Chapter 6 - Your Palm Should Have Torn

Today kept repeating. Encrid made every one of those days count. He did not waste a single one. 'I'm ordinary.'

When it came to swordsmanship, he was neither exceptionally able nor gifted. A genius was out of the question. After his eighth failure, Encrid thought,

'I was trying to finish a meal with one forkful.'

And he had done so without being gifted or particularly able, let alone a genius. He broke down what he needed to do.

'A quarter of a step at a time.' There was no chance of growing bored. Today repeated, and his skills grew with it. It was a drug. Encrid could not have enjoyed his situation more. 'There are plenty of advantages.'

The best of all was the endless experience of real combat. Intense experience, paid for with his life. Encrid took full advantage of it, making good use of the hours before battle as well. He honed the heart of the beast and learned his swordsmanship anew. Meanwhile, the repeating hours also made him memorize what happened around him. The gambling in the next barracks over at breakfast was a good example. "Fucking hell! You cheated, didn't you?"

"Cheated, my ass! I'm lucky, you bastard." A heartwarming morning scene. There was no cheating. He knew because he had watched it several times. The dice always came up the same, and Encrid knew the results. He passed them by and lived another day. Repeated it. Repeated combat broadened his understanding. More precisely, he had plenty of time to think, so his thinking grew broader. 'I don't have to knock the arrow aside to save Bell.'

Only a first-rate mercenary could do that. Encrid gave up on it completely—and by doing so, managed to save Bell. THUNK! All he needed was a sturdier shield. The arrow lodged in the round shield. No matter how skilled the archer, he could not pierce the skull of a soldier hiding behind it. "... Where did you come from?"

Bell stared up from the ground, wide-eyed. "How long are you going to roll around down there? Get up already!"

Encrid roughly wiped away his sweat with the back of his hand, then kicked Bell in the ass. Rubbing his backside, Bell headed back into the fighting. 'If I save him here, will I get to see that bastard's face tomorrow?'

He did not know. He had simply made this his first milestone. Fighting his way through the battlefield to save Bell was the small goal he had set himself. He accomplished it on his twenty-fifth today. "Well, look who's here. The Mother of the convent herself. Save me too if you've got the time, instead of some layabout from another unit." Rem popping up behind him to spout bullshit was an everyday occurrence. Each time Encrid saved Bell, Rem came up with some new brand of nonsense. And each time, Encrid gave as good as he got. Mother was the title given to the nun in charge of a convent.

"You're excommunicated. Too ugly." Convents accepted only believers. Excommunication meant leaving the Mother's embrace—in other words, being thrown out of the convent. A fairly sophisticated joke to be sharing with Rem. "What a rotten world, judging people by their looks. Hock, ptui."

As undaunted as ever, Rem charged off. He would be going after Hawk's Eyeball or whatever the fellow was called. Encrid knew without being told. Even after repeating the day some fifty times, Encrid still could not beat the enemy soldier who specialized in stabs. Once, he had been lucky enough to block several attacks, only for a bastard to leap out from the side and smash his skull with a hammer. "No reason to drag it out."

So said the bastard who had cracked his skull. Encrid had no idea how he had been hit. Suddenly, everything was spinning and the ground was coming closer. He could not even gather himself enough to shake his head. All he felt was a sticky liquid running down his face. When he recovered a little awareness, he realized only that he was on his knees, his sword no longer in his hand. "That must hurt. Mercy."

A blade immediately pierced his throat, leaving him floundering in pain. The blade dug into his throat. Pain he could never grow used to raced through his body. The agony of a red-hot skewer tearing through his throat ravaged his brain. Dying, Encrid blinked. Blood in his eyes stained the world red. Through that crimson view, he saw the sword-wielding enemy's red eyes between the edges of his helmet. They probably were not actually red, but that was how they looked then. A shallow delight gleamed in the soldier's eyes. After dying so often, Encrid was noticing all sorts of things. It was likely thanks to his honed heart of the beast. 'You're a sick bastard.'

