A flash of light flickered. Enkrid could not understand what was happening. He only felt a pain as if a red-hot skewer was piercing his neck.
And he only realized that his leather-padded armor was of no use. He lost consciousness, vomiting the hot, red liquid that flowed within his body. And then, he opened his eyes again.
The start of a day. It was not a dream. For it was something he had already experienced several times.
He did not know why this was happening. It was simply something that happened.
Clang.
The sound that announced the morning. The night watchman was banging a pot with a ladle. The third identical morning.
Enkrid finally realized it.
‘Again?’
That every day, if he died, the same day would repeat. 1. My Dream Was to be a Knight The teacher who taught Enkrid the sword had a rather good personality, and he was not one to say unpleasant things.
“You.”
That teacher, leaning on a sword still in its scabbard that he had stood vertically on the ground, called to Enkrid.
“Go back to your village. If you don’t like farming, serve in the village militia. You’ll probably end up as the militia captain.”
Perhaps things would have been a little better if he had listened to the words of that teacher, a man who had made a living by the sword. But he did not. A single phrase he had heard as a child was the problem.
“Enki, you are a genius.”
He had fought with a wooden sword against a neighborhood kid who was three or four years older and won with ease. He was eleven at the time, the first time he was called a genius. He did not know then.
That the kid was terribly bad at sword fighting. At fifteen, Enkrid sparred with a village adult with wooden swords and won. After that, his confidence in his skills grew.
In the small village where he was born, there was no one who knew how to properly wield a sword. The only one who came close was a third-rate former mercenary. He was a drifter who had lost a leg and wandered into the village.
He taught the village kids swordsmanship. Enkrid was among them.
“You are a genius.”
At fifteen, he heard the same words for the second time. If before it had been said by a clueless village adult, this time it was from a mercenary who claimed to have given up a knighthood and lost his leg for a lady.
‘I must be a genius.’
So he thought. He harbored a dream. He decided to become a knight.
A knight who would serve the monarch who would unify a continent engulfed in the flames of war. A knight who would put an end to the war. Around this time, the song of a certain minstrel spread far and wide across the entire continent.
So far that it even reached the small village of Enkrid. The content was ordinary, but the melody was enchanting, and the final lyrics shook the heart. The knight who ends this war!
The knight who will dye the war in twilight! We shall call him the Knight of Twilight! The Knight of the End!
Knight of the End! The knight who will finish the turmoil of war! The knight to bring an end to the war.
The minstrel’s song set the hearts of boys and girls ablaze.
‘That’s me.’
Enkrid was no different. At eighteen, thinking there was no one in the village who could match him, Enkrid left. He had no parents, no siblings.
He had a few friends, but few felt close to Enkrid, who had been obsessed with the sword since he was young. In that gap, the boy grew and departed. And so, his life as a mercenary began.
His skills were not bad. Especially his dedication to hard work was not bad. But two months were enough to realize he was not a genius.
He was beaten by a nameless, so-called third-rate mercenary.
“You’re still green.”
He was told such things. He thought having a good teacher would be enough. He saved money.
He worked himself to the bone. He fought a band of thieves, risking half his life. With the money he earned, he sought out a training hall.
Large cities had at least a couple of swordsmanship schools. He learned the sword. His luck was not bad.
Because the teacher was honest and conscientious. He told Enkrid to put down the sword.
“No. I won’t.” Enkrid did not give up.
“Truly diligent. So diligent.”
Everyone who saw Enkrid said the same thing in unison. He had to be. Because effort did not betray him.
His palms burst open, and his arm muscles trembled. He repeated it countless times. Among those of similar levels, he was fine.
Enkrid was an exceptionally hard worker. Saving money like that, he wandered from one training hall to another, and soon he was over twenty. By the time he was over twenty-five, he had built up experience and skill, enough to make a name for himself as a mercenary.
Even so, it was only to the extent that in a small city, after asking a few times, someone might reply, ‘Ah, that fellow, he knows how to use a sword.’ Until then, he still had a glimmer of hope. The hope that he would become better than he was now.
And so, in the spring of his twenty-seventh year. Enkrid realized how insignificant his talent was. The result of a brawl he had gotten into on the street made it so.
In five exchanges, the sword in his hand was sent flying, and a hole was punched in his stomach. Enkrid pressed his palm against the hole in his gut and asked.
