Chapter 229 - Should I Fix That Broken Head First?

"One more dose of that might actually kill you. Still going back for more?"

It was not yet bedtime, but the sun had set and dusk was gathering. Rem asked the question while scratching his toes. He could hardly have looked less earnest. Encrid was cleaning his sword and checking his equipment before washing up. Beside him, Krais was wiping down a dagger with linseed oil. His touch was practiced, if not particularly loving. Big-eyes was a man of many talents. Encrid answered lightly.

"I won't die."

More precisely, even if he died, he would come back to life. He had nearly gotten himself killed against the half-Giant, too. His fight with Swallow Blade could also be called a brush with death. Edin Molsen's bodyguard was no pushover with a sword, either. These were live-blade spars. Naturally, one wrong move often meant getting a blade stuck into him somewhere. To an ordinary person, he might look desperate to die. These were spars where a moment's carelessness could mean death. Normally, stopping him might have been the right thing to do, but their captain was a bona fide lunatic who enjoyed this sort of thing. Still, did that make facing that "intimidation" the right choice? Without the strength to strip it away and overcome it, he might as well throw himself naked off a cliff, onto rocks as sharp as blades. "It's no different from charging a heavily armored cavalryman with nothing but a quill."

Ragna added his opinion. At some point, he had washed and changed into casual clothes; water still dripped from his hair. That was how pointless he considered it. Would Audin and Jaxon think any differently? Both offered similar remarks while attending to their own affairs, but Encrid said,

"It's fine." He alone thought otherwise. Because he could see a way forward? Because he had a means of dealing with it?

No. He simply knew that whatever appeared before him, if he retreated, he would never be able to move forward again. Even if the heart of the beast, Concentrate on a Single Point, the sense for the blade, and the Isolation Technique had granted him talent, they had not made him an unprecedented genius. Did that change anything?

No. He could learn, master new things, and gain so much. Why should he avoid it? Watching Encrid refuse to give up stirred something in Ragna.

'Will.'

He had not mastered that power himself, but he could certainly be said to know how to wield it. He simply could not use the technique called intimidation. No, even if he could, controlling it freely would be another matter. In short, he could neither let Encrid practice against it beforehand nor train him to face it. A thrilling sensation pricked at his heart. It was a longing he had never felt before in his life. Something like thirst. Had others known, they might have called it a desire to improve.

'Higher.'

Ragna quietly sank into himself. Everyone was resting, taking a break. It was also an evening when Esther had turned human. Had she said she now needed to spend a little time in human form once or twice a month? Esther's eyes turned toward Encrid. No, she had been watching him for some time. He had only just looked her way. Her eyes were captivating: blue lakes, or perhaps a pair of blue moons. Gazing steadily at him with those eyes, she spoke.

"How foolish you are." Encrid was used to hearing that. In some matters he was shrewd and quick on the uptake, but when it came to the sword and his dream, his persistence went beyond stubbornness into foolishness. He knew that perfectly well himself, so he did not take it as an insult. "Can you turn human once a month?"

Esther answered his question by telling him it was none of his business. To be precise, she could turn human any number of times a month, but for now, being a panther was more comfortable. She simply had plenty to do in human form. She needed to tend to her spell world, which she had not forgotten but had left idle, and work on the flesh golem Bonehead she had acquired earlier to make it usable. A spell world lost its potency if not attended to regularly, just as a blade grew dull. "Foolish? I told you, his head's broken."

Rem laughed, tapping his head with the hand he had been using to scratch his toes. Encrid ignored him completely. That was the sort of evening it was. Audin meditated, while Ragna had long since lain down for bed. It felt like a holiday evening. Then Bell arrived.

"Someone's here asking for a match. What should I do?" For Bell to come fetch him personally at night meant the visitor was quite skilled.

"People who show up at night always have something shady going on."

Krais spoke from behind him as he rummaged through his belongings. He had finished maintaining the dagger and appeared to be looking for something. "I'll go take a quick look."

Shady or not, he needed a breakthrough right now. Sparring with a new opponent was a way to find one. The rapier swordsman did not acknowledge it, but Encrid felt he had improved by fighting the half-Giant, Swallow Blade, Count Molsen's bodyguard, and the rapier swordsman. Others might consider the progress negligible, but it was progress nonetheless. They had helped him hone and reconsider his swordsmanship. He set out believing this visitor would be of similar help. Bell asked whether he was going alone, and Encrid nodded casually. Nothing was likely to happen just yet. Rem and the others behind him showed little interest, either. Understandably so: quite a few men had requested matches at night. One had come in secret, afraid that losing before an audience would damage his reputation. Another had said he could not display his techniques publicly. Both were valid reasons. Encrid generally respected his opponents' wishes. Their coming to see him was a pleasure in itself. That did not mean he accepted just anyone, of course. Wasn't it only natural to meet opponents who had proved a certain level of skill? Bell served as that benchmark. If he came calling, the visitor was worth meeting. "What did you say he got you with?"

