Chapter 48 - If He Could See the Top, He Could Crawl Over It

Never before had martial power of this caliber been committed to a small, localized battle. Just as the enemy had prepared a spell, this side had held a squire in reserve. The impact that squire had on the battlefield was horrific.

Having escaped the rain of arrows by advancing, the proto knight drew his sword and slashed.

WHOOSH!

The instant a silver line traced the air, the heads of three soldiers blocking his path were severed. The squire drew his sword back, then snapped it down from above. It fell like lightning and immediately rose again. The head of a soldier carrying an infantry shortspear lay in its path.

CRACK!

It did not cut. It crushed. Having split the soldier's skull with the impact of that sharp blow, the sword now flew like a butterfly. Its fluttering wings became a dirge steeped in terror. Each wingbeat became a stab into an opening, claiming another enemy's life.

Two soldiers blocked his path with large, thick wooden shields. They covered themselves from head to foot, stopping the butterfly's wings. The sword struck their shields with heavy thuds, leaving deep dents in the wood.

“Close in!”

An enemy soldier shouted. Cold sweat ran down him, but he did his utmost. Doing his utmost, however, could not free him from death's grasp.

The scarlet-cloaked man took his sword in both hands and swung it sideways.

BANG! SCREEECH!

The sword battered the shield. Its iron rim bent rather than breaking, serving its purpose, but the soldier's hand could not withstand the impact.

“Aaaaargh!”

The wrist holding the shield twisted and snapped. Bone pierced the skin. As the shield fell limply to the ground, the sword swept across the soldier's torso. His upper body was severed, spilling his entrails onto the ground. Blood sprayed everywhere. Fear seeped into the eyes of the surrounding soldiers.

“Oh, fuck.”

One of the Principality of Aspen's soldiers swore, close to tears. As though he had heard, the cloaked man's nose twitched, and he immediately kicked off the ground.

His sword was terrifying, but the most frightening thing about this man was his feet. The moment he pushed off, he would flash into view here, then there, severing necks and punching holes in bodies. Thrusting shields in his way or standing before him in armor all seemed meaningless.

“Shoot him!”

One of the commanders shouted. It was a bold decision. Thirty crossbowmen waiting off to one side fired their quarrels. No one could evade every shot at close range. The commander was certain of it. The cloaked man shattered that certainty.

BOOM!

Before the quarrels reached him, he kicked off the ground and flew into the sky. They sliced uselessly through empty air. What rose had to fall. The cloaked man sailed in an arc and landed ten paces in front of Aspen's commander, in the very heart of the enemy formation.

“... Stop him!”

The Principality of Aspen's supreme commander's cry was pitiful. It might have been different had the Gray Hounds remained. But they had already withdrawn, owing to a combination of circumstances: responsibility for the defeat, Mitch Hurrier's injury, and more.

“Hoooo.”

The cloaked man let out a long breath and swung his sword again. From high to low, then low to high.

SWISH!

The blade bent, lashing the commander's guards like a whip.

THUD! CRACK-CRACK!

Thick leather armor was sliced clean through. A guard wearing an iron helmet took the flat of the blade to the head and went flying.

WHAM!

The guard rolled sideways from the blow, blood pouring from his nose. Outwardly he looked unharmed, but the impact had shattered the inside of his skull and killed him. Having dispatched the guards, the squire punched a hole through the commander's throat.

SHUNK.

Alone in the middle of the enemy formation, the squire killed their commander, then turned and headed back. His return was impressive too. He sent an enemy flying with a booming kick, then bounded across the ground and sprinted away. From a distance, it almost looked as though a scarlet thread were drawing a line through the battlefield.

Encrid and his companions watched the fight from beginning to end. Watching the cloaked squire, Rem thought he was pretty good.

'He knows how to play.'

The man knew how to wreak havoc in the heart of an enemy formation. He held nothing back, instilling fear through an unmistakable display of superior strength. That let him ravage their ranks as he pleased. His evasion of the crossbowmen's ambush had been especially impressive.

'I'd have gone for the crossbowmen first.'

His training showed. They were not called experts in battle and warfare for nothing. Rather than eliminating the crossbowmen first, he had left them alone. When they targeted him, he revealed the leg strength he had kept in reserve. He kicked off the ground, soared through the air, and descended upon the enemy commander. He was like a flying tiger. It was like watching a tiger with wings.