“You, how old are you?”
“Twelve.”
Twelve, he said. It was absurd. This was a true genius.
“Sorry, it was my first real fight.”
The kid said. A brat from a serf family, not a noble or a commoner. He had only held a sword for half a year.
“My hand was too heavy. Take this for your treatment.”
The kid’s master threw him a coin purse. The injury was not life-threatening. No organs were damaged, and the stab was not that deep.
Still, he took the purse. From the age of eleven until now, for sixteen years, he had swung his sword until his palms burst. And yet he had lost to a twelve-year-old kid who had trained for only six months.
It would be a lie to say he was not depressed. But he did not live with dark feelings. There was no reason to live so darkly and gloomily.
‘It’s not like my arms or legs were cut off.’
Enkrid knew he was not a genius, but there was no rule saying he had to give up. And so, he continued his life as a swordsman. Nearly a decade as a mercenary.
He could not become a great knight or a master swordsman, but he could become a seasoned soldier. Enkrid quit the mercenary life and received military training. This was the best choice he could make.
He couldn't just go back to farming now, could he? A third-rate swordsman and former mercenary, a fitting description.
“You think the army is a joke? Think they take just anyone?”
Some sneered.
“Keep your head up.”
Some patted his shoulder. He was acknowledged at times, and he fell behind at others. And so, at thirty.
The Naurilia Kingdom, Cyprus Division. 4th Regiment, 4th Battalion, 4th Company, 4th Platoon. Also known as the Four-Four Platoon, this was where Enkrid was.
Directly under the Platoon Leader, his rank was Decurion. Clang, clang, clang. The night watchman struck a piece of iron, waking the entire barracks.
“…What a terribly bad dream.”
Enkrid, awakened by the sound, muttered.
“What kind of dream did you have?”
The subordinate in the next bunk got up from his field cot made of layered canvas and said, thrusting his feet into his boots. His attitude was lax, but his skills were better than Enkrid's own.
“My entire life.”
“Ominous. Tsk. Ah, a bug.”
There must have been a bug in his boot, as the subordinate took off the half-worn shoe, shook it out, and put it back on. Then, seeing the bug on the floor, he spat on it and ground it with his foot. A smear of viscous fluid and saliva remained on the floor.
Seeing this, Enkrid also got up and put on his gear. A breastplate with a throwing knife sheathed near the heart, vambraces to protect his arms, and greaves. Underneath, he wore a gambeson made of thick, layered cloth.
Over that, he wore armor made of leather. The armor was made of several layers of leather, but it couldn't be called very sturdy. A well-sharpened blade could slice right through it.
The vambraces, reinforced with oiled wood, were a little better than what the others had.
“I heard the previous decurion had a dream like that before he croaked.”
Enkrid muttered, vaguely recalling such a rumor.
“Is it my fate to die today?”
The subordinate laughed, so Enkrid smacked him on the back of the head.
“I’m not gonna die. Don’t say such unlucky things.”
He got up, poured water into a pot, and tossed in a few pieces of jerky. Then he added a few edible vegetables and brought it to a boil. It was breakfast.
“Any plans for engagement today?”
The subordinate next to him asked, and he shook his head.
“Don’t know.”
He was just a low-ranking decurion. Above the four decurions was one Platoon Leader. And that Platoon Leader probably didn't know either.
Enkrid’s swordsmanship was mediocre, and he was not a noble, so he remained a decurion and a Squad Leader, but his experience on the battlefield was enough to chew up and spit out most company commanders. His subordinates in the ten-man squad knew this and respected him for it.
“So, in your dream, what did the captain want to be when he was young?”
The subordinate sidled up and asked.
“A knight.”
“…Are you going to hit me if I laugh?”
“I won’t hit you.”
“Pfft.”
“And you still laugh? This punk’s getting out of line.”
He said, kicking him in the backside. The subordinate who got hit pretended to be in pain and said.
“I mean, still, a knight.”
What is a knight? One who changes the tide of battle. A monster who faces a thousand alone.
A hero who slays hundreds of enemies by himself. Moreover, the very name of the division they belonged to was named after a knight. Cyprus Division, the army of Sir Cyprus.
And his dream was to be a knight like that.
“Your dream is mighty ambitious, I like that.”
“Dreams are supposed to be ambitious, you punk.”
