A black dot seemed to fly through the eyeholes of the leather helmet. Enkrid raised the shield fixed to his left forearm.
Thud.
He felt a heavy weight. He had tried to deflect it as he struck, but the attempt was only half successful, making his forearm ache. Enkrid brought his blade down on the helmet of the man who had thrust the spear.
Crack.
The blade fell on the shoulder of the man who had reflexively craned his neck. A dull thud echoed as it struck the shoulder guard, and a stinging vibration ran through his hand.
“Ugh, I’ll kill you.”
The enemy soldier muttered, then shortened his grip on the spear and swung it. It was a well-practiced technique. Without a thought, Enkrid kicked the man in the stomach.
“Urk.”
The man lost his balance and fell. This was melee, a battle bordering on a chaotic brawl. When the front lines of friend and foe entangled and mixed, it was inevitable for them to become jumbled together.
Therefore, to fall meant to die. Averting his gaze from the man he had knocked down, Enkrid gripped the shield’s handle tightly and looked for an ally. Losing your senses and rampaging meant death.
Pretending to be a berserker in a brawl wouldn’t make you one; it would just make you a corpse. The reason he had survived for so long with such meager talent. Enkrid knew his limits.
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself.’
He blocked a blade that flew from somewhere with his shield. The blade struck the edge of the shield, denting the iron trim. The oil-soaked wooden shield warped.
It seemed it would become useless after a few more uses at best.
‘Keep attacks short and simple.’
After blocking, Enkrid tightened his grip on his sword and swung.
Thud.
A heavy impact soon struck his hand. An unlucky enemy soldier was hit in the head and went tumbling sideways. An ally’s spearhead plunged into the fallen man’s chest.
The thick padded armor, made of layered cotton and linen, couldn’t withstand the spear’s impact and was deeply pierced. The man who was hit struggled, trying to live.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The allied soldier repeated the same motion without rest. Whether it was blocked or not, he kept his distance and powerfully thrust the spearhead.
Squish.
Finally, the spearhead pierced the armor and lodged itself in the unlucky enemy’s torso.
“Gurgle.”
The man, vomiting a rush of blood, trembled and grabbed the spear shaft piercing his stomach.
“Fuck, let go! I said let go! You bastard.”
The enemy soldier held onto the spear shaft until the end. The allied soldier gave up his own weapon and picked up the spear the man had been using. After confirming this, Enkrid stepped back and took several short breaths.
“Huu, huu, huu.”
He took in his position, the positions of his allies, and the positions of his enemies, painting a picture in his mind.
‘If I step forward, I die.’
If he were to plunge into the enemy ranks with his level of skill, he would just become fertilizer scattered on the battlefield. Just like the enemy soldier who had died moments ago with a hole in his gut several times larger than his navel.
That man had excitedly charged to the front of the line, but his skill was nothing special. Perhaps he had grown arrogant after killing a few unluckier and less skilled men on the battlefield until now. Or perhaps he was simply unlucky.
After all, he had been caught by Enkrid’s blade, which hadn’t even been aimed. It hadn’t rained for days, so the ground was as hard as stone. Blood was spattered over it, but that didn’t get rid of the dryness.
It had been too long since the last rain. His throat felt like it was on fire, and the smell of blood welled up from within it. Enkrid swallowed dryly and scanned for his squad members.
Of course, he couldn’t see them just by looking.
Instead.
“Waaaaah!”
Someone let out a yell. It was two steps away. He saw one of his platoon members raise a spear and thrust.
‘What are you doing?’
The thrust itself was good, but he stumbled on his own, his right foot catching on his left, and fell over. He collapsed with a thud, dropping his weapon.
‘Is he praying to be killed?’
The fallen man, raising only his head, looked like he was prostrating himself in prayer. Enkrid cut off the thought and moved. He advanced, raising his shield, holding his breath, and tensing his muscles.
Thud. Crackle.
The opponent’s blade struck his shield. A heavy shock spread through his arm and into his whole body. As he barely blocked the blade, the oil-soaked wooden shield splintered.
Enkrid threw the broken shield forward and, with all his might, swung his sword fiercely from side to side. Once from right to left, and again, a wide swing from left to right.
Whoosh, whoosh. Clang!
As he swung from left to right, his blade caught the opponent’s weapon. Sparks flew as blade met blade, and he saw the opponent’s weapon fly from his grasp. That’s what he had aimed for.
Enkrid trusted his own physical strength, cultivated over the years, more than his clumsy swordsmanship. When it came to training, he had done more than most first-rate mercenaries. It was an opportunity created by that strength.
Still, he didn’t charge in. Just as there is always opportunity in crisis, there is also crisis in opportunity.
“Waaah!”
The disarmed enemy soldier faltered, then raised his arms and charged. He seemed to think he was a bear. Enkrid pretended to thrust his sword, then dropped it to the ground, lowered his body, and caught the charging man, flipping him over his back.