"He had a sword, but he only used his fists and hands. Hit me with his palm like this, smack. It hurt."

Bell mimicked the technique, but so clumsily that Encrid could make little of it. When they stepped out before the gate, a man stood there whose hair looked red in the torchlight, though in daylight it would clearly be closer to brown. He had a youthful face and long arms. The eye Encrid had developed through the Isolation Technique assessed his ability.

'Long arms and a good center of balance.'

A well-balanced body and long arms were excellent attributes for wielding a sword. "I'm the War-Ending Soldier," Encrid said, stepping forward. FWOOSH.

Wind blew from behind them, bending the torch flames to one side. The shadows between the two tangled together, then parted. "Oh, that's you?"

The visitor's eyes widened. They could not be called bright or clear, but neither did they hold any particular malice or desire to kill. He looked like someone who had killed his share of people but held to firm standards, someone with convictions or something like them. Of course, that was only a guess. You could not know a person by appearances alone. There was also something mischievous about his face. If Rem's mischief had the practiced air of a devil, this man's felt like that of an innocent child. "I'm sorry for coming at such a late hour."

He began with an apology and a slight bow, all the while keeping his eyes on Encrid. A good stance.

"It's fine." The man's eyes swept over Encrid's body, from chest to toes, then back up to his chest. Without hiding his scrutiny, he said,

"You've trained your body well."

Would it be an exaggeration to say Encrid could feel the emotion in that voice as he spoke? He did not think so. "Where are you from?"

Encrid did not hide his anticipation, either.

"The Shepherds of the Wastes." It was not a long conversation. Frankly, it was nothing remarkable. Encrid had grown used to the embarrassing nickname War-Ending Soldier. That was how many challengers had sought him out. Still, he had not expected someone like this. The Shepherds of the Wastes. Their absurd fighting prowess came from doing exactly that: tending sheep in the wastes. They were a nomadic people whose history and traditions were said by some to predate the Imperial Calendar. Well, that changed nothing. If anything, it only heightened his anticipation. The wastes were a land teeming with monsters and demonic beasts. Tending sheep there? They could hardly be ordinary people. "Let's do this."

At Encrid's words, the Shepherd moved. His feet were astonishingly fast. Just before his opponent drew his sword, Encrid's blade cut through the darkness first. SHING! WHOOSH!

Draw and cut. A rising draw-cut from the Heavy Sword Technique. Through the path of the blade cleaving the air, he saw his opponent's eyes. He also saw that a dagger had appeared in the man's hand. Then Encrid felt as though a line had been drawn between them. WHIZ!

The sound of air being pierced was low and sharp. The dagger was incredibly fast. By the time he registered it, it was already before his face. Encrid planted his left foot, twisted, and arched backward. A reflexive response. His dodging sense had activated. Then the dagger changed direction at a right angle, tracing an angular path. In the meantime, Encrid had shifted from a two-handed grip to one. His free left hand swept over his waist and drew a black-bladed dagger to block his opponent's. It was something he had acquired after dealing with the Black Blade Bandits. CLANG!

The daggers met in a shower of sparks. In that brief opening, Encrid pulled back the sword in his right hand. Rather than swinging, he was pressing the edge against his target and drawing it across. Instead of retreating, his opponent secured his preferred range: close enough for a short weapon like a dagger to be effective. He angled his dagger's blade against the sword pulling toward him and blocked it. SKREEEE!

Sparks flew at close range, but neither man so much as blinked. Neither could even catch his breath. That was how fierce the exchange had become. As though they were the only two people in the world, as though failing to kill the other meant death, they fought, shattering moonlight and kicking up earth, cut off from everything around them. His opponent's hands grew faster. Encrid's hands and feet naturally grew busier in response. The Shepherd of the Wastes was skilled in unarmed combat, too. Encrid did not yield. With neither holding the advantage, Encrid momentarily forgot so much. The place, the weather, the circumstances, even his opponent. His heart pounded, clamoring for short breaths. Amid those exchanges, he sank into the fight. Immersed himself. Lost himself in it. A sensation much like the one he had felt fighting Mitch Hurrier took hold of him. In an instant, he caught his opponent's thrusting elbow and unleashed the Heart of the Superhuman. He had neither understood nor calculated his movement. It happened entirely within the realm of instinct and sensation. He seized the elbow, pushed it to his own right, and stepped behind his opponent. At the same time, he raised his sword horizontally and set it against the man's neck. From behind, he had trapped his enemy's neck between his blade and his body. The technique was called a guillotine cut: press down the elbow, circle behind the opponent, then cut the throat. Encrid pulled without hesitation. He was just about to claim victory by slicing the man's throat. CLACK!

Resistance met his pulling blade. Encrid knew his sword was no ordinary weapon. Yet it had been stopped. Somehow, the sword at his opponent's waist had slipped between the Shepherd's neck and Encrid's blade, scabbard and all. Viewed a certain way, the weapon looked like nothing more than a black rod. "Hah!"

