Chapter 211 - My Name Is Encrid

Graham, commander of First Company, the Turtle heavy infantry, did his job.

"Who are we!"

At their commander's call, his men answered.

"Hoo-ah!"

"We are the wall! The moving walls of Border Guard!"

At his next shout, they replied,

"We are the walls!"

The Turtle heavy infantrymen abused their vocal cords with something close to a collective shriek. Somehow, the words came through. Their morale rose in proportion to the punishment their throats took.

Regardless of Encrid's group's exploits, Graham intended to be a wall. It was what his Company did best, and the plan they had agreed on from the start.

He had expected to face the assault troops led by Greg, his old nemesis. Martai's assault Company and Border Guard's heavy infantry Company had long been rivals. But he never even got a chance to face Greg. Greg and his assault Company had been ground up where Encrid's group had plunged in, five men together.

After witnessing that, Graham's fight was leisurely by battlefield standards.

"Shields up!"

The heavy infantry's distinctive strategy essentially came down to one thing: raise their shields and hold.

"Two!"

They closed the distance.

THUD! THUD!

Two meant two paces forward. Moving with a stride standardized through training was slow, but uniform and steady. The Turtle crawled forward.

"Strike!"

The third command meant swinging their heavy bludgeons at close range. Every man carried an iron hammer with a round weight at its head.

THUD-THUD-THUD!

It was violence no ordinary armor or leather helmet could stop.

WHAM!

A hammer struck a Martai infantryman's shield. The round wooden shield split vertically. The only thing left to stop the next hammer was his head.

CRUNCH!

Naturally, his skull cracked and he collapsed, bleeding. A spear or blade might be deflected, but what could he do against a hammer? Enemy bodies piled up in front of the heavy infantry.

Here and there, someone deftly dodged and thrust a sword through a gap.

TING!

But these were heavy infantrymen, clad in plate and mail bought with a fortune in Krona. Even if an enemy blade was lucky enough to penetrate the mail, it could not pierce the thick cloth-and-leather padding underneath.

"Die!"

A Border Guard Turtle who had been stabbed near the side shouted as he swung his hammer. Dropping straight down, it smashed the shoulder of the soldier who had thrust his spear.

"Aaagh!"

With one arm disabled by a single blow, what came next?

THUMP!

A shield shoved him down, and he was trampled to death.

Graham's heavy infantry were turtles: slow on their feet, but with a terrifying bite once they closed in. Slow violence battered and pounded the battlefront.

But...

'Even with all this.'

Graham's Company would receive no attention. Off to one side, Encrid and his companions were ruthlessly adding to the battlefield's dead. Just five men were accomplishing what fifty heavy infantrymen could not.

People called such men forces beyond the norm, and those at their pinnacle were called knights. He could not call those men knights yet, but...

'Proto knights, at least.'

Graham had a discerning eye himself.

"Shields up!"

The heavy infantry's simple tactics continued. And no one could stop them. Those who should have stopped them had already been torn apart, burst open, beaten, severed, stabbed, and slashed by someone else.

* * *

The border defense captain glanced sideways and casually asked,

"May I ask your name?"

Ahead, he could see the detached force beginning to move. Every one of them was quick on their feet. Martai's second hidden dagger, perhaps. Yes, that would be right.

The border defense captain could tell at a glance that this detached force had been assembled specifically to target his men. The Border Guard's nickname was the Frontier Slaughterers, the butchers of the border. They had earned it by cutting, slashing, and fighting well. The enemy resembled them in being a small, specialized elite force.

Frontier Slaughterers. The nickname felt like ill-fitting clothes now.

'These days, perhaps plain Border Guard is enough.'

And why wouldn't it be?

There was a rank that allowed a handful of fighters to dominate a battlefield, around whom entire strategies and tactics were built. Knights.

Did armies return to fighting as they once had when no knights were present? No. Small bands of elites, grouped into special units, had been created to serve the same tactical role as knights. Until now, the Border Guard had made its name that way, but Encrid and the Lunatic Company's fame had eclipsed it entirely.

