Chapter 118 - A Leap Forward

“Come at me!” CLANG-CLANG-CLANG. Sword and spear met again and again. Vengeance fought roughly, with considerable strength. However much stronger Encrid was than the average person, his opponent was a trained soldier too. Overpowering him with just one hand would not be easy. ‘Then how?’ He thought as he fought, then put those thoughts into action. Deflect. Deflect the powerful blows and thrust into the openings. A line connecting one point to another. He found the most efficient path, thrust his sword, then watched the response and retreated. His feet moved busily. Whenever he spotted an opening, he also brought his sword down with a weighty stroke that captured the essence of the Heavy Sword Technique. SKREEECH! Vengeance blocked the blow with his spear shaft and tried to trip him. This was a kind of fighting Encrid knew better. Hadn't he fought countless times against Pin and her Ail Karaz-style grappling? Learning Balaf-style martial arts had also familiarized him with the ground techniques known as bed techniques. He kicked Vengeance's foot aside with a sharp smack, then seized the opening to strike the spearhead as hard as he could with his sword. CLANG! The spearhead veered sideways. In that opening, he forced his sword up against Vengeance's throat. He thought he heard something snap inside the muscles of his left forearm. Still, he had won. “You, your left hand...”

“I've been training it all along. Often, when you weren't looking. It was my secret weapon.” A prepared excuse was always a beautiful thing. Repeating today so often had made him quite adept at making excuses. “Fuck.”

“Why the sudden spar?”

“I don't know. Watching you made me want to have a go.” But he'd only been practicing the basics. Had he shown any particularly impressive moves? Footwork, thrusts, and cuts, over and over. Had there been anything else? Vengeance had nothing to say either. He already knew Encrid was a cut above him, both in skill and character. He'd been unable to hate the bastard ever since Encrid saved him from the Medical Barracks fire. Watching him practice swordsmanship left-handed, he'd wondered what he was doing. ‘Why is he good with his left hand too?’

Still, something did seem to be missing. “It's, uh, strange.”

“What?” No, damn it, who could understand an explanation like that? Cursing himself, Vengeance racked his brains again, then put what he'd come up with into words. “Your sword feels dead.” That was the best he could do. Any further explanation would be a string of clumsy words. Besides, what more could he say to someone who fought better than he did? But looking at the situation, he made a pretty ridiculous sight. He'd suddenly challenged someone to a fight, lost, and was now finding fault with his opponent. “No, what I mean is...”

“Wait.” Encrid cut him off and began staring blankly into space. His eyes were open, but his mind was elsewhere. Vengeance felt misunderstood. He hadn't stepped forward out of jealousy or envy. In that moment, his feelings had been pure. Just like when he'd first picked up a spear. He'd remembered killing his first demonic beast after joining the army, and how he'd been so excited that he'd practiced with his spear morning and night. His blood had boiled. He simply couldn't sit still. Here was a man with a wrecked right wrist. According to the rumors, he'd returned from a brutal mission, sparred with his platoon members, then gone to sleep. He was that sort of man. He had to be hurt and exhausted. So why was he working himself so hard? Why was the bastard smiling? Jealousy and envy hadn't even entered Vengeance's mind. His blood had simply surged hot. “Thanks.” Encrid suddenly spoke after staring blankly into space. Then he looked at Vengeance, who was standing there vacantly, and asked, “What are you doing?” Vengeance blinked, then answered, “Nothing.” But what was he thanking him for? He certainly was a strange bastard. Training-obsessed lunatic. Wasn't that a fitting nickname? Certainly better than irresistible Platoon Commander. Vengeance's words had made Encrid realize something.

‘Clumsiness.’ The discord he'd felt while revisiting his past and retracing the path he'd walked. Rather than feeling out what was wrong and identifying it, he'd kept himself busy swinging his sword every day. He hadn't known a better way. But now he understood. It was a difference in sensation. For a right-handed person, every sensation differed between the right hand and the left, starting at the fingertips. That had to come first. ‘Start with meals.’

