This was the first time this level of military force had been deployed in a small-scale, localized battle. Just as the enemy had prepared sorcery, the card we had prepared was a Squire. The impact that Squire had on the battlefield was horrific.
The apprentice knight, who had dodged the rain of arrows by advancing, drew his sword and slashed.
Whoosh.
The moment a silver line was drawn in the air, the necks of the three soldiers blocking the front were severed. The Squire pulled back the sword he had swung and brought it down in a sharp chop. The sword fell like a black thunderbolt, then immediately shot upward.
The head of a soldier holding a short infantry spear was caught in its path.
Crack!
It wasn't a cut, it was a smash. The sword, having shattered the soldier's skull with the force of the chop, now flew like a butterfly. The flutter of the approaching butterfly immediately became a dirge filled with terror.
The sword's butterfly-like movements, becoming thrusts into every opening, stole the enemy's breath. Then, two soldiers with large, thick wooden shields blocked his path. As they covered their entire bodies and stood firm, the butterfly's flutter was blocked by the shields.
As the sword struck the shields with dull thuds, deep dents were left on their surfaces.
“Close in!”
An enemy soldier shouted. Though he was sweating coldly, he did his best. But doing his best did not free him from the reaper's grasp.
The owner of the red cloak gripped his sword with both hands and swung it horizontally.
Clang! Scraaaape!
The sword slammed into the shield. The steel rim did not break but bent, allowing the shield to do its job, but the hand of the soldier holding it could not withstand the impact.
“Kuaaack!”
The wrist holding the shield was twisted and broken. The wrist bone pierced through the skin. As the shield fell limply to the ground, the sword split the soldier’s torso horizontally.
The upper body was severed, and his entrails spilled onto the ground with a plop. Blood splattered everywhere. Fear seeped into the eyes of the surrounding soldiers.
“You son of a bitch.”
One of the Azpen Dukedom soldiers swore through his tears. The owner of the cloak, as if hearing him, twitched his nose and immediately kicked off the ground. Swinging his sword was fearsome, but the most terrifying thing about this man was his footwork.
One moment he would kick off the ground, and in a flash, he would appear here, then there, cutting soldiers’ necks and punching holes in their bodies. Trying to block him with shields or standing in his way with armor all seemed meaningless.
“Shoot him!”
One of the commanders shouted. It was a bold decision. Thirty crossbowmen who had been waiting on one side fired their quarrels.
It was impossible to dodge all the shots at close range. The commander was certain. The owner of the cloak shattered that certainty.
Boom!
Before the quarrels could reach him, he kicked off the ground and flew into the air. The quarrels cut futilely through the empty space. What goes up must come down.
The owner of the cloak, flying in an arc, landed ten steps in front of the Azpen Dukedom's commander. It was the heart of the enemy's formation.
“…Block him!”
The shout of the Azpen Dukedom’s high commander was pitiful. It might have been different if the Grey Dogs unit was still there. But they had already withdrawn due to the responsibility for their defeat, Mitch Hurrier’s injury, and a combination of other factors.
“Hoooo.”
Exhaling a long breath, the owner of the cloak swung his sword again. From top to bottom, from bottom to top.
Swoosh!
The blade bent, lashing out like a whip at the commander’s bodyguard.
Thwack! Cra-crack!
The thick leather armor he wore was cut clean through. The bodyguard, wearing an iron helmet, was struck on the head by the flat of the blade and sent flying.
Wham!
The guard, struck once, rolled to the side, blood streaming from his nose. He appeared unharmed on the outside, but the inside of his skull had shattered from the impact, killing him. After dealing with the guard, the Squire punched a hole in the commander’s neck.
Plunge.
Just like that, the Squire killed the enemy commander alone in the middle of the enemy formation, then turned and returned. His return was just as impressive. With a thud, he kicked an enemy soldier, then kicked off the ground a few times and dashed away.
From a distance, it looked as if a red line was being drawn across the middle of the battlefield. Enkrid and his party watched the fight from beginning to end. Rem watched the owner of the cloak, the Squire, and thought he was pretty good.
‘He knows how to play.’
He was the type who knew how to stir up the heart of an enemy formation. He showed no mercy, clearly demonstrating his superior strength to instill fear. With that, he ravaged the enemy ranks as he pleased.
It was especially impressive how he avoided the surprise attack from the crossbowmen the enemy had prepared.
‘If it were me, I would have charged the group of crossbowmen first.’
The man clearly had proper training. It was no empty saying that he was an expert in combat and war. Instead of dealing with the crossbowmen first, he left them be.
