Chapter 54 - The Turtle and the Frontier Slaughterers (3)

Aspiration. What purpose, what goal did they exist to serve?

KEEE!

A hawk roaming the green plains flew overhead. Its cry passed between the two men.

It was a winter afternoon, but not a particularly cold one. Standing beside a wall inside the compound, Encrid had answered the offer with a question.

Torres paused. After turning it over in his mind, he spoke.

“The soldier grading system is fucking stupid, but it did establish one clear standard: what makes a special-grade soldier.”

His voice was quiet, low, and rich. It would have suited a hymn sung in a deep register. His longstanding thoughts took shape around the question. Sincerity and conviction colored his words.

“Someone who has reached the limits of human ability. I hear you cut back on sleep and swing your sword until your hands blister, even on the battlefield?”

As he spoke, Torres drew Encrid’s hand toward him. Encrid let him take it without resistance. Turning the palm upward, Torres said, “Look.”

Hard calluses had formed over and over until the palm had split. His hand bore evidence of all that effort, of the countless days spent swinging a sword.

“Plenty of men work this hard. But very few have the talent to match. Very few.”

Torres gave a small shake of his head. He was right. Encrid knew it all too well, having spent so long crawling through the dirt for lack of talent.

“Soldiers with both dedication and talent, who have reached the limits of human ability! That’s who makes up the Border Guard. You want to improve? Join us. We’ll give you what you lack.”

He had asked what they aspired to, and Torres had offered to fill his shortcomings. That gave Encrid his answer. Looking into those eyes brimming with passion, ambition, and conviction, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

It was a refusal. This could have been the best opportunity he could ask for—a truly unparalleled chance to move toward the dream that had been torn apart but never forgotten. No, that he could never forget.

But he could not go. The Border Guard might be a stairway to greater heights, but the world at its top would not be the one he wanted.

‘I can’t stop at the limits.’

Merely reaching them was not enough. The Frontier Slaughterers were the most lethal force stationed in Border Guard. But hadn’t their member standing before him, still glaring, said it himself? The Border Guard consisted of men who had reached the limits of human ability.

Encrid’s dream lay higher still. Of course, it was sheer arrogance to speak of surpassing limits he had yet to reach. But he could not set out already expecting to stop halfway, before he ever reached his destination.

Encrid shook his head.

“You know what our unit does, don’t you?”

They turned ordinary soldiers into superb killing machines in short order. He knew. There was nothing half-baked about their training. They produced soldiers far above the rank and file. The problem was how they did it.

In truth, one question lay beneath Encrid’s inquiry: had anyone in the Border Guard ever become a knight? No.

They learned and mastered the easiest, most efficient ways to kill. They were not called the Frontier Slaughterers for nothing. In terms of swordsmanship, theirs was a style built on shortcuts and unorthodox methods rather than fundamentals. Shortcuts and unorthodox methods alone could not make a knight. Knowing that, he could not take that path.

“You’re an idiot.”

But that was how it could look to someone else. The intensity faded from Torres’s eyes.

“I hear that a lot.”

“Hah. Never dreamed I’d get rejected by a man instead of a woman. Can I ask why?”

Should he tell him? Would he be laughed at again? It seemed ridicule was all he had ever received when he spoke of his dream. Ah, perhaps not.

‘Krang took me seriously.’

No one else had. Rem had been delighted to find something to tease him about, and the others’ reactions hadn’t been particularly good either. A few instructors in particular had shown him exactly what it meant to look at someone as though they were mad.

“I want to rise higher than the Border Guard.”

Even so, Encrid answered readily. He had nothing to hide or conceal.

“Higher?”

“I want a scarlet cloak.”

It did not have to be a scarlet cloak, specifically. But it was an apt way of putting it. Naurilia had only one knight order. Clad in blood-red cloaks, they were the king’s protectors and the symbol of Naurilia’s might.

They were also the only unit permitted to bear the king’s crest. The kingdom’s emblem of three crossed swords was vividly emblazoned on their cloaks. Three swords with their blades crossed, and the mythical Sun Beast, with its round head and mane of flame: those were the two symbols of Naurilia.

He meant to become a knight. Torres understood that perfectly well. Which left him flustered.

“... That’s a bit much.”

Torres had seen something of Encrid’s ability. He was good—for someone whose talent had awakened at thirty. But that was all. In truth, his skill barely qualified him for the Border Guard. The squad members Torres had encountered in the quarters earlier might have been another matter.

‘They’re out of the question.’

They were unsuitable for other reasons. Every one of them was trouble. However much trouble a man caused, he still had to obey orders to be a soldier. In that respect, they fell short. A blade that wounded its wielder could not be called a good weapon. It was something to discard.