He did not kill that way to grant mercy. He did it because killing thrilled him. He always drove the blade into the throat, then drew it out slowly. Perhaps he got hard feeling someone's last breath fade through his sword. Even after realizing that, Encrid remained calm. Having passed through the moment of death countless times, he had naturally grown fearless. It was only to be expected. And then.

"You been sneaking off for secret trysts behind my back?"

On the eighty-sixth repetition, Rem suddenly asked. Encrid furrowed his brows. What sort of bullshit was this?

"What?" "You learned the heart of the beast from me. But there's no way you could've honed it this far on your own." The axe blade had stopped barely a finger joint's length from his eyeball. Any closer, and the rush of air alone would have damaged his cornea. As a result, Encrid could see only half of Rem's face beyond the keenly sharpened edge. Yet even now, not a single breath faltered. Such was the strength the heart of the beast gave him—the fearlessness that let him endure despite knowing pain would come. Looking into Rem's questioning eyes beyond the blade, Encrid thought,

'So this can happen too.' Repeating today had honed his heart of the beast. That could well be baffling to the very man who had taught it to him. Encrid had only just realized this partly because Rem was the sort of squad member who rarely stopped to think things through. He said plenty of pointless things, but he was not one to question matters. The heart of the beast, though, would be different. He had taught it himself. Encrid offered no pathetic excuse. There was no need. He could spend all of today thinking and sort it out when today started again. Rem tugged the axe back, clearing Encrid's view. There was not even a scratch on his face. Rem handled the heavy axe as though it were his own hand. Pulling it away, he scratched his head with the end of the haft. "I don't get it. Wondered if you'd learned more from someone else."

Even as he spoke, his expression suggested he doubted that made sense. Encrid was the Squad Leader of Squad 444, and this damned squad was a collection of hardheaded troublemakers who would not listen to anyone without him. He had never left the squad since learning the heart of the beast from Rem. Thus, even if he had wanted to learn elsewhere, he would not have had the time. Rem had been watching him all along. Unless he had secretly taken lessons while standing night watch or something. But that made just as little sense. "With your swordsmanship, you could drop dead this afternoon and I'd just go, 'Ah, figures.' So how's the hide on your heart the only thing getting thicker?" This bastard and his mouth. He would indeed drop dead this afternoon. Rem had said it without knowing anything, but it felt needlessly pointed. "I've faced death about eighty times."

Giving a rough answer, Encrid thought that he would not be able to learn any more of the heart of the beast from Rem. No excuse could fully resolve the barbarian's questions now. 'I can't exactly tell him I learn from him every time today repeats, and learn by dying on top of that, so this is the result.'

Still, he could probably gloss over it. Rem was not so particular. And sure enough, he did not even need time.

"Let's say that's it. They say even the goddess of luck sometimes drops a coin without noticing." It was something people often said to soldiers who survived through a string of utterly unforeseen coincidences. Did it apply to learning a secret technique like this? What did it matter if it did not? As long as Rem let it go. "Makes this more fun than before, anyway. You've improved some. What've you been doing in secret?"

"Things that hurt enough to kill me."

Encrid was not lying. "Right, a man needs a few secrets. That's what makes him a man. I know a thing or two about that."

Rem paid even this no mind. As before, he simply said his piece and raised his axe. "Another round?"

Rem spoke with his axe raised. Encrid lifted his sword without a word. If saving the soldier who fell over, Bell, was his first goal, his second and final goal was killing the sick bastard with the skilled stab who felt a thrill every time he killed someone. His preparations were progressing steadily. Then came the hundred and eleventh day, and it was time to spar with Rem. Encrid drew back his arm, muscles swelling. He thrust his left foot forward, trying to step on Rem's foot. Rem caught on and quickly pulled it back. Seeing this, Encrid planted his left foot on the ground instead, pivoted at the waist, and drove his sword forward with all his strength. The foot had been a feint—a move meant to make Rem retreat. Tensing his muscles, he stabbed. For an instant, Encrid saw Rem's arm bend like a whip. The sight was so unreal that even the axe in his hand seemed to bend. CLANG! It happened in a moment. The axe blade curved, then shot upward like lightning and struck the sword in Encrid's grip. The sword flew up. Torn from his hand, it spun through the air, then struck the ground.