Not that he resented it.

'You only need to look at him. He's exceptional.'

The defense captain acknowledged Encrid. In truth, who in Border Guard's standing army wouldn't? They all would.

Encrid was the sort of man who made people feel good just by looking at him. Who stirred something inside them. That was why it was impossible to hate him.

"No."

The Fairy Company Commander's refusal reached him as his thoughts ended. She wouldn't even tell him her name?

He was thirty-six this year. No longer a young man, the defense captain's gaze wavered. Of course, no one saw it. He had dipped his head just enough to hide it even from the Fairy.

Though officially equal in rank, the border defense captain held a special position, much like the First Company Commander. If Border Guard's Battalion Commander lacked clout, his words sometimes carried more weight. But the Fairy Company Commander did not seem to care in the slightest.

'She won't even tell me her name.'

The border defense captain, approaching middle age, quietly let go of his hopes. It was time to bid farewell to this late-blooming flutter in his heart and go into battle.

Still, lingering attachment prompted one more question.

"Are you really in that sort of relationship with Encrid?"

Sinar stared at him and said,

"What one wishes for and what comes to pass are different things."

Her expression was blank, her tone devoid of emotion.

The border defense captain closed his mouth, then spoke again.

"I'm Jenok."

A second lingering hope had made him offer his own name. Sinar did not even nod.

Meanwhile, Torres approached from behind and poked his captain in the side.

"I told you not to."

The captain did not answer.

Torres had indeed tried to stop him before he began. But what could he do? His heart burned with pure love. If he died without saying anything now, whose fault would that be?

"Today, I'm going to fight with fire."

The captain spoke, and Torres nodded. Behind him, the eyes of every core fighter in the Border Guard gleamed.

For our heartbroken captain.

Their eyes voiced the rallying cry. Soon, the dagger Martai had prepared reached the designated point.

The Fairy Company Commander, Sinar, had come to support them, but none of her subordinates had accompanied her. No one under her command could match the Border Guard's fighting strength.

The commander of Martai's detached force seemed rushed. Discipline had slackened, and the formation had fallen out of alignment. A commander's haste affected the soldiers under him. Their focus on advancing quickly rather than checking their surroundings was partly to blame.

The Border Guard charged into their flank.

"For heartbreak!"

One of the guards shouted.

"Who the hell was that!"

The captain shouted too.

One member of Martai's detached force turned sideways. He was a warrior wielding twin swords, with sharply slanted eyes that gave him a fierce look. The others turned after him. The detached force had aimed for the flank of Border Guard's main army; now the guards were attacking its own flank.

The twin-sword warrior reacted exceptionally fast. He aimed both blades at the neck of the Fairy Company Commander, who had closed right in. His hands and feet were quick. His reactions were excellent, and he moved into his attack without hesitation. He was first-rate.

Sinar, who had stood motionless with a hand at her waist until then, moved. Stepping back, she drew Nidle and cut upward toward the point where his swords crossed. The leaf-shaped blade split the sunlight, and the swords as well.

CLANG!

"Where do you think you're aiming?"

Sinar's reply sounded bored as she danced with the Nidle she had swung.

Every swing of Nidle raised a mist of blood. Those cut and pierced fell to the ground.

Torres had just closed in on a man carrying a sword and shield, drawn the dagger concealed at his wrist, and slit his throat. The well-placed strike between helmet and armor opened his neck wide. Torres shoved the man aside as blood poured out.

Having killed one opponent, he joined his captain and looked to the side. Sinar was dancing with her blade every bit as fiercely as Encrid.

"What man could see that and not fall in love?"

His captain muttered.

"That makes you fall in love?"

Torres answered, inwardly shaking his head. Wasn't that simply slaughter? Of course, this was a battlefield and she was an ally, so it was an outstanding performance, not slaughter.

One thing was certain: that Fairy was by no means inferior to Encrid or his Lunatic Company. How could this possibly be a contest?

"You crazy bitch!"

Among the enemy was a band of warriors with tattooed faces. The man who appeared to be their leader let out a shriek.

