Clang, clang, clang. He thrust for the eyes, then slashed the shoulder. After cutting the shoulder, he lowered his sword to score the thigh, then pushed the blade with all his might.
Enkrid’s eyes widened as he took in his opponent’s every gesture, hand signal, and foot movement, predicting what would come next. And just as he predicted, he took a defensive stance and blocked every single blow. Sparks flew between them, briefly clearing a patch of the fog.
Through it, two pairs of eyes gleamed.
‘The shoulder.’
The opponent’s attack line was once again aimed at his shoulder. Enkrid pulled back the left foot he had placed half a step forward. In an instant, his left shoulder pulled back as the opponent's sword shot forward menacingly.
He moved his left foot behind his right, pivoting on the ball of his right foot to turn sideways.
Swish.
The blade grazed past his shoulder. Enkrid saw his chance. From a modified middle stance, with his sword tip angled down, he swung his blade upward.
Usually, when holding a sword, the edge facing the opponent is the fore-edge, and the one facing oneself is the back-edge. Swinging up from a lowered position resulted in a backhand cut. The back of Enkrid's sword aimed for his opponent's chin.
Enkrid expected the opponent to dodge.
‘Even if he dodges, it will create an opening.’
Then he could direct the next line of attack as he intended. It was a move born from countless real battles. His plan was to seize victory with a single step and a follow-up attack.
“You insolent bastard!”
The opponent shouted angrily, swinging the sword he had thrust at the shoulder sideways. The move forced Enkrid to duck his head quickly to avoid it. Naturally, his own upward strike failed to complete its task.
Clang!
Enkrid pulled his sword close to his body and quickly raised it above his head to block the next attack. The opponent had only feigned the horizontal swing, instead raising his sword high and bringing it down. It was a crown cut.
As Enkrid narrowly blocked the attack, their swords locked together, and both fighters came to a standstill.
“Trying to take me down with a single step?”
The opponent growled, pressing down with his sword from above.
“Why? Is there a problem with that?”
Enkrid retorted.
The soldier, who had identified himself as Mitch Hurrier, showed his anger with his eyes and expression. He had a real talent for showing his rage on his face.
“So you don’t want to die peacefully, huh?”
“No, my wish is to die of old age.”
When it came to getting under someone’s skin, Enkrid was no less skilled than Rem. In fact, he was even better with his words. A thick vein bulged on Mitch’s forehead.
“Alright then, I’ll cut off all your limbs and stuff you in a filth bucket until you die of old age.”
“No, I’m going to die of old age with all my limbs intact, surrounded by my great-grandchildren.”
“This bastard!”
Thud!
Mitch kicked out, and Enkrid parried it with his own foot. The exchange pushed them more than two steps apart. As soon as the distance opened up, Enkrid tried to swing his sword, but Mitch used his feet to charge forward instead.
Mitch’s body seemed to leave a long afterimage as he rushed forward at a terrifying speed. Seeing this, Enkrid changed the path of his sword and brought it down.
Ching!
Their swords met again. The sound of steel grinding against steel filled the air as the blades crossed. Enkrid tried to push him back with strength, but the other sword followed as if glued to his.
Mitch kept their blades locked, then instantly twisted his wrist upward. With that single motion, his sword tip rose toward Enkrid’s head, parallel to the ground, in an upward-pointing stance. In that moment, he used the strong part of his blade, near the hilt, to trap the tip of Enkrid's sword.
Then, Mitch thrust his sword straight forward. Even as he seethed with anger, Mitch’s swordsmanship was precise.
Screeeech.
The blades ground against each other, letting out a harsh noise. If he stayed like that, his throat would be pierced. Enkrid mirrored his opponent's movement, twisting his own wrist to raise his sword.
Ting!
Sparks flew between them again. In that instant, Mitch had flicked Enkrid’s sword away. Without even a moment to catch their breath, the next exchange began.
This time, Enkrid struck first. From the upper right to the lower left. A diagonal cut.
He had trained and honed this move countless times. His skill, polished through endless real battles, now shone. A graceful line was drawn in the air.
That line fell toward Mitch’s body. Step, timing, stance, strike. It was a textbook slash, with nothing out of place.
Mitch received Enkrid’s sword with his own. At that moment, Enkrid felt as if he were cutting a soft cotton ball, not a sword. Mitch’s sword bent softly, deflecting Enkrid's blade before snapping in the opposite direction, its back-edge falling toward Enkrid’s head.
