The Azpen Dukedom was ruled by three main families, and among them, the family that symbolized martial power was the Hurrier family. In the Hurrier family, whether boy or girl, every child born learned the martial arts. They would gauge their talent and gather only those who showed promise to be taught.
For talent is biased, and the mischief of the Goddess of Fortune is ever unpredictable. To gather this biased talent, the Hurriers brought in people regardless of whether they were from the main or branch families. Mitch Hurrier was one of them.
He was born into a branch family and originally had a different surname, but now he was a member of the Hurrier family. Mitch Hurrier’s talent had been exceptional since he was a child. At fifteen, he could already face two adult soldiers.
By the next year, he had far surpassed the level of an ordinary soldier. At eighteen, he proved his skill by defeating a swordsman reputable enough to represent a town in a one-on-one duel. At just twenty-two, he could spar with those famous enough to be known throughout a city without being pushed back significantly.
Those who could cross swords with him could be counted on one hand. Among them, his peers were rare. Such an environment gifted him with arrogance.
‘Why bother, when I can get it after a few tries?’
Why did he have to train until his thighs were swollen? Why did he have to swing his sword until his palms were torn? He did not want to do that.
He was content with where he was. He did not strive as he had when he first held a sword. Yet, with talent alone, he had become one of the top three skilled fighters in the Grey Dogs.
For Mitch, this was a first.
Clang!
He deflected the downward strike from below. In a moment of carelessness, a blade grazed his shoulder. Mitch thrust his sword and kicked at his opponent’s shin.
It was a trick he often used against those less skilled than himself. It was not easy to block a kick aimed at the legs while one’s attention was on the sword. Even if blocked, it would at least create an opening.
But his opponent, as if familiar with the pattern, twisted his shoulder to dodge the thrust and raised one leg to block the kick. He did so without losing his balance. The man’s fundamentals were solid.
‘He definitely wasn’t at this level before.’
Mitch recalled the moment he had faced the man just before. The man had suddenly approached him and blurted out.
“Hello, nice to meet you. Since we’ve run into each other, how about a fight to the death?”
It was a familiar face. It was definitely that bastard. The enemy soldier who had launched the night raid.
How did he get here when a vision-obscuring fog had spread? There was no time to ponder the question. The opponent was the first to extend his sword in a long thrust.
Clang!
Mitch blocked it, thinking. It could be another diversionary tactic. So he told the others to guard the rear while he handled this bastard.
If the flagpole fell, the operation would be severely compromised. Wasn’t that why he was here? If the company commander leading the Grey Dogs was responsible for cutting off the enemy's retreat and storming them, his role was to defend this place.
The enemy soldier who had blocked his kick brought his sword down, aiming for the crown of Mitch's head. Mitch formed a cross with the opponent's sword, blocking and gliding it away.
Screeeech.
The blades crossed, scraping diagonally against each other. At the last moment, they both pushed off, shoving each other away. A gap of more than five paces opened between them.
Before attacking again, Mitch spoke.
“Were you hiding your skill?”
“It just happened that way.”
“What’s your name?”
“Enkrid.”
He was the one man he had desperately wanted to meet. He felt he wouldn't be satisfied until he killed him. And that man had come to him on his own.
Mitch licked his lips.
“Alright, Enkrid. I’ll remember your name.”
“You don’t have to. If you forget, I’ll tell you again.”
“You crazy bastard, you die here.”
Mitch raised his sword over his left shoulder. After clashing a few times, he could gauge his opponent’s skill. If so, it was time to show his true abilities.
At most five exchanges; within that time, Mitch believed he could cut off the man named Enkrid’s head. And five exchanges of the sword passed. Mitch’s brow narrowed.
He frowned.
This was a first. He could understand if his opponent was vastly superior in skill, but that wasn't the case either. It felt like his opponent was barely keeping up with him.
And yet, he blocked, endured, and struck back as if he knew all of Mitch’s habits. Mitch increased his speed. He mixed in feints.
Still, it did not end. As they exchanged a few more blows, his vision began to narrow, seeing only his opponent. Sword and opponent, blade and I, I and blade.
Mitch Hurrier felt just as he had when he first held a sword. That feeling from when he first held a sword, when there was nothing under the heavens but him and his sword. It felt as though if he swung his sword, his opponent would be cut.
If he thrust, he would be pierced. If he pulled and struck, he would be struck down. And so Mitch did just that.
He struck down, swung in an arc, extended, thrusted, and spun to strike. And his opponent did the same.
Enkrid drew out a state of concentration. In that state, he exchanged blows with Mitch. Thanks to the countless repetitions of this day, his opponent's habits were plain to see.
Block the foot, block the sword. Then, in an instant, the enemy's sword changed. It was fiercer and sharper than before.
It thrusted, curved, and the blade spun as it cut.
Clang! Clank! Scccrrape!
When they clashed with all their might, the blades threw off sparks. A few strikes grazed his shoulder and cut his side. They were not deep wounds, but drops of blood splattered in the air.
At least three life-threatening moments had passed. In that moment, Enkrid’s immersion deepened.