Starting with using a spoon and fork. As it happened, he also knew a training method that used both fingertip sensitivity and arm muscles.

‘Hidden knife.’

Good. This would give him a way forward. “Captain!”

Krais's voice rang out again. “Grrr.”

Esther bared her hostility. “Oh, fuck.”

Vengeance swore. “Thanks be to God for letting us meet again.”

Mitch Hurrier stepped into his path, soaking wet. He seemed to have become deeply religious, though Encrid didn't remember him being that way before. Even if he ran, the day would return to its beginning. This was a wall he had to overcome with his left hand alone. What use were words? The only answer was to take up his sword and fight. Encrid fought without speaking. He swung his sword. Tried to trip his opponent. Worked to memorize his patterns. Then he died.

Pain, darkness, the abyss, death. After dying and waking again, he began living left-handed from the next day onward. “What are you doing?” Krais asked, tilting his head.

“Filling my stomach.”

“Did you hurt your right fingers too?”

“No. I'm trying not to use them. It needs rest to heal.”

“That's going a bit far.”

Yes. It was just an excuse he'd tossed out. Twenty repetitions of today passed after he began living left-handed. During that time, Vengeance asked to spar several more times. He wore the face of a soldier whose blood ran hot with a pure admiration for martial skill.

“Good.”

Only on the today after those twenty repetitions did he stop calling Encrid's sword dead. ‘I owe you.’

Again he swung his sword and died. Died, died, and died again. He felt the change on his ninetieth today.

‘It's different.’ Would following his right hand's path with his left mean repeating exactly the same thing? No. The Encrid of then and the Encrid of now were far too different. ‘Concentrate on a Single Point.’

Immersion. Training to sink deep within himself even as he swept his sword. A body transformed through the Isolation Technique. Immersion and a transformed body. And the heart of the beast, keeping him calm through it all. His body's movements. Which way was the swaying blade heading? How much did his body move when it did?

Repetition, repetition, repetition. In the midst of training repeated enough to bore anyone, Encrid experienced a moment unlike any he'd ever known. SWISH.

SWISH.

SWISH. It went beyond his blade moving as he intended. He found nothing hindering him from roughly imitating the basic forms of The Oniak Sword Technique. Precise, heavy, swift, fluid, and strange. His body moved on its own. What was talent? It couldn't be defined in a single phrase. A knack for using one's body was surely necessary. Even the ability to forget everything and concentrate was part of talent. He had no room even to feel pleasure. His sword found its own path. His body moved on its own. He didn't need to look around. Even as he moved like this, he could feel the eyes watching him. This was what came of reshaping meager talent through hard-earned effort. An experience he'd never had before. One he ordinarily would never have had in his entire life. Keen sensitivity joined the balance forged by immersion, his body, and composure. Encrid felt his swordsmanship make a tremendous leap, not through repetition, but within a single day. “Whew.”

At the same time, he could see what he lacked. Finesse. What did he need to do to acquire it? Simply swinging a sword wouldn't suffice. He could see things through his newly opened talent. Beyond merely using his left hand in everyday life, he thought he could make the hidden knife second nature to it. So it was back to repetition. Seeing clearly what he lacked changed nothing. He repeated it all again. These days could be boring at times, painful at others, but...

‘I can do this?’ Encrid found joy in retracing his path with his left hand, one step at a time. Watching himself grow. Nothing set him ablaze like that. On the today when, after sharpening his senses further, he finally felt more or less ready:

“Let's spar.”

As always, Vengeance came at him. By now, the fellow challenged him every single day. The fight was brief. CLANG-CLANG! He knocked the spearhead aside and flicked his sword upward. The blade seemed to curve like a snake. It stopped before Vengeance's throat. “Fuck. With your left hand.”

“I've been training it all along.” At an excuse much like those from other todays, Vengeance fell silent. He was simply dumbfounded.

‘How can he do that left-handed?’

No lament escaped him. He'd asked to spar out of admiration in the first place. “What's on your mind?” Encrid asked just then.