The weight of the armor, helmet, various armaments, and an adult man’s body landed on his back. It was heavy. The moment he took the opponent onto his back, his waist and thighs screamed in protest.
Ignoring the scream, Enkrid straightened his back with all his might and stood up.
“Keok!”
The enemy’s body flew backward. There was no need to look back at the man who fell with a thud. He stood one step inside the front line formed by his allies.
Here, one usually encountered only three types of enemy soldiers. One, the unlucky fellow who ended up at the front after being pushed from behind. Two, the idiot full of arrogance from the past few days of fighting.
Three, the real deal who leads the battle, confident in his own skills. The one he had just thrown over his back was the first type. Charging out of desperation only to fall among enemy soldiers, his fate was sealed.
Enkrid picked up the sword that had fallen to the ground. He saw the ally who had tripped over his own feet while charging clumsily getting up. He also saw that half of his helmet was neatly split, as if he had been hit somewhere.
Blood was flowing from his head.
‘What a lucky bastard.’
Besides, he had just saved him from the brink of death a moment ago. He was a lucky friend in many ways. And one he knew.
“Bell, did your head split open and make you lose your mind?”
Enkrid said.
The soldier with the half-split helmet, Bell, wiped the blood flowing over his eyes and replied.
“Kuh, fuck, damn it, barely made it out alive.”
“If you barely made it, then watch my back.”
It is difficult for a common soldier to read the tide of battle from the middle of a battlefield. A Squad Leader and Decurion’s main role was to relay commands to the ten-man squad, not to be a commander. But Enkrid read the tide of battle.
More accurately, he felt it.
‘This isn’t good.’
He had lived for countless years, steeped in the blood and blades of the battlefield. Those days hadn't given him a talent for swordsmanship, but they had at least taught him how to read the flow of battle, however amateurishly. To be honest, it was purely a gut feeling.
Still, it was true that his gut had saved him many times.
‘I think this has gone to shit.’
“Ugh, let’s do that.”
Bell replied, wiping the blood from his head. He retrieved his weapon and moved with a motion that was neither fast nor slow. Bell, holding his spear, cautiously took two steps.
Thwack.
A flash of light flew and pierced his head. Right through the half-severed helmet. An arrow flew and lodged in his head.
The impact sent an eyeball flying out, striking Enkrid’s leather armor.
‘Ah.’
Bell died without even letting out a short groan. His mouth was just agape. Enkrid turned his gaze.
In the sky, or more accurately, in the empty air. A space between spaces that couldn't be pinpointed. He saw a flash of light and a dot.
The moment he saw it, he knew it would be embedded in his own head. Enkrid closed his eyes. How many people could be serene in the face of death?
Enkrid was no exception. As soon as he closed his eyes, his past life, like a dream he had last night, popped out and tried to flash by like a so-called Revolving Lantern. Time seemed to slow down.
The noise of the battlefield faded, and even his breathing felt slower.
Tuk, tak!
Soon, that feeling vanished. The Revolving Lantern was gone too, and he could hear the sounds of the battlefield again, realizing he was breathing normally.
“Are you offering a prayer of thanks for letting you die?”
It was one of his subordinates. One of his ten-man squad. He had pushed him, and the arrow had stuck in the ground.
“Rem.”
Enkrid said his name.
“They say that Hawkeye or Hawkfeather bastard is in this battle, so watch out for arrows.”
“As if watching out will stop me from getting hit?”
“I’m gonna go mess him up, so just wait a bit.”
This bastard is crazy in a fresh way. Enkrid thought so and nodded.
“Well, you’re not giving up on life or anything, are you? You even skipped training to take a nap today.”
Rem said.
“Is that any of your business?”
“I’d feel bad if I saved someone who wanted to die.”
“Damn it, who would want to die?”
Making a living by the sword wasn't the same as attempting suicide.
“I’m just saying because you usually fight well, but you always close your eyes at the most important moments.”
“You think I close them because I want to?”
He felt like he had retorted with a similar line just a moment ago. Rem held an axe in his right hand and a broken spear in his left. It was an armament made possible by his skill with all manner of weapons, be they swords, axes, or blunts.
He raised his axe-wielding right hand and scratched his head with his thumb. Not that it looked refreshing. He was scratching over his helmet.
“Fuck, this helmet smells like shit.”
“I can agree with that.”
“I told you to focus more when you feel like you’re going to die.”
Rem said.
It was something he often said. Enkrid knew what he meant. Rem often said that.
In the moment you think you're going to die, that Revolving Lantern moment, a person focuses with superhuman concentration. He told me to use that in battle. Damn it, how is that even possible?
That was talent. To open your eyes in that split second between life and death, to face the enemy, and to do what you must.
“Focus, my ass.”
Enkrid said.
“Well, it would be nice if you could learn by dying a few hundred times, but you only have one life. See you later, then.”
