Chapter 121 - Let's Recover First

TING!

He flicked the blade with a finger, and a clear note rang out. Held up to the light, it had a faint blue sheen. It must have been made from an unusual metal. 'Doesn't look like Valeri steel.'

He had promptly claimed the sword after killing Mitch Hurrier. One glance told him it was a fine, high-quality, expensive weapon. How could he leave it behind? Anyway, would Krais know? Encrid turned his head. Three paces away, Krais sat staring blankly at him with those big eyes. He seemed to have a lot of questions. Encrid invited him to speak.

"What?"

Before asking about the metal, he felt he ought to address that strange look. "It's fascinating."

"What is?"

"Your left hand."

Krais glanced at Encrid's left hand as he spoke. Had he always been that good with it? Krais didn't think so. They had been together far longer than a day or two. That left hand was astonishing. Was this what genius looked like? He had no talent for swordsmanship or martial arts himself, so he couldn't tell just by watching. 'Wasn't he ordinary before?'

Not in his behavior, but his skill had seemed fairly ordinary. When Encrid saved him, all but risking his life for someone else, Krais had wondered what sort of person would do that. 'Risking your life to protect someone else makes no sense.'

Did being in the same squad mean you had to save someone? They hadn't even known each other for a week back then, as he recalled. Yet the gap between Encrid's skill then and now was enormous. One look at the enemy commander leading the raid had made it clear he was no ordinary fighter. And Encrid had blocked that man's sword with his left hand alone? "I've been training it steadily."

Encrid answered casually. Krais nodded in acknowledgment, then asked another question.

"Then, um, killing the commander who attacked us?" Was the left hand even the issue? What had that fight been? Ferocity? Breathless suspense? It had alternated between the two. One wrong turn, and his Platoon Commander would have died. Then that Platoon Commander Vengeance, or whatever his name was, Krais himself, and Esther would all have crossed the river called death together, hand in hand and hand in paw. Yet Encrid had remained calm in that terrifying situation. He had faced the approaching man as a matter of course, as though this opponent were his to fight.

"Dirty fighting."

Another casual answer. Krais decided to leave it at that.

'A late-blooming genius, then.'

His talent had simply blossomed late. There was neither reason nor need to dig deeper. Curious as he was, he clearly wouldn't get any answers. Even suspicion needed something to go on. Some tremendous secret? What here could possibly justify that? It wasn't as if his Platoon Commander were a fortune-teller who foresaw every detail of what would happen. 'That's impossible.'

No prophet or fortune-teller could predict events in such minute detail. Besides, Krais considered most fortune-tellers nothing more than swindlers desperate to earn a little change. 'The world is Krona.'

Krona made it move, and Krona brought it down. Why were Naurilia and Aspen fighting? To him, there was only one reason. Whichever kingdom took the Green Pearl plains would effectively gain a second granary. 'I'd try to take it too.'

War between the two nations was therefore inevitable. In an age of war and strife, taking up swords and spears for profit was only natural. Which meant he could stop worrying about Encrid's genius, since it wouldn't earn him any Krona. "What metal do you think this is?"

As Krais's thoughts wandered to an end, Encrid held out the enemy commander's sword. He'd managed to pick that up amid all the chaos. "Good metal."

"You think I asked for an answer like that?"

Of course not. There was no need to think about it. "There's a famous iron-mining region in the Kingdom of Aspen. Demph."

"Demph? Demph, Demph. I've heard of it. That village hidden between the river and the mountains?"

Encrid nodded after murmuring the name to himself. He had spent quite some time wandering the continent. Krais nodded in reply.

"Yes. They say iron from Demph has this peculiar color. It starts pale blue, gets darker, and eventually the very best iron has no color at all." That was only what he had heard. But one thing was certain: a sword made of Demph iron would cost more than Valeri steel. More than Noir wrought iron, too. This was a rather, very, exceedingly expensive sword. "If you sold that..."

"I'm not selling it."

"Huh? You're changing swords?" On a battlefield, nothing mattered more than a familiar weapon. That was common knowledge. Even Krais knew it. Surely his Platoon Commander wouldn't replace the sword he was used to. "What if I used both?"

