Chapter 9 - A Different Man Every Day

The battle briefing was hardly an occasion for explaining grand strategy. All they were told was to be ready.

As soon as he received his orders, Encrid headed for the barracks behind his own. By now, the sewing genius who had pleaded illness and sent a squad member to the Squad Leaders' assembly in his place would have finished the work. "You didn't give me any thread."

Sure enough, a respectable set of hand, knee, and elbow guards fashioned from tough leather awaited Encrid. "Thread?"

Encrid played innocent, and the liquor-loving Squad Leader snorted.

"What am I supposed to do with nothing but leather?" What else?

'Unravel some blanket thread and twist it together yourself.'

He had done this several times, too. Even without thread, this fellow did a fine job on his own once he received his wriggling gifts. "It slipped my mind."

"You don't look like it slipped your mind at all."

The man still had his wits about him, despite the deep furrow his lingering hangover had put between his brows.

"No, I really forgot."

"Tch."

He clearly didn't believe him. But what did that matter? Encrid gathered up the leather guards. The stitching was meticulous. He had made them himself before, but this fellow's work was decidedly better.

He was satisfied. "I feel like I'm being duped."

"Thanks for the work."

Encrid gave him a pat on the shoulder and returned to his barracks. Once there, he merely announced that the battle would be that afternoon, then sat in his spot and set his hands busily to work. SHING.

He drew his sword, gripped the deerskin glove in both hands, and cut it by working it back and forth across the blade. Having half cut, half torn the leather into a long strip, he quickly fashioned sheaths for his throwing knives. Finally, he sliced the end of the leather lengthwise into several strands, knotted them, and wore it like a belt. This was far from his first attempt. He had repeated the task dozens of times, and his hands moved with practiced assurance. Rem craned his head over Encrid's shoulder to ask,

"What are you doing? You've got a little knife. Why use that?"

"Testing how sharp the blade is."

"Handy fellow, aren't you? If only you were that good with a sword." The bastard always had to get a jab in. Not that it hurt. Even when his skills had stagnated, he had never thought much of such remarks.

Encrid ignored him. "I went to all that trouble to get it, and you tear it up just to make sheaths?"

Krais's head popped over his other shoulder.

'Why are these bastards so interested in me?'

Had something broken in their heads? Did they actually think he was their mother?

'That's a horrifying thought.' "I was done using it."

"I don't know what you're thinking. You haven't eaten something you shouldn't, have you?"

"Come to think of it, you've been running your feet off all day. Something going on?"

"Like what?" He brushed it off. After wiping his blade once more, he sat quietly and closed his eyes. He pictured the battlefield he had experienced so many times. Events swept past in a panorama.

A battlefield repeated a hundred and twenty-five times.

He went over it all again. All these assorted preparations were for survival, not for improving his swordsmanship.

'The battlefield isn't a swordsmanship training ground.'

His swordsmanship might be poor, but that did not erase his long history of survival. Had his sword really kept him alive through all those years?

No.

Circumstance, luck, preparation, composure.

He had survived through a mixture of them all. And so, for this "today," too...

'Nothing changes.'

He would do everything he could to survive.

Encrid had decided to escape today.

* * *

"Charge!"

The cry rang out from his own ranks. Soon, Encrid was thrust into the heart of the battlefield. He did not panic or rush ahead in excitement. He raised his head, surveyed the battlefield, and steadied his breathing.

He breathed out.

At the end of that brief, calm breath, he saw the enemy. He saw his allies, too.

Enemies rushing forward. Allies flowing past. SHING.

He drew his sword.

A blade flew toward him.

He knocked the spearhead aside with the shield in his left hand.

THUNK!

He had repeated this sequence countless times. There were no mistakes.

Deflect the spear, then take one step forward. "Huh!"

He thrust his right foot behind the startled enemy's heel and bent his knee, bracing for impact. It all happened in a single breath.

As smoothly as if they had rehearsed it in sparring, the man tripped over his foot and fell backward.

THUD! The man landed on the back of his head and blinked in bewilderment. He probably had no idea what had hit him. He had thrust his spear and tried to retreat, only to catch his foot on something and fall.

It had happened in an instant. As Encrid passed, he drove the toe of his boot into the fallen man's chin.

CRACK!

At that crisp sound, fragments of teeth and blood spilled from the man's mouth.

Unconscious.

Encrid did not even feel the need to kill him. He advanced, raising his left arm.

CLANG! SCREEECH!

A club struck his shield, glanced off, and scraped along his elbow.

GRRRAK!

It was studded with spikes.

He was unhurt. The leather guard around his elbow had done its job. "Ngh!"

The enemy clenched his teeth. Beneath the helmet covering only half his face, the muscles of his jaw stood taut.