Deeper.
Enkrid deliberately pushed himself further into that state. He forgot his surroundings. He went into a world where only he and his sword remained.
Single Point Focus had fully activated. In his eyes, there was only Mitch Hurrier’s sword. In Mitch Hurrier’s eyes, there was only Enkrid’s sword.
The two fought like madmen. They staked their lives on the line. Attacks so dizzying that even onlookers would be stunned were exchanged.
Pshk.
After failing to cut each other’s throats, both men bled from their necks. While still in his state of concentration, Mitch used his signature killing pattern. He pulled his left foot back and his right foot forward, creating a new, unfamiliar distance.
He let the tip of his sword hang behind his rear.
“Hup.”
With a short intake of breath, strength flowed into his muscles. Righteous Sword and Flowing Sword. Both were swordsmanship styles focused on receiving attacks.
Mitch had learned a technique that struck with a reversal. It was a technique called the Wheel Cut, which drew a large circle from bottom to top. By changing his stance and hiding the blade with his body, he concealed the attack’s origin, creating a blow his opponent could not block.
Adjusting his footwork to change the distance beforehand was all for this single Wheel Cut. As his opponent prepared the Wheel Cut, Enkrid experienced a deep state of immersion. What he gained from that experience was not just swordsmanship.
‘I can see it.’
It wasn't visible to his eyes, but his opponent's movements were drawn perfectly in his mind. Having entered Single Point Focus, his hearing had become frighteningly sharp. The sound of a foot lifting off the ground, the sound of the sword being pulled back, the sound of breathing being controlled.
All the sounds entering his ears were compiled into information, forming an image in his head. He had died to the Wheel Cut more than ten times. Because he had experienced being struck by the technique his opponent was now wielding countless times, the image that formed in Enkrid’s mind was clearer than ever.
The hidden sword felt as clear as if he could see it, and he could hear his opponent's breathing. All of it combined to read the timing of the Wheel Cut.
Hwung.
The sound of the blade cutting through the wind pierced his ears. Soon, the blade shot up from below in a curving arc. Enkrid, lost in his state of immersion, reflexively brought his sword down.
It was the exact trajectory to block the Wheel Cut.
Kkang!
The sword coming from below and the sword striking from above met. They had both used so much force that a crack appeared in Enkrid’s sword. The moment their swords met, Mitch was so surprised that his strike was blocked that his concentration half-dissipated.
But Enkrid’s did not. The half-cracked sword of Enkrid slid along the blade his opponent held.
Chiiiiing!
The friction between the blades produced a strange noise. Mitch reflexively tried to raise his sword. Normally, the sword should have gone up, but Enkrid pressed it down with sheer force.
It was only natural that pressing down from above had an advantage over lifting up from below. On top of that, because he had trained every day, Enkrid’s physical strength was also superior. In a contest of strength versus strength, Mitch was no match.
Enkrid pressed down on the blade, then extended his left foot forward to apply more force, pushing the sword down as if flicking it away.
Kii-ing!
Mitch’s sword was flung downwards. In that state, Enkrid stepped forward with his left foot and twisted his waist. The sword in his hand became a point as it shot forward.
Puk.
The tip of the sword pierced Mitch’s chest. He was wearing armor, but the force behind the sword was too strong. Mitch’s chest was pierced.
But it did not go all the way through. Enkrid immediately pulled the sword back.
Shluk.
The blood-soaked blade slid back out.
“Huu, hu.”
After retrieving his sword, Enkrid gasped for breath. He had used all his strength in that brief moment. His limbs were trembling.
Blood gushed from Mitch’s chest. He staggered back a few steps like a drunkard, then steadied himself on his feet. Mitch's pupils seemed to lose focus, but he soon glared and forced strength into his eyes.
“I should have aimed for a counter.”
Mitch said.
Blood was still flowing from his chest. It was not a small amount. The flowing blood quickly soaked his clothes.
“If I had received it and glided it away to create an opening, the fight would have been in my favor. You admit that, right?”
“Isn’t victory or defeat decided by the result?”
Enkrid answered the question with a question.
“You’re not wrong, but it’s so frustrating for me. No. Right, I should not have stopped training. In the end, I was pushed back by pure strength.”
The light in Mitch’s eyes faded. He would die even if left alone. The bleeding grew heavier.
Enkrid raised his sword and took two steps forward.
“Stop him!”
Just as he was about to thrust his sword, someone shouted and charged at him.
Woosh.
With a heavy sound, Enkrid diagonally raised his sword to half-cover his upper body.
Clang!
A heavy impact struck his sword. Enkrid took two steps back and looked at his opponent. It was a man with a mustache.
He stood in front of Mitch.
“Protect Mitch!” the man shouted.
Enkrid looked around. Three or four more soldiers appeared and also stood in front of Mitch. Then they sprinkled a powdered medicine on the unconscious Mitch’s chest.
The bleeding from his chest stopped almost immediately.
“This bastard. Who do you think you are, coming here alone!”
The mustached man glared. He looked furious. His eyes glanced at Mitch.
