Chapter 116 - Why Does Another's Death Feel Worse?

["This is how you hold a sword."] The third-rate mercenary in the village where Encrid was born hadn't even known how to hold a sword properly. So these were things Encrid had learned from his first instructor: how to grip with his thumb pressed against the blade; how to hold the grip with his right hand in front and his left behind; how to hold the pommel, and even how to use the ricasso. Most of those grips used both hands, but...

'With one hand, too.'

It seemed possible. His already considerable strength had increased through the Isolation Technique. He held the longsword in his left hand alone and swung. WHOOSH. His casual swing traced a circle. He wasn't satisfied. But it was possible, at least. Again: stab, cut, stab and cut. Diagonal cuts, then horizontal cuts. He even mimed a bind. He pictured an opponent, but against Rem or the other platoon members, he doubted he could last even a single exchange. One-handed swordsmanship wasn't the problem. His unfamiliar left hand was. He changed opponents. Someone faceless, with a passable command of the sword. As he imagined them, one resembled his past self. Another was a piece of trash he'd met during his mercenary days, whose character hadn't measured up to his skill: a man who shot out his thin blade like an arrow. He formed the image and swung. SCRAPE. He scraped his sole across the ground as he swung wide. Sweat had gathered before he knew it, and droplets scattered everywhere. Gravel caught beneath his foot rattled into the air. Reflexively, he struck it with the flat of his sword. TICK! Thanks to his inaccurate strike, the pebble bounced off the toe of his own boot. ["Once you're holding it properly, you need to learn to cut where you intend."]

More of his instructor's words came back to him. Even cutting a motionless straw dummy hadn't been easy. Still, Encrid could manage that much. With his left hand, though, it was terribly difficult. 'It won't even go where I want.' He would build anew, retracing with his left hand the path his right had taken. He needed to swing again and again until he found the feel for it. Others might have found that tedious. Encrid didn't. It excited him instead. Retracing that path with his left hand also let him revisit things he'd missed with his right. At some point, he closed his eyes. What he saw wasn't the present, but the past. His past self. Deeper, ever deeper. He recalled his memories and the self who had struggled within them. 'What if I'd done that then?' The countless Reviews he'd performed. Battlefields, fights, monsters, demonic beasts, people. The sword he'd swung against them all. More swords, blades, hands, people. Feet catching, heads bursting. Barely surviving monsters. The time he'd spent living as though he had two lives. Encrid walked that path again. Concentrate on a Single Point settled over him naturally, shutting out everything but himself, while the heart of the beast kept him centered. He never grew so excited that he made a mistake. Boldness and composure were among the most useful weapons he possessed. They sometimes felt like an ally bolstering his willpower. He swung again. As he repeated the process, over and over, reflecting on it each time, he felt he was mastering it twice as fast as he had with his right hand. SNAP. He was drenched in sweat. The leather thong wrapped around the grip had broken. His strength ebbed, and as he let his arm hang, the sword tip tapped the ground. This hardly counted as overworking his muscles, but he could definitely feel he'd used muscles he normally didn't. His left arm seemed to tingle slightly. "You're definitely out of your mind."

The voice beside him brought focus back to Encrid's blank gaze. "Didn't you go to the battlefield?"

His eyes focused, and he tilted his head at the other man as he asked. "My platoon's defending the camp. Give me that."

It was Vengeance, commander of Second Company's Third Platoon. Encrid had felt his gaze long ago. He simply hadn't bothered to pay attention. Vengeance approached, took Encrid's sword, and tightened the leather binding on the grip. His hands were deft. He pulled both ends taut, wound the thong around, and secured it beneath the grip again. "I'm only doing this because it looks difficult with one hand." Since when had Vengeance been so kind? Since Encrid saved him from the fire? Suddenly curious, Encrid asked, "Why did you hate me?" Vengeance worked his lips for a moment before answering.

"Jenny."

"Jenny?" Who was Jenny? Encrid blinked. His memory wasn't bad, so not remembering meant one of two things: something he hadn't needed to remember, or a name he didn't know. This time it was the former. When Encrid continued to look at him blankly, Vengeance raised his voice.

"Jenny, the herb seller!" Jenny, the herb seller? Encrid's eyes still betrayed no recognition. Vengeance muttered a curse, then shouted, "I hated you because I didn't like your face!" The fellow's moods were all over the place. He'd just helped with the sword, and now this. "Anyway, I don't like that pretty face of yours."

Vengeance growled and sprang to his feet.

"Take care of your sword." He didn't like him, yet he was concerned? Encrid watched Vengeance turn his back and walk off. With a small chuckle, he propped his chin on the back of his hand.

