Chapter 5 - Valen Swordsmanship

"Huh? What? How'd you know?"

"I'm not a prophet."

At Encrid's answer, Rem shook the bug out of his boot onto the ground and said with conviction, "You put it in there, Squad Leader?"

"I didn't."

"Tsk."

Rem's suspicious look remained. Encrid paid no attention to Rem's look. That wasn't what mattered. He crushed the bug Rem had dropped beneath his foot.

CRUNCH.

A distinctly unpleasant sensation traveled through the sole of his boot. "Ptooey."

Encrid spat, roughly ground the bug's remains into the dirt, and asked, "You can teach me the heart of the beast, right?"

"Hmm? You remembered that?" Rem said, pulling his boots on properly and standing up.

"It's not something I'd forget."

"Says the man who poured booze down his throat because he wanted to forget." He had, back then. With dreams of an axe chopping off his head every night, he had hardly felt alive.

"Can you or can't you?"

"What's got you so fired up today? All right. Let's do it."

Rem nodded. "Jaxon, cover breakfast duty for me. I'll do it tomorrow."

He needed food to have any strength, but eating didn't mean he had to waste time washing dishes.

"Yes, of course." Jaxon was a squad member who smiled easily and got along well with others. He was so easygoing that Encrid wondered what he was doing here. When they first met, Encrid had thought Jaxon served as a mediator in the squad. Jaxon shook out his reddish-brown hair and left the tent. Rem watched him go, then blew his nose with a snort.

"Something about that bastard rubs me the wrong way." Of course, if Jaxon had done a good job mediating, Encrid might never have ended up here. Jaxon got along splendidly with other units, yet was on rather poor terms with the members of Fourth Squad. Except for Encrid, of course. Strangely enough, Encrid had his squad members' trust. Whether that was because he obliged their various requests without complaint, or because his lousy skills seemed likely to keep him a ten-man squad's Squad Leader for life, even he didn't know. He simply assumed it was one of the two. Rem headed out of the tent, and Encrid followed.

"He's a shady one. Gives me a bad feeling. Best not get too close." 'What about you?'

Encrid kept the retort to himself. Was that any way to talk for a man who had arrived here after picking a fight with a superior in his old unit and smashing the man's jaw?

Rem might be Encrid's benefactor, but men from other units, especially his old First Platoon, often glared at him as if they wanted him dead. They could hardly look fondly on the man who had done that to their Platoon Commander's jaw. Encrid didn't argue. It wouldn't change anything. It would be a waste of time—time better spent practicing the heart of the beast. Besides learning it from Rem, he had plenty else to do. "Seeing him so friendly with those First Platoon bastards makes it even worse."

Fine, whatever you say.

When Encrid didn't rise to the bait, Rem stopped walking.

"What?"

"You're really strange today, Squad Leader. Isn't this where you'd usually have something to say?" True. Ordinarily, he would have said Rem was one to talk after smashing a superior's jaw. Either that, or he would have told him not to so much as look at Jaxon if they couldn't get along.

Rather than urging them to be friends, he thought it better to keep them apart so they wouldn't fight. That was his secret to leading the Four-Four-Four Death Squad and its colorful personalities. "I've got nothing to say."

Encrid cut the conversation short. Rem scratched the back of his head.

"What a strange day." They ate breakfast and found an empty patch of ground on the outskirts of the camp. Training on a battlefield might seem odd, but Encrid did it all the time. To those who knew him, it was nothing unusual. Even passersby paid the pair little attention.

And so the lessons in the heart of the beast began again. "... Have you been learning from someone else behind my back? That can't be right."

"I just practiced what you taught me."

"Practice alone got you this far?" Another death meant another experience. Encrid found it easier than before to steady himself. Rem gave him a puzzled look, but let it go with an "All right."

"I'd say you've got talent, Squad Leader, if you can manage this much."

Rem said much the same thing he had yesterday. Talent. If only.

A moment ago, he had failed to dodge Rem's axe. It had stopped right in front of his Adam's apple, close enough that a mere flick of the wrist would have left a long scar across his throat. "That was close."

Rem chuckled as he spoke. He seemed proud of Encrid's progress. A certain satisfaction colored his smile, and Encrid noticed it too. "What the hell do you do to swing an axe like that?"

That last swing—Rem's axe had been faster than the stab that had killed him so many times. The blade had come within a hair of his throat in the blink of an eye. In fact, Encrid hadn't blinked at all, yet he had still lost track of it. "Hmm. Talent?"

For the first time in a while, Encrid remembered what an insufferable bastard Rem was. He had always been like this.

"If practice could do everything, would anyone in the world be bad with a sword?"

Rem snickered. Just as Encrid had noticed Rem's satisfaction earlier, he could tell the bastard enjoyed teasing him. What a strange bastard. Then again, was there anyone in this squad who wasn't? "What if you train more? Try harder? Swing a sword without even taking time to sleep?"

Encrid asked reflexively. It was a dilemma he had grappled with for years. Should someone without talent give up?

He hadn't given up. Having chosen to advance instead, what did he have? Only the ability to keep going without tiring. If the so-called geniuses took ten strides at a time, he had only the determination to keep moving steadily, even if his own steps were a quarter of a stride. "Honestly, you're really strange today. Did you go and guzzle an elixir of seriousness?"

Rem loosely hooked his axe onto the cord tied around his waist as he spoke.

"No."

"Squad Leader."

There was no trace of humor in Rem's voice. Encrid met his eyes. After a brief silence, Rem spoke.

