Chapter 397 - Where Dawn Left Its Mark

Encrid adjusted his grip on Silver and thought back over the exchange. The charging horse. The incoming spearhead. The heart of the beast had given him courage, while Concentrate on a Single Point had broken his opponent's movements into discrete moments. His keen hearing and sight had instinctively calculated when the spearhead would reach him.

Then he had cut the man down. Yet something still nagged at him. 'Not enough.'

Something had been lacking. His Review was over in an instant, and he quickly identified what needed correcting. What if he had stepped farther forward? Just another half step would have done it. That would have made transferring his strength easier. A difference in stride would change how his strength flowed. Encrid swung his sword, adjusted his grip, and drew it back, putting his thoughts into motion. He widened his stance. Corrected his posture. Then swung at empty air. WHOOSH. There was no need to swing quickly. A moderate speed was enough to feel the transfer of strength. The blade cut through the air and stopped exactly where he intended.

His conclusion: this was right. The change in stride made transferring his strength easier. Encrid understood it with his mind and engraved it into his body. "No one's coming?"

He raised his head. Thousands of people had gathered here. Armies stood watching. Of course, Encrid had not looked up to study those armies. He was merely wondering whether his next opponent was coming.

Why weren't they coming? He simply looked on, puzzled. This had been the first fight, the first duel. Those arrayed at the rear could not have seen it properly, but everyone at the front had witnessed it. Naturally, so had the enemy across the field.

It was only normal that they found it hard to step forward.

* * *

'One blow?'

Jalvan's brow furrowed. He had two adjutants. The one who had just gone out was the weaker of the two, but he was still talented enough to hold his own against a knight order's squire. "Let his guard down, did he? Idiot."

His other adjutant started forward as he spoke.

"Wait."

Jalvan raised a hand. At his words, the adjutant reined in his horse. Jalvan judged their opponent to be no ordinary fighter. But his adjutant had indeed been careless. He was not a man who should have fallen to a single blow. After a brief deliberation, he spoke.

"I'll go. Binyu, follow me and provide support." Jalvan brought his adjutant rather than going alone. The key was to make it look as though the man was simply following a few steps behind to assist him. That adjutant specialized in throwing spears.

One timely intervention would be enough. Even if someone from the opposing camp came out to help, the result would not change. Men with such deadly skill at throwing spears were rare. "Let's go." NEIGH! Jalvan urged his horse forward, his adjutant following behind.

* * *

The guild master who had attached himself to Encrid's party was frozen in astonishment, his mouth hanging open. Only when two men emerged from the enemy ranks did he find his voice.

"Shouldn't, ah, someone from our side go out too?"

He was addressing Rem or Ragna. "Haaah. Those two don't stand a chance."

Rem answered through a yawn. He had seen what Encrid could do over the past month. There was nothing to worry about. Ragna had procured an apple from somewhere and was busily chewing it. From the way he was chomping away, he looked ready to eat the seeds too.

Jaxon said nothing. His arms were crossed and his eyes closed. There was no telling what went on in that man's head. At least, that was how it looked to the guild master. 'What is wrong with these people?'

Was no one from the main army going out either? He turned toward it. All was quiet. No, there was a stir among the ranks, but they certainly did not look ready to charge.

Indeed, they too were merely watching. After Ingis's departure, Marcus had taken command of the royal army. His palms were sweaty. If they lost this duel, this fight, they would be pushed back in an all-out battle too. If they lost the momentum from the outset, there would be no way out. The enemy's forces were that much stronger. 'Fucking hell.'

That had been his first thought on hearing the size of the enemy's main army. Then he had seen how well trained they were, and even Marcus had been on the verge of losing heart when Encrid stepped forward.

An unforeseen act at an unforeseen moment. That was how this fight had begun. It had been a long time since Marcus had seen Encrid fight, and he was deeply shocked.

'He was this good?'

They were facing the five living weapons the count had raised. Even their adjutants were far from ordinary fighters. Yet one had been cut in half at the waist with a single blow. It had not been luck or an exploited opening. Encrid had faced the man head-on and overwhelmed him with superior strength and speed.

Marcus could recognize that much. He deliberated briefly. Their situation was no different from hanging off a cliff. Or perhaps picking out solid ground to tread on in the middle of a swamp. It amounted to the same thing. One wrong choice, one mistaken move, and they were finished.

That was the source of his caution. "Should we send support?"

Rather than decide on his own, he asked Aesia, the knight order member beside him.

"Just enjoy the show."

She answered sullenly, thinking,

'I should have been the one out there.' Without a word, a signal, or any warning at all, he had gone out alone and cut down an enemy.

'It's not as though I can call the whole thing off and tell them to come at me instead.'

For a moment, Aesia imagined herself stepping before the enemy army and asking to cancel everything and start again. Of course, that was absurd. More importantly, if Encrid had not stepped forward, they would nearly have lost before the battle even began. They had deployed scouts and already assessed the enemy's strength. What they had missed was the quality of their training and equipment.