"I wasn't interested. She was the interested one. My interest was in the herbs." How could he not remember after all that? Encrid visited the city often. Sometimes a woman would take a liking to him based on his face alone. What could he call that? It was quite literally the fantasy of a young woman in a border city, swept up in her own illusions. He'd remembered as soon as Vengeance said Jenny sold herbs. He'd merely pretended otherwise to tease him while they talked. The fellow's reactions were entertaining. This must be why Rem enjoyed teasing the soldiers around him. "Like I care!"

Vengeance shouted again. He had a surprisingly endearing side. Not that endearing was all he was. He was perceptive, reasonably skilled, and took good care of his men.

'Unless he's unlucky, he won't die easily.' MEOW. As those thoughts passed through his mind, he considered finding a stream to wash off his sweat. Then he heard Esther.

"Why are you so listless? Hungry?" HISS. Esther narrowed her eyes at his question. It looked like a glare.

"Are you sick?"

As he spoke, he stroked and groomed her fur. Soon she closed her eyes with a purr. There was a simple reason for Esther's exhaustion. All night, she'd been drawing the fatigue from Encrid's body into her own to relieve him of it. 'You ignorant human.'

Despite the inward curse, she didn't particularly dislike him. That drive to improve, which knew nothing of giving up. Wasn't she the same? Exploring her spell world had left her in this sorry state, but her own desire to improve was no less than his. Esther lowered her head and tried to sleep. The fatigue had certainly built up. The mage was out of service today. She had no energy whatsoever. Drawing upon part of her spell world in this body was a workaround to begin with. TWEEEEET! She was just drifting off when the shrill sound woke her. Encrid's hand stopped scratching her head as well. Looking up, she saw his chin. He looked from side to side, then rose. "Captain!"

Encrid set Esther on the ground. He could see Krais running toward him from one side. The shrill whistle continued. TWEEEEEEEEET! A long blast. A sustained note sounded as a warning. The Naurilian army used whistles as one of its signaling systems, and a long, drawn-out blast like this meant only one thing: an enemy attack. "Which direction..."

Encrid stopped in the middle of asking Krais. Allied voices that rose the instant the whistle sounded reached them first. "Ambush! Enemy soldiers! Enemy soldiers!"

"Fight back!"

"Don't retreat!"

"Fuuuck, we're in deep shit!" A discordant chorus born of confusion and alarm. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG! The clash of steel erupted amid the voices. Blood soon sprayed. "Aaagh!"

A scream like a death cry joined the din. Encrid, too, caught sight of an attacker. His pace was neither fast nor slow. CRUNCH. Footsteps that announced his presence through the gravel beneath them. Footsteps that made it seem as if he alone moved through a different flow of time. The spring rain had stopped. A warm breeze blew, and the sunlit gravel held its warmth. The man stood on that gravel, crunching it underfoot. Broad shoulders, thin but sturdy leather armor, and the distinctive helmet of the Principality of Aspen, covering his head down to his forehead while leaving his ears exposed. Water dripped to the ground from the faded brown hair trailing beneath his helmet. Behind him, two enemy soldiers wielded short spears with extraordinary skill. CLANG.

THUNK! THUNK! Their sequence of blocks, blows, and stabs made it clear. These were elite soldiers honed through relentless training. Encrid had encountered soldiers of this caliber before: the Gray Hounds, Aspen's special unit, also known as the Persistent Lovers. A unit well suited to an ambush like this. So that was precisely what they'd done. They had used the unit's strengths to launch a surprise attack. And the man leading them walked steadily up to Encrid. GRRRR! Esther, her sleep interrupted, bared her fangs.

"Esther, get back."

Encrid shielded her with his body and spoke.

"So you didn't die." He knew that face. An Aspen officer. A platoon commander of the Gray Hounds, wasn't he? He'd been quick to anger, and Encrid had stabbed him in the chest. His name was Mitch Hurrier, a platoon commander of the Principality of Aspen. He was soaked all over, as though he'd crossed the river. Clearly, he wasn't at his best. Running through the night to shorten the journey, then launching an ambush after fording the river. He must have expended considerable stamina to reach this point. But Encrid was in worse shape. 'Will my wrist hold?'

He didn't know. Mitch Hurrier caught his breath, then lifted his chin slightly toward the sky and murmured, "My thanks." Was that an offering of respect to a god?

"I've wanted to see you again, Encrid."

He continued as he lowered his gaze. "I'm honored you remembered my name, but..."