Ragna assessed the man's level and compared it with his own. This was someone who had gone ahead along the path he himself had to walk.

'If that's his level...'

He could reach it before long. Without taking shortcuts, without grueling training. Where Rem had studied the man's strategy, Ragna measured the extent of his abilities.

'Sharp swordsmanship.'

It was Heavy Sword built upon Swift Sword. At a glance, it might look like Righteous Sword, but that was all misdirection. Swift Sword and Heavy Sword. He used a mixture of the two. He clearly had an excellent swordsmanship instructor. Learning two sword styles together usually left one's fundamentals shaky, yet there was no trace of such clumsiness in the scarlet-cloaked squire.

'Well, he is a squire.'

Having gauged his level, Ragna felt his motivation ebb. He could already see the path, and the destination was plain. Seeing someone who had arrived first did nothing to stir his competitive spirit. All that remained was to walk the path.

The training, the practice, was painful only because it was tedious. All that remained was to hone his swordsmanship with his emotions dried up. It was a problem born of overwhelming talent.

Jaxon assessed the man's skill and looked for openings.

'At least five times.'

The enemy could have hurt the cloaked man. The problem was not ability, but strategy. Their commander's stupidity had played a part, as had their panic at the unexpected attack. Had Jaxon been in their place, he would have ended it before things reached that point.

The religious zealot of the squad watched the man's movements and nodded.

“A brother well versed in guiding the dead to God's side.”

He meant the man fought exceptionally well.

“Looks like we won't need to fall back.”

Big-eyes marveled. Just one man was bending the flow of the battlefield to his will. Victory seemed assured before they had even fought.

And Encrid...

'This is a knight.'

Emotion surged through him. His heart pounded so wildly his whole body nearly shook. The fine hairs on his skin stood on end, and a chill ran through him. At the same time, a fiery warmth rose from his lower belly. His eyes never left the squire.

On the continent today, squires and proto knights formed the main fighting strength of knight orders. They stood just one step below knights, who could single-handedly change the course of a war. A killing machine had just overturned this battlefield. He had killed the enemy commander, then returned at his leisure.

'How can he do that?'

The cloaked man was neither a Beastman nor a Frog. How, then, could he display such strength? A symbol of martial might, capable of cutting down a thousand alone. That was a knight. What made it possible? What had brought this man to the limits of humanity?

Encrid did not know. Perhaps that ignorance made him admire the man's movements all the more. At the same time, he felt something burst inside his head.

[“Sometimes, you can learn by watching.”]

The words of a swordsmanship instructor in a great city flashed through his mind. His excitement subsided, and Concentrate on a Single Point activated of its own accord. With that superhuman concentration, he could understand the meaning behind the man's steps. He could see the intent behind his sword swings.

'Heavy Sword Technique.'

Heavy Sword, the sword of strength. Developing the muscles to swing a sword also meant being able to swing it quickly. The man had blended the principles of Heavy Sword into Swift Sword. Even Encrid could see it.

'He pulled his foot back.'

A slight withdrawal of the foot, seemingly to establish the reach of his line of attack.

'No. He's not establishing it. He already has.'

The Northern Heavy Sword he had learned from Ragna built its fundamentals around the line of attack. The squire's method was slightly different. He drew a circle around himself. His swordsmanship rested on the fundamentals of the central continent. He used his own body as the center of a circle and slaughtered everyone inside it.

If they came within reach, he cut. If they approached, he stabbed. At first glance, he appeared to dominate his opponents through footwork, but the reality was different.

'He maintains his range.'

He moved his feet only when necessary, in short bursts. A few spectacular sword strikes gave a different impression, but most of his attacks were stabs. Encrid watched and watched, gathering what his eyes took in and sorting it in his mind.

'Does Heavy Sword Technique have to mean smashing down with brute force?'

Mitch Hurrier's trump card had resembled a move from Heavy Sword Technique rather than Righteous Sword or Flowing Sword. The Wheel Cut, which sliced through whatever blocked it. Why had he chosen that as his secret technique? To deceive his opponent?

No. Dividing swordsmanship into five styles did not make them wholly separate arts. All five overlapped. Heavy Sword Technique did not mean that striking down and breaking through with strength was always the answer.