The count's territorial army was solid. Like rock. The disparity in strength was staggering. It was only natural to freeze briefly at the sight. The more experienced one was, the more natural that reaction became. Then had Encrid gone out there because he did not understand? No. He knew it all and had not hesitated. He had rushed forward alone and taken responsibility for opening the battle.

Aesia freely admitted defeat. Not merely in skill, but in spirit as well. 'Magnificent bastard.'

She watched him as the thought passed through her mind. Far away stood the man who had stepped forward to fight. The man who had proudly declared his dream of knighthood and half crushed her face.

And, by doing so, saved her. "Ah, go on. Kill them all."

Aesia muttered it, her thoughts escaping without her realizing. A battle cry rang out from the center of the battlefield as both armies watched.

"Kyaaah!"

It was one of the five living weapons. Jalvan, wielder of two short spears. Aesia could see him charging headlong.

* * *

Encrid could see dust drifting through the air. He could see the round droplets of splattered blood beading on the grass. About ten paces ahead, the man who had ridden over leaped off his horse.

The instant his feet struck the ground with a tap, Encrid could distinguish individual grains in the dust rising beneath them. The grass swayed in the wind. A soft rustling reached his ears, the sound of grass blades greeting one another. He could feel the weight of the sword in his hand. The touch and weight of his clothes and armor against his entire body, too.

'Just the right weight.'

He had named the sword in his hand Silver. Today, the weight of that sword felt especially pleasing. Looking at its edge, he could see tiny imperfections. A whetstone would do it good. "You must be confident in your skills to have come this far. What's your name?"

The approaching man asked, but Encrid did not answer. He merely savored everything his senses brought him. Wind brushed his cheeks. Sunlight pressed down on his helmet. Ah, that was a pity.

Encrid removed his helmet. The sun and wind felt closer now. The broad plain did not even have a rise large enough to hide behind. In other words, it was an ideal place for the wind to play. In ancient times, the Nauril plains had been called the land of wind.

The wind ran across the vast earth, with nothing to block its path. An unceasing race. WHOOOOOSH! A strong gust blew in from somewhere. Jalvan instinctively braced his feet. Encrid relaxed his body. The wind flowed over him, wrapped around him, then dispersed.

Jalvan frowned. Had his opponent just floated off the ground for an instant? Had he not? Was it an illusion? He wanted to rub his eyes. Yet he could not look away for even a moment. The slightest lapse in concentration, and his opponent's blade would stab into his belly. Even if the first man had not let his guard down, he would not have lasted more than a few exchanges. Seeing Encrid up close made Jalvan certain of that.

'He's the real thing.'

His opponent was better than he was. Jalvan tightened his grip on his short spears. Veins rose on the backs of his hands. He steeled himself and pictured how the fight would unfold.

'Block his sword with my left.'

As he thought, his gaze moved to Encrid's waist. There were two more swords there. A belt holding throwing daggers was plainly visible across his chest, too. Three swords. He would not have brought them for nothing. He would have uses for the other weapons, too. Inspecting his opponent closely, Jalvan also spotted knives concealed at his ankles and elsewhere.

His opponent still had his arms hanging loose, just as the wind had left them. 'Again.'

Jalvan pictured the fight from the beginning. What if he blocked the sword Encrid was holding with his left and thrust faster than anyone with the short spear in his right?

'No. Again.'

Sweat began to bead on his forehead. That was how much mental effort he was expending. Once again, he imagined the fight.

'Thrust with my left. Force him to defend.' Then twist the grip of the short spear in his right hand. Yes. Use every trick he had prepared. That was the way.

His eyes stung. He felt trapped in a prison where even blinking was forbidden. Still, Jalvan bore the pressure with practiced skill. He too was a warrior who had crossed the river of death countless times. He had endured this much pressure time and again. 'I'll kill him.'

When he moved, the subordinate who was like an extension of his own limbs would throw a spear.

'Even I couldn't block that.'

A spear flying in from outside his field of vision in the middle of a fight. And the man throwing it possessed skill that was first-rate or better. His adjutant fought as well as most squires. Judged on spear throwing alone, he could fairly be called a proto knight. A drop of sweat fell to the ground. His opponent blinked once. Jalvan flinched, his shoulders twitching.

That bastard! Even total concentration might not be enough, and he was taking it easy? Blinking? Jalvan nearly kicked off the ground and lunged at him.

'Illusion swordsmanship?'

Was it deception? It was. The instant he decided that, Jalvan slid one planted foot forward. He began to close the ten-pace distance little by little. A cautious approach. Encrid watched his approaching opponent, then looked beyond him. Everything remained visible in minute detail. The sensations against his body were unchanged, too. But suddenly his field of vision opened up, revealing his surroundings.

First, the man farther back, inching sideways. He would intervene if things went wrong. The spear strapped to his back was an eyesore. Naturally, he could also see the man approaching him. Watching him creep forward was frustrating. Another thought came at the same time.

'It would be a serious blow if I lost here.'

He could almost see the outcome. The enemy was stronger. His side was outmatched in both numbers and training. The count had prepared thoroughly.

