“All troops, assemble! Fourth squad, fall in!”
The Platoon Leader's shout echoed in front of the barracks. A day that had filled his chest with a sense of fulfillment was now beginning to draw to a close. It was late afternoon, the sun already starting its descent in the west.
“Simply put, this isn't something you learn with your body. That's why practicing endlessly is useless. But seeing as you’ve learned this much just through training, it’s hard to say you lack talent, no?”
Rem said, uncharacteristically serious as he moved in response to the Platoon Leader's call.
“Is that so?”
Enkrid merely asked in return. Not only would it be hard for anyone to believe him if he told the truth about what was happening, it would be a problem even if they did. What if the story spread?
If it were truly a god's blessing, that would be one thing, but if anything went even slightly wrong, it would mean a meeting with an Inquisitor. Would a meeting with those fellows called Inquisitors ever end well? Not a chance.
The best outcome would be death by fire; the worst would be a torture party waiting for him. No one wanted to be nailed to a board while their fingernails and toenails were pulled out. Of course, Enkrid was no different.
During his mercenary days, he had seen many who were unjustly persecuted in the name of heresy. He had even secretly helped a few of them. If anyone had found out, they would have mocked him, saying he was just choosing his own way to commit suicide.
It was that dangerous of an affair. Still, he did it. Because helping them was the right thing to do.
If he didn’t even do that, there would have been no reason to live as a swordsman.
“What’s with that relaxed air? It’s quite an unsightly look. Did you find a gold ingot somewhere? Planning to desert today? Don’t you know you’ll get sick if you keep something like that all to yourself?”
A gold ingot… He had obtained something better than that.
“Shut up and let's go.”
The order to assemble had been given; it was time to move. Enkrid roughly wiped the sweat trickling down his forehead with his sleeve. If he put his helmet on now, it would surely reek.
But he couldn’t very well announce he was going to the stream to wash up in the middle of all this. The man beside him, Rem, wasn’t even sweating. What kind of training did one have to endure to become like that?
Enkrid was part of the fourth squad. He moved to his squad's position.
‘Will it work?’
It was impossible to master it in a single day. Still, he had grasped the knack of it to some extent. It was all thanks to the experience of being stabbed to death.
“We will!” the Platoon Leader shouted.
“Be victorious!”
The Platoon Leader was an unremarkable man, with no sharp edges. He was simply the type to follow orders from his superiors without question. The gates of the battlefield were about to open again.
As the sun descended along the western sky, dusk began to settle. His heart trembled.
Why?
Enkrid asked himself. The answer came quickly.
Fear.
He had been stabbed to death three times. That pain, that dizzying sensation… it didn’t seem like something he could ever get used to, no matter how many times he experienced it. Enkrid stroked his neck.
There was no wound, yet it stung. It felt as if he had swallowed a blade.
“Why? Does it feel like you can't keep your neck in one piece?”
Rem whispered from beside him.
“Try to be a little more on edge. This is a battlefield,” Enkrid said, stepping forward in time with the shout of ‘All troops, advance!’
Rem walked in step beside him.
“Tension is what makes the body stiff. Isn’t that why you learned that thing from me, to avoid it?”
He was right. That’s what made him so annoying. Heart of the Beast.
Rem had said that there were few who could learn it just by being taught. He suppressed his pounding heart. He controlled his breathing in time with his steps.
“Yes, that's how you do it. Let’s try not to die today, so we can see each other again. You with your lofty dreams, chief.”
Listening to Rem, Enkrid decided that if he died again today, he wouldn’t mention his dream of becoming a knight tomorrow. It was the battlefield again. The beginning of the melee.
The same day unfolded. For Enkrid, this was his fourth 'today'. He thought about trying to prevent his shield from splitting, but then gave up on the idea.
What was the purpose of a shield in the first place? It was ridiculous to struggle to preserve an item you were holding to block an opponent's sword, spear, or axe.
‘In that case.’
His stray thoughts had lasted too long. Suddenly, something flew at him with a whoosh. Without even a gasp, he threw his body back and thrust his shield forward.
Strength flooded his body automatically.
Clang!
The flying spearhead struck the edge of his shield. He had blocked it by a hair’s breadth. His left shoulder throbbed.
A spear.
It had been a powerful blow. The enemy soldier pulled back the spear and thrust it out again. Normally, his tense body wouldn’t have relaxed.
He would have blocked again with a stiff posture, leading to one crisis after another. But his mind grew calm. And because of that, he could see the spearhead.
It was twice as slow as the thrust that had killed him. Therefore, there was no reason he couldn’t dodge it. He watched the very tip of the spear until the last moment, then simply tilted his head.
Swish.
The spearhead grazed the side of his helmet. It was a feat verging on acrobatics, something he had never done before in his life. The Heart of the Beast is not easily agitated.