He wasn't asking Krais. He was murmuring to himself. A spring breeze, warm now rather than cool, tousled Encrid's hair. Through the drifting strands, he gazed at the sword. Krais watched his eyes. It was an unusual look. How to describe it? His eyes shone, brimming with life and energy, like a boy who had received an unexpected gift. Seeing them, Krais couldn't bring himself to press him to sell the sword. Those lake-blue eyes, so like Esther's, looked truly delighted. Encrid didn't care whether Krais was watching. Why had he become so good with his left hand? He didn't need an elaborate excuse. No, in truth, there was no excuse to offer. It wasn't something he could explain. All he could say was that he had been training it. That might make him sound like some sort of genius, but there was no other way. More importantly, this time he had felt something akin to talent. The sensation of leaping forward all at once. Of his skill improving dramatically. Of grasping something in just a few swings that would otherwise take a hundred. 'It is fascinating.'

Would it happen again? He didn't know. In fact, he didn't need to. He only had to keep doing what he was doing. To quietly resume his journey. Talent had never been what mattered to Encrid. 'Once I've recovered.'

He would be able to try all sorts of things. Sitting on a rock that served as a makeshift chair outside the rear camp's Medical Barracks, Encrid immersed himself in Review. Training, his left hand, his right hand, dirty fighting, Mitch Hurrier, his sword, combat, the battlefield. Thinking it all through made him want to get up and move immediately, but... "I told you not to exert yourself. Why do you think I'm sitting here watching you, Platoon Commander?"

Krais spoke up beside him. Yes, he was right. Absolute rest for at least a few days. That was what the medic had told him after examining his injuries. The supply unit managed the rear camp, while Second Company's Third Platoon—Vengeance's Platoon—remained to defend it. Reinforcements were reportedly due soon. Encrid had decided to head to the front once they arrived, which meant he first needed to recover. He still couldn't remove the splint from his right hand. His shoulder bore a cut, though not a particularly deep one. A dagger had put a hole in his left forearm, too. None was a major injury on its own, but strenuous movement would aggravate them. 'Good grief.'

His body also ached in places from attempting joint locks that had pushed him too hard. Had he not trained with the Isolation Technique. Had he not possessed Concentrate on a Single Point. Had the heart of the beast not supported him. Had he not perceived things with his sense for the blade.

'I'd have been the one to die.' Encrid sat idly, devoting himself to recovery. All the while, he swung a sword in his mind. First with his right hand alone, then with both hands gripping a single sword. At the end of his mental training, he held his own sword in his right hand and Mitch Hurrier's in his left. 'Would it work?'

He didn't know. He simply wanted to try. Something about it felt right in his hands. Twin swords. 'Strength first.'

That would have to come before he could even begin. Swinging a sword with two hands and swinging it with one were entirely different matters. One of his former instructors had cursed at the very sight of such a thing—an inept attempt to wield two swords.

["Twin swords? A fucking great way to get yourself killed. You can't even handle one sword properly, and you want two? Even accomplished Unorthodox Sword practitioners rarely attempt that."] That instructor had been categorical. Where had Encrid met him? In a large city. The man who said refined swordsmanship came from a refined body. After receiving his instruction, Encrid had gone through a rather bitter experience. All that thinking was making him hungry. When injured, he needed to eat well and rest.

"Food's here."

Krais brought him something to eat just then: thin wheat bread, thick bacon, dried fruit, and cheese. A feast. "Did you raid the supply tent?"

"No. The supply Company Commander seems grateful to you. One wrong turn, and he'd have lost his head."

Krais tapped the edge of his hand against his own neck. Understandable. The rear camp existed to provide supplies. If an enemy raid stripped it bare, whose fault would that be? Who was responsible? There was no need to ask. The supply Company Commander was responsible, and the blame would be his. Had even part of a supply tent caught fire, he could easily have found himself beheaded. A commander who lost a battle could be forgiven. A commander who failed to keep watch could not. "Let's eat."

Encrid chewed, swallowed, and drank water instead of alcohol. Krais looked after him, even if he wasn't quite fussing over his every need. Three days passed like that.

"We're leaving. Coming with us?"

Vengeance asked, fully armed. The reinforcements had reached the rear. Encrid heard the situation at the front was growing more strained. With all his platoon members there, he needed to go too. His cuts and puncture wounds hadn't healed completely, but walking posed no problem. "Of course."

Beside him, Krais was lost in an unusual train of thought. 'Having seen him use a sword...'

