Chapter 18 - You're Alive?

When night fell, Encrid tried to hear the assassin approaching. It did little good. He could hear nothing, sense no presence at all. 'Let's keep at this for now.'

There was nothing to agonize over. Once he had a training method, all he had to do was keep going, like an ox plowing a field. And that was what he did. The assassin definitely entered the tent before the poisoned needle came flying. He had to listen for that presence.

Every day, he lay down, fell asleep, and greeted the same morning. But he didn't mindlessly restrict his training to the nights. If he could do more, he might as well give it his all. During the day, he sought out Jaxon.

On the today immediately following his first lesson in hearing training, Encrid had to wait quietly outside the tent. He had arrived much earlier than usual. Hearing whispers inside, he stayed back. Whatever sweet nothings they were exchanging, he had no need to listen. After waiting, he met Jaxon.

"Walk with me a moment."

They walked and talked. The same questions, the same attitude. Though he heard the same words every time, Encrid unconsciously adopted the attentive manner Krang had shown him. Listening well was closely tied to learning well. He had to listen and understand before he could move on.

Even without consciously realizing it, he instinctively understood the importance of listening, and listened well. In that respect, an attentive manner was an excellent tool. Jaxon repeated the same explanations every time, and sometimes Encrid had to play the genius. "Having eyes in the back of your head means listening, right? Using your ears?"

"... Hardly any need to explain, then."

"Sound has direction, too. You can tell front from back, left from right. By the sounds you hear and how loud they are, right?"

"Was he a genius all along?"

"What was that?"

"Nothing. You're cleverer than I expected."

"Why? Did you think I was an idiot?"

"No, that's not it." Then he died again. Today repeated once more.

His day began with Platoon Commander Vengeance's complaints. "Hey, where's breakfast? Where's that slacking bastard gone?"

"Yes, hunger does make people irritable."

"What?"

"I'm off to fetch breakfast so our dear Platoon Commander can stop whining."

"... Have you lost your mind?" Not exactly. Nothing he said mattered much, so he had decided to begin the day with a little teasing.

He took note of the people passing by, using some of the day's events as markers to spend each repeated today a little differently.

After a morning spent half in jest, Encrid repeated the day. Five times. Ten times.

As the repetitions went on, he even grew used to dragging Jaxon out of the tent. He had felt awkward at first, but after accidentally overhearing their sweet nothings, he lost all hesitation.

What had felt good today. What had felt good last time. Which positions they preferred. That sort of thing. On another repeated today, Encrid pulled the tent flap aside without hesitation.

"Jaxon, you've got time, right?"

"... What is it?"

"If you're going another round, I'll leave you to it."

"Even if I wanted to, you've killed the mood."

"Then come out." The woman beside him shot Encrid an incredulous look that said, Who the fuck is this?

He had been embarrassed at first, but familiarity had made him shameless. In short, he ignored her.

More importantly, Jaxon didn't particularly object even to this treatment. He was merely curious about why Encrid was acting this way. Encrid always dealt with that curiosity the same way. "Want to know why?"

"No. Never mind." The training was much the same. Once he had grown somewhat accustomed to listening, Jaxon voiced a question.

"... Have you learned anything like this before?"

"A little from my grandfather when I was young." Encrid was a war orphan. Never mind his grandfather—he didn't even know his parents.

"I see."

Jaxon let even that flimsy excuse pass. Encrid always made his day count. While practicing the stab had involved moving his body, this time the task was to sit still.

There were results. Slow though his progress was, he kept steadily moving forward. 'Do as I was taught.'

If he couldn't take a full step, then half a step. If even that was too much, then a quarter step. If he couldn't manage that either, he would start by wiggling his toes. After he had repeated the same today some twenty times:

'I can hear it.'

He heard the wind striking a flag. CRRREEAK.

He heard the grating sound of a wagon wheel. It sounded like a clockwork mechanism with broken, interlocking teeth.

'That's something breaking.' There were different kinds of sounds. Some conveyed information as though they were speaking. The sound of a flag was one example. "It's easy to tell that it's a west wind. I check which way I'm sitting, locate north, and then follow the direction of the flag's flapping."

Easy enough to say. Surely no one could do it on the first try. Repetition upon repetition.

His attitude remained unchanged, as it always had, even as he lived by dividing one day after another into smaller pieces. It all worked together, each element reinforcing the others. 'Follow the sound of the flag fluttering.'

Using his own position, he could work out the wind's direction. It wasn't particularly useful in everyday life or on the battlefield. He could tell which way the wind blew simply by sitting there.

What mattered was that he had worked it out through sound alone. He distinguished the doctor's voice and gauged its volume to measure the distance.

'Master this properly, and it'll be useful on the battlefield, too.' Come to think of it, Jaxon was always a step ahead in avoiding dangerous parts of the battlefield. Did he hear things in advance, assess them, and act? Was that possible?

For now, Encrid had no way of knowing. The first stage of this training was distinguishing sounds. The second was judging distance by hearing. Encrid had only just completed those two stages.

The third was picking out the faintest of sounds. Hadn't Jaxon said that listening for an assassin's presence was the best training? 'Funny, really.'

He had the perfect environment.

Dying without the slightest idea of what had happened was far more unpleasant than he had expected. Being snuffed out without a chance to resist was the worst.

Still...

'Isn't this an opportunity?'

The thought came naturally. He stayed in bed. Whenever he involved the freckled sentry, the poor fellow ended up dead. There was no need for that.

Lying there, he closed his eyes and concentrated. First, he would listen. What came afterward could wait. By day, he listened to rolling carts, the rattling caused by broken wooden pegs, and, in contrast, the sounds of carts in good repair. He distinguished flags and tents stirring in the wind, and people's voices. Repeating the same task might be exhausting and agonizing for some people.

