Chapter 308 - Got Him

Got him. When mages spoke of dueling, they called it opening their spell worlds to one another. The spells stored within those worlds were their weapons. Galaf drew a river from his world.

"Surge forth and strike."

A staff had appeared in his hand. From the glowing white jewel at its tip, a portion of the river poured forth. The water gathered into a massive ball, then hurtled away like a cannonball formed of droplets. "You think you can beat me while you're cursed? Fool!"

Galaf shouted as he launched the water cannonball. Esther's hands had begun forming signs the instant he commanded the water to surge forth and strike. Rather than reveal her emotions, she revealed a spell. WHOOSH!

The moment her fingers stopped moving, flames rose in her eyes. A sphere of fire flared into being and flew toward the spot she was watching. The two spells, formed of different elements, met in midair. BOOM!

Steam rose with a hiss in the wake of the explosion. The fireball vanished, while the mass of river water veered sideways and slammed into the ground. BOOM!

The impact gouged a hollow in the earth, and steam filled the surroundings, obscuring everything like thick fog. But losing sight of one another would not make the two mages lose track of their opponent. They located each other through the flow of mana in the first place; visibility did not matter. "Stupid bitch!"

His repeated insults only made Esther more defiant. She decided what she would say when she killed him. Those words were not for now. As Galaf spoke, he secretly sent two apprentices around behind her. He had sent the others to do the "work," but kept these two back. Neither was particularly gifted at magic, but both were skilled with a sword. 'Stupid bitch.'

Repeating the same insult inwardly, Galaf chanted spell after spell. His two apprentices crept forward. With the steam conveniently hiding them, she would have little chance of detecting their presence. Neither had even built a spell world yet, so Esther's mana sense would not catch them, either. They pushed through the foglike steam. One tightened his grip on his sword and searched for his target. He darted his eyes about, ready to stab as soon as he spotted her, when something suddenly swept toward his face. THWACK!

The leading apprentice's vision suddenly went black. Something enveloped his face, and pressure began building around his skull.

"Ghk!"

"You fuck—!"

The other apprentice drew his blade and thrust. CLANG!

TING!

"Ugh!"

It felt as though he had stabbed a boulder. The blade's point bounced off, knocking the sword from his numbed hand. A huge hand shot out of the mist and seized the second apprentice by the throat. He instinctively clawed and pulled at the hand gripping his neck. Naturally, it accomplished nothing. Even a blade had bounced off it. "Ghk!"

The two apprentices dangled in the air, unable even to scream. With their breathing cut off, neither could utter a word. The one held by the head and the one held by the throat both thrashed, but neither could escape the grip. The apprentice held by the throat began turning purple from suffocation. His tongue slowly emerged between lips an even deeper purple than his face, then hung limp. Meanwhile, Esther calmly chanted again.

"Demuller's Scythe."

It was her second use of the same spell. As the vacuum-cutting spell cleaved the air, it briefly cleared the steam obscuring their surroundings. "The same trick!"

Galaf blocked it the same way. A blue barrier stopped the vacuum blade, then dispersed. And he saw the being standing motionless before Esther.

"A golem?" The monster looked far too human to be an ordinary golem. He also saw his two dead apprentices. One lay with his tongue hanging out; the other collapsed to the ground, blood streaming from his ears, eyes, and nose. His crushed skull had left his face grotesquely distorted. "A summon?"

"Picked it up on the way."

Esther's expression remained humorless. Galaf clenched his teeth. He could not lose to a half-wit who could not open even half her spell world. Esther, on the other hand, found him laughable. Why had she earned an epithet that included Strife in the first place? Because she fought well. Her spell world had begun with combat and struggle. "Ah, it's been a while."

A fight against a worthy opponent. She would have to spend over a month as a panther afterward, but that would be a price well worth this amusement.

* * *

THUD!

When they approached, he struck. When they pulled away, he followed and struck again. Encrid was a siege engine single-handedly battering down a wall of enemy soldiers. He was displaying exactly that kind of power. Some enemy soldiers lost their nerve and backed away.

"Don't retreat!"

A commander behind them drew his sword. Retreat, and their own side would kill them. A soldier steeled himself and clenched his teeth again. Watching their reactions, Encrid thought. As always, his thoughts concerned swordsmanship. How to swing a sword. How to fight. 'Captain Sinar watched me and brought out a sword style to counter mine.'

Why had she done that? She had used the means suited to the situation and the moment. Then what should he do now? He reflected on what he possessed, put it through Review, and worked to make it part of his body. Just as he always did. Absorbed in that process, he swung again. WHOOSH.

Killing intent reached his chest before the rush of air. Encrid pulled back his outstretched sword and used the defensive form of Nameless's Righteous Sword Technique. Sliding his right foot behind his left, he turned his body and raised his blade to guard his center. CLANG!