And when they aimed for him, he revealed the leg strength he had been saving. He kicked off the ground, flew through the air, and descended upon the enemy commander. He was like a winged tiger.
It was like watching a tiger with wings. Ragna gauged the man’s level and compared it to his own. This was someone who had already walked the path he was meant to walk.
‘At that level.’
He could reach it soon enough. Even without taking shortcuts, even without bone-grinding training. While Rem saw the man's strategy, Ragna gauged the level of his ability.
‘His swordsmanship is sharp.’
It was a Heavy Sword based on the Swift Sword. At a glance, it might look like he was using the Righteous Sword, but it was all a trick. Swift Sword and Heavy Sword.
He mixed the two. He must have had an excellent swordsmanship teacher. Usually, when one learns to mix two sword styles, the fundamentals become sloppy.
But no such sloppiness could be seen in the Red Cloak Squire.
‘Well, he is a Squire.’
After gauging his level, Ragna felt his motivation drain away. The path was already visible, the destination clear. Seeing someone who had gone before him didn't stir his fighting spirit.
All that was left was the task of walking the path. The training, the conditioning, was just painfully tedious. That's because all that remained was to train with the sword in an emotionless state.
It was a problem that arose from having too much talent. Jacksen gauged the man's skill and looked for openings.
‘At least five times.’
The enemy could have harmed the owner of the cloak. It wasn't a matter of ability, but of strategy. It was partly because the commander was an idiot.
And also because they were flustered by the unexpected strike. If it had been Jacksen, he would have finished it before such a situation could arise. The preacher squad member took in the man’s movements and nodded.
“A brother who is skilled in guiding souls to the Lord’s side.”
It was his way of saying the man fought very well.
“Looks like we don’t have to fall back.”
Big Eyes clicked his tongue in amazement. Just one man was controlling the flow of the battlefield as he wished. It felt as if victory was guaranteed before the fight even began.
And Enkrid.
‘So this is a knight.’
He was shaken. His heart pounded so wildly that his whole body trembled. The fine hairs on his skin stood on end, and a chill ran down his spine.
At the same time, he felt a hot warmth spreading from his lower abdomen. His eyes were fixed on the Squire. On the continent today, Squires, or apprentice knights, are the main fighting force of an order of knights.
They are the stage just before becoming a knight who can single-handedly change the tide of a war. A killing machine had just stirred up the battlefield. He killed the enemy commander.
And he had returned with ease.
‘How can he do that?’
The owner of the cloak was not a beastman, nor was he a Frokk. So how could he display such power? A symbol of martial might capable of felling a thousand men alone—that was a knight.
What made it possible? What allowed that man to reach the limits of a human? Enkrid didn't know.
Perhaps it was because he didn't know that he was even more impressed by the man's movements. At the same time, he felt something pop in his head.
“Sometimes, you can learn just by watching.”
The words of a swordsmanship instructor from a big city flashed through his mind. His excitement subsided, and without intending to, Single Point Focus activated on its own. As his superhuman concentration kicked in, he could understand the meaning of the man’s steps.
He could see the intent behind the swung sword.
‘Heavy Sword Style.’
The Heavy Sword of power. Being able to build up muscular strength to swing a sword also meant that you could swing it quickly. The man had mixed the principles of the Heavy Sword with the Swift Sword.
Even Enkrid could see that.
‘He pulled his foot back.’
It was a movement that looked like he was stealthily pulling back a foot to define the range of his attack line.
‘No. He’s not defining it, he’s already defined it.’
The Northern Heavy Sword he learned from Ragna built its foundation around the attack line. The Squire’s method was a bit different. He drew a circle with himself at the center.
It was a swordsmanship based on the Central Empire's fundamentals. He drew a circle with his body as the origin, and he slaughtered any opponent within that circle. If they get caught, they’re cut.
If they approach, they’re thrust. At a glance, it looked as if he was using his footwork to overwhelm his opponents, but the reality was different.
‘He protects his range.’
He only uses his footwork sparingly, when necessary. A few of his sword strikes were impressive, but most of his attacks were thrusts. He watched and watched again.
He gathered the information coming into his eyes and organized it in his head.
‘Does the Heavy Sword Style always have to be about striking down with power?’
The trump card that Mitch Hurrier had shown was not a technique of the Righteous Sword or the Flowing Sword, but was like a technique of the Heavy Sword Style. The Wheel Cut, which cut through anything that blocked it. Why did he use that as his secret technique?