Vengeance answered honestly. “I was thinking I'd better work hard when we get back.” Encrid stared at him for a moment, then smiled gently. He really did have an enviably handsome face. Then he spoke.

“Good boy. Keep it up, and someday Jenny will fall for you too.”

“You son of a bitch!” How did he get so worked up every time? Jenny was Vengeance's trigger. Encrid laughed and pushed him away, and Vengeance cracked a smile too. ‘I should at least let him tell Jenny how he feels.’

Which meant he couldn't die here. FWEEEEEEET! The whistle blew. The hundred-and-twelfth today began. CLATTER. Mitch Hurrier appeared, treading over gravel.

“Captaaain!”

Krais was a little late today. Just because today repeated didn't mean it was identical every time. Of course, whether Krais was late hardly mattered. Encrid wore his scabbard at his right hip and took the grip in his left hand. “Well, now. I suppose I should call this good fortune.”

Mitch Hurrier murmured as he looked at Encrid. Encrid wasn't listening. At some point, he forgot the whistle, Mitch Hurrier, Vengeance, Esther, Krais. Even himself. He held only the sword in his mind. Sword and opponent, a line connecting point to point.

What was speed? SHIIING! The blade scraped against its scabbard. Before the sound had even ended, the drawn sword traced the most efficient path and descended toward Mitch Hurrier's forehead. PING. Encrid heard a sound like that in his ears. In a sliver of divided time, he entered a state of immersion and unleashed a preemptive attack with all his strength. This one strike, at least, was better than anything his right hand could currently produce.

And then. SHING! Mitch Hurrier drew his sword too. CLAAANG! Blade met blade. With their swords crossed, Encrid drove forward by force. GRRRIND! Mitch's feet slid backward. Lifting them now would send him toppling. He braced himself where he stood, and Encrid closed in without giving him room to pull his sword away. Once he was so close he didn't even need to extend his arm, Encrid released his own sword and clamped his hand around Mitch Hurrier's sword hand. In an instant, he crushed down with all his strength. CRACK. A crisp sound of grinding bone rang out.

“You crazy bastard!” THWACK! Mitch Hurrier drove his knee into Encrid's thigh. Encrid tried to keep his hold even then, but the punch that followed caught him near the cheekbone and forced him to retreat. ‘That punch really stings.’

“Esther!” As he shouted while backing away, the quick-witted panther sprang forward.

“My sword!”

I'm not telling you to attack, you panther. His intent got through. Esther had been inwardly shaking her head at what this reckless human was doing when she sprang forward at the sound of her name. At his next shout, she clamped her teeth around his sword grip and flung it backward. Even this simple action took all her strength. Her magic was out of service today, and her body wasn't in proper shape either. WHOOSH. CLATTER. THUNK. The sword flew low and landed a step in front of Encrid. THUD! A spear shot into the spot where Esther had been. It belonged to an enemy soldier behind her. After driving his short spear into the ground, he tried to kick her. CLANG! This time, Vengeance stopped him.

“Not so fast, bastard.” The enemy soldier snorted as their spears met, and the two began trading blows with spearheads, shafts, fists, and feet. Encrid picked up his sword in the meantime. “How's your hand?” Encrid was the one with a splint on his right wrist, so it hardly seemed an appropriate question for him to ask. But it did make Mitch Hurrier curl his lip and glare at him.

“You bastard.” That last clash had broken his thumb. Without it to brace his grip, he wouldn't be able to hold his sword properly. Mitch glanced at his broken thumb, then at his opponent. Now that he looked, this Encrid fellow was holding his sword in his left hand. Had he always been left-handed? He didn't think so. He'd used his right hand when they fought, and he'd given it everything he had. Remembering that only made this situation more absurd. “Sorry, but I'm ambidextrous.”

Mitch Hurrier switched his sword to his other hand as he spoke. His left. Encrid, of course, was already holding his sword in his left hand.

“Yes. As of today, so am I.” It wasn't a lie. Repeating today had made him quite comfortable using his left hand.