It was the right response. A blade struck the middle of his steel sword. A fraction slower, and that slash would have left a deep wound somewhere on his body. The blade withdrew, and Encrid saw its wielder settle into a stance. He was short enough that his forehead would reach Encrid's chin, wore no helmet, and had a stocky build and large feet. One look was enough for Encrid to assess him. 'Attacks built around explosive charges.'

In swordsmanship terms, it belonged to the Swift Sword category. The Oniak Sword Technique, as it was called in the language of the far southern reaches. Rendered in the continental tongue, its categories were the straight sword, heavy sword, deceptive sword, Swift Sword, and flowing sword. Swordsmanship could be broadly divided into those five types, but different footwork and other elements could combine to create new styles. His opponent's swordsmanship was one such example. Speed of foot working in harmony with speed of hand. A sword that was fast, then faster still. The man bounced on his feet a few times, then moved again. His body flashed like lightning, and he swung a sword shaped like a scimitar. That curved edge looked capable of slicing through anything it caught. Encrid stepped back. CLANG!

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!

CLANG!

Two, three, four, five strikes blocked in succession, yet the man did not stop. Encrid could not even hear him breathe, but the attacks kept coming. They did not slow, either. It was as though he were declaring he could keep swinging like this all day. Encrid was untroubled. He was slower than Lycanos. After blocking nine strikes in all and retreating ten paces, Encrid shifted to a one-handed grip with his right hand and tried to deflect the next blow. His opponent feigned a slash, then pulled back his sword and abruptly bent his knees, dropping low. Keeping his right hand where it was, Encrid reached to the sword belt at his right hip with his left and gripped a sword. Its name was Spark. It was so light that it was actually difficult to handle, but for a single stab, it was the best choice. His opponent moved so quickly that the man who had stood before him was suddenly airborne. There had been no sound of feet kicking off the ground. He seemed to have appeared overhead out of nowhere. It was almost an acrobatic feat. He slashed down from the air. His airborne stroke added weight to speed, its timing and pace half a breath quicker than the previous nine. This was his decisive move, the attack he had been setting up. Encrid did not retreat. Instead, he moved his left hand. The descending slash and an ascending ray of light skimmed past one another at an angle. RIP!

The curved sword cut across Encrid's chest. But it did not cut his flesh. The final force was missing. "Ghk... Faster than me..."

With a sword lodged in his chest, the man had been unable to follow through. His blade had merely struck Encrid's chest. It had sliced through the leather armor and gambeson, but failed to penetrate the armor underneath. The armor Encrid had obtained while saving Odd-Eyes was proving useful in many ways. The man with a hole in his chest fell to the ground and thrashed.

"I've been playing with someone really fast lately."

Encrid offered the dying man an explanation. The man blinked a few times, then stopped breathing. He was dead. It was remarkable that he had spoken at all with his heart pierced. Encrid flicked his sword through the air to shake off the blood. His chest did sting from the blow. A clear slash marked the gambeson and leather armor covering it, but the blade had not breached the bandage armor, leaving him uncut. The ache in his bones told him there had been considerable strength behind it. Encrid did not know whom he had killed, but the Aspen commander did. The man was Janus the Quick-Handed, one of the most capable mercenaries active in Aspen. His swift slashes and light-footed movements had been a nightmare for many. That nightmare ended here. "Shall we finish?"

Encrid stepped toward the enemy soldiers as he spoke. Allied troops watched from behind. In particular, the soldier who had kept spouting his whiny nonsense until the last moment could not tear his eyes away. 'I'm the fucking idiot.'

The man could fight damn well. So damn well. He was never someone the soldier had any business judging. The enemy soldiers charging him were not bundles of straw or rotten wood, yet every one of them fell or toppled over as soon as they approached. 'And I was mouthing off to someone like that.'

It had been because of Helma. He had quietly taken a liking to her, and it bothered him that she seemed utterly taken with that man. He had been jealous. He was ashamed. Mortified. He wanted to hide in a mouse hole. What sort of nonsense had he been saying to a man like that? 'Telling him to take the lead? Asking if he even knew how to fight?'

He had taken plenty of veiled digs at him, too. He had wondered who the hell this bastard was, always sitting beside them chewing eel. "Ah, fuck."

The soldier turned his anger and humiliation into muscle power.

"Kill them all!"

Whipped into a frenzy, he ran wild. He was not the only one. Encrid's exploits drove every soldier into a kind of frenzy.

"Don't you dare!"

