Chapter 41 - Concentrate on a Single Point

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!

A stab at the eye, flowing straight into a cut at the shoulder. From the shoulder, the sword swept down across the thigh, then drove forward in a forceful strike.

Eyes wide, Encrid took in his opponent's body, hands, and footwork, predicting what would come next. He adopted a defensive stance to meet the anticipated blows and blocked them all.

Sparks flew between them, burning away patches of fog. Through the gaps, two eyes shone.

'Shoulder.'

His opponent's line of attack once again led toward his shoulder. Encrid drew back his left foot, which had been half a step forward. His left shoulder swung back just as the enemy's sword shot toward it with frightening speed.

He brought his left foot around behind his right, pivoting sideways on his right big toe—a circling step. The blade whistled past his shoulder.

Seeing his chance, Encrid cut upward from a modified middle guard, his sword point angled down.

Normally, the edge facing an opponent was called the front edge, and the one facing the wielder the back edge. Raising the sword from a lowered position therefore made this a back-edge strike. That back edge now aimed for his opponent's chin.

Encrid expected him to dodge.

'Even if he dodges, he'll leave an opening.'

Then Encrid could direct the next line of attack as he pleased. It was a move earned through countless battles. He intended to seize the advantage with a single step and the attack that followed.

"You arrogant little shit!"

Furious, his opponent swept the sword aimed at Encrid's shoulder sideways. Encrid had to duck hastily beneath it. Naturally, his rising sword failed to do its intended work.

CLANG-CLANG!

Instead, Encrid had to pull his sword tight against his body, then quickly raise it overhead to block the next attack. His opponent had only feinted the horizontal swing before raising his sword and bringing it down—a cut to the crown.

Encrid barely blocked it. Both men halted with their blades locked together.

"You think you can take me with one step?"

His opponent snarled, pressing down on his sword from above.

"Why? Am I not allowed?"

Encrid tossed the words back. The soldier who had introduced himself as Mitch Hurrier glared furiously. He had a remarkable talent for expressing anger with his face.

"You don't want an easy death, do you?"

"Actually, I'm hoping to die of old age."

When it came to getting under someone's skin, Encrid was every bit Rem's equal. No, he had an even sharper tongue. A thick vein bulged red across Mitch's forehead.

"Fine. I'll cut off all your limbs and stuff you in a shit barrel until you die of old age."

"No, I'm planning to die of old age with all my limbs intact and my great-grandchildren beside me."

"You little shit!"

THWACK!

Mitch kicked forward, and Encrid knocked the kick aside with his foot. The exchange put more than two paces between them.

Encrid tried to swing his sword the moment the distance opened, while Mitch drove forward on his feet instead. He moved so frighteningly fast that his body seemed to leave a long afterimage. Seeing it, Encrid changed his sword's course and cut downward.

CLANG!

Their swords met again. Steel ground against steel as the blades crossed. Encrid tried to force Mitch's blade away, but it followed as though stuck to his own.

Keeping the blades bound, Mitch abruptly twisted his wrists upward. That single movement brought his sword point up toward Encrid's head, the blade parallel to the ground in a raised guard. In an instant, he wound the strong part of his blade—the section near the hilt—around Encrid's sword tip.

Then he drove his sword straight forward. Even as he seethed and vented his anger, his swordsmanship remained precise.

CLINK-CLINK-CLINK!

The blades rang against each other. If Encrid stayed where he was, he would end up with a hole through his throat. He mirrored his opponent, twisting his wrists to raise his sword.

TING!

Sparks flew between them again. Mitch had flicked his sword away in an instant. Another strike followed before either could catch his breath.

This time, Encrid moved first. From upper right to lower left—a diagonal cut. He had practiced and honed it countless times. The skill he had polished through the grind of actual combat shone through.

His blade traced a graceful line that descended toward Mitch's body. Footwork, timing, stance, strike—every element aligned in a textbook cut.

Mitch received Encrid's sword with his own. In that instant, Encrid felt as though he were cutting into a soft wad of cotton rather than a sword.

Mitch's blade curved smoothly aside, letting Encrid's sword slide past, then reversed direction, its back edge falling toward Encrid's head. Mitch had turned his wrists to trace a small circle with his sword.

