Chapter 27 - How Is He a Lowest-Grade Soldier?

The scout Squad Leader's name was Andrew. His full name was Andrew Gardner. He was the sole heir to a fallen house that had once held a barony. He wanted only one thing: to restore the Gardner family's fortunes in his generation. ["Andrew, you are our hope."]

His mother's last words as she lay dying of illness remained vivid in his mind. His mother had earned money by taking in sewing and working as a maid in other people's homes. Every bit of it went toward Andrew, from swordsmanship lessons to food and clothing. He could not claim to have grown up in abundance, but neither could he say he had gone without. Worn down by all that work, his mother had wasted away with illness and died. She, too, had wanted only one thing.

["Carry on our family name. Become a fine man."]

He had resolved to do just that. There was only one path Andrew could choose to restore his house. This was an age of war, after all. He needed only to fight and keep fighting, proving his worth. Help had arrived just when he needed training and connections. Before she died, his mother had appealed to a man who had once been as close to her husband as a sworn brother. ["He has talent, at least."]

So said the man described as his father's sworn brother. Afterward, Andrew underwent grueling training and joined the army. He began as a career soldier and was given the position of Squad Leader at a young age. 'I need achievements.'

That thought filled his head. He also had confidence in his abilities, confidence gained from taking to the battlefield and killing three or four reasonably capable soldiers. ["You must be careful in everything you do."]

His adviser and benefactor nagged him at every opportunity. He had heard it until he was sick of it. That did not mean Andrew took those words lightly. 'Surviving matters, too.'

He had to be alive for his house to rise again. But he could not give up a life of challenges, either. What became of someone who gave up trying? His father, who had lost the family's standing, was a perfect example. His father had lacked talent since childhood. He had swung a sword every day, but his aptitude amounted to little. In the end, he could not even dream of restoring his house. He had given up all too soon. Squandering what remained of their wealth became his entire life. Then he had quarreled with a gambler and been stabbed to death. 'A life without a future is a bleak one.'

That was why Andrew dreamed of restoring his house while also valuing his own life. Of course, some things still rubbed him the wrong way. The troublemaker Squad Leader was one of them. Andrew had earned his position through skill. He worked tirelessly toward the great undertaking of rebuilding his house. Yet what was that man? With the ability of a lowest-grade soldier, wasn't he just a pay thief who had lucked into a Squad Leader's position? Did he even deserve to be a career soldier? Andrew could see traces of his father in him. 'He'll scrape by collecting his pay, content with today, until he dies.'

He would spend his life pretending to swing a sword and calling it training. Even the sight of a mere soldier bringing a sword and sword belt to practice his swordsmanship was laughable. No one who knew Encrid could have thought that, but Andrew did not know him. And now, first thing in the morning, that troublemaker Squad Leader was staring straight at him. Their eyes met. Hostility passed between their gazes, and Andrew's brow furrowed. 'I don't like those eyes.'

Just as he was about to speak, the troublemaker Squad Leader spoke first.

"Don't like the look in your fucking eyes." Hm? Who was he talking to?

Andrew's brow drew sharply together, his scowl expressing exactly how he felt. One of the soldiers accompanying him stepped forward first. "What did you just say?"

It was the soldier with a blade scar on his forehead. Hadn't he said he used to drift from one brawl to another? Andrew had told him:

["Follow me. I'll give you a better life than being a thug."] He had become Andrew's loyal follower afterward. His skills were still poor, and he had yet to shed all his thuggish habits, but he was not bad in a fight. That was why Andrew had brought him along. There were three such soldiers. All three quietly rose and surrounded the troublemaker Squad Leader.

* * *

After repeating today several times, Encrid had reached a conclusion.

'As I thought, I can't do this as just a squad member.'

These men needed to follow his instructions faithfully and act on his commands. That was the bare minimum. Then how should he go about it? How did knights earn people's trust? Why did people go wild the moment a knight stepped onto the battlefield? The reason was simple. Skill. It was possible because they had demonstrated their abilities. Then what did he need to make these ten men, himself included, move as one? What did he need to earn their trust? He could not grow close to them and build friendships in a single day. That left only violence backed by coercion. "That mouth of yours seems to be the problem. Shall I carve a pretty little tattoo on it?"

The scarred soldier's eyes gleamed as he spoke. He had the face of a man who had knifed a few people. This bastard really did say the same thing every time.

Thinking that, Encrid surveyed the three men's positions. For them, this was happening for the first time. He had already repeated this today over and over. Why repeat it? There was only one reason. The more overwhelming the violence and coercion, the better. That required experience. Quite apart from skill, he needed to know their reactions and patterns. For that reason, he ruled out the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique. He needed to subdue them through sheer skill. The first hurdle to escaping this repeating today was taking down three thug soldiers. "Lost your tongue?"

The former thug swaggered. Encrid decided words were unnecessary. So he acted accordingly. One silent step. His opponent reacted, flinching and starting to raise his fists, preparing to fight. One of the three even laid a hand on his shortsword's hilt. Encrid lifted his left foot first, taking that one step very slowly. It was an awkward interval, long enough for them to stare in puzzlement, wondering what this was, but not quite long enough to challenge him. His right foot drove swiftly off the ground. Mixing a quick movement into a slow one made it look twice as fast. It was a simple deception, a ploy to seize the first strike. And it was quite useful. No, enormously useful. "Hh!"