At the insult, the captain and some of his men moved.

"Tear his mouth apart!"

Drawn by their lovestruck captain's shout, his men charged. This fight was one-sided too.

The main army's victory had helped. This was a fight where the side that moved first was at a disadvantage, and Martai's detached force had moved first. As if landing the ambush were not enough, Sinar's performance was dazzling.

It was time to think about minimizing their dead, not worry about losing.

* * *

Elite-Slaying Blade.

Since when had that been his name? His memory was hazy.

He concealed his presence and silenced his footsteps. Threading his way through dying allies, he studied a section of the enemy army. He saw a vicious-looking man urging on his subordinates while loosing arrow after arrow.

Killing that one would help the battle, but... He licked his lips and reined in the urge. No, he couldn't. Had he come all this way just to kill someone like that?

He lowered his stance, concealing even his breathing. Regardless of his ability, he crawled or walked through the gaps between friend and foe. Whenever some fool attacked him, he quietly pulled them close, twisting their neck and strangling them. Killing silently was one of his specialties.

As he walked,

["You're giving up on being a squire?"]

A fragment of memory stabbed into his brain. His last swordsmanship teacher's words.

What had he said in reply? He had nodded without the slightest hesitation.

["Yes."]

["Will you let that talent rot?"]

Joining a knight order as a squire meant taking care of errands and chores for knights and proto knights. That was the beginning. Later, if one's skill was recognized, one became a proto knight. Those who stepped away became unremarkable swordsmen or warriors.

After becoming a proto knight, learning to circulate 'Will' throughout one's body made one a knight. What was that stage called? Flow? He thought it was also called an unbroken current.

It wasn't important. Knights were few, and everyone divided their stages differently. In any case, he had given up despite being told the way upward was open.

["You fool."]

His teacher had been angry. But he had not. There was no particular reason to get angry.

Killing was easier for him than fighting, so he could have simply done that. But there truly was no reason to.

And so he had given up being a squire and left the knight order. He wandered, and while he was working actively as a mercenary, Count Molsen approached him. The Count was called the King of the Frontier. He thought it an arrogant epithet, but the offer wasn't bad.

["Would you consider working for me?"]

He nodded.

["Do you have no regrets about failing to walk the path of a proto knight?"]

The Count asked. The man smiled as he answered.

["Even if I cannot become a proto knight, I can kill one."]

That was his answer. He learned to walk without a sound and took up a sharp blade instead of Will. One day, he saw a needle, a weapon exclusive to Fairies, and began searching for a similar sword.

The swords he had obtained were strapped to his waist, chest, and both forearms. They resembled Stiletto, but were pointed like awls.

An unnamed craftsman had made them after seeing the Carmen Collection, the work of a master of assassination blades. They were designed to pierce anything, plate or mail, and put holes in an opponent's body. Each sword was a single solid piece of Valeri steel.

They had also been a gift from Count Molsen. These weapons and his skills soon earned him the epithet Elite-Slaying Blade.

If a handful of men dominated the battlefield, why shouldn't there be a blade made solely to kill that handful? His goal was to one day put a hole in the throat of one of those creatures called knights.

In fact, he had once come within a hair's breadth of threatening a proto knight's life. Another time, he had taken a few fingers as a gift instead of a head.

["What a waste of that talent."]

He remembered the words of the proto knight who had lost those fingers. What did he care? It was hardly something a man who had fallen victim to him had any right to say.

The memories faded, and he took in the present battlefield. His target was clear.

'The black-haired one.'

One of the five tearing through the battlefield as a single unit. The one at their head, the one who had announced his name, the one who had stood out from the beginning. That bastard named Encrid.

He seemed to be at the level of a proto knight. That made it all the more exciting. He would get to kill someone of that caliber.

'Kill one and hide. Then take the others one by one.'

Few possessed both discernment and skill. His opponent would therefore fail even to recognize him. Like most proto knights, he would be arrogance through and through.

