Chapter 144 - Through the Trap by Force (2)

The mustached man, commander of the Gray Hounds—now numbering fewer than twenty—furrowed his brow. 'They just charged straight in?' He had laid a trap. An enticing one. But he hadn't expected them to fall for it easily. Rather, he had intended to turn the trap to another use: scatter similar traps everywhere. What would happen if the enemy couldn't tell the real ones from the fakes? They would be too uneasy to attack. That alone would be half a success. ["Then they'll withdraw. They won't be able to attack recklessly, either."]

A strategist in their command who was well disposed toward him had told him that personally. The Gray Hounds, an independent roaming force, were now little more than a remnant. Successive battlefield defeats, and Mitch Hurrier's death. They had to answer for their repeated failures. This was the beginning of that reckoning. The mustached man had to unsettle the enemy force in the rear. He had to restrict their movements. He had made plenty of preparations to that end, but... 'It feels like it's all gone to shit before we've even properly started.' They had practically charged in with their swords the instant their eyes met, without a moment's hesitation. It was like cutting someone again and again, then asking, "Want to fight?" They didn't need to say it aloud. Their bodies, their actions, their manner made it perfectly clear. 'Just as I thought.'

They were fucked. With the Naurilian army stationed behind the main army now on the move, command would have plenty to worry about, too. So what now? Give everything up? The death of a son of the Hurrier family? That was fine. Didn't that family treat its children as expendable anyway? Then where did his own path lie? These stray thoughts would only break his concentration. He would cast his worries elsewhere, leave them for later. He steadied himself and drew his sword. SHING! Without taking a breath, he drew in one swift motion and held the sword upright before his eyes. 'I just have to kill them all.' The enemy skirmishers had charged straight through the trap? Was that cause for alarm? No. It was something to welcome. 'Kill that one first.' First, the bastard who had put a hole in Mitch Hurrier's belly. Then the blond swordsman beside him. Next, the one with the axes. He would have to keep some strength in reserve. One at a time, while remaining wary of a coordinated attack. He gathered his thoughts and looked straight at his opponent. But had this bastard always been this good? Some things you could tell just from a stance. His bearing was exceptional. This was the man who had stabbed Mitch Hurrier and fled. No question. That wasn't a face one forgot. The man who had barely escaped alive that day. Who had survived an assassin's threat, too. Had he been this good back then? He didn't think so. Had his skills improved? That changed nothing. He was someone to cut down. So were the others behind him. The mustached man's eyes gleamed. Watching him, Krais felt a private surge of unease. 'He doesn't look like any ordinary fighter.' Krais lacked the eye to judge an opponent's ability. That was what made him anxious. The enemy had laid a trap, and he had read their intentions. So he had proposed smashing straight through it. The Lunatic Platoon he knew could break it by force. He had faith in them. Even so, his unease wouldn't entirely go away. That was his nature, compounded by his habit of assuming the worst. So how would this turn out? It would begin with the fight between his Platoon Commander and the fellow with the magnificent mustache. Krais turned his eyes toward them. He had the illusion that the air was settling heavily around them. Spring sunlight shone between the two men. Neither stirred. They stood motionless, swords raised. The dust hanging in the air scattered on the wind, and their figures blurred out of Krais's sight. CLANG!

Then came the ring of steel.

* * *

Ragna stepped aside to watch. 'Not bad.' The mustached man's swordsmanship was sharp. It showed proper instruction, diligent practice, and years of training. Like a table whose rough surfaces had been sanded over and over until smooth. A finely made piece of furniture. Something bearing a craftsman's touch. That was the impression he gave. And Encrid? His Platoon Commander was rough. Something that remained unfinished despite having its rough edges ground down again and again. Like an unfinished vessel. One was nearing completion. The other was still incomplete. "What, a duel between commanders? How boring."

The barbarian muttered beside him. Ragna didn't bother answering. Unexpectedly, Jaxon answered instead. "If you're bored, start cleaning up."