Saying this, Enkrid nonchalantly gathered the dishes. It was his turn to wash dishes today. He didn't know about the other ten-man squads, but in Enkrid's squad, all chores were divided equally.
A decurion’s job was mostly just to receive and relay orders. So it was usually given to the one who was best with a spear or sword. In that respect, Enkrid was a little special.
His martial strength was weaker than the other squad members. But he could unite those who had been all but kicked out of other squads. Other units referred to Enkrid’s unit as the Four-Four-Four Squad.
The trouble-making squad of the Four-Four Platoon. Enkrid was the Squad Leader of such a squad.
“I’ll help you.”
“Then keep that mouth of yours shut and follow me.”
“Let’s do that.”
The subordinate snickered. How did this guy end up all the way out here? He was a peculiar fellow, but Enkrid wasn't particularly curious about his subordinate’s personal history.
So he never asked. And the squad members liked this attitude of Enkrid's. He did not ask about the past, nor did he fuss over the present. Nor did he have any special demands.
Perhaps this was why all the squad members followed him. As he was clattering and washing the dishes, the subordinate, splashing in the stream, asked.
“Why did you want to become a knight?”
He followed to help but was just playing in the water. Would he laugh if Enkrid said he was captivated by a minstrel's song? Enkrid thought for a moment before answering.
“I wanted to be good with a sword, and I thought it would be nice to become a knight while I was at it.”
“Such a boyish sentiment.”
The subordinate snickered again.
“I told you to shut that mouth.”
“So that’s why you were dancing with your sword every morning and evening?”
“Because effort does not betray you.”
His palms were covered in calluses from swinging his sword countless times.
“So, even now?”
Does he still want to be a knight? How could he? He knew better than anyone that it was impossible.
However, he does not give up. He just silently endures and moves forward. It wasn't that Enkrid didn't know reality.
But his dream fell silent in the face of reality, and the silenced Enkrid simply became a soldier who made a living with his sword.
“If you’re done washing, let’s go.”
“Let’s do that.”
It was an idle conversation. He stood up and returned to the barracks. Whether they would engage with the kingdom with which they were in a local war.
Or attack the recently formed band of thieves said to be targeting their supplies. He didn't know what they would do.
‘The air feels heavy.’
The air of the battlefield was always like this. But today, it felt even more so. The waiting time was long.
With nothing particular to do, he thought about swinging his sword but ended up taking a nap. Some days you just don't want to do anything.
‘It’s harder to do it like I used to.’
He had put in tireless effort. And this was the result. A decurion at the level of a third-rate mercenary.
When the sun had passed its peak and moved two hands' spans to the west, the Platoon Leader shouted.
“Fourth Company, all assemble.”
It was an engagement. The company members gathered to form one flank of the army. Enkrid’s ten-man squad was no different.
A cold tension enveloped his body. Enkrid squeezed the talisman necklace he had gotten during his mercenary days once before tucking it under his clothes.
‘Did she say this would save my life?’
It was probably nonsense, but soldiers heading into battle were prone to easily believing in superstitions. However, if asked whether he himself believed in this talisman, the answer would be ‘who knows’. It was just that he had seen the old woman's eyes when she gave it to him, and her earnest tone had moved his heart.
‘Nothing to lose, anyway.’
This talisman was all he had received as a reward after fighting with his life on the line. He had killed it half by luck; if things had gone wrong, he would have been the one to die. Even though it was a dangerous monster extermination.
The small slash-and-burn village had no money to give. They had just happened to see Enkrid passing by and begged him, clinging to his trousers, to deal with the monster.
‘A funny thing, isn’t it.’
To risk his life out of pity was a crazy thing to do. But Enkrid did not regret it. Because that is what a knight does.
His dream had been silenced, devoured, and torn apart by reality, but its traces remained. He had wanted to be a knight. He had wanted to be a war hero.
But now, he was just a common soldier.
Waaaaaaah!
A roar erupted. Enkrid, too, let out a shout, the veins on his neck bulging. From the front, a wave of an army surged toward them.
The slowly setting sun cast a long afterglow. Shattering that twilight glow, the two armies charged. Enkrid charged forward as well.
“Let’s fight and stay alive!”
His ever-smiling subordinate shouted as he dashed out first. Soon, the spears and swords of friend and foe began to tear into each other's flesh and blood. Today's battle was a melee.