Fighting this one properly took considerable work. In many of his past todays, this man had injured his left arm. Grip the hilt. Left foot forward.

The Valen sword draw.

Their eyes met. Once Encrid drew his sword, a fight would be unavoidable. They both knew it. With that meeting of eyes came an unspoken agreement: sword against club.

The enemy watched Encrid's right hand. SHING.

Before even an inch of the sword left its sheath, Encrid's left hand moved first. A throwing knife flew from his waist.

Startled, the club wielder raised an arm.

THUNK!

The blade sank into it. Even a gambeson (cloth armor) could not have thick padding around the arms. That would restrict movement. The blade should therefore have penetrated far enough to pierce his skin. "You coward!" the enemy spat.

What place did notions of cowardice or dirty tricks have in a fight?

Without a word, Encrid slid his sword back into its sheath.

CLICK.

The Valen sword draw was, in fact, a technique for pretending to draw a sword while throwing a knife or a stone. "You baaastard!"

A vein bulged on the furious club wielder's forehead. That would only spread the poison faster.

He started to charge, then pitched forward. The paralytic poison had taken full effect.

THUD!

He hit the ground nose-first, then choked and gasped for breath.

Encrid watched and strolled past. He kicked his next opponent in the balls and shoved him aside. For the one after that, he quietly walked up and pushed him from behind.

An allied hammer struck the head of the enemy staggering in surprise.

CRACK!

A blunt weapon could burst a head even through a helmet. All the more so when that helmet was leather rather than iron. Encrid was doing nothing particularly spectacular. He simply moved and acted as each moment required. Naturally, every intervention brought a small victory to the allies around him. "You saved me."

He didn't even recognize the speaker. He gave a perfunctory nod and passed. It was nothing worth making a fuss over. "I owe you one."

"Squad Leader of Four-Four-Four? Was that luck or skill? Either way, I'll buy you a drink later."

"Fuck, I nearly died."

There were far more than one or two of them. His growth since his first death was beyond comparison. And, of course, at its heart was the heart of the beast.

'Be still.'

And stay calm.

The heart of the beast did not race without cause. Because it held that wild nature within it, he could regard everything with composure.

In the midst of the battlefield, Encrid felt his heart beating as he walked on. He had repeated this battlefield dozens upon dozens of times. That did not mean he let his guard down.

'The more familiar it gets, the more vulnerable you are to surprises.'

Today might repeat, but not everyone he encountered did exactly the same thing each time. Their actions changed according to his response.

So he walked slowly, making it his priority to take in his surroundings. 'Right about here.'

Someone slashed at him from below with a dagger. A novel attack: the man had fallen in battle and taken the opportunity to aim for his legs.

'That got me, too.'

He had tried dodging it a few times, then found an easier way. It was the same as stopping an arrow.

If he couldn't dodge it, he could block it. THUNK.

The dagger struck his leather greave without cutting his shin. Naturally.

"Huh?"

That single, foolish syllable served as the enemy's last words. Encrid drove the iron rim of his shield into the prone man's back.

CRUNCH!

"Ghk!"

The cry was brief and faint. "Raaaaah!"

Instead, the roar of the battlefield rang in his ears.

Encrid's efforts could not change the course of the battle. They merely made things a little easier for those immediately around him.

'I can't save everyone.'

This was a battlefield, where the dead numbered in the dozens, even over a hundred. Trying to save everyone here would be foolish and stupid. "Hah! Come on, all of you bastards!"

The shout belonged to a spearman from another squad. Encrid knew without seeing his face.

He had taken down more than five enemies on his way here. That man shouting so triumphantly had actually died dozens of times. Without Encrid's intervention, he would have died today, too.

Usually, he had his shin slashed and died rolling in the dirt. Encrid straightened his back and took a deep breath in and out.

'That's the first.'

He had repeated this battle dozens of times and established his own benchmarks. His first objective was to reach the front without getting hurt.

'No injuries.'

He had just accomplished it. The second was...

'Find familiar faces in the melee.'

Of course, he had to avoid injury there, too. Only then could he have a proper go at that stabbing pervert.

Through more than a hundred rounds of fighting on this battlefield, one thought had stayed with him.

'I want to fight him at my best.' Would everything he had learned and practiced through these repeated todays really work? Could he defeat that mercy-loving pervert? Would all his efforts finally get him through today?

His heart gave a thump.

It was beating, quite apart from the courage granted by the heart of the beast.

'I'll make it past today.'

With his goal firmly set, his purpose clear, Encrid's heart beat. Onward across the battlefield. Walking. Sometimes running.

"Raaah!"

"Fuck, save me."

"Daaaaamn iiiit!"

"You sons of bitches!"