His eyes shifted. His mind raced. His fingers twitched.

“Enjoying the show? Hm?”

Rem started to make an idle remark, then stopped. No longer interested in the squire's movements, Ragna turned at the sound.

“Don't disturb him.”

Ragna whispered. He recognized the Squad Leader's state at a glance.

On a battlefield, in a tavern, in a back alley, or in a lover's arms. Understanding arrived like a prank played by the goddess of fortune. Unannounced, unexpected, unforeseen, all at once. It stole in without a sound and jolted the mind out of nowhere.

“I'll guard him.”

Jaxon was the first to step forward and speak. Ragna stood on the right, Rem on the left. The religious squad member silently moved behind Encrid. Big-eyes whispered a question, asking what was happening. Rem answered.

“Looks like the Squad Leader's about to break out of his shell. About time, too. He's been swinging his sword alone day and night.”

Rem acknowledged the effort the Squad Leader had put in. He deserved this good fortune. Of course, it was nothing of the sort. It was a natural result of countless real battles, grueling struggles, and rebuilding his swordsmanship from the ground up.

Looking at Encrid now, rather than the squire, stirred Ragna's motivation.

'How can he be like this?'

What made the Squad Leader this way? How could he refuse to put down his sword when he knew the end was fixed, his limits clear? Ragna found it astonishing. As always, the Squad Leader interested him more than the man who had just ravaged the enemy ranks alone.

Immediately after the knight order's member returned, their commander's shout rang through the air.

“Chaaaarge!”

Their allies surged forward. Battle cries and shouts mingled, and the earth thundered beneath the running infantry. Yet Encrid merely stared blankly into space. He was still lost in self-forgetting concentration.

The troublemaker squad's contribution to the previous battle entitled them to remain spectators, so no one criticized them for standing still. In truth, even if anyone had wanted to, the four members other than Big-eyes radiated such murderous menace that no one could approach. Despite having just watched the squire rampage ahead, the allies who saw the troublemaker squad up close found them more chilling.

Leaving them behind, the war hurtled toward its end. This winter and the coming spring would probably be very busy. They would have to rebuild their positions while surviving the winter on stockpiled supplies. The border between Naurilia and Aspen would be redrawn.

While his allies charged, Encrid was reviewing the fundamentals he had learned. Overlap. Swordsmanship. The Valen Mercenary Sword Technique. Northern Heavy Sword. All were weapons he had learned to wield. There was no need to confine those weapons within the framework of fundamentals.

Heavy Sword could parry and redirect, too. The bind, the technique of bringing blades together, was the foundation of parrying. He had not even noticed it while learning.

The unexpected insight that came in this self-forgetting state did not instantly improve Encrid's skill. No, it had sharpened his discernment somewhat, but his meager talent would not let him immediately make it his own in practice. What it did give him was a clear understanding of his limits. Given time, that meant he could train up to those limits and surpass them.

The top of a cliff so impossibly high that its end had been invisible. He was beginning to see the summit, once hidden behind the clouds. When the wall barring the way was so high and wide that its end could not be seen, it could not be crossed. But if he could see the top, however distant, however high and wide it might be, he could climb over it, crawling if he could not walk. Encrid understood that now.

“Ah...”

He was happy enough to drool. In fact, he emerged from his self-forgetting state with saliva running from his mouth.

“What, you're drooling now?”

Rem chided him from beside him. Encrid opened his eyes and looked around. Not a single allied soldier remained nearby.

“They all charged. If you're tired, go rest in the tent. Why're you dozing on your feet?”

“Ah.”

“What's with the 'ah'? Let's head back. Doesn't look like there's anything left for us to do.”

He was right. The cloaked knight had returned to their main camp, and the battle was over. The enemy looked ready to do more than retreat: they seemed set to flee all the way home. It was time to march back. Time to return to the city.

Encrid turned, looking at the setting sun. Witnessing the squire's martial might had rekindled the fire in his chest. His destination, his ideal, stood before his eyes, and his old dream raised its head once more.

'What must I do to become a knight?'

Simply growing stronger would never be enough. First, he would have to prove his skill. His time as a lowest-grade soldier was over. Encrid murmured those words to himself.