Chapter 148 - Ten Days, Honors and Rewards

Ten days since the army's return.

Flowers had begun blooming even within Border Guard. Spring was well and truly here. It had rained once in that time. News that the battlefield cleanup was well underway came alongside one report of victory after another. Finally, word arrived that the Principality of Aspen had requested peace. Naurilia had seized part of the Principality of Aspen's territory—the Green Pearl plains. The land had long lain barren, and bringing it into order would take considerable work. Still, a victory was a victory. A resounding one, at that. Cheers rang out at the war's end. With spring's arrival, more people fell under its spell, and everyone seemed caught up in the excitement.

But Encrid's past ten days had been the same as ever. Nothing needed to change, and nothing had. WHOOSH!

He swung his sword. "Brother, you still have a long way to go. Hold your stance and squat straight down. Keep your back straight. Breathe in and feel the pressure in your abdomen. Lose that pressure and you'll break your back."

Audin laughed heartily as he spoke. Conditioning his body by squatting with Audin on his back—a method closer to an acrobatic feat—was another part of his daily routine.

Sword practice, conditioning, sparring. He devoted his time entirely to those three things. Whether everyone else was excited meant nothing to Encrid. Krais was forever running here and there, but Encrid had no reason to do the same. He held the rank of platoon commander, his unit had been recognized as an Independent Platoon, and perhaps thanks to the last campaign, he had no duties either. It had truly been ten days devoted entirely to rest.

For Encrid, of course, that meant ten days immersed in training. If anything had changed, though...

"Hah!"

It was the attitude of the soldiers nearby—no, of the men throughout the battalion who knew Encrid and had fought alongside him. Every one of them was busy wielding a spear from early morning. The trend had been emerging little by little, but now the number of soldiers throwing themselves into training had risen sharply. All of them worked up a sweat, wholly absorbed. They were serious about their spear practice and physical conditioning. There was another change, too.

"Um, could you give me a little instruction?"

Some of the soldiers had begun seeking Encrid out. "Me?"

He was taking a short break after working up a sweat practicing his sword. He pointed at himself as he asked. It was an understandable response. How could he put it? This was a scene he had never imagined.

Him, teaching someone? Giving instruction?

His life had been far too difficult for him to entertain such things. He had never looked toward anything but learning, practicing, and moving forward. Teaching, of all things. Was there any word that suited him less? "Give it a try."

Rem spoke from beside him, where he had been watching quietly. He had seemed to be nodding off, but apparently he had been watching. Encrid nodded. He had already been thinking of trying. He could see the eyes of the soldier standing before him.

That earnestness—the longing and thirst that still burned within Encrid—was there in the soldier's eyes, too. TING!

Encrid flicked his sword against the soldier's spearhead. The soldier's shoulders gave a startled twitch. How skilled was he?

From what Audin had taught him, Encrid could tell certain things from a person's posture and level of physical conditioning. The soldier looked reasonably experienced. "Low-grade soldier Paul, sir," the soldier said.

Encrid let it go in one ear and out the other. He simply concentrated. He would not treat this carelessly. He would focus and watch his opponent. He believed that was the best he could offer, and the only thing he could do. Paul swallowed hard and took his stance, left hand forward, right hand back. It was a stance specialized for stabbing. With his feet staggered front and back, he shouted, "Hah!" and drove his spear forward. WHOOSH! He was, as Encrid had judged, a reasonably well-trained soldier. Encrid moved with his eyes fixed precisely on the approaching spearhead. He saw and reacted, and his body moved. He had not fully mastered it yet, but the dodging sense came naturally. Twisting aside to evade, he extended his left arm and brought his palm up from below to seize the shaft. "Ghk!"

The soldier instinctively pulled back on his spear. The veins standing out on his neck showed that he was using all his strength. Holding the shaft, Encrid pivoted half a turn on his left foot, turning inward alongside the spear. In other words, he pulled with his left hand as he turned. He planted his right foot and braced his body as a pivot while pulling the shaft with his left hand. He did not even need the Heart of the Superhuman. A little knack and a certain amount of muscle were all it took. TAP!

From there, he lightly brought his sword down. With no killing intent behind it, the sword tapped the soldier on the head. With the flat, of course, not the edge. Feeling the sword resting on his hair, the soldier opened his mouth in surprise.

"Ah."

"I think that's it."