"People fucking die if they don't sleep." The moment he finished, the bastard's cheeks trembled as he tried to hold back his laughter. Then he burst out laughing. That was his answer to Encrid's question about swinging a sword without taking time to sleep.

"Fuck off."

Encrid gave him the obscene gesture used across the continent: a raised middle finger. Still snickering, Rem suggested they go eat lunch. Encrid didn't pester him for more lessons. One bite wouldn't fill a stomach. He knew that all too well. After lunch, he reviewed the swordsmanship he knew. Basic swordsmanship: stabbing, cutting, and swinging. After the basics, he had learned the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique.

It was no paltry sword art. He had done considerable legwork and spent a fair amount of money to learn it. It wasn't something a few silver coins could buy. The Valen Mercenary Sword Technique. The swordsmanship of Valen, a man who had never reached the level of a knight but had made quite a name for himself among mercenaries. If it had to be classified, it belonged to the illusion sword category.

Encrid didn't know how Valen himself had used it. But he had learned a few techniques well enough, and he devoted himself to them. 'The same day repeats after I die, but what my body learned hasn't disappeared.'

He had learned the heart of the beast with his body, not his head. That meant what his body retained stayed with him.

He pushed himself brutally, swinging his sword until even his heavily callused palms split open again. Ordinary soldiers didn't use swords. Most carried spears as their standard weapon. His sword was a privilege that came with leading Squad 444. Encrid didn't want to let it go. He trained over and over. His hands hurt, but he endured it. His stomach ached because his food hadn't finished digesting, but he endured that too. He focused every sense, down to the tips of his toes and fingers. Illusion swordsmanship was about deception. He had been told to use anything that could fool an opponent. In fact, several Valen techniques had already spread through the mercenary world. Pretending to fall and then stabbing your opponent, for instance. That couldn't be called dirty. Why was doing whatever it took to survive dirty?

If someone said a knight wouldn't fight that way, Encrid wouldn't argue. That person had his own values. Encrid had his. He had half a day to spare. His legs didn't tremble. If this much had left them weak, all his daily conditioning would have been pointless. Encrid's legs were strong. "Having a tough body really is an advantage," Rem said when Encrid returned.

A messenger had just come and gone. On this sixth repetition of today, a glance at the sky was enough to tell Encrid roughly how much time had passed.

"I've been training this body for over twenty years."

He gave a casual answer and moved back to his platoon's position. "Work hard so that tough body doesn't end up as somebody's training dummy."

Rem snickered again just before the battle began.

"You still owe me tomorrow's kitchen duty," Jaxon added from beside him. One seemed to be teasing him. The other seemed to be declaring his determination not to do meal duty two days running. Well, however they chose to express it, both seemed to want him to come back alive.

"See you later." His sixth today began, and Encrid killed his enemies more easily than he had on the fifth. He tripped the first man to rush him and drove the edge of his shield into the back of the man's head. For the second, he wavered his sword before stabbing. Valen swordsmanship. This wasn't one of the techniques widely known among mercenaries, but one he had gone out of his way and paid to learn. He had been told that the wavering sword tip itself was a heat haze that confused the opponent's vision.

He put his lessons into practice, and they worked. His effort felt worthwhile. The joy of growth, of fulfillment, filled his chest once more. Repeating the day had allowed him to achieve a great deal. Encrid didn't squander his days simply because he would come back to life after dying. Quite the opposite.

He pushed harder. Devoted himself more fully. Became more absorbed.

If a chance came, he would not let it slip away. Having lived with such longing and hope, he had to seize it. And he did. He cut enemy soldiers, struck them, knocked them down. Repeating the battle gave him a new kind of experience.

'The heart of the beast.'

He could see things he hadn't seen the day before. Before he knew it, the moment when Bell fell had arrived. Fighting in the same place every day meant seeing Bell every time. He couldn't pull the front line back or move elsewhere simply because he wanted to. Crossing the front recklessly was suicide. Changing your position at will on a battlefield was no easy matter. 'I'm not that good.'

Encrid knew himself well. He had gained some breathing room, but not enough to break through the enemy soldiers or attempt something that amounted to a gamble. Nor was he good enough to detect a skilled archer's arrow in advance. THWACK!

Bell's head burst again.

"Damn it."

He had been determined to save him this time, but he had failed again. Encrid immediately ducked. As though on cue, an arrow pierced the air. The whistle of its passage lingered in his ears. His movement was deft, as if he had expected it.

"Your instincts seem sharp today," said Rem, who had come up to him unnoticed. "Go on. Slit the throat of the bastard shooting those arrows."

"That's just what I was about to do. With those instincts, you can keep yourself alive."

Rem left. Once again, Encrid faced the enemy soldier who specialized in stabbing. Once again, he failed. This time, he dodged the club of the soldier rushing him from behind, only for someone right beside that man to hurl a throwing axe.

Fucking hell. The seventh morning dawned.

"I put the bug in there," he told Rem.

"Are you nuts? Lost your damn mind?"

"I'm not crazy. Keeping your mind steady even in a situation like this—that's the heart of the beast, right?"

"Hmm?"

"Teach me." Today began again. Rem blinked, then agreed.

Encrid learned. Practiced. Swung his sword. This time, he didn't even try to save Bell. To save him, he had to be able to read the incoming arrow. Without that, he could only rely on luck.

How did Rem dodge arrows?

Encrid fought with that question in mind. The stab killed him again.

"Mercy."

That damned mercy. He died. The eighth time, the ninth, the tenth, the eleventh, the twelfth... More than a hundred deaths. And so Encrid kept repeating a today that began with death.