An evasion with a small movement. It created that much of an opening. This mental composure also granted him a new perspective.
Enkrid’s eyes caught the gap between the helmet and breastplate of the man who had thrust the spear. A gap just wide enough to reveal a sliver of chin. It wasn't a very wide gap.
But one couldn't call it narrow either. It would be just enough for a blade to enter. He gripped his sword and thrust upwards.
It didn't require any great technique.
Thunk.
From below, the blade pierced through his chin and into his throat.
“Gurgle.”
The enemy soldier spewed blood and chunks of his severed tongue from his mouth. A strike that exploits an opening doesn't require immense strength. Reminded of this anew, Enkrid recalled the words of a swordsmanship instructor from long ago.
“If you can evade an opponent's attack with minimal movement, what comes next becomes easy.”
It had been a rather expensive training hall, yet they had taught only a few things. And for a long time, Enkrid had considered even those few things to be utter nonsense.
‘It was worth the money.’
One of those pieces of nonsense had just become reality. Evasion and attack with short, efficient movements—it was valid.
And effective.
He kicked the opponent's abdomen and pulled out his sword. More blood gushed from the hole beneath the man's chin. The enemy soldier collapsed backward.
“You bastard!”
Another man charged from right behind him. Enkrid didn't gasp for breath, nor did he react hastily.
‘Six steps.’
Enkrid measured the distance to his opponent, raised his sword, and sliced the shield strap fixed to the back of his left hand.
Rip. Shnk. Rip.
Two cuts and the fastening strap was severed. Tying the shield to his forearm with straps was a trick he had learned to survive. This way, he wouldn’t easily lose his shield even in the chaos of battle.
But it was unnecessary now. The enemy soldier drew closer. Enkrid threw his shield.
Clang!
The spear-wielding soldier, startled by the suddenly flying shield, pulled back his hands. Naturally, the spear in his hands also retreated. His feet were bound to slow down as well.
The broad shield only blocked his view for an instant, but it was enough. In the moment the opponent's vision was obscured, Enkrid, having thrown the shield, took two large strides to his left. A helmet is a tool to protect the head, but it narrows one's peripheral vision.
Enkrid himself had experienced an enemy suddenly disappearing from in front of him several times. He had often used a technique that took advantage of this, deceiving the opponent's eyes, ducking low, and throwing them backward. He had even done it on the day he first died.
This time, he simply executed it more cleanly. He was at the opponent’s right side. Before rushing in, Enkrid first observed the soldier’s hands.
His left hand was forward on the long shaft, his right hand gripped the back.
He’s right-handed.
Things he normally wouldn't have seen became visible. It was a perspective granted by his calm. These were tricks he sometimes used in small-scale fights or duels, but could rarely employ in the chaos of a melee.
It was the insight he had gained while surviving as a mercenary. A right-handed spearman has difficulty swinging his spear to the right. The enemy soldier, who had blocked the shield, frantically turned his head left and right.
He was startled. And for good reason. The opponent before him had suddenly vanished.
The soldier's eyes soon tracked and found Enkrid. While he was turning his head left and right in surprise, Enkrid swung his sword diagonally from behind the opponent's head toward the front of his chest.
Thwack!
The man's armor was shaped to cover the back of his neck. Thick cloth and a thin layer of leather over it prevented his neck from being severed completely. The blade was buried halfway in the back of his neck.
“Gak, gak, ah.”
Enkrid could see the soldier's eyes. They were still wide with surprise.
Round eyes.
Blood gushed from his half-severed neck. Despite his neck being half-cut, the spearman reflexively swung his spear. The shaft struck Enkrid's right shoulder with a light thud.
There was no force behind it. The man was already half-dead, and besides, he had moved at an angle that made it difficult to put power into the spear shaft. Enkrid lifted his sword upwards and pulled it out.
Crunch.
It must have been stuck in the bone; he had to use quite a bit of force. Clots of blood and gore clung to the extracted blade, dripping down. Briefly surveying the battlefield, Enkrid picked up a shield with a broken corner from the ground instead of an axe.
He had that much composure now.
‘So it does work.’
It was working too easily. On the battlefield, it's hard to display even half of your usual skill. That's only natural.
How could anyone move as they normally would while standing in the midst of killing and being killed? Occasionally, there were those who went even more berserk, but most people were bound to be flustered. Enkrid had been like that too before experiencing death three times, but now he was a little different.
‘I can do this.’
That thrust… he felt he might just be able to face it. What Enkrid had done wasn't enough to change the tide of the entire battle. It was merely one soldier fighting a little better.
There was no change in the overall situation. But for Enkrid personally, it was a huge change. After felling two enemy soldiers like that.