Was that guy important? Enkrid controlled his breathing and observed his opponent. Judging by his heaving shoulders, he seemed out of breath.
But there were no openings in his stance. The mustached man had just returned from checking the flagpole. He had thought Mitch would win.
Enkrid hadn't looked that skilled. But the result was the complete opposite. Enkrid wasn't excited just because he had beaten Mitch.
There was still work to be done. This was a battlefield, and a battle was underway. The goal wasn't a romantic one-on-one duel or a sparring match.
Enkrid clearly understood what he had to do.
“I heard that the bigger the medium for a sorcery, the worse it is. Is that right?”
Enkrid said, watching two soldiers help Mitch away. The mustached man blocking his path narrowed his eyes.
“You little brat, you know something.”
A lot.
Enkrid dug his toe into the ground and kicked upwards in a single motion.
Pwoosh.
Dirt, dust, and short weeds flew up, covering the mustached man’s face. The man, who had hurriedly raised his hands to block it, shouted.
“Get him! Don’t let him get to the flagpole!”
The moment he thought he had blinded his opponent, Enkrid ran.
Pyubyubyung!
Quarrels flew from behind. Even though he quickly twisted his body to the left, one bolt hit him in the back of his right shoulder.
‘This much is fine.’
Enkrid ran in a straight line toward the flagpole. An enemy soldier blocking his way held a short infantry spear. Enkrid, who had been charging like a rhinoceros snorting steam, stomped the ground with his foot five paces away and veered to the right.
A quarrel fired from behind, aimed at Enkrid, flew toward the enemy soldier holding the short infantry spear.
“Agh! My eye!”
The unlucky soldier was hit in the eye by a quarrel. More than three others were hit in the arm or torso.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” a commander among the crossbowmen shouted.
Enkrid was not in a state of full immersion, but he maintained a state of semi-concentration. Single Point Focus and Sense of the Blade overlapped. He listened to the sounds and grasped the enemy's position and situation in his mind.
He spun around and, sword in hand, leaped among the crossbowmen.
“Uh!”
As he brought his blade down on a startled soldier's head, the man's skull split open with a thud. Because he had swung the sword with a snapping motion, the reaction caused the blade to lift upwards. He continued the motion, swinging his sword in a circle around himself.
Hwoong!
The startled group of enemy soldiers retreated.
“Grey Dogs! After him!” the mustached man pursuing him shouted.
Enkrid jumped into the group of crossbowmen and then out the other side.
Puk!
As he ran out, he stabbed an enemy soldier in the neck with his sword. He picked up a fallen quarrel from the ground and threw it to the side.
Paeng.
The thrown quarrel futilely hit an enemy soldier's armor and fell to the ground. The soldier who was hit drew a shortsword instead of his crossbow and charged, but a throwing knife, thrown immediately after the quarrel, embedded itself in his forehead. It was because he had let his guard down after blocking the quarrel.
“Huu!”
Exhaling in short bursts, Enkrid moved through the enemy ranks as if it were his own home. He wished for two things right now. One was to destroy the flagpole.
The other was for his own commander to stop doing stupid things and watch his back.
“You son of a bitch!”
The mustached man snorted. He seemed to be furious to the core. Enkrid ran here and there, eventually reaching the vicinity of the flagpole.
He threw all the throwing knives in his hand.
Psh-sh-sh-sh-shing!
Five knives flew through the air. All five throwing knives hit the fluttering flag. As it was a thick cloth flag, it didn't pierce easily.
The enemy soldiers were startled when Enkrid threw the knives.
“You motherfucker!”
More soldiers started shouting in anger.
“Block it! I said block it!”
A voice, presumed to be the shaman’s, was heard shouting from right below the flagpole. And as everyone turned their gazes in surprise to see if the knives would pierce the flag, Enkrid rolled on the ground. He had suddenly done a forward roll even though the enemy hadn't fired a quarrel or an arrow and there was no threat.
No one paid it any mind. Thanks to him stopping, the mustached soldier closed the distance. I’ve got you, you bastard.
Just when the mustached soldier was certain. Enkrid was getting up, grabbing a short infantry spear that had fallen to the ground.
“Block it!”
“No!”
The mustached man shouted. The shaman shouted as well. Enkrid answered with his body.
He stamped the ground with his left foot and used his whole body’s elasticity to throw the short infantry spear.
Pang.
The flying spear struck the flag.
Rip!
The flag tore. A hole appeared. The medium for a sorcery becomes a mess if it's damaged.
That meant he didn't necessarily have to topple the flagpole. Tearing the flag was enough. He didn't have to go all the way up to it.
Enkrid saw the fog around him begin to clear and let out a deep breath. It was like a sigh of relief.
“You crazy bastard, you think you can get back alive?”
Seeing that, the flames of fury blazed in the mustached man’s eyes. Enkrid raised his sword, assumed a defensive stance aligned with his body’s centerline, and nodded.
“Maybe?”
The odds were fifty-fifty. A fifty percent chance of survival, a fifty percent chance of death. For an ordinary person, those were terrible odds.
But not for Enkrid. Because if he failed, he could just do it again.