"Ah, yes." Encrid released the shaft, and the soldier awkwardly gathered his weapon to himself and stood there.

"Um, what do I need to work on?" What did it mean to be a fairly seasoned soldier? It meant having a certain confidence in one's abilities.

And yet this man was asking him something like that? What had Encrid been like before, back when the Lunatic Platoon had been the troublemaker squad? He seemed to recall being the one everyone laughed at.

And now someone was asking him a question like this? Looking closer, he realized the face was not unfamiliar. They had passed each other a few times. The fighting could hardly have been easy, so the soldier before him could at least be called a veteran. He even wore a squad leader's epaulets. What was going on? Really?

Encrid looked at him questioningly. The soldier bore the awkwardness and waited. Once again, Encrid saw his eyes. Earnestness, longing, thirst. He glimpsed the desire for something beyond reach. It was the same desire coiled within himself. He simply could not turn away. To be honest, that single spar had shown him what his opponent needed.

"You should build up your strength."

A spear was a heavier weapon than people thought. It was not light, and the man lacked the strength to match it. "Um, yes. Thank you."

The squad leader saluted, and Encrid acknowledged him with a nod. From that day onward, the squad leader devoted himself to physical conditioning. He put everything into lifting heavy objects and building strength. His squad members did the same.

A craze for strength training had swept through the battalion alongside the enthusiasm for combat practice. Hadn't they only just returned from the battlefield? Wasn't this the time to celebrate their victory?

Of course, plenty went into the city to let loose. Some did nothing but wake up and pour liquor down their throats. Some of them would surely think a day in the red-light district was better than training for tomorrow. Encrid did not particularly blame them. What did it have to do with him? He was merely a platoon commander, the captain of an Independent Platoon. As he was now, he could not even venture onto a battlefield where proto knights ran rampant. It would be a lie to say he had not wanted to watch them fight. But his feelings remained unchanged. If he could see his destination, there was no need to look around at the path he was taking. It might have been different had Sir Cyprus taken the field. What about a true knight, one renowned across the entire continent? He thought he would want to see that.

He did not know. Didn't you have to face something before you could truly know? "Having fun?"

Rem, who had been watching idly, asked with a gentle smile rather than his usual snicker.

Fun? Encrid had no idea about that. "I don't know."

As always, he simply answered honestly. Only then did Rem snicker, and Encrid immersed himself in training once more. While he was absorbed in practice, someone else approached.

"Could I have a turn, too?"

Another request to spar. Encrid knocked the man down easily and offered a word of advice.

"Your feet are stiff." Then another man approached, and another spar followed.

"I think you need to relax your shoulders."

More advice. Several spars later...

"Could you... um, would it be all right?"

The question did not even say what he wanted, but there was no need to ask what he meant. Not with that fire in his eyes. His cautious manner, by contrast, betrayed his nerves. His face was relatively youthful. Andrew's age at most? Perhaps younger.

"Whew. All right." None of the platoon members stepped in to stop it. Didn't they normally have something to say to anyone who approached him? He seemed to recall them picking fights for no reason.

Who knew why they were leaving it alone now? Most soldiers carried spears. Someone carrying a different, unusual weapon might belong to a special unit. His opponent held a war hammer the length of a forearm. Its head was rounded, and its polished surface suggested it had seen more than a day or two of use. It did not look heavy, but it was an efficient weapon with unmistakable power. The way he rolled his wrist made it clear that proficiency was ingrained in his body. "I'm with the Border Guard. Sir."

Sure enough. Encrid nodded casually at his words. WHISH!

The man flicked his wrist and spun the war hammer, his eyes gleaming. Encrid could see all too clearly what his opponent was after. Was it because he had become so familiar with the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique? Every trick and ploy was plain to him. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG! After swinging his hammer with all his strength, the Border Guard member abruptly shifted to a one-handed grip and brought it straight down. Dodging was the right response, rather than blocking. Just as his opponent intended, Encrid stepped aside out of the hammer's path. The man swept his free hand to his waist and thrust it outward.

Before his elbow could fully straighten, Encrid caught his wrist. "I can see it," he said. The trick was simple and clear: draw attention with the hammer, then throw a dagger at short range. It resembled a ploy from the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique. "Valen Mercenary Sword Technique?"

Encrid asked, and his opponent nodded. "You should hone your hammer technique some more."

