyes go wild. In short, he needed to redirect Roger's hatred of Pin toward himself.

'I do feel a little bad, but...'

Encrid needlessly ran a hand through his hair. His thick black locks slipped between his fingers, flaunting their existence. "That fucking bastard!"

Roger's eyes went wild. Encrid couldn't be sure, but if he was caught now, his death certainly wouldn't be gentle. Torture would be the bare minimum.

So he had better not get caught. Encrid ran. Even though Roger saw Pin and Torres peel away, he ordered,

"Get that bastard!"

Twenty-nine furious spearmen charged after him. He was shouting in the heat of the moment, but in that state he would soon want to split his troops and put spears through Pin's and Torres's throats as well.

'About time.'

No sooner had Encrid thought it than a monster's howl rang out from the opposite side of him from the spearmen. AWOOOOOO! Both moons were up tonight, making the surroundings bright. With the moonlight providing a clear view, the monsters charging from the other side were vividly visible.

Wolf-headed monsters pounding across the ground on two legs. Lycanthropes. "Whew."

At the sight, Encrid let out a breath to steady his breathing, then stopped. This was the decisive gamble. He had to tie up both the spearmen and those Lycanthrope bastards. 'Look at me.'

How to project presence: fill your entire body with the will to kill your opponent. Resolve that you could cut down everyone here. SHING. He took hold of his sheathed sword's grip and slowly drew it. As the blade emerged, reflecting the moonlight, Encrid advanced his right foot half a step and spoke with his entire body.

Come any closer, and I'll cut you down. Presence. Killing intent. Fighting spirit.

An intangible pressure spread outward, something that, put into words, was unmistakably one of those three. So intense that every charging spearman and Lycanthrope forgot about Torres and Pin, who had broken off to the side. Drawn by that presence, the wolf-men and the spearmen charged. At their center stood Encrid.

It did look rather like suicide.

* * *

Roger was growing irritated. All he had to do was catch one wildcat of a bitch, but things had taken a strange turn.

Should he let her escape, then? No. He wanted to catch her and kill her. She had killed his younger sibling, hadn't she? "Fuck. After them."

He would catch her and kill her, without fail. Just as he made up his mind, Encrid's shouts rang out. From "Take off your helmet" to "barren wasteland." His heart thumped. Rage surged, making his blood feel as though it were boiling.

"That fucking bastard!"

He made his decision and steeled himself. When he caught that son of a bitch, he wouldn't let him die gently. He would make him beg for death. Reason deserted him for a moment. He shouted for his men to give chase and was running after them himself when a monster's howl erupted.

AWOOOO! At the sight of the wolf-men bursting out from the other side, irritation surged through Roger.

'Oh, fuck.'

How had things come to this?

'That son of a bitch.'

It was because of the man who had mocked his hair as though reciting poetry. That bastard's taunts had made him lose his composure for a moment. "Fucking hell."

Roger tried to compose himself with a curse at the wolf-men, but it wasn't easy.

Then what should he do? He didn't deliberate long. 'Kill every last one.'

Who cared whether that bitch Retsha, or whatever her name was, cherished them? They were only monsters. In formation, his men could handle even a colony of Lycanthropes. He was about to do just that. He had made up his mind and was about to open his mouth.

At that moment, the man they were chasing let out a long breath, stopped, and gripped his sword. He gripped his sword and spoke with his body. With his presence. With his killing intent.

'Come closer, and I'll cut you down.' The surroundings vanished from Roger's sight, leaving only that man, his sword already drawn. If even Roger saw it that way, what must it have been like for the other soldiers?

Formation or no formation, they were swept up in that presence, and battle began. With no order to stop, the spearman at the front did what he always did. He saw an enemy and fought. That was his job.

And so he thrust his spear with all his might.

WHOOSH! AWOO!

CRACK!

The claws of a wolf-man that had just reached him knocked the spearhead aside. A discordant clash of wolf cries, claws, and spear shafts. That sound returned a cold sliver of reason to Roger's mind.

'Shit.'

They had attacked without properly forming up. He had been too hasty. No, the enemy's mockery of his weakness was also to blame. And that presence. That presence had been a problem too. One complication after another had led to this.

A chaotic melee had begun.

* * *

WHOOSH.

A wolf-man reached Encrid first. Its claws aimed for his throat. Watching the broad swing of its arm, he stepped back. "Whew."