CLACK!

The sound came from the flat of the blade happening to strike a stone embedded in the earth. He watched the sword tumble across the ground. "Let me see."

Rem abruptly approached and caught Encrid's wrist. His hand trembled from the shock of losing his sword. Rem examined it, clicked his tongue, and said,

"There should've been some blood here." "What?"

He should have controlled his strength. What was this nonsense after swinging his axe like a brute? "That stab was good. Good, but... something's missing. I'm no good at explaining this, but your palm should've torn just now. You shouldn't have lost your sword." "Never let go of your sword, even if you die?"

With his right hand still held, Encrid made it a question. He had heard those words countless times from swordsmanship instructors. Keeping count of a day that repeated endlessly was difficult. Encrid kept track by starting each day a little differently. His memory had always been exceptional, even as a child. Until now, that memory had not done much for his swordsmanship. Of course, now it helped—especially when recalling what his teachers had taught him. He had just spoken while turning those lessons over in his mind. "What kind of bullshit is that? If you need to, you throw your sword in the other bastard's face. This—ugh, fine. Let's make it simple. That stab just now. Where were you aiming?"

Rem snorted as he answered. Encrid could not readily answer. That stab had been his secret weapon—a technique he had stolen by watching the enemy soldier stab him in the throat more than a hundred times. The overall stance, foot placement, the shift in weight as he used the sword, the movement of his muscles, the direction of his toes, even the shape of his grip. Encrid had stolen and imitated it all. "That sword strike just now looked convincing enough, but... damn it. This is fucking hard to explain. Here, look."

Rem lowered his axe and drew a large circle in the dirt, roughly the size of a human head. "Let's say we're heading somewhere around here."

As he spoke, he moved the axe over the circle, then jabbed a point into it.

"But this is where we're actually going." At first, Encrid wondered what he meant. But perhaps all that time learning from swordsmanship instructors had not been wasted. Despite the shitty explanation, it settled into his understanding as neatly as a piece of preserved fruit nestled against his tongue. 'The target point.' What had he put into that last stab? Had he wanted praise for doing well? Had he wanted his convincing imitation to earn recognition that he, too, possessed even an ant-sized speck of talent? What was the point? What was a sword for? Cutting and stabbing an opponent. It was a weapon meant to wound and kill. Of those actions, a stab could be called a fundamental of swordsmanship, directed at a single point. It was especially common in rapier fencing. He had heard that some knights even used thin blades meant to pierce gaps in armor as their primary weapons. "I really can't explain it any better. You let go of the sword so easily because you assumed I'd dodge or block it. But that stab just now needed certainty. Just: I'll stab you. You won't dodge. You needed to show that with everything you had." Even after speaking, Rem was going back over whether he had explained it properly. He did things at his own pace, so he was hopeless at explanations. Still, if the listener more or less understood, even an explanation that sounded like the dog next door barking could be called excellent. So, for Encrid, it was an excellent explanation. 'Because I had no conviction in my sword.'

That last stab had been the stab of a third-rate mercenary. Encrid understood on the hundred and eleventh day. Through the hundred and twenty-third, he practiced stabbing with all his might. On the hundred and twenty-fourth, Rem's lightning-fast axe swing tore his palm. It did not merely tear—it burst open. Blood streamed down his palm. Encrid looked at it and laughed. He had achieved what he wanted. "Have you gone completely mad? You know there's nothing more dangerous on a battlefield than a madman on your own side? No, seriously, why do you keep fucking laughing?" For once, Rem looked disconcerted, but Encrid could not hold back his laughter. "Fuck, stop laughing. You look like a lunatic."

Rem said it as he watched him. This happened on the hundred and twenty-fourth "today."