'This is fun.'

For Encrid, it was different. Even the smallest improvement brought him joy. He wasn't putting his body through its paces as he had while learning the heart of the beast, but the mental strain was immense. Concentrating too hard sometimes gave him headaches that felt as though his skull would split.

Yet after some thirty repetitions, even that soon became bearable. However slight the difference, he was living a today unlike yesterday. The pleasure of it sent shivers through him.

And so came the fifty-sixth night. SWISH. The sound of a torch burning on its stand. A night watchman startling out of a doze and striking the ground with his spear shaft. The freckled Medical Barracks sentry occasionally lifting the tent flap to peer inside.

Amid those sounds, something very faint reached his ears: a soft whoosh of displaced air. 'I heard it.'

It was distinctly different from the usual sounds. His ears had picked out that faint difference, and the instant he heard it, he rolled sideways without hesitation.

'Dodged it.' His original plan had been to dodge and then shout. He couldn't. WHISH.

He heard something cutting through the air behind him. There wasn't even time to draw the dagger hidden inside his clothes. He rolled forward again. SWISH. WHOOSH. WHISH.

Faint noises that defied description kept coming. By discerning their direction, Encrid dodged the attacks by the narrowest of margins.

Once, the tip of a blade skimmed past his thigh. 'That was lucky.'

One wrong move and it would have sliced his thigh. Against this opponent, even a scratch was dangerous. Would someone who used poisoned needles leave their blade uncoated? He kept rolling and springing aside to evade the attacks. The heart of the beast proved its worth. Though one dangerous moment followed another, his heart settled into icy calm.

There was no need to get worked up. If all he had to do was listen and dodge... 'It's all right. I can do this.'

If he gave up on counterattacking, he could evade the blows. The blade swept in a long vertical slash aimed at his back. His opponent's intent was clear: even a graze would do. Encrid rolled toward Vengeance's bed. The man seemed determined to remain in dreamland despite the commotion. As he rolled, Encrid rammed his shoulder into the bed. THUD.

A heavy jolt traveled through his shoulder muscles. He had braced against the pain and struck with all his strength, but Platoon Commander Vengeance still didn't wake. 'A poisoned needle.'

He wouldn't wake up. Encrid suspected a poison that induced paralysis or sleep. "Persistent bastard."

The assassin must have been in quite a hurry this time. Encrid heard the muttered words and even the soft thump of a foot pushing off the ground. Encrid was gasping, desperately short of breath. Noticing his opponent's panting, the assassin stabbed with the knife in his right hand and threw a poisoned needle from his left.

It was very nearly a guaranteed killing move. Despite his labored breathing, Encrid reacted swiftly. He dodged the knife, then lifted Vengeance's arm to use as a shield against the poisoned needle. THIP.

The poisoned needle lodged in Vengeance's forearm. As the assassin faltered at the sight of the blocked attack, Encrid rolled straight toward the tent entrance. The breathlessness had been an act.

'The Valen Mercenary Sword Technique's feigned breath.'

It was a trick that offered the enemy a chance to finish the fight easily, then exploited the opening when they responded. It had worked beautifully. Using the momentum of his roll, Encrid sprang halfway upright and made as if to dash out of the tent. The assassin lunged after him.

That, too, had been a feint. Instead of the entrance, Encrid went for the wall. Drawing the dagger from inside his clothes, he moved to slash the canvas.

Tear through it and get outside, and he would win. Just as he thought that... RRRIP.

The tent wall tore open before he could cut it. Beyond the slashed canvas came a voice.

"A little late."

He saw shining green eyes. The Fairy Company Commander. The mastermind behind the assassination. He reflexively attempted a stab. He held a dagger, but he had repeated the technique countless times; his body knew it well.

Pivoting on his left foot, he twisted and stabbed at her in one swift motion. His right arm shot out like a hurled javelin. The Fairy Company Commander's eyes flashed as she stepped inside, sweeping her right hand outward. THWACK. WHOOSH.

That sweep redirected his stab. At the same time, she kicked out his supporting foot. The world spun, and Encrid went tumbling across the ground. Then the Fairy Company Commander did something incomprehensible. T-T-TIK.

Ignoring Encrid, she tugged her cloak around and swept it up in front of her. THUD-THUD-THUD.

Something struck and lodged in the cloak. Poisoned needles. "Are you all right?"

As Encrid stared, dumbfounded, he spotted Krang lying flat on the ground outside the tent. "You had a bodyguard?"

The assassin's voice was unmistakably shaken. "Assassination. It makes me want to vomit."

The Fairy Company Commander let her cloak fall. Encrid's mind raced to make sense of it.

'She's not an assassin?'

Was she protecting them? Then the person he had seen as he died hadn't been his killer—she had simply arrived too late? "You don't look hurt."

"Just startled."

Encrid answered Krang's question and turned. The assassin had shifted his weight backward, as though he had begun planning his escape the instant he saw the Fairy Company Commander. She didn't seem particularly inclined to stop him.

Soon he edged backward, then dashed through the tent entrance and fled. Even running, his footsteps were nearly silent. "Well, now."

Krang entered the tent with a sheepish smile. The Company Commander went to the front of the tent, grabbed the apparently unconscious freckled soldier by the shoulders, and dragged him inside, his feet trailing along the ground. She all but dumped him there, glanced at Platoon Commander Vengeance, then turned. Green eyes settled on Encrid.

A brief silence.

After a moment, the Company Commander tilted her head and spoke.

"You're alive?"

There was surprise in the question.