His tone couldn't have been more nonchalant. "So many wish to stand beside my Lord. This is a fine day indeed."

The words of the ignorant religious nut came from beside them, too. Apart from the mustached man facing Encrid, the enemy had surrounded them with long spears on every side. Even at a glance, they outnumbered the platoon more than three to one. There were nearly fifty of them. The men hidden inside the supply wagons had crawled out as well, and every one was formidably equipped. They couldn't quite be called heavy infantry, but three of them wore mail. Yet everyone remained untroubled. Had they left their fear somewhere else? Or had their guts swollen so much they were lodged in their throats? CLINK. "Shall we start after they're done?"

One of the mail-clad soldiers tossed out the suggestion, pointing his thumb toward Encrid and the mustached man. His manner exuded confidence, even with the men Ragna had just killed strewn across the ground. "Let's."

Krais answered. Surely winning the commanders' duel before beginning would give them an advantage. After that first ring of steel, Encrid and the mustached man kept striking sparks from their blades. Ragna stopped paying attention to what was happening around him. It was none of his concern. His eyes followed Encrid's hands and feet, his sword and movements. Between the complete and the incomplete, which had the advantage? CLANG!

SCREEEEECH! 'The complete.'

Naturally. But what if the unfinished vessel itself was of a different caliber? 'It's over.'

Ragna reached his verdict silently. The difference in skill was one thing, but their very mindsets differed. With an attitude like that, a man could lose even a fight he should win.

* * *

Blades, feet, swords, air, dust, heat. Though all those things swept past him, he paid them no heed. He did not see them. Did not even feel them. Encrid focused wholly on the sword. "Hah!"

The mustached man shouted as he brought his sword down. It was a weighty blow from a properly trained swordsman, true to the fundamentals of the Heavy Sword Technique. Encrid held his sword horizontally in both hands to block and bent his knees. He let the force flow past, guiding the blade aside. SCREEEEECH!

Blade met blade in a shower of sparks. His opponent used strength; Encrid countered with finesse. In the next exchange, their roles reversed. Encrid brought his sword down hard, and his opponent caught and redirected it. His technique was remarkably smooth and clean. More so even than Mitch Hurrier's. Not that Mitch Hurrier entered Encrid's thoughts. His eyes and ears, hands and feet—all were focused solely on wielding his sword and fighting. He used everything he had to perceive the battle, including Concentrate on a Single Point, the heart of the beast, and the sense for the blade. Connecting points to form a line. Cutting his opponent with that line. Reading the intentions behind each block and dodge. They traded more than ten exchanges that way. Encrid faced danger twice. Once, his wrist was nearly cut, but he blocked with his sword's guard and knocked the blade away. The second time, a sequence of vertical and horizontal cuts abruptly turned into a stab, which he only just managed to stop. The stab aimed for the center of his abdomen. Encrid had to turn the flat of his blade toward the point, catch it, and knock it aside. Anyone watching would have called it an acrobatic feat of defense. Had his timing been even slightly off, there would have been a new hole in the middle of his leather armor. "Hmph."

The mustached man scoffed when his surprise strike missed. It was a declaration of his determination to kill Encrid soon. Encrid ignored him. After those two close calls, Encrid twisted his foot to the left and stepped out. The mustached man moved as well, denying him a better position. They circled within sword's reach. As they changed positions, Encrid deliberately concealed his left hand behind his right shoulder. Having shifted his stance, he held his sword in his right hand alone and reached for his waist with his left. The mustached man read his intention. Countless duels and years of experience let him foresee the next moment. That extra sword had already been bothering him. He had seen Encrid wield both blades, too. 'The left hand.' The instant he saw Encrid's left hand drop, he swung hard. From upper right to lower left. A broad diagonal cut. A Heavy Sword strike. This would do it. Victory was his. Encrid did not draw with his left hand. He only pretended to. Then he unleashed the strike he had prepared through several measured breaths. 'Heart of the Superhuman.' THUMP! His heart beat. From that explosive heartbeat, blood raced through his entire body. The rushing blood lent power to his muscles. Superhuman strength surged through him, nearly twice his normal strength. Neither shouted. Two pairs of bloodshot eyes merely glared at one another. Life and death would be decided in a single strike. Facing the weighty blade rushing toward him, Encrid swung his sword horizontally with his right hand alone. CLANG! CRACK! THUD! The three sounds erupted almost simultaneously. Their sword strikes crossed as both stepped forward, carrying them past one another. "... You planned that?"