“You’re serious?”

“Of course.”

A clean rejection. Torres nodded. He did not want to say anything to crush the man’s hopes. But this, he had to say.

“You’ll regret it.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Encrid meant it. Not every choice was the right one. He might indeed regret this.

Torres, a platoon commander of the Border Guard, turned sharply away without waiting for a salute. He looked as though he were sulking, yet his shoulders seemed lighter.

Encrid watched him walk away, then turned himself. As he trudged back toward the quarters, he recalled a conversation with Ragna.

[“You mean the knight-order member in the scarlet cloak? You want to know how he moved like that?”]

Seeing that scarlet-cloaked member of the order had shaken him deeply. What was a knight? How could someone move that way? It would be a lie to say he had not wondered. And that man was only a proto knight.

[“It’s a little too early for you to know that.”]

Ragna had said that, and Encrid had quietly waited for more. As he hoped, Ragna continued.

[“Knights wield more than muscle. A very special power resides in their bodies. How to wield it is not something we should discuss yet. Knowing would only get in your way.”]

[“Just point me in the right direction. I want to know whether I’m on the wrong path.”]

Perhaps it was an unreasonable request. Yet the more Encrid improved, the more he realized anew that none of his squad members were ordinary. He had learned the fundamentals of swordsmanship from Ragna, and in learning, he had noticed something: if he had to choose the man in the squad closest to a knight, it would be Ragna.

[“The fundamentals are an endless assortment of simple, brutish techniques. You should know from fighting: would you improve faster by building on that mercenary sword technique you learned, Squad Leader? Or by training your fundamentals?”]

Why were shortcuts called shortcuts? Why were unorthodox methods unorthodox? If all he wanted was to fight well, the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique was several times better than learning the fundamentals of the Heavy Sword Technique.

[“They are the orthodox path, the means to go further. You must walk the proper path. I believe that answers your question.”]

It answered it and more. Swordsmanship that advanced through the fundamentals. Using those fundamentals to surmount wall after wall in his way, walking the proper path. That was what he needed to do now. Such was Encrid’s conclusion.

GRRR.

This time, an animal’s growl greeted him as he entered the quarters. The place was a mess. Beds had been shoved aside and a table overturned. In the middle of it all stood Big-eyes, his face scratched and his expression miserable.

“Ow. Why the face, of all places?”

“Quick little thing.”

“Panther doesn’t taste good, but meat is meat.”

Behind Big-eyes, Ragna and Rem offered a comment apiece.

The beast was a black panther. A young, blue-eyed panther, the same one he had fought alongside like a comrade. It had vanished so suddenly that he had thought he would never see it again. Somehow, it seemed to have found its way in here.

The panther had been glaring at Ragna and Rem with its fur bristling. When Encrid entered, it whirled around and slipped straight into his arms.

Rem scratched his head with the thumb of his axe hand and asked a question. Had Encrid been a little later, that axe might have lopped the panther’s head off.

“This your pet, Squad Leader?”

“Hmm. Is that what it was?”

Ragna, who had been so utterly grave and earnest while speaking of knights, reverted to his usual lazy self. He put away the sheathed sword he had been holding and sank onto one of the displaced beds. Seeing that, Rem lowered his axe too.

“It was yours, Squad Leader? Vicious little thing.”

Big-eyes asked, casting a wary glance at the panther.

“Did it scratch you?”

“I was just trying to stroke its head.”

As Big-eyes felt the extent of his scratches, Rem snickered beside him.

“He stuck his hand in to check whether it was male or female. That’s what happened.”

HISSS!

As though it had understood, the clever panther poked its head out and bared its fangs. Startled, Big-eyes tried to retreat, only to step on a leather waterskin lying on the floor and slip. He landed on his backside with a thump, and Rem burst out laughing.

“You all right? What about your face?”

Encrid asked with a chuckle of his own. This was a man who regularly proclaimed his face a blessing upon the Kingdom of Naurilia.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll get divine healing or put some ointment on it so it doesn’t scar.”

Divine healing for a scratch like that? You would have to have Krona to burn.

“Uh, right.”

Giving that perfunctory reply, Encrid looked down at the panther nestled in his arms. Its fangs were no longer bared; it merely raised its head meekly. He had thought it neither particularly light nor small, but now that he held it, it felt both.

“Come for a visit?”

Encrid asked, and the panther understood. It blinked, gave a soft purr, and rubbed its head against his chest. Its fur felt finer than silk, and quite pleasant.