“Ugh!”
Bell fell again. A bit of composure gave him the time to help him up.
“You alright?”
“Damn it, there's some kind of rock sticking out here.”
It was a dry field. It wasn't uncommon for a rock to be jutting out. However, Bell had tripped over his own feet.
Therefore, it was Bell who was the fool for falling.
“Get a grip.”
He grabbed Bell's hand and pulled him up.
“Thanks, you saved me.”
Enkrid didn't loosen his grip, holding Bell's hand tightly.
“... My hand.”
Bell muttered, asking him to let go. A helmet split in half, a head stained with blood, he could see Bell's eyes. The flash was an arrow, and that arrow would pierce Bell's head.
He already knew. However, noticing an arrow flying amidst a chaotic battle was difficult. It was an extremely difficult thing to do.
Enkrid tried to pull the hand he was holding. Bell staggered and lost his balance, but managed to plant his feet and hold his ground.
Thwack.
His head shattered. An arrow flew in and smashed Bell's head to pieces. Blood splattered onto Enkrid's breastplate.
As soon as Enkrid saw Bell's head explode, he ducked. Whoosh—something eerie passed over his head. An arrow, it must have been.
It lodged itself into the corpse of a fallen comrade behind him with a dull thud.
“Did you come here after offering a prayer to the Goddess of Fortune?”
As soon as he dodged, he heard Rem's voice. He couldn't protect Bell's head, but he had protected his own. Of course, even if he hadn’t, Rem would have saved him.
The fourth time, the same situation.
“Well, something similar.”
He answered vaguely, and Rem let out a short laugh. His teeth were visible through the opening of his helmet. For a man with rather delicate features, his way of speaking and acting was unbelievably rough.
“Excellent. They say the one who shot this arrow is some fellow called Hawk's Nipple or something. I'm going to find him. You go on and offer ten more prayers to the goddess.”
“I'll say a prayer for you too, so you don't die on the way.”
“Then I'd be grateful. Don't forget this.”
Rem tapped his own left chest with the handle of his axe and headed back into the battlefield. He was off to catch Hawk's Eye, or maybe Hawk's Talon. Enkrid nodded, hoping he would be able to ask Rem tonight whether or not he had killed the archer who shot that arrow.
Allies and enemies swarmed into the spot Rem had just vacated. As the distance between forces began to shrink, Enkrid judged that the flow of the battle was hardly in their favor. He already had three experiences to tell him so.
The allied forces were being pushed back. Still, there was only one thing he could do.
Survive.
Enkrid felt a strange excitement envelop him. Because in just a little while, he would meet that skilled soldier again. Before long, that became a reality.
That thrust aimed for his head again. Instead of dodging, Enkrid met the incoming blade with his own.
T-d-d-d-ding.
Sparks flew in the air. He met the enemy soldier's gaze. You blocked that?
His eyes seemed to ask.
“Your skill is decent.”
The enemy soldier said, extending his sword again. Once, twice, three times. The first time, he blocked with his shield.
The second, he rolled to the side. The third, he swung his sword in a counter. Enkrid's blade, tracing a short path, cut through empty air.
And just as the enemy soldier pulled his arm back again, something struck him hard in the waist from behind.
Thwack!
“Guk.”
He swallowed the scream that tried to escape his lips. After that, the thrust came again. He intentionally shifted his center of gravity forward, trying to roll as if he were falling.
The intention was good, but the timing was bad.
Puk.
The blade shattered the collarbone next to his neck and buried itself deep inside. It felt like a red-hot poker was searing his flesh and bone.
“Gasp!”
It hurt so much that not even a scream could come out. As he tried to grab the embedded blade with his hand, his opponent swiftly withdrew the sword. He must have put a great deal of effort into sharpening his blade, as it was incredibly sharp.
An even more terrible pain followed as the sword was pulled out. It hurt so much his vision turned white. Enkrid gritted his teeth and looked back.
He saw a large enemy soldier standing there awkwardly. And the club in his hand. That must have been what hit his back.
“This is mercy.”
The man who had killed him three times said so, and brought his sword down in a vertical strike. That was the last thing. His eyes closed.
Darkness seeped into his vision. Clang, clang, clang. The sound of a ladle hitting a pot could be heard again.
“The fifth time.”
Damn it all. I thought I had it.
“What's the fifth time?”
Rem asked from the seat next to him.
“A bug in my boot.”
Enkrid said as he stood up. He had died again, but he had learned something. No, it was a lesson he had learned from pouring a fortune in gold coins into training halls.
Nothing ever works on the first try. So what was he to do? If it doesn't work once, do it ten times.
If it doesn't work ten times, do it a hundred times. Normally, you die once and that's the end. Fortunately, Enkrid could repeat this act countless times.