Helma shouted, too. The enemy was being pushed back. Aspen had the better force, yet now it was losing in both morale and fighting strength. Encrid alone had changed the battle, handing Naurilia the advantage. Still, something was strange. The enemy's movements were peculiar. They seemed to be fighting according to a fixed set of rules. Anyone looking down on the entire battlefield would have seen an odd pattern. Encrid pressed inward, and the enemy soldiers retreated. Even so, they subtly maintained their ranks as they withdrew, and the number of enemies between him and his allies steadily grew. Yet no one sensed any danger. Their victory seemed that secure. All that remained was for the enemy to stop holding out and retreat. Encrid kept advancing. After Janus the Quick-Handed, two more well-known mercenaries attacked him.

"My name is Joey Hurrier."

A swordsman of the Hurrier family challenged him as well. Encrid brought every one of them down within five to seven exchanges. "You fucking monster!"

The enemy soldier's cry sounded like an admission of defeat. At that moment, no one could have spoken of the Naurilian army losing. The Aspen troops who had retreated from Encrid shifted about within their own ranks. Forcing themselves into formation, they were quietly cutting him off from his allies. Watching the battle's flow from afar, Abnaire repeated inwardly:

'Come farther in. Farther.' The ground ahead was open plain, but behind lay a series of rises, small hills scattered haphazardly. Toward the river lay a ravine; to the right, a forest. Abnaire had made arrangements in every one of those places.

* * *

Krais stopped the enemy circling around their rear. Keeping Sinar and Dunbachel in reserve had paid off.

"We've stopped them!"

Nurat approached and shouted the news. Krais quietly clenched his fist. Good. Now they only needed to keep things at a stalemate. Even in this situation, the enemy kept fighting. They showed no intention of retreating. It was foolish.

'They want to fight all night?'

That would only inflict heavy losses on both armies. More precisely, Aspen's losses would be several times worse. This single battle would cost them more than they could recover from. Yet they would not withdraw. Nor could his own side pull out first. They had won this battle. They had clearly won, and yet...

'What the hell is this?'

Unable to fathom the enemy's intentions, Krais felt stifled. Despite their winning position, his expression remained dark.

* * *

"Block him with your bodies."

Some of the Gray Hounds had hung back, then struck at Encrid's rear. Dogged persistence was their specialty.

"Keep pressing him to the end." Were these bastards insane? Encrid kept swinging as he wondered. It was time for them to retreat. Aspen was barely holding on through sheer numbers and deaths. If another day passed like this, the odds would swing heavily in Naurilia's favor. Yet the enemy refused to give up. The Gray Hounds were not the only problem. At some point, the look in the surrounding soldiers' eyes had changed. Their ferocity was extraordinary.

"Kill him!"

"Kill him!" Encrid did not know. Some had families held hostage. Others were criminals. They were throwing away the present in exchange for a future. Survive this, and their crimes would be pardoned. Survive this, and their families would receive Krona. Kill one particular man, and they would receive more Krona than they had ever dreamed of. They were suicide troops who had come seeking a reward. Of course, after facing Encrid a few times, even they had tried to flee. Fighting him was simply handing over their lives. But retreat was not an option. "Shoot anyone who retreats."

The moment they backed away, their own side's spears and arrows came at them. Blocking troops. A unit that mercilessly stabbed retreating allies in the back. If they wanted to live, they had to advance. So they did. The atmosphere grew increasingly strange. Encrid tried to pull back without ceasing to strike, fight, and kill, but returning to the main army was no easy task. "Dolce Hurrier."

A Hurrier swordsman attacked, mercenaries attacked, and men heedless of their own lives blocked him with their bodies. Encrid's muscles began trembling. The human wall was too thick to break through by force. Meanwhile, Naurilia's main army tried to push forward, but Aspen resisted with all its might. In the end, things went wrong. Encrid was isolated. There were several reasons for this. First, the enemy had accepted the sacrifice.

"Fuck, what the hell?"

Krais was the first to realize it. They had thrown away hundreds of lives to isolate Encrid alone. Some of the Gray Hounds had even charged Border Guard's standing army from unfavorable terrain. All those losses, solely to drive a wedge between Encrid and his allies. Second was the enemy's resolve. Abnaire's resolve, too. The men holding Encrid back reached out even as they died. They grabbed him and clung on. It made his path far harder than expected. They had staked their lives on pinning him down. Third were terrain, formations, and preparation. Abnaire had prepared many things, including this. Trying to shake off the enemy and return, Encrid found himself lost before he knew it. Spells were involved, too, but no one could detect them. Naturally. These were things painstakingly prepared one by one during that slow advance. All of it had been done solely to catch a handful of people. Those preparations included people, as well as arrangements of troop formations known in the far East and far South as formation arts. Even looking at the sky, Encrid could not find his way. The spells' trickery concealed the starlight. Before he knew it, the sun had set and night had come. The moment Encrid became trapped amid thick brush between the low hills, Abnaire spoke from his camp as though making a declaration.

"Got him."