To deceive his opponent's eyes, he had donned an ordinary soldier's clothes and helmet and rolled on the ground. Covered in other men's blood and dirt, he approached, dragging his feet.

He calculated the blond one's reach and kept his distance, ignoring the axe-wielding madman rampaging on the other side. Slipping through a dangerously narrow gap, he reached Encrid's flank. Elation and excitement filled him.

'Even if I can't become one, I can kill one.'

Those were the words that drove him.

He gripped his custom-made assassination dagger. Holding his breath, he aimed for an opening and thrust. He kicked off the ground, closing the distance in an instant. A killing move. He had learned that launching step as a squire.

He had approached silently to close range. The fight was already over. That was what he thought as he thrust his blade.

CLANG!

'Blocked?'

He saw what had stopped his point. The flat of a black-painted dagger.

"What are you?"

Disappointment? Regret? Something like that colored the voice.

Then a terrifying slash swept in from behind. The man instinctively rolled forward. A dot appeared before him. No, not a dot. A sword point. He ducked his head.

Evading those two attacks was impressive enough. The final blow was beyond any possibility of dodging. Something like a log came sweeping just above the ground.

THUD! CRACK!

"Gaargh!"

It was Audin's low kick. One blow broke both his legs.

Terrifying strength, and terrifying technique. It had broken his legs precisely rather than sending his body flying. His torso dropped, his head hit the ground and bounced, and he ended up slumped in a sitting position. An involuntary acrobatic feat produced by a superhuman kick.

Before he could properly recover his senses, a sword descended from above. He saw blue eyes.

THUNK.

That was the end.

He had jerked his head to the side, so the sword cut into his shoulder. Evading the blade had spared him instant death, but he collapsed, blood streaming out. He would soon be dead.

The man writhed where he lay. The owner of those blue eyes looked at him, then turned away. Dying, the man remembered his last swordsmanship teacher.

["Why are you throwing your talent away?"]

His teacher had asked.

He should have answered then.

'I didn't throw it away. I don't have it, you clueless bastard.'

If he could have climbed higher, he would have. But everyone around him had been a monster. Nothing but people like that. It had taken him no time at all to discover the limits of his talent.

That was when his goal had changed from becoming a knight to becoming someone who killed knights. The man's dream was over. Count Molsen's blade, who had forgotten even his own name and lived as the Elite-Slaying Blade, broke that way.

Encrid had no way of knowing any of it. But...

"Was he fucking crazy?"

Rem's comment said it all. Deliberately jumping into the middle of them?

He had done nothing less than charge between five proto knight-level fighters. And not a single one of them was careless.

Whatever the moment or situation, Encrid envisioned the best possible move and swung his sword, taking everything around him seriously. Whether it was a stroke to kill an opponent or simply a single step, he gave everything his best. That was the kind of man he was. In a way, this was precisely what made him a monster.

Among them was Jaxon, too, who would resent being called second to anyone in cunning. He had waited for the man to commit to plunging into their midst, then caught him. An easy hunt, perhaps.

'Hardly fair to call this a hunt.'

Rem thought as he struck his axe blades together.

CLANG!

"Come at us some more!"

Rem had good reason to shout. The surrounding soldiers had already pulled far back, leaving an open space around the group. A clearing made of corpses, blood, severed limbs, and spilled entrails.

Looking around from the middle of it, Encrid felt his muscles quiver. The aftereffects of the Heart of the Superhuman and the strenuous battle. Was that a problem? No. They ached, but not so much that he couldn't use them.

He surveyed his surroundings. The sky was clear. There was no sign of rain, and though the stench of blood hung thick, his allies' spirit, intoxicated with victory, urged him onward. He had entered the enemy's midst as if isolated, but now he thought he could hear Vengeance's voice in the distance.

Taking it all in, Encrid felt boldness surge once more.

"My name is Encrid."

A single statement. Nothing more than words. But when those words reached the enemy soldiers' ears, their response was nothing like before. In the heart of the battlefield, a chilling silence spread outward from the clearing Encrid had made.

"Come at us again, and you die," Encrid said.