Still, he thought things would be all right. On this continent, wars were decided by a handful of elite fighters. A knight's power changed the course of a battlefield. Long ago, the man called the first knight had changed the meaning of a word that had once denoted a title.

Knights transformed battlefields. Encrid was here because he, too, wanted to change something. 'I'll change it.'

Why had he wanted to become a knight?

'To save. To protect.'

To fight for what he believed was right, and protect the people behind him. From the moment he first held a sword, he had wanted to live that way. A bard's lyrics had lodged in his heart and become the guideposts of his life.

He had walked and walked, all the way to this moment. Dawn had touched his faded, tattered dream and left its mark. Ignoring his opponent's pace, Encrid strode forward. The way he pushed off the ground with each step made him look as though he was half running. Yet he did not seem particularly hurried. His sword arm swung as he walked, the blade swinging with it.

The instant the distance between them narrowed to less than five paces, Jalvan kicked off the ground. "Kyaah!"

He thrust with the spear in his left hand. Encrid held Silver diagonally across his chest and twisted his wrist.

A Gentle Stroke Does Not Turn a Blade into Cotton.

The instant his blade touched the short spear's tip, he deflected its force. His sword flowed onward, guiding the spear's strength aside. He could see his opponent's eyes. Brown. Bloodshot. Was it particularly dry today? Why did this fellow's eyes look like that?

Stray thoughts intruded. His opponent raised his right hand and thrust. It would not reach. Yet he went through the motion anyway. BANG! With an explosive report, the short spear's tip shot out. The weapon concealed a special mechanism. Instead of sending his Flowing Sword onward, Encrid drew it back. CLANG-CLANG! It took time to describe, but happened in the briefest of instants. Jalvan thrust with his left hand and fired the short spear in his right. Two metallic clashes rang out.

Immediately afterward came the sound of a blade striking flesh. THWACK! Encrid had blocked twice and struck once. All with the single sword in his right hand. His third stroke gouged into his opponent's chest.

Jalvan wore several layers of leather, with thick underclothes that doubled as armor beneath them, but Encrid's sword sliced through it all and left its mark in muscle and flesh. Directly over his heart.

The veins in his eyes swelled even more. "Gah!"

Struck by the sword, he coughed up blood and staggered back a few paces before collapsing. His knees hit the ground first.

"Hup!"

Only then did the man behind him throw his spear. It flew toward Encrid's face. The rushing air pressed against his face first.

Encrid brought his sword down. CLANG! The thrown spear caught in the sword's path, ricocheted sideways, and tumbled across the ground. The adjutant's hand stopped as he prepared to throw a second spear. It was obvious another throw would yield no different result, and his body froze of its own accord.

In the end, Encrid had swung the sword in his right hand a fourth time, and that had ended the fight. Jalvan saw the ground rushing toward his eyes. The world was turning red. He thought,

'The gap in our skills, from the start...'

His opponent was on another level. He had easily blocked both attacks, even the spearhead fired by surprise. How had this happened?

The reason was simple. Encrid had brought his sword down faster and more accurately than Jalvan could. What they had built up was different.

That was Jalvan's conclusion. Encrid flicked the blood from his sword. Even now, the spear thrower could neither attack nor flee. Only his eyes moved.

"Not coming at me?"

Encrid looked at him and asked calmly, casually. Neither urging nor rebuking him, he seemed merely to be asking what the man intended. A strange tension formed. Just as the spear thrower renewed his resolve and tightened his grip on the shaft, someone shouted,

"You mad bastard!"

An impatient man from the enemy army came galloping forward, snapping his reins as he burst out of the ranks. BADADADADUM! The man seemed ready to charge straight in, but twenty paces out he released his reins, raised a shortbow on horseback, and drew the string. That, too, was remarkable skill. Mounted archery was no common accomplishment. An arrow loosed while closing the distance would be as swift as a ray of light. Watching the man ride toward him and shoot, Encrid flicked his left hand. Naturally, he imbued the motion with Will of the Instant, accelerating the act of drawing, gripping, and throwing his sword. WHOOSH. SWISH. Sword and arrow crossed on separate paths. THWACK! The sound was crisp. The man who had loosed his bow with a twang twenty paces away took a sword in the chest just after firing. His body briefly rose behind his horse.

That was the sight Encrid's thrown sword had created. The gladius had flown straight into the man's chest. The incoming arrow looked like a dot to Encrid, but it was well within his range of perception. There was nothing to trouble him. Naturally, the moment he threw his gladius, he leaped sideways and rolled out of the arrow's path. THUNK! The arrow buried itself in the ground. Beyond it, the archer's now-riderless horse galloped off to one side. CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP! NEEEEIGH! The horse let out a long whinny. Perhaps it knew its master was dead. The man with the sword in his chest had flown backward and rolled across the ground, his blood soaking the grass.

Encrid walked over and pulled out his gladius. Ribs split and broke inside the corpse with an audible crack. What if he had been given just three todays to face that rhythm-breaking swordsman?

Encrid felt he could prove the answer here. Instead of three todays, he had condensed everything into a single month.

His body felt especially light today.