He steadied his breathing. He couldn't endure this while gasping for air. From here on, it was like walking a narrow path between sheer drops. There was no room for carelessness—or mistakes. What did he need, then?

'Boldness, and...'

The heart of the beast beat.

THUMP. The charging wolf-men. The spearmen closing in from the side. He was surrounded, with enemies everywhere, but that was no reason to fret. This was a battlefield of his own making, after all. 'Then what's next?'

He sharpened his senses, moving beyond the five senses into the realm of Sixth Sense. He had to evade claws and spearheads coming from behind, too.

And he did. He advanced his left foot and swept his sword sideways. It wasn't a powerful cut, but it was enough to block the claws of the wolf-man lunging from right beside him.

CLANG-CLANG! He pivoted sideways on his left foot in a northern-style passing step. Normally, the next move would be a downward strike with the Heavy Sword Technique, breaking the arm or weapon of whoever had thrust at his back.

'Forward again.'

Instead, he bent low. WHOOSH!

A wolf-man's claws swept over his head. Encrid's eyes were half closed now, his gaze unfocused. Anyone looking closely would have said he had the eyes of a fish out of water. 'Focus.'

Rather than concentrate on a single enemy, this was the approach he had chosen to survive here.

'Wider.'

He honed the edge of his concentration and spread it out, from his body to the full reach of his sword. Victory or defeat in battle came down to judgment, distance, time, and position. Make a split-second decision. Gauge the distance to the opponent. Estimate the time needed to move his feet, the time until an enemy's weapon reached him, and the time until his own sword reached its intended destination. Recognize where he stood and where he would stand next.

With that, Encrid danced alone amid the fighting. CLANG.

Sometimes a wolf-man's claws met his blade. Sometimes a spearhead skimmed the side of his gambeson. Claws swept past right before his throat, and enemies tried to stamp on his feet. Encrid cut no one. Even when an enemy pressed close enough to nearly stamp on his foot, he merely nudged the man away with his shoulder. The result was simply a soldier's dying cry.

"Urgh!"

A wolf-man clamped its jaws around the neck of the soldier he had pushed. Blood spattered, leaving red marks on the monster's face.

He hadn't exactly intended that. Again he dodged, and dodged again.

GRRR!

When a wolf-man tried to bite his shoulder, he dropped into a crouch to avoid it. CLACK!

Hearing the monster's teeth snap shut, he merely rose and pushed it backward. That simply resulted in spears piercing the belly of the wolf-man that had targeted him.

THUD-THUD-THUD!

YEEELP! He gave everything to evasion, not attack. As he circled the outskirts of the battlefield rather than its center, gradually working his way out, the wolf-men had to kill the humans wielding long spears right in front of them, and the spearmen had to deal with the wolf-men. Torres and Pin, who hadn't gone far, saw it all.

"... That..."

"He's insane. Absolutely insane."

They spoke in turn. Forgetting their situation, both stopped in their tracks, their eyes busy following one man's movements. Encrid dodged and dodged again. Spear shafts sometimes struck him, and claws scratched his body, but he was just managing to evade. None of his wounds were fatal. Above all, look at what he had created with a few words and a surge of presence at the center of it all. The battle between the monsters and elite soldiers had become a chaotic melee. "Looks like the humans will win."

Elite soldiers were elite soldiers, after all. Though their formation had collapsed, they clustered in threes and fours to cover one another's backs. That let them recover some of the stamina spent running. They fought back in groups, blocking with shields and thrusting with spears.

It worked. Then Roger moved. Fighting three or four wolf-men alone, he drove his spear through one's skull and killed it. Wielding a short spear instead of a long one, he rampaged like a tiger. "If we leave him alone..."

They saw him head straight toward Encrid. Pin knew without looking that his eyes would be brimming with venom. He always went berserk when someone mocked his hair. "Crazy bastard."

"We need to help him."

At Pin's muttering, Torres shouted as though making up his mind. Meanwhile, the enemy commander, Roger, charged ferociously and thrust his short spear at Encrid.

"Ah!"

Pin let out a sharp cry at the sight. To her, it looked as though the spear had punched straight through Encrid's side. "Fuck. No, he dodged it."

Torres was right. She had been mistaken. Encrid had tucked the spear shaft against his side. Mid-dodge, he had caught the enemy's weapon between his forearm and his flank. It looked as though he had barely evaded it. It also looked like a moment of mortal peril.

At least, that was how it looked to Torres.