"From the start."

With their backs to each other, the mustached man asked, and Encrid answered. The mustached man's blade was clean. Not a trace of blood on it. More importantly, it had snapped in half. Encrid's sword was the opposite. A sword forged from a mixture of Valeri steel and Noir wrought iron. 'A fine sword.'

At least, it was to him as he was now. The mustached man pitched forward. His chest gaped open, blood pouring out. Cut and broken, his ribs had failed to protect his heart. Even a Frog died when its heart was destroyed. Naturally, the fallen mustached man was dead. Encrid did not know it, but this man had been the last hope of the Gray Hounds. In short, this could well be called the moment the name Gray Hounds vanished into history. "Whew."

Encrid let out a breath and flicked his sword clean. His opponent had been watching his left hand. That was why he had answered, "From the start." He had shown him for the sake of this moment. The Valen Mercenary Sword Technique: Preview. A technique that planted an attack pattern in the opponent's mind to complicate his thinking. 'It works.'

He could now conceive a move and wield his sword exactly as he intended. That realization came before the joy of victory. 'It works.'

That exhilaration filled his chest first. Using twin swords didn't mean they had to be his main approach. He only needed to use what was required when it was required. 'Spears, other weapons, even shields.' Even the things he had abandoned now felt within reach. It wouldn't be bad to try them all. Of course, they wouldn't fit his hands quite like a sword, but wouldn't the experience alone have value? So he thought. "Not bad."

That was what Encrid murmured after finally killing his opponent. "I don't know why watching the Platoon Commander fight gets me so excited."

Rem spoke. He looked quite—no, extremely—excited, the corners of his mouth curling into a broad grin. The three mail-clad enemies remained calm. Even the mustached man's death left them unmoved. "Hmm. He wasn't the sort to die like that."

"A shame."

"He underestimated his opponent. When someone fights you with everything he has, you must do the same."

The three men in mail exchanged these remarks. Right, so they had eyes, too. Rem nodded inwardly. They were right. Encrid had devoted everything to the fight, while his opponent had worried about what came afterward. Who the fuck did he think he was, worrying about the next fight when he wasn't even as good as the man in front of him? Of course he'd end up dead. "Hey, shall we do this all at once?"

Rem stepped forward. THUMP. "You're being far too greedy, brother."

A hand like a bear's paw settled on Rem's shoulder. Audin shook his head. "Get your hand off."

Rem's words and gaze were as murderous as he was excited. Audin continued to chuckle and shake his head. "I said you're being too greedy, my barbaric brother."

"You little shit!" SWISH. TAP. Rem's axe moved, straight and true in a vertical swing. Audin retreated with an agility that belied his bulk. An icy chill passed between them. At some point, Audin's smiling face seemed to have frozen into a statue. The three men in mail stared at them in disbelief. What was wrong with these bastards? Why were they fighting each other? And over which of them got to fight the three of us? It was contempt. Sheer contempt. They were being made fools of. "Crazy bastards."

At last, one of the mail-clad men stepped forward. His weapon was an iron hammer with a rounded head. As he sprang out, a sword barred his path. "You're mine."

Blond hair, red eyes. Eyes that seemed to hold flames. A sword strike like a blazing fire followed. The hammer wielder swung his large round shield like a weapon. Attack and defense in one. CLANG! Ragna's sword struck the shield and returned to position like a swallow skimming the water. "Cutting in line?!"

Seeing that, Rem sprang forward. "The Lord is angered by those who disrupt the order, brother!"

Audin moved as well.

And so the battle continued.