Rem chuckled and then leaped back into the fray. He was a damn good fighter. Enkrid focused on the battle again.
He fights with an allied soldier by his shoulder. He repeats this. Enkrid thrust his sword forward.
If he’s lucky, it’ll pierce. If he’s unlucky, they’ll dodge.
If neither. Thud.
It would just be a blow that hit with the tip of the sword. The tip, unable to pierce the opponent’s armor, simply pushed him back like a blunt weapon.
“Mm.”
The man who was hit grunted and stepped back, and a passing ally’s war hammer struck him in the head.
Crash.
He cleared his mind of stray thoughts. Just blocking, dodging, and swinging his sword against the blades, spears, and clubs flying before his eyes was enough to make his nerves feel like they were burning away. Feeling uneasy without a shield, he picked up an axe from the ground to use as a substitute.
He continued to block, strike, and stab, keeping allies around him. When he saw an opening, he would display the clumsy sword skills he had learned over the years. Left foot forward, shift the center of gravity, keep the sword tip straight, and don’t let the arm lose its strength.
A thrust.
With moderately tensed muscles, concentration, and the sense to spot an opening, it might have succeeded.
Ting, drrrrrring!
Enkrid’s thrust was only half successful.
‘Tsk.’
He had aimed for the gap between the helmet and the breastplate, but the opponent moved, and he missed. He managed to leave a long gash on the opponent’s neck, but it could hardly be called a fatal wound. The bleeding man’s eyes turned to Enkrid.
They were filled with venom. The man silently ground his teeth.
‘Danger.’
His battlefield senses told him. As Enkrid stepped back, an allied soldier filled the gap. The man silently ducked and struck the shin of the ally blocking his path with the pommel of his sword.
Crack.
The sound of a bone breaking. As the soldier with the broken shin fell, the enemy soldier drew a dagger and stabbed the ally in the neck. The motion of stabbing and pulling it out was fluid.
It was like a scene from a play, rehearsed to perfection. Blood spurted out, drenching the man’s breastplate. He then pushed the dead soldier aside.
‘Ah.’
Revolving Lantern.
The boundary between life and death. Countless images brushed past the outside of the light-emitting lantern. Those images were Enkrid’s life.
Like the dream he had last night. At the end of that life, in the moment everything passed by, the opponent’s blade pierced Enkrid’s throat. The man had perfectly replicated the thrust Enkrid himself had just attempted.
It was a perfect thrust. At least, it was in Enkrid’s eyes. Just as a searing pain shot from his neck through his entire body.
Enkrid faced the moment between life and death and realized what Rem meant by that concentration. Except, it was too late.
‘Did I have to die to learn it?’
Enkrid thought, cursing Rem internally as he closed his eyes. No, his heart moved on its own. Longing, craving, desire.
‘I wanted to be good with a sword.’
‘I wanted to become a knight.’
‘I wanted to become a hero.’
In the end, Enkrid, who had failed to become any of those things, was destined to earn a decent amount of money, settle in a decent village, and build a house to live in. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The passion simmering in his chest wouldn’t let him.
Until the very last moment, he squandered the money he earned with his blood on the battlefield on training halls and the like.
‘I could have done better.’
If only there had been more time. He had thought that if he just swung his sword more while others slept, while those so-called geniuses and prodigies were playing, he would make it. At the end of the Revolving Lantern, the face of the person he had saved on his own for the first and last time appeared.
“The talisman will move according to the knight’s wish.”
The one who had gifted him the talisman was the slash-and-burn village chief. That old woman with a few missing front teeth, who whistled when she spoke. A mix of regret and desire filled his chest, an emotion he'd never felt before.
It was regret.
‘Would things have been different if I had swung my sword a few more times?’
The two words, death, settled into his body. Beyond his closed eyes, he saw a black river. And Enkrid regretted taking a nap that afternoon instead of swinging his sword.
If he had practiced a little more then, perhaps his final thrust would have succeeded. On the black river, a faceless ferryman sat in a small boat. The ferryman asked.
“Do you really think so?”
Hmm?
“You’re interesting.”
Umm?
“Then let’s do that.”
The mouthless ferryman spoke. There was no way to tell where the voice came from. The area around his mouth was dark, as if covered by a black mask.
Enkrid couldn’t say a single word. He lost consciousness and then opened his eyes again. Clang, clang, clang.
The sound of the night watch striking a piece of iron. To be precise, it was the sound of a ladle hitting a pot. The familiar sound of morning.
“……”
He silently looked to his side.
“Did you have a shitty dream or something?”
His subordinate in the next cot, Rem, was getting up from his field bed and grumbling as he shoved his feet into his boots.
“Ah, a bug.”
A bug in his boot.
Enkrid blinked.
Events far too real to be a dream flashed through his mind.
“Ptooey.”
Rem shook out the bug, spat, and crushed it under his foot. A smear of bug guts and spit remained on the floor.