His Platoon Commander didn't seem likely to get himself killed. Perhaps Krais should follow him rather than hang back in the rear? Just picking up a few pieces of discarded loot could earn him a tidy sum. More importantly, the supply commander was being replaced, and Krais didn't recognize any of the Third Regiment soldiers who had arrived as reinforcements. Staying in the rear and holding out would be difficult. Since things had turned out this way...

'Let's go pick up some loot.'

And so Krais joined them too. "Meow."

Despite resting for three straight days, Esther still looked drained. Encrid picked her up. She wasn't particularly heavy. Was she getting enough to eat? Why didn't she seem to be growing at all? Young animals were supposed to grow quickly, weren't they? She looked almost exactly the same size as when he first saw her. "Are you eating properly?"

Encrid stroked her head as he asked. At the needless question, Esther blinked and looked up. There was the man whose eyes resembled her own. Who was worrying about whom? He'd nearly fucking died again himself. Esther tapped him twice on the chest with a forepaw. She meant that he should stop worrying about others. "All right. I'll get you some food when I have a chance."

The man had misunderstood. Well, it didn't matter much. Let's go, you stupid human. Still weighed down by fatigue, Esther closed her eyes. Encrid set off. The only difference was that he now wore two swords, one on either hip. "Two swords?"

Encrid nodded at Vengeance's question. Vengeance had seen him use his left hand and had sparred with him. The man did so many astonishing things that he simply accepted it. They joined Vengeance's Platoon and marched to the front without incident. The battlefield's chill air greeted them upon arrival. As they walked along a road reeking of blood and metal, the sky darkened as though rain were coming. Damp, stale air, blood, iron—many odors mingled to create the scent of death. This was the forward base. And here...

"Fuck, I nearly wore my neck out waiting for you. Huh? What's this? We told you to rest, and you come back even more beaten up? Eh?"

"Things happened."

...were Encrid's platoon members. He raised a hand to quiet Rem, who was on the verge of losing his temper. It did feel as though something always happened whenever he was separated from them, but what could he do? That was how things had turned out. Vengeance reported their return on everyone's behalf, allowing Encrid to go straight to the tent. There, he gave a brief account of what had happened in the rear.

"You keep doing fun things without me."

Rem, who had been so agitated, grumbled as he picked his nose. And that was that. Encrid had survived and was here. That was all that mattered. He settled into one side of the tent and asked for a rundown of the battlefield situation. Jaxon came over and quietly explained.

"Both sides are feeling each other out."

Apparently, there hadn't been any noteworthy battles during his absence. Including the reinforcements, at least two infantry Battalions had gathered here. At least a thousand infantrymen. There were also units under the kingdom's direct command, scouts, and rear guards protecting the supply lines. 'Did they say this was the start of an all-out war?'

The battle between the main armies—a battlefield where knights, mages, and spells would run rampant—was waiting on the Green Pearl plains. Meanwhile, both armies were watching the fighting here. He didn't know how it had come to this, but he was told that was how the situation had become entangled. The infantry battle to block the flanking routes had become the opening battle for the entire war. This battlefield would determine which side began with a victory. Naturally, this fight would affect the clash of the main armies. Morale was the most immediate concern, but victory here would also widen the ground available to their forces. Opening a flanking route would make detached forces easier to deploy. The two nations' main armies were watching each other, reluctant to commit reinforcements other than infantry. In short, a standoff. With all-out war seemingly ready to erupt at any moment, a pallid tension gripped the troops. Everyone was visibly on edge. Everyone, that is, except the Lunatic Platoon. Encrid remained unperturbed, his thoughts running along the lines of, 'Ah, a battle. Soon, then. What should I do? Train.' He rose at dawn and trained his body with the Isolation Technique, just as always. Watching him, the sentry thought it was just what one would expect of the Lunatic Platoon Commander. It felt like watching a venerable tradition stretching back to his days as the troublemaker Squad Leader. That stubborn bastard who swung his sword, rain or snow. This was the man. "Not a single normal person in that platoon."

The sentry muttered as he watched Encrid. "Up and about at dawn, brother?"

Before the sun had even risen, the sentry watched the kindly lunatic and the training lunatic seize each other and twist their limbs, then looked away. They seemed to exchange a few words, and suddenly they were twisting wrists and grappling. 'Are they wrong in the head?'

His own knees were shaking at the prospect of a life-or-death battle breaking out at any moment. Morale was already at rock bottom, and the atmosphere in the unit couldn't have been worse. Yet those men carried on with all sorts of antics.