"Hh!"

Desperately short of breath, Encrid sucked in air and twisted sideways, not daring to attempt a block.

WHOOSH!

Mitch's sword cut through the space where Encrid's head had been. He had dodged, but thrown off his stance in the process. The descending blade cut his right forearm. The wound was shallow, but blood streamed down.

There was no more time for talk.

'Abdomen.'

He had to knock aside a stab at his belly, then dodge a diagonal cut aimed at his thigh.

Dodge, block, swing at an opening. He tried to force his opponent back with a high horizontal cut, but the enemy was relentless. Instead of retreating, Mitch struck upward and kept closing in.

A distance at which sword spoke to sword. Encrid was forced onto the defensive, barely managing to block and dodge.

'High cut, diagonal cut, stab.'

He poured out everything he had gained by ingraining his fundamentals and tempering them in battle. He stabbed, cut, pulled, bound blades, and used his feet whenever an opening appeared.

Mitch read every attack, blocking what needed blocking and dodging what needed dodging. All the while, he added wounds to Encrid's body, one after another. First the forearm, then the shoulder, then the thigh. Small cuts accumulated.

Encrid evaded by a hair's breadth—barely, truly barely. He was so completely on the defensive that he felt he had escaped the attack that knocked off his helmet and split his forehead through sheer luck. His violent movements scattered blood from his forehead in every direction.

'Shoulder next.'

No time to breathe. No time to think. Nothing remained but the process of blocking, dodging, and striking aside.

Even so, he occasionally counterattacked. He took three or four cuts for every one he landed, but he could still keep attacking, so he concentrated. One mistimed breath felt as though it would kill him.

The same was true of Mitch.

When he had first seen the lunatic who raided their camp, the man's skills had plainly been abysmal. Even without exchanging many blows, his limitations had been obvious. Mitch had seen them.

But what was this? In mere days, the man's skills had improved so much that Mitch doubted he was the same person. It would have been easier to believe he was a twin.

'Is he a twin?'

Whenever his thoughts strayed, the sword unfailingly sought his openings. Mitch knew that the stab which had just grazed his cheek could easily have punched a hole through his throat.

'This bastard.'

Mitch concentrated. He had no attention to spare for trivialities like what was happening around him or where he was. He focused solely on killing his opponent.

Encrid was no different. Dodge and block. Block and dodge. Amid it all, he saw openings, though some were too daunting to exploit.

But if he hesitated when there was room to drive his sword in, he would find himself boarding the boat the ferryman of the black river had prepared for him.

Even though death would make him repeat today, Encrid had no intention of wasting a single one. He gave it his all. That was precisely what made repeating today meaningful.

'Chest—no, belly.'

He dodged a deceptive stab, then blocked and deflected a blade that swooped down from above like an eagle. His deflection was clumsy; he had never properly learned the technique. It was closer to blocking than redirecting.

The essence of Encrid's Heavy Sword Technique lay in overpowering the opponent through strength. Mitch, by contrast, combined the Righteous Sword Technique and the Flowing Sword Technique.

The standard approach of the Righteous Sword Technique was to pressure an opponent along prescribed sword paths, then counterattack. The Flowing Sword Technique redirected an opponent's attacks to create openings.

CLINK!

Their swords met, radiating heat. Encrid committed himself entirely, unable to let even a fraction of his attention stray. A single blink could cost him the fight.

And now, as they exchanged blows, there was no flagpole in Encrid's mind, no victory or defeat, no swordsmanship. Nothing remained but cutting and stabbing the opponent before him, swinging his sword.

Everything around him vanished, leaving only one thing.

The sword and me. Me and the sword.

His sword. The sword and him.

Then me holding a sword, and him holding a sword.

After that, he forgot himself and his opponent alike. Self-forgetting: with himself forgotten, only the sword remained.

Swinging, cutting, stabbing, blocking, dodging—nothing else filled Encrid. Boundless exhilaration welled up, while longing boiled alongside it.

CLANG! CLANG! TING! CLANK! SCRRREE!

Steel met steel along countless paths, producing all manner of sounds. But nothing could last forever.

