Chapter 35 - He Felt Pure Joy

Every member of the troublemaker squad had a strong personality, but they shared one trait: they took little interest in those around them. Ragna in particular was neither conscious of others watching him nor especially concerned about it. 'Eat just enough, fight just enough, drift through life.'

And in between all that drifting, he slept a great deal. Knowing Ragna, Encrid had been privately astonished when he volunteered to go scouting in his place. Ragna, of all people, offering to take his place? Had his lazy squad member turned over a new leaf? He had not. Ragna was fickle and ruled by his moods. He had been caught up in the moment, but probably would have changed his mind within a day—no, not even half a day. Encrid had anticipated as much and would never have sent him anyway. There was a reason Encrid handled most of the troublemaker squad's bothersome assignments. In some ways, Ragna was Encrid's polar opposite. Ragna lacked enthusiasm for just about everything, while Encrid carved time out of his day to swing a sword. Of course, Ragna did swing his sword on occasion. Sometimes he sparred with Rem, as Encrid had seen upon his return, and sometimes he distinguished himself on the battlefield. Though each time, he would mutter, ["I wasn't trying to."] Knowing all that, Encrid found Ragna's interest in him curious.

'What's gotten into him?'

It really was unusual. Ragna sometimes asked questions or made demands, but he was not the type to spend days watching someone, patiently formulating a question. Encrid lowered the hand he had been scratching his forehead with. Rem was the more outgoing of his squad members, but even that bastard kept everyone at a certain distance. Up close, you could see it. He never let anyone inside that boundary. In a way, he was harder to deal with than a layabout like Ragna. Still, Rem said what he had to say. Ragna rarely spoke even when he needed to. And now Ragna had asked this question. That was what made it so curious. Encrid looked into his eyes for a moment. A quiet silence passed between them. He stared as though they were having a staring contest, then raised his head. Not a cloud in the sky. After all the rain lately, the sky was a brilliant blue without even the smallest wisp of cloud. The sight alone made his chest feel open and free. Looking up, he forgot his questions about why Ragna was acting this way, why he was asking, and whether Encrid had guessed his intentions correctly. Encrid stopped bothering with all that. He had been asked a question, so he would answer. Whether dealing with swords or people, he simply gave everything his best. 'Since when did I worry about things like this?'

Even when he gave everything his all, what he wanted remained so far away. His had always been a life of yearning. Ragna had asked why he went that far. Perhaps he meant swinging his sword at every spare moment. Perhaps he meant never treating anything carelessly. Perhaps he was asking about the refusal to give up despite his paltry skill. So Encrid answered his question with another.

"What if I'd been good with a sword?" They stood on the outskirts of the temporary position, without a patch of shade. Sunlight enveloped them both as Ragna's gaze lingered on Encrid's face. Encrid spoke again.

"How would things have turned out? What could I have become?" His voice was mellifluous, like a finely crafted instrument. At least, that was how Ragna heard it. It was neither feverishly excited nor dejected. It was easy and composed, as though he were reading a fairy tale to a child. "Right now, I swing a sword to stay alive. But that's not how I want to live."

As he spoke, Encrid swung his sword straight down. WHOOSH. The blade cut through the air, spreading its distinctive scent. The smell of the battlefield, tinged with iron, tickled Ragna's nose. Whether Ragna was beside him or not, Encrid carried on with his work. Practicing his swordsmanship. Down from above. Up from below. Diagonally, then sideways again. Soon he was facing an imaginary opponent, miming a bind and drawing the joined blades toward himself before striking with the back edge. Ragna simply watched his squad leader without replying. A lowest-grade soldier of the Kingdom of Naurilia. He knew the troublemaker squad's leader was too skilled to remain at the very lowest grade, but that did not make him a swordsman or warrior of any great caliber. If he entered the mercenary trade now, he would be slightly above average at best. A middling mercenary was hardly impressive. Ragna had once been deeply involved in that world and knew its standards well. When it came to swords, he also possessed innate insight to rival a frok's. He could gauge his squad leader's ability, and see its limits. 'It's already too late.'