Watching Encrid stroke its head, Rem spoke.

“Going to keep it? You won’t get bored.”

Rem was surprisingly tolerant of animals. Ragna and Jaxon were indifferent. Audin, the religious squad member who had returned from duty at some point, showed no interest either. Only Big-eyes—Krais—remained intensely interested.

“It’s female.”

“Hm?”

“You think all I got out of that was a scratched face?”

Big-eyes folded his arms and spoke triumphantly. Was that so? How very impressive.

“Right.”

Encrid answered and began tidying the room. Rem righted the overturned table, perched on it, and asked, “Seems everyone’s clamoring for you now that you’re a high-grade soldier. What do you think? The Border Guard doesn’t sound bad.”

Sometimes Encrid wanted a look inside that sly man’s head. Just when it seemed he did nothing but joke all day, he would cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“I’m not going.”

Encrid led with the conclusion. He didn’t want another needless uproar over this.

“Why?”

It was Jaxon. His question was curt.

“Sir.”

He tacked on the courtesy belatedly.

“Just because.”

Why go into detail? Encrid was about to leave it at that, but Rem objected.

“You’re serious? The soldier grading system might be idiotic, but high-grade and above means more than just decent. And you turned down a force under the kingdom’s direct command?”

“He must have his reasons.”

Perhaps guessing the situation from their earlier conversation, Ragna interjected. That only made matters worse.

“... Fucking hell. Is that bastard acting like he knows something? Looks like he does.”

“Why?”

Jaxon asked again. This time, no belated courtesy followed. His gaze was downright insolent.

“Lord, grant wisdom to these ignorant souls.”

Audin poured oil on the fire, and the mood flared. There was no letting the matter drop now. Left alone, they would draw blades over nothing. Encrid knew these situations all too well from experience. When his squad members lost their tempers, they invariably sought a solution through a show of force.

“Because the Border Guard stops at the limits of human ability. That’s what the unit is for.”

“And that’s a problem?”

There was no need to feel a fresh pang over the fact that it was. At the end of their conversation about the path to knighthood, Ragna had added this:

[“Someone with innate talent, a gift from heaven—a genius, in other words—doesn’t actually need to practice the fundamentals until they’re etched into the body. It will happen naturally.”]

Knighthood was a game for geniuses. From those born with martial talent, only a scant handful were selected, then whittled down again. Among the naturally talented, they sought geniuses endowed with still greater talent. Only such people could become knights.

Did that mean he was not even allowed to dream? Not allowed to wish for it? Even if a dream was torn and torn again until not a trace remained, it still lived in the heart so long as it had not been abandoned. And so Encrid dreamed.

“It is. I’m aiming higher.”

They all stared blankly at him. Encrid spoke with utter casualness, in the same tone and voice he might have used to announce that they were having slow-boiled lamb for breakfast tomorrow.

“I’m going to become a knight.”

He had been ridiculed for it before. In fact, his dream had always been an object of ridicule. Which made this reaction unfamiliar.

“You’ll have to get over a few walls, but hey, if you want to do it, do it.”

Rem spoke first. Ragna’s eyes held the fire they showed every so often. Jaxon asked, “Is that so?” Big-eyes let out a “Wow” and could not close his gaping mouth. Audin clasped his hands in prayer.

“Bestow Your grace upon the effort to hold fast to dreams and hopes, never abandoning them even when they seem futile and beyond sight.”

There was no need to be moved by the prayer. In truth, even ridicule would not have changed anything. That was the kind of man Encrid was. The dream he held mattered more than anyone else’s mockery or scorn.

A high-grade soldier. A rank that earned real recognition within the soldier grading system. In truth, this was only the beginning—both of building his skill and of making a name for himself on the path to knighthood.

MRRROW.

The panther gave a cry and tapped Encrid’s cheek. It felt almost like encouragement.

“Clever little thing.”

Rem laughed heartily at the sight. However much Encrid told himself it did not matter, something tingled in his heart. It was the first time he had received encouragement instead of ridicule.

‘There have been a lot of firsts lately.’

Whatever anyone might say, it was a happy moment.

* * *

Encrid spent the next two days training as usual. On the third day, he went out on market patrol.

THUNK.

And a dagger stabbed him in the belly. The wound was fatal. It felt as though a red-hot iron skewer had plunged into his stomach and shredded his guts.

“Fucking hell.”

Blood streamed from the corner of Encrid’s mouth as he laughed in disbelief. The blow had come utterly without warning.

“Aaaah!”

In the middle of the market, a passing waitress’s scream rang out. It was the last thing the dying Encrid heard as he closed his eyes.