"Then." SHING. He drew his sword. The moment Encrid saw Mitch's draw, he sensed his own death. This would have been a difficult opponent even with his wrist intact. The discernment he'd gained as his own skills improved allowed him to gauge the man's ability. "You opened my eyes." There was no need to understand what that meant. Mitch hadn't said it expecting Encrid to understand, either. The words simply came out, born of his delight in this moment. He'd come to raid the camp and drive the enemy's already shattered morale into the abyss. Instead, he'd landed a great catch. The opponent he'd wanted so desperately to meet. The opponent he'd wanted so desperately to cut down. He had to meet this man again and prove himself. Only by defeating and surpassing him could he move on to what lay ahead. Mitch Hurrier's sword moved. A vertical cut, straight down. CLANG! Encrid switched his sword to his right hand and met the blow. CRACK. One strike was enough. His splint broke, and the strength drained from his right hand. His wrist ached and tingled. His fingers trembled. "You're injured." Would he show mercy? Not a chance. Encrid wouldn't have, either. What did it matter whether the opponent was injured? This wasn't a place to discuss honor. They were at war. Even in a duel, he wouldn't have gone easy. Exploiting a weakness in combat was something to encourage. "Unlucky bastard."

Mitch smiled bitterly. He'd wanted a proper fight, but since things had turned out this way... CLANG-CLANG. Encrid barely blocked the casually delivered strike.

'I'm going to die.'

He knew he couldn't stop the next attack. "You bastard!"

Drenched in blood, Vengeance rushed in and drove a spear at Mitch Hurrier's back. WHOOSH! The thrust had a keen edge to it. Without even looking, Mitch Hurrier moved. Pivoting on his left foot, he spun aside from the spearhead and brought his sword down diagonally. CRACK! His blade struck the middle of the shaft. Even so, Vengeance didn't lose his spear. Instead, he tried to swing it upward, aiming the shaft at Mitch's chest. It was a futile act of defiance. Mitch Hurrier's feet had moved the instant he struck the shaft. From a half-turned stance, he'd already turned all the way around, and his sword cut through the air. Leaving the spear shaft, the blade traced a line parallel to the ground. SLICE. It cut through Vengeance's neck. Sensing the danger, he had barely managed to pull back, but he was too late. His neck was already half severed. He dropped the spear and clutched his throat. Ah, you fool. You could have just run away. Vengeance sank to his knees. Standing beside him, Mitch Hurrier looked at Encrid.

"I'll cut your head off like this, too." SLASH! He cut through the half-severed neck again. Vengeance's head came rolling toward Encrid. Why? Even though he knew that dying would bring another repetition of today, he felt like absolute fucking shit. It was fucked up. Fucking rotten. HISSS! The watching blue-eyed panther tried to lunge as well, but a soldier wielding a short spear blocked her. "Just a beast."

Muttering, the enemy soldier battered Esther. She, too, would soon die if she didn't flee. "Go, Esther."

As Encrid spoke, Mitch Hurrier had already closed in and raised his sword high. Mitch Hurrier was a liar. He'd promised to cut off Encrid's head, only to stab him in the chest instead.

"Come to think of it, this is what you did to me."

His tone was matter-of-fact. His sword pierced Encrid's heart. Encrid hadn't even been able to attempt throwing his remaining whistle dagger. With his right wrist in this state, it was out of the question. "A shame we couldn't have a proper fight. Farewell."

As he spoke, Mitch Hurrier pulled the sword from Encrid's chest. SQUELCH. GRIND. As the blade withdrew from his ravaged chest, red life poured out onto the ground. GURGLE. Blood foamed at Encrid's mouth as he slumped forward from his seated position. He saw Vengeance's severed head and Esther being flung to one side. YOWL! 'This feels so...'

Fucked up. How strange. The very sight of another's death felt worse than his own. The moment of death came. After experiencing it countless times, he ought to have grown accustomed to it. Yet far from familiar, it was an abyss that planted pain, agony, and fear in his mind. Even knowing that after wandering through it he would wake to morning again, that darkness made him unwilling to die. He didn't dream. So there was no ferryman, either. Encrid opened his eyes again. MEOW. Esther rubbed her face against his chest. He'd slept late. Morning began with his platoon members gone. And... 'This is such bullshit.' Encrid truly thought the situation was utter bullshit. His right wrist was shot, and his platoon members were absent. Before the afternoon, enemy elites would ambush the camp. Among them would be that bastard Mitch Hurrier. 'Running away won't solve it, either.'

It wouldn't. Even if he survived, he'd only return to the same day. Unless he scaled the wall, he couldn't escape today. How, then, was he to get over it? Encrid's gaze dropped to Esther as she rubbed her face against his chest. More precisely, he looked at the left hand stroking the fur on her head.