He had started out wrong. He should have devoted himself to the fundamentals from the moment he first took up a sword. His lack of talent had robbed him of that opportunity. And what was his squad leader like now? Exactly as he had said. A desperate struggle to survive—the techniques he had honed for that purpose were holding him back. Of everything the squad leader possessed, only two things were worth anything. What that barbarian Rem had taught him, who was capable enough despite being an ass. And the stab he had demonstrated after his sudden improvement. Apart from those two, his techniques lacked fundamentals and always relied on shortcuts. Those shortcuts were the problem. Ragna had exercised his insight to the fullest, but rather than explain his assessment, he asked what was troubling him.

"Then what will you do once you're good with a sword?" Encrid stopped swinging. The beads of sweat on his forehead trickled down, gathered at his chin, then dripped to the ground. They quickly seeped into the soil beneath his feet. Sunlight, sword, wind, sky. Holding them all in his heart, Encrid voiced the dream he had repeated to himself countless times.

"A knight. I want to become a knight who rides toward the end of the battlefield." "Why?"

To Ragna, it was a natural question. Ragna could see the road. A road whose destination was obvious without ever traveling it. How could that journey be enjoyable? With nothing in particular to do upon arrival, nothing he wanted to do, he could never find the determination to walk it. That was Ragna. A wanderer who could see both road and destination, but had no desire to walk—who could not walk. "Do I need a reason to want to be one?" Encrid asked in return. This was his ideal. His romance. His life and all the days he had lived. It was also the dream that had captivated him as a child. How many times had he repeated that dream to himself? There was no reason behind wanting to become one. But he had no intention of letting it end at wanting, either. "I want to live by what I believe is right. I want to take up my sword for the poor and the sick, for honor, and for the people I love." What was a knight? Merely a killing machine skilled at fighting and taking lives? That was often what people called them. Weapons of war specialized in killing. But if that were all the knight of Encrid's dreams amounted to, he could never have kept swinging his sword this long. Honor and good faith. Someone who expressed his convictions through his sword. A blade imbued with the chivalry most no longer sought. As he spoke, Encrid thought of Krang. Why had his words carried such power? How had they drawn everyone in? He thought he was beginning to understand. Because they held sincerity, genuine feeling. That was the foundation. So Encrid, too, spoke from his heart. It struck Ragna profoundly. Encrid did not know, of course, since he showed no outward sign of it. Ragna posed a question to himself. Why did someone who wanted to live by his convictions need a sword? Because without martial strength, it was difficult to make those convictions a reality. There had always been an emptiness in his chest. It was the source of his listlessness. But as he spoke with Encrid now, a different flame kindled in his heart in its place. Holding that nascent flame within his chest, Ragna sank into thought. He even spread grass on a patch of the plain and sat down. What was a knight? What was a sword? One question followed another until he reached a conclusion. 'I can't know without walking the road.'

He had found a reason he must walk it. Encrid left him to it and resumed swinging his sword. Amid the silence, only sword, sky, and wind passed to and fro. They were a little way from the position, so the soldiers' noisy voices could still be heard off to one side, but otherwise it was quiet. The silence did not last long.

"Would you like to learn swordsmanship?"

Ragna spoke as he gazed blankly at a pointed stone embedded in the ground nearby. WHIP! Sweat scattered through the air with Encrid's stab. He stopped in that position, steadied his breathing, and answered without taking his eyes off the sword's tip.

"Yes." His tone was plain and calm. If an opportunity to learn presented itself, he would not let it slip away. That was a given for Encrid. Ragna surprised himself with his own words.

'Why am I doing this?'

But he soon realized why. Half of him wanted to show the right path to his squad leader, who struggled so desperately. The other half was doing it for himself. 'When the squad leader is around...'

He found himself making an effort without even realizing it. Watching the way Encrid lived spurred him on. Ragna needed that stimulus—something to keep him walking down the long, tedious road. The squad leader's very presence spurred him on. With him around, Ragna trained, however halfheartedly. Seeing him improve brought a vigor he had never known before. He had sparred with the squad leader, offered to go scouting in his place, and even limbered up by fighting Rem. It was unusual. For Ragna, at least. Then what would happen if he taught his squad leader? It was an act closer to selfishness than altruism. Encrid, meanwhile, did not dwell on the reasons.