The soldier with the scarred forehead sucked in a breath and tried to throw a punch. Of course, Encrid kicked his shin before he could. THWACK! The kick drove the man's shin sideways, throwing him off balance. Encrid immediately struck near his temple as he tilted to one side, leading with the guard on the back of his hand. It was a forceful, sweeping blow. THUD!

"Urk!"

With a short cry, the man staggered and went sprawling sideways. Encrid's next movements flowed like water. He turned sideways, and the shortsword aimed at his opening sliced through empty air. As though they had rehearsed it, he caught the sword-wielding soldier's wrist and twisted it. The key was using just enough force to avoid injuring him. CRICK. THWACK. He twisted the wrist and struck near the jaw at an oblique angle. The second soldier lost consciousness and collapsed. Encrid caught the falling man around the chest and lowered him gently to the ground. As he rose, he picked up the fallen shortsword. Without the slightest change in his breathing, he asked:

"Want to keep going?" The only man still standing among the three broke into a cold sweat. His side had drawn a blade first. He could hardly complain if Encrid stabbed him now. "What do you think you're doing?"

The scout Squad Leader, who had watched everything up to that point, stepped forward. "I haven't liked you since the first day. You're a green brat who's barely learned to walk."

Encrid turned from the frightened soldier to face the scout Squad Leader. When there was no need for confrontation, he could put up with most things and let them pass. He attached no great significance to what others said or did. That was how he had handled things until now. But if confrontation was necessary? He simply had to say everything he wanted to. "Under someone like you, we'll probably get wiped out on a piddling scouting mission. Let's settle this by skill." Insubordination was a serious offense. The circumstances here, however, were unusual. Encrid held the rank of Squad Leader himself. Things might have been different had the other man respected that. Instead, he had utterly disregarded it and openly displayed his hostility. No one could blame Encrid for refusing to take any more. In fact, their superiors would say they did not care which of the two led the scouting squad. Hadn't the scout Platoon Commander wished him luck before departure and told him to look after the young Squad Leader? Now was the time. Not merely to watch his back, but to step out in front. "... You want us to fight, with command of the squad going to the winner?"

The scout Squad Leader frowned as he asked.

"That'll do. I've no intention of slogging away under someone weaker than me." In truth, everyone in the troublemaker squad except Krais was a monster who fought better than Encrid. But an excuse was just an excuse. Ideally, he wanted his opponent to lose his temper and come at him. "Come on, you little brat. Still smell of your mother's milk. Ever slept with a woman? Oh, hasn't your dick finished growing yet?" Andrew's expression hardened. He had yet to have his first experience. He had saved that time to train his body instead. It felt as though the man was insulting that time, his effort, everything he had done to reach this point. CLUNK!

The Squad Leader drew his shortsword.

"You may draw your sword. Blade length doesn't determine skill." "Now, er..."

At Andrew's words, the fierce-looking soldier beside him started to intervene, then shook his head, sighed, and stepped back. He had spent quite a long time as a mercenary. He had seen this sort of thing countless times. There had been friction from the start. Perhaps it would be better to settle it now. Letting resentment deepen would cause more trouble. Men often cleared the air after a good fight, after all. Besides, he knew Andrew well. He had taught the boy swordsmanship himself. In some ways, Andrew was a reckless young fool, but he knew how to handle a blade and had an easygoing side. Above all, he knew right from wrong. 'It won't be easy, though.'

He would step in if things went wrong. There was just one thing. Judging by the troublemaker Squad Leader's stance and foot placement, he was no ordinary man. Thick, hard calluses covered his palms, worn far beyond mere toughening. Those were not badges earned in a day or two. "Forget it. I'll use my bare hands."

"You bastard!" Andrew lost his temper. That was a weakness: showing his emotions so readily. Something to point out later. With that thought, the man settled in to watch at ease. It did not look likely to end quickly. Neither man was exceptionally skilled, but neither looked hopeless, either. Still, he privately thought Andrew might win. Losing his temper did not erase his fundamentals. The boy had talent. The troublemaker Squad Leader beckoned. At that invitation, Andrew charged. And then— THUD! "... One hit?"

No, what was this?

The fierce-looking soldier's eyes went wide of their own accord. The instant Andrew charged, the troublemaker Squad Leader had made as if to extend his left hand. Catching the movement, Andrew slashed with his shortsword. Then his opponent, having read the sword's path perfectly, struck the flat of the incoming blade with the leather gauntlet on the back of his left hand. For an instant, Andrew's chest was exposed. The troublemaker Squad Leader slipped inside his wide-open guard. His body moved explosively within that cramped space. THWACK! Pushing off the ground, he twisted his body at close range and drove his elbow squarely into Andrew's solar plexus. That one blow ended it. "Ghhh..."

Andrew groaned. His legs trembled. His breath would have caught all at once, the strength draining from every limb. That was what a blow to a vital point did. With another choking groan, Andrew curled forward like a shrimp. In a real fight, he would have been dead. 'What kind of strength...?'

Enough to drive that impact through thick cloth armor? His skill surpassed that of most mercenaries. Another question followed unbidden.

How was he a lowest-grade soldier?