The Shepherd let out a sharp cry. At the same time, he rocked back and forth, then drove his back into Encrid's chest, pressed close behind him. Despite unleashing the Heart of the Superhuman, Encrid was pushed back. His opponent's strength was formidable, too. The Shepherd turned. His eyes now held the desire to kill. Encrid could not afford to give ground, either, and filled himself with killing intent. From low to high, stepping his left foot outward, he delivered another rising strike of the Heavy Sword Technique. Strength and weight, rotation and timing. Everything aligned, and Encrid felt exhilaration. At the same moment, his rising sword met his opponent's black rod. BOOM!

Something like an explosion rang out. With it, the scabbard burst apart, and a blade sprang from within. Encrid reacted, but he could not prevent it from grazing the edge of his forehead. Immediately after cutting him, his opponent abruptly muttered something and leaped back. Their immersion in the fight broke.

"Ah, I wasn't supposed to use this one." The man's muttering reached Encrid a beat late.

"Damn it. I'm sorry," he said.

"What..."

Encrid struggled to finish. What was this? Something was seeping into his body from his forehead. Poison?

No, this was something else entirely. Something different. "This is, uh... Is there a priest nearby? You might survive if you hurry. Ah, though it's already too late."

The Shepherd seemed flustered; his words contradicted one another. Horrific pain spread down from Encrid's forehead through his entire body. At the same time, a piercing scream erupted somewhere. "Well, the thing is, I'm not supposed to go cutting people with this... This sword cuts a person's soul. You can live if you overcome it the instant you're cut, but... hah. I think it's too late."

He rambled on, explaining far more than necessary. Without even understanding, Encrid felt something constrict his heart. The Shepherd was right. He could not grasp everything, but he had heard that final part: it seemed too late. Something he could not overcome with anything he had learned was eating away at his mind. His vision dimmed. He had thought he had been through countless things, but this was a new kind of death. Something churned through his head, stabbing and splitting it apart. There was something physical to it, too. In fact, something like black soot writhed across his forehead. Even so, he did not feel wronged. Immersion and concentration. It had been a truly meaningful time. It was difficult to say which of them was the more skilled. The Shepherd had fought well. The advantage of his weapon? In a fight to the death, using it was only right. Of course, this had been a spar, and it had ended this way because they had become too absorbed in the fighting. The man had not cut him deliberately; it had been a reflex. Encrid even liked that. He had done the same himself. He could not possibly resent his opponent. During that final guillotine cut, he too had tried to slice the other's throat. Had he stopped his hand there, he would have been the one to lose. How could he put it? There were moments when you would rather be beaten to death than lose. He had felt something like that toward the opponent before him.

'Why?' It was not that he cared nothing for winning, but if he could learn, if it was that sort of day, he did not place much weight on defeat. Otherwise, he would long since have staked his life on a decisive match with Swallow Blade or any of the others. Encrid was accustomed to deliberation and Review. That made his own complicated feelings easier to understand.

'Ah.'

A brief realization came. The opponent before him resembled the brat he had met when he first began wandering the continent. The one who had put a hole in his belly after claiming to have held a sword for only six months. Of course, this was not that same child, now grown. But he brought that moment back. The location, the time, the weather, all of it. Even the innocence on his opponent's face. That was why he had not wanted to lose. The man reminded him of the child who had shattered him at the very beginning. For a time, he had even made that child the goal he strove toward. "Anyway, sorry for killing you."

Even his attitude was similar. The Shepherd gave a perfunctory bow.

This bastard. Wasn't that the attitude of someone who was sorry, but considered it beyond his control? The Shepherd turned away, adding,

"If you happen to survive, let's say I owe you one. I'm Pell the Shepherd." Then he bolted. He seemed well aware that staying would get him into trouble. Encrid pitched forward. As he fell, his mind was filled with one thought: if this was not poison, what was it? Then darkness. He was dying from nothing more than a graze on his forehead. Death. Right up until he died, he heard a woman's strange screams and the cries of people who sounded as though they had risen from the depths of hell. It was a peculiar thing. He closed his eyes and opened them to see the familiar black river. The ferryman smiled, holding his violet lamp.

"Will knowing let you overcome it?" the ferryman asked. Encrid answered calmly.

"It doesn't matter if I don't know."

Being cut by the sword meant death. Then he simply had to avoid being cut. No, even if he was cut... 'One more time.'

He wanted to experience that immersion, that moment, again. He wanted to fight that Shepherd again. Winning or losing aside, merely fighting the man filled his entire body with exhilaration. That was why Encrid meant what he said. "... Should I fix that broken head first?"

With those words, Encrid lost consciousness again. Come to think of it, could that ferryman hear sounds from the outside world, too? Rem's talk of a "broken head" had reached all the way here. That bastard Rem was the problem, as always. A new day once more.

"Do it again and you might get yourself killed."

The same evening, once again. "None of your business, you bastard. Just teach Dunbachel properly, Rem."

"... Why does it feel like you're treating me worse than usual?"

Rem voiced his puzzlement, but Encrid gave him no answer.