'What's gotten into him?'

He had not asked Ragna for anything, yet the man was readily offering to teach him swordsmanship. He had only learned the heart of the beast by pestering Rem. And what about his lessons with Jaxon? They had all happened because Encrid approached them first and pushed for it. But not this time. After staring at him for days, Ragna had abruptly approached, asked a few questions, and offered to teach him. Encrid thought it was a fine opportunity. So he did not want to ask why. Even during their sparring, Ragna had said nothing about swordsmanship beyond the movements needed at that particular moment. When it came to the sword, Encrid was like a starving wild dog. He had asked countless questions and pressed him further during their bouts, but Ragna had evaded every answer. Yet now, all of a sudden, he was offering to teach him. "Well, first..."

Ragna rose and brushed off his backside, working his lips as though choosing his words. Encrid lowered his sword tip and waited patiently. As he waited, he remembered something Rem had said.

["I'm not really the one to teach you swordsmanship."] Rem was good with a sword as well as an axe. Encrid had seen him slice through enemies and stab them with a sword time and again.

["I swing purely on instinct. That's not something you can teach. You'd be better off learning in a more systematic way, Squad Leader."] It had not seemed as though he simply did not want to teach, or wanted to hoard his techniques. If that were the case, he would never have taught Encrid the heart of the beast. At the time, Encrid had simply accepted it and moved on. Ragna spoke while Encrid was lost in thought.

"That beast's guts or conscience or whatever you learned from the barbarian..." ... It was the heart of the beast. How had that become a beast's guts? Rem would probably have swung his axe on the spot if he had heard. "And that one stab."

Ragna continued, then looked Encrid straight in the eye.

"Aside from those, I think we'll have to rebuild everything from scratch. Are you all right with that?" Not understanding at first, Encrid tilted his head.

"I mean you'll have to start over with the fundamentals. Can you do that?"

Ragna knew no other way to teach or learn the sword. For a moment, Encrid found that hard to accept.

"Why?"

The Valen Mercenary Sword Technique. Whatever anyone else said, he thought it was an excellent technique, an excellent sword art. "Because if you keep using that mercenary swordsmanship, you won't get any better than you are now." Ragna went on to explain. His examples were crude and his explanation unclear, but Encrid quickly understood. There was only one main point: his current approach had a definite limit. He could still advance by training as he did now. But progress would be slow, and he would never surpass that limit. When Encrid asked why, Ragna said he had learned too many miscellaneous things.

"The point is, your fundamentals are lacking." He had not expected to hear that. Whenever he took his silver or gold to a training hall, they stressed the importance of fundamentals. He had agreed and devoted considerable time to them. Thinking it over, though, he could see why Ragna would say that. Every lesson cost him money. He could not spend that paid time merely drilling the basics. So until now, he had practiced the cuts and stabs he considered fundamental on his own. That had been the problem. A brief flash of understanding came. In an instant, elation reverberated through Encrid's whole body. His sword hand trembled. Because he could see a road. Beyond the walls and darkness that had always barred his sight, a rough road had opened. He would not trade the rapture of this moment for any other feeling in life. As his hand trembled, Ragna spoke in a measured tone.

"Now you have to choose. Rebuild from scratch, or be content with where you are." Ragna expected Encrid to give up. Discarding everything he had built and starting over meant climbing from the very bottom again. His skill, roughly upper-middle tier even among mercenaries, would fall back to a low level. Could he bear that? A man who made his living by the blade in the middle of a battlefield? It might be different if he had several lives. Even if he wanted to, it would not come easily. When death approached, the techniques ingrained in his body would emerge. "You'll have to stake a few lives on it."

Ragna's words were blunt, but his tone held concern. Encrid nodded. Unsure what the nod meant, Ragna questioned him with his eyes, and Encrid spoke.

"Then I'll rebuild." "Really?"

It was Ragna's turn to be surprised. There had not seemed to be the slightest hesitation in that answer. Yet his hand had been trembling only moments before. Ragna had thought it was anger, frustration, despair. Encrid's response was the exact opposite. "Yes."

He felt pure joy.