To deceive the opponent? No. Just because the way of the sword was divided into five styles didn't mean they were all completely different schools of swordsmanship. All five sword styles had an intersection.
Just because it's the Heavy Sword Style doesn't mean that unconditionally striking down and cutting with power is the only answer. His eyes darted. His brain whirred.
Enkrid's fingers twitched.
“Good view, eh? Hmm?”
Rem started to speak without thinking, then stopped. Ragna, who had lost interest in the Squire's movements, turned around at the sound.
“Don't touch him,” Ragna whispered.
He had recognized the Squad Leader’s state at a glance. Whether on a battlefield, in a tavern, an alleyway, or a lover's arms. Enlightenment comes like a prank played by the Goddess of Fortune.
It comes suddenly, abruptly, unexpectedly, all at once, arriving silently to shake the brain without warning.
“I’ll guard his side,” Jacksen said, stepping forward.
Ragna stood to the right, Rem to the left. The preacher squad member silently moved behind Enkrid. Big Eyes whispered, asking what was going on.
Rem answered his question.
“Looks like the Squad Leader is about to break out of his shell. It was about time. After all, he’s been swinging his sword day and night all by himself.”
Rem acknowledged the Squad Leader’s effort. He deserved this kind of luck. Of course, this wasn't mere luck.
It was a natural process that came after countless real battles, struggles, and re-polishing the fundamentals of swordsmanship. Seeing Enkrid now, rather than the Squire, Ragna felt motivated.
‘How can this be?’
What was it that made the Squad Leader this way? How could he not put down the sword, knowing his end was clear, his limits obvious? To Ragna, it was a curious thing.
As always, the Squad Leader stimulated his interest more than the opponent who had just single-handedly ravaged the enemy lines. Just after the member of the order of knights returned, the shout of our commander rang through the air.
“Chaaaarge!”
Soon, our troops rushed forward in a wave. Even as battle cries and shouts mixed and the ground rumbled as the infantry ran, Enkrid just stared blankly into the air. He was still in a state of immersion.
The troublemaker squad, thanks to their performance in the previous battle, was in a position to be spectators. No one said anything to them for standing still. In fact, even if they wanted to, the murderous aura emanating from the four, excluding Big Eyes, was so intense that they couldn't even approach.
Even after seeing the Squire rampage up ahead, the allied soldiers who saw the troublemaker squad up close felt that they were more terrifying. Leaving them be, the war raced toward its end. This winter and next spring would probably be very busy.
They would have to spend the winter on their stockpiled resources and rebuild their fortifications. A new border between Naurilia and Azpen would be drawn. While the allied forces charged, Enkrid was mulling over the fundamentals he had learned.
Intersection, swordsmanship, Vallen-style mercenary swordsmanship, Northern Heavy Sword. Everything was a weapon he had learned. There was no need to confine those weapons within the framework of fundamentals.
You could parry and glide with a Heavy Sword. Binding, the technique of keeping swords in contact, was the basis of parrying. He hadn't even realized it when he was learning.
The state of immersion, the untimely enlightenment, did not instantly raise Enkrid’s skill level. No, it raised his insight to some extent, but his talent was so meager that he couldn't instantly master it with his body. However, Enkrid now clearly understood his own limits.
That meant that if he just had enough time, he could train to his limit and then surpass it. The top of the cliff that had been so high its end was out of sight. The very top of the cliff, which had been hidden by clouds, began to come into view.
If the wall blocking your path is too high and wide to see its end, you can't get over it. But if you can see the end, no matter how far, high, or wide it is. If you can't walk, you could crawl over it.
Enkrid realized that.
“Ah.”
He was so happy he could drool. In fact, he woke from his state of immersion drooling.
“Hey, why are you drooling?”
Rem chided him from the side. Enkrid opened his eyes and looked around. There were no allied soldiers in sight.
“They all charged. If you’re tired, you should rest in the barracks, not doze off while standing.”
“Ah.”
“What ‘ah’? Let’s go back. There’s nothing left to do in this battle anyway.”
His words were true. The knight in the cloak had returned to the main camp. The battle was over.
The enemy was not just retreating but fleeing all the way back to their home country. It was time to return. Time to go back to the city.
Enkrid watched the setting sun and turned his body. Seeing the Squire’s martial prowess had rekindled a fire in his chest. Because Enkrid's destination, his ideal, was right before his eyes.
Once again, an old dream raised its head.
‘What must I do to become a knight?’
Simply building up martial strength was not nearly enough. First, he would have to prove his skill. The time to remain a bottom-rank soldier was over.
Enkrid muttered so to himself.