He pointed out the man's weakness instinctively—and realized at the same time that he needed to hear those words himself. Better hammer technique would let the man conceal his dagger more effectively, keeping the opponent from noticing something like the double draw in the first place. His opponent had talent to spare. Enough to remind Encrid of that kid who had put a hole in his belly, some time ago. Back then, he had fallen without putting up any real resistance. That was how it had been.

And now? Something an instructor had once said came to mind.

["Improving begins with knowing where you stand."] Awareness.

Once again, awareness.

To set out on a new path, he first had to know what path he stood on now. Spar after spar, lesson after lesson. Many more came to seek him out, and each time, Encrid learned something and moved forward. His steps were slow, but he did not hurry. That was a lesson he learned from a soldier who thrust his spear in haste. Impatience helped nothing. Another opponent stood out for his decisiveness despite his calm manner.

"I'm Rut."

He was a fellow from the West who belonged to the Border Guard. He glanced at Rem as he spoke, but Rem did not seem to care. Encrid knocked him down as well. An easy opponent? No. A difficult one. It was simply that Encrid's experiences had been so deep and intense that he had no trouble dealing with him. "You're strong."

Rut turned away in admiration. As he did, his eyes were only on Encrid, not Rem. As more and more people sought him out throughout those ten days, Krais began regulating the visits.

"There are too many of you. Why don't you sort yourselves out and choose a few to come? You know what happens if you get in our captain's way, don't you?" Krais's words carried a different weight now. Rem, Jaxon, Audin, and Ragna stood behind them, after all.

The four themselves, however, were watching their platoon commander and inwardly nodding. Awareness. What did you have to do to see where you stood? Look above, below, and to either side. Only then could you see your own position. Each of them had passed through that moment once. If anything, Encrid was rather late. With spring's arrival, he was thirty-one. By the continent's standards, he could fairly be called an aging mercenary. Of course, there were more than enough people still living by the sword well past forty. But none of them could do what Encrid did. That was why watching him brought such satisfaction. Audin found in his platoon commander the answer to the question he had put to the Lord. Rem took out fragments of his past, of his memories, and examined them. Watching his platoon commander, Jaxon wondered what it would be like to live that way, and why he lived that way, as he pictured the future. Ragna thought of swords and people, motivation and life, knights and the power they wielded. He realized anew that he, too, had set foot on that path—and that he would keep walking it. As that certainty settled deeper than ever before, he came to recognize anew what his platoon commander meant to him. A late-blooming genius. There was no better description for Encrid now. Changing the soldiers around him, though—well, that was a separate matter from being a genius. To those soldiers, especially the ones with the determination to move toward tomorrow rather than remain in today, Encrid was a symbol of change. He had even become an idol who made them think, I want to be like him. All of that became clear when the time came to award honors.

"Everyone, fall in!" The soldiers gathered in the center of the parade ground, a place that was often noisy. All of them, except the few who were on duty.

It was time to assess their contributions on the battlefield. Who was the central figure of this occasion?

Everyone knew. Marcus was different from the previous battalion commander. With several nobles seated behind him, he stood on the platform and began his speech. "Who contributed most to the last battle? If any bastard needs me to tell him, his head isn't even fit to hang a helmet on."

His loud, deep voice drove into the soldiers' ears. His manner was coarse, his words harsh. Several nobles frowned at what Marcus said from the platform. Wasn't it undignified? But to the men he was speaking about—to the ranks of soldiers—it sounded different. His words carried sincerity.

Having made up his mind, Marcus spoke from the heart. "I call upon the man who contributed most. The Lu—no, the Independent Platoon's commander, Encrid."

Everyone knew what would have followed that "Lu." A man walked up toward the front of the assembled ranks. The soldiers saw him approach empty-handed, drenched in sweat. The weather was growing warmer, but not enough to make someone sweat like that. Yet no one looked at him with questions. He had surely come straight from swinging his sword over and over. That was the sort of man Encrid was. A man who proved himself by swinging his sword, again and again. A man who showed his worth by pouring out everything he had learned. Sincerity made flesh, treating not a single thing carelessly. The Lunatic Platoon Commander, Encrid, made his way toward the platform. No one gathered on the parade ground readily opened their mouth.

A strange silence. Amid it, fervor rose. To those who had experienced that victory on the battlefield, what had Encrid become?

To some, he had become an idol. To others, a hero.

That was what he had been on the battlefield. Marcus had not forgotten.

On the platform, the two men stood face-to-face.