Mitch had drawn a small circle with his sword by turning his wrist.
“Hah!”
Sucking in a sharp breath, Enkrid didn't even dare to block and twisted his body to the side.
Whoosh.
Mitch’s sword cut through the space where Enkrid’s head had been. He had dodged it, but his posture was now broken. The descending blade slashed Enkrid’s right forearm.
It wasn’t a deep wound, but blood trickled down. There was no more time for talk.
‘The abdomen.’
He had to parry the sword thrusting at his stomach, and then dodge the diagonal cut aimed at his thigh. He dodged, blocked, and looked for an opening to swing his sword. He tried to push his opponent back with an overhead horizontal, but the enemy was relentless.
Instead of retreating, he flicked his sword upward and continued to close the distance. A distance where swords held their conversation. Enkrid was on the defensive, scrambling just to block and dodge.
‘Overhead, diagonal, thrust.’
He poured out everything he had built by drilling the basics into his body and hardening them in real combat. He thrust, slashed, pulled, closed in, and even used his feet when he saw an opening. Mitch read every attack, blocking what needed to be blocked and dodging what needed to be dodged.
And as he did, he began to inflict wounds on Enkrid’s body. First the forearm, then the shoulder, then the thigh; the small cuts were piling up. Enkrid dodged, but just barely.
One attack, which knocked off his helmet and sliced his forehead, he felt he'd only avoided by pure luck, so complete was his defensive posture. Blood from his forehead splattered everywhere due to his violent movements.
‘Next, the shoulder.’
There was no time to breathe. No time to think. All that remained was the process of blocking, dodging, and striking back.
Even in this situation, he managed to counterattack from time to time. He had to be cut three or four times to land a single blow, but the fact that he could still attack kept Enkrid focused. It truly felt like he would die if he took a single wrong breath.
The same was true for Mitch. When he first saw this crazy bastard attacking their position, his skills had been pathetic. Even without crossing swords many times, his limits were clearly visible.
Mitch had noticed that. But what was this now? In just a few days, his skill had improved so much that Mitch wondered if he was even the same person.
It would be more believable to say he was a twin.
‘Is he a twin?’
As soon as the stray thought crossed his mind, a sword unerringly aimed for his opening. Mitch realized that the thrust that had just grazed his cheek could have pierced his neck.
‘This bastard.’
Mitch focused.
He had no time to worry about what was happening around him or where he was. He gathered his entire being on the task of killing his opponent. It was the same for Enkrid.
Dodge and block. Block and dodge. He saw openings, but some he didn't dare exploit.
If he hesitated when there was a chance to thrust his sword, he would soon be boarding the boat prepared by the Ferryman of the Black River. Even if he died and had to repeat this day again. Enkrid had no intention of wasting a single one.
He gave it his all. That was what gave meaning to repeating this day.
‘Chest, no, the stomach.’
He dodged a feigned thrust. He blocked and deflected the line of the blade as it dropped from above like an eagle. His deflecting technique was clumsy as he had never properly learned it.
It was closer to blocking than deflecting. The Heavy Sword Style that Enkrid used found its charm in overpowering the opponent with strength. In contrast, Mitch used a mix of the Righteous Sword and the Flowing Sword.
The standard practice of the Righteous Sword was to corner an opponent with a set path and then use a counter. The Flowing Sword was a style that created openings by deflecting an opponent's attacks.
Ting.
The swords met, radiating a scorching heat. Enkrid put his heart and soul into it, unable to let a single nerve relax. If he so much as blinked, he would lose.
And now, as they crossed swords, there was no flagpole, no victory or defeat, no swordsmanship in Enkrid’s mind. All that remained was slashing, thrusting, and swinging his sword at the opponent before him. Everything around him disappeared, leaving only one thing.
The sword and me, me and the sword. The opponent’s sword, the sword and the opponent. Again, me holding a sword, and the opponent holding a sword.
Then, he forgot himself, and he forgot his opponent. Mang-a, forgetting the self. Only the sword remained.
Swinging, slashing, thrusting, blocking, and dodging—only these actions filled Enkrid’s being. Endless ecstasy welled up, and conversely, a craving boiled over.
Chaeng! Tang! Ting!
Kkang! Chreereuk!
The pieces of steel met in various ways, spewing out all sorts of noises. But nothing can last forever.