Amid the duet of curses and battle cries, Encrid snapped his head from side to side. 'The one crouching and watching for an opening.'

That was his target. He was not difficult to spot: a large figure slipping furtively among the enemy soldiers.

'There's one.'

He had found one of the problems he needed to deal with before facing the stabbing soldier.

'Back-of-the-Head Club.'

He had even given the man his own little nickname. Left alive, the bastard would invariably club him in the back of the head during the fight. Fate, perhaps, if one wanted to call it that.

Of course, Encrid did not believe in fate.

'Everything's decided from birth? What a load of bullshit.'

If his sword broke, he would use the broken blade. If he had no weapon, he would use his fists. If he had no teeth, he would use his gums.

If talent wasn't enough...

'I'll claw my way up like this instead.' What were knights, really? What was the martial might that could turn the tide of a battlefield?

An unattainable wish became a delusion. But if one could draw closer to it, it became a dream.

Encrid had not given up his dream. "Whew."

He let out a breath, slipped a knife free, and drew his arm far back.

In the middle of the chaotic battlefield, he felt its weight in his fingertips. He fixed his eyes on the target and pictured a straight line toward it.

A man who had once won a knife-throwing contest in a tavern had taught him this technique. He had practiced it dozens of times through his repeated todays, too. He lifted his left foot slightly, stepped forward, twisted at the waist, and extended his right hand. Finally, concentrating on the sensation in his fingertips, he snapped his wrist.

WHIZZ!

The knife flew along his imaginary line. "Urgh!"

It lodged near the club wielder's shoulder. His flimsy armor had made it an easy task.

"Which son of a bitch..."

The man cursed and looked around. There was no need to meet his eyes. Without a priest or an antidote, he would have to lie down and stay put. Soon, the man collapsed. Encrid watched, then calmly began searching for the second one.

This one was skilled with throwing axes. He, too, had repeatedly interfered by hurling an axe.

Encrid needed to fuck him up beforehand so he wouldn't interrupt the duel. "O God!"

A devout allied soldier's cry reached him. Curses and murderous words sounded from every direction.

Encrid kept surveying his surroundings as he walked, searching for precisely what he wanted. He blocked minor attacks with his shield and tripped enemies whenever he saw an opening. He struck heads with the flat of his sword. When some fool wore his helmet pulled low, he brought his sword down on it from above.

That alone made life considerably easier for the allies around him. 'Three knives left.'

The axe thrower was nowhere in sight.

'He's in a different place every time.'

Still, this was roughly the right area.

'Bell first, then.'

It was time to save the ally whose head would be pierced by that Hawk's Eyeball fellow, or whatever he was called. 'Right from here.'

He walked, watching his allies' movements. After blocking several attacks along the way, he discarded his ruined shield. No matter how many times he repeated this, it always broke. 'Around here.'

He had repeated this battlefield more than a hundred times. However much things changed each time, some sights and motions were bound to become familiar.

A shield lay loose on the ground. He stamped on its edge. Resting on a stone embedded in the earth, it sprang into the air, and he caught it smartly. It was almost an acrobatic trick, but after countless repetitions, he found it easier than bending down to pick it up. "... That's quite a trick."

An allied soldier had happened to see it.

"Enemy behind you."

In several todays, this fellow had died while gaping at him. Warned so he wouldn't get killed, he spun around and came face-to-face with an enemy approaching with a spear.

"Fuck, you sneaky little rat." The two were soon fighting for their lives.

The ally would win. Encrid had watched that fight some twenty times. No need to look.

On a battlefield that had become more than merely familiar, he drew a map in his mind, dividing it into sections.

'Let's get to Bell first.'

He moved on. "Oof!"

Bell fell.

TACK.

A shield stopped the arrow.

"Whoa, what? I'm alive?"

"Keep your head down and crawl back. There are arrows coming." Bell followed my advice faithfully. In dozens of repeated todays, a second arrow had flown in and pierced his head.

Crawling was the right choice. "... What? Have you started a secret affair with the goddess of luck?"

Rem.

That barbarian bastard.

He casually said things that would earn him a thrashing from any devout follower of the goddess.

"Not a scratch on you?" Face the stabbing bastard in peak condition.

That was Encrid's ultimate goal today.

"Why don't you go do your job?"

"I will. I'm going. But something about you seems different today."

"I'm a different man every day." No two repeated todays had been the same. Each had been a day of growth.

"... I think you need some fucking medicine, Squad Leader."

With that, Rem left. 'Did I sound too full of myself just now?'

Perhaps. But what could he do? It was the truth.

Just then, he spotted the man so fond of throwing axes. An enemy with an axe dangling at his waist.

Why wait?

Encrid drew a poisoned knife.