Knowing that, he thought,

'Just a little longer.'

He wished this moment would continue. Instinctively, Encrid knew it was not a moment he could easily reach just by repeating today.

He had experienced something like it once before: cutting through an opponent without the slightest resistance reaching his sword hand. A perfectly clean slash.

How hard had he worked to recapture that experience? It had been anything but easy. He had not succeeded once since then.

This was no different. Having forgotten himself, with nothing but the sword remaining, he wished it could last forever. But everything had an end.

CLANG!

He brought his sword down, embodying the essence of the Heavy Sword, but his opponent redirected it brilliantly. Its force was channeled entirely outward, opening a gap at Encrid's chest.

THUNK!

His opponent did not miss that opening. The blade became a red-hot skewer, piercing his chest.

"Hoo..."

With the sword buried in his chest, Encrid's arms stopped. His limbs trembled. Utter concentration and all-out exertion had overloaded his muscles.

His sword hanging from a shaking arm, Encrid raised his head. His opponent stood before him, drenched in sweat.

"I remember now," Encrid said, blood spilling from his lips.

"Only now?"

"You're the one, right? The fellow with the torch?"

Getting stabbed had brought the memory drifting back. That encounter had left quite an impression, too.

"Mitch Hurrier. Platoon Commander of the Principality of Aspen."

"Encrid. Squad Leader of the Kingdom of Naurilia."

Encrid, too, was soaked in blood and sweat. Both streamed down his forehead. His entire body was drenched as though he had been caught in the rain. So was his opponent's.

They stared at each other in silence.

Encrid had never felt this way before. Looking at the man who had stabbed him to death, he felt no ill will. He only desperately wanted to fight him once more.

Mitch Hurrier's face was expressionless. But his eyes told the story. Something in them had changed. At some point, his anger had subsided, leaving only an emotion beyond words.

"So much for your dream."

Dream? Ah.

"I lied. What swordsman dreams of dying of old age?"

"Fine. Just die already."

Mitch pulled his sword free. The fire-heated skewer tore through Encrid's chest once more.

Pain turned his mind blank. Enduring it, Encrid sank to one knee. Blood gurgled up his throat and spilled from his mouth. He did not even have to cough it up; it flowed back up on its own.

"What's going on? An enemy got in?"

At some point, a group of Aspen soldiers had surrounded them. One spoke as he approached.

'I didn't even see them.'

Encrid glanced around. Enemies everywhere.

"Yes. He sneaked all the way in here. Seems attacking from behind is his specialty."

"You look disappointed, Platoon Commander."

"... I'm not."

Mitch stared at Encrid as he spoke. Truthfully, he was disappointed. Opponents like this were hard to find.

Fighting with his life on the line, he had felt himself step into some new realm. Naturally, he regretted that it was over.

Yet there was not a trace of that feeling on his opponent's face. Somehow, the man looked relieved, and as excited as a seven-year-old handed a wooden sword.

"What are you?"

Mitch spoke in bewilderment, but Encrid was no longer listening. He was dying, and a single thought dominated his mind.

'Ragna, you crazy bastard. Fear of death isn't what I needed.'

The prerequisite for Concentrate on a Single Point was not the concentration found at the moment of death. It was an opponent with whom he could fight for his life, someone who would engage him long enough to stimulate and elevate everything—his ability, his emotions, all of it.

An opponent against whom he could only survive by staking his life and pouring out everything he had. An exhilarating battle that would end the instant he looked away.

He needed a worthy rival. In that respect, Mitch Hurrier was perfect. He deserved to be called a worthy rival.

As he died, Encrid realized that the sensation and experience he had just had were precisely what Ragna called Concentrate on a Single Point. He had done it.

And he would have the chance to repeat today, to revisit that sensation and experience. To summon at will the moment he had wished would last just a little longer—that was Concentrate on a Single Point.

Would it come easily? No. But he would keep at it until it worked. Mitch Hurrier's presence would make that possible.

Encrid understood that. How could he not be excited? Once again, he could see a path forward. He died smiling.

"Was he just a crazy bastard?"

Watching Encrid die with a smile, Mitch could only tilt his head in puzzlement.