Knowing this.
‘Just a little longer.’
He wished for this moment to continue. Enkrid knew instinctively. This was not a moment he could easily encounter just by repeating the day.
He had experienced it once before. There was a time when he had cut an opponent without a hint of resistance in the hand holding the sword. The experience of delivering a Perfect Cut.
How hard he had tried to draw out that experience again. It was not easy at all. He had not succeeded a single time since.
It was the same now. Because he had forgotten himself and only the sword remained, he wished it would last forever. But all things must come to an end.
Clang!
His opponent masterfully deflected his downward strike, one that carried the essence of the Heavy Sword. The force was perfectly directed outward, and at the same time, an opening appeared in Enkrid’s chest.
Thrust!
The opponent did not miss that opening. The blade became a red-hot iron skewer and pierced through his chest.
“Puhhh.”
With the sword stuck in his chest, Enkrid stopped moving his arms. His limbs trembled uncontrollably. He had put so much strain on his muscles by focusing his entire being into the fight.
With trembling arms, Enkrid let his sword hang down and raised his head. He saw his opponent, drenched in sweat.
“I remember now,” Enkrid said, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“Only now?”
“That’s right, you’re the guy who was holding the torch, aren’t you?”
Now that he’d been stabbed, the memory slowly came back. He had been that impressive.
“Mitch Hurrier. Platoon Leader of the Azpen Dukedom.”
“Enkrid, Squad Leader of the Naurilia Kingdom.”
Enkrid was also soaked in blood and sweat. Sweat and blood streamed down from his forehead. His whole body was drenched as if he had been caught in the rain.
The same was true for his opponent. The two stared at each other in silence. Enkrid was feeling something for the first time.
He felt no ill will toward the opponent who had stabbed and killed him. There was only a desperate desire to fight him one more time. Mitch Hurrier’s face was expressionless.
But you could tell by his eyes. His gaze had changed. His anger had subsided, leaving only an indescribable emotion.
“The dream is broken.”
Dream? Ah.
“It was a lie. You think a swordsman’s wish is to die of old age?”
“Right. Just die already,” Mitch said and pulled out his sword.
The red-hot skewer tore through his chest again. The pain came, turning his mind white. Enkrid endured the pain and dropped to one knee.
A gurgling sound came from his throat as blood flowed out of his mouth. He didn't even have to spit it out; the blood simply refluxed.
“What is it? Did the enemy attack?”
A group of Azpen soldiers had surrounded them at some point. One of them spoke as he approached.
‘I didn't even see them.’
Enkrid glanced around. He was surrounded by enemy soldiers.
“Yeah. He snuck all the way here. Seems like his specialty is attacking from behind.”
“You seem disappointed, Platoon Leader.”
“... No.” Mitch said, staring intently at Enkrid.
To be honest, he was disappointed. It wasn't often he met an opponent like this. He felt like he had stepped into some new realm while fighting for his life.
Naturally, a sense of regret arose. But there was no trace of such an emotion on the opponent’s face. He looked somewhat relieved, and even excited, like a seven-year-old child who had just received a wooden sword.
“What are you?”
Mitch opened his mouth, bewildered, but Enkrid was no longer listening. He was in the process of dying, and a single thought dominated his mind.
‘Ragna, you crazy bastard. It wasn't the fear of death that was needed.’
The prerequisite for drawing out Single Point Focus was not the concentration at the moment of death. It was the need for an opponent with whom you could fight for your life, matching each other for a long time, an opponent who could stimulate and elevate your skills, emotions, and everything else.
An opponent against whom you had to pour out everything you had just to survive. A fight filled with an exhilarating tension where looking away for even a moment meant the end. He needed a worthy rival.
Mitch Hurrier was perfect in that respect. He was truly a worthy rival. As he was dying, Enkrid realized it.
The sensation and experience from before was the Single Point Focus that Ragna had spoken of. And that he had achieved it. And that he had the chance to repeat this day and relive that sensation and experience.
To voluntarily draw out that moment he had wished would last just a little longer. That was Single Point Focus. Would it be easy?
Probably not.
But he would do it until he could. Mitch Hurrier's existence would make it possible. Enkrid realized this.
So how could he not be excited? Seeing a path forward once again, Enkrid died with a smile on his face.
“So he was a madman.”
Seeing Enkrid die with a smile, Mitch could only tilt his head in confusion.