On his eighth today, Enkrid was struck in the side by a quarrel. The quarrel tore through the space between his ribs and shredded his insides.
‘This is unexpected.’
It happened after he had dodged all the whistling throwing knives and even kicked away Rotten, who had ambushed him from behind. In that brief opening, a quarrel suddenly flew at him. It was impossible to dodge.
‘The preparations.’
They had been so thorough. It seemed like pulling out the quarrel would only make the wound more fatal. He raised his head just in time to see the ugly face of a half-elf before him.
Did all half-breeds look like that? He didn't know. It was the first time he had ever met a half-breed in his life.
He knew that most of them weren't treated well.
“You’re remarkably perceptive.”
The half-elf spoke from above. He was a man who truly loved to talk.
“I suppose I am. Hoo.”
Enkrid replied, steadying his breath. He committed the half-elf's position, distance, and everything else to memory, preparing to make his last stand.
Ting.
In an instant, he drew a broad-bladed dagger and thrust it upwards from below. The object, known as a guard sword, grazed the half-elf's cheek with a soft whistle. The elf, who had twisted his head to the side to avoid it, kicked Enkrid in the stomach.
Thwack.
“Kugh.”
A groan escaped him instead of a scream. The arrowhead lodged in his organs twisted his insides. It hurt like hell.
It had already been painful when he moved, but the kick sent a terrible agony through him that turned his vision white.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
It didn't take long for him to die. The elf’s hands were clean and sharp. His throat slit, Enkrid closed his eyes.
In the next today he faced, the elf, Rotten, Jack, and Bon all attacked him at once. Enkrid, his hands fumbling, managed to kill Jack and Bon before he died, even taking one of the half-elf's arms. The final blow was to the heart again.
His heart was pierced by a hidden blade the half-elf had concealed at his waist. After spending nine todays like that, the morning of the tenth dawned. He finished his exercises with Audin and met Jacksen.
It was a repeating routine. Because not a single day could be wasted, Enkrid gave his all today as well.
“Could you take a look at my form?”
Not caring whether it was an equivalent exchange or not, Enkrid showed Jacksen how to throw a throwing knife as a way to draw him in. His proficiency was completely different from when he first learned. It was a skill he had mastered by grasping the very edge of his talent.
It was indeed different from before. Enkrid activated Single Point Focus, relaxed his body, and then, in an instant, used the muscles of his entire body as if flicking them. His hand sliced through the air, and the dagger in it flew with a sharp sound.
It couldn't be called a flash of light, but it was several times faster than before.
“The arm and hand are the launch pad, and you use the elasticity of your whole body. I understand that much. Does it seem like something is lacking?”
Gasp.
In all his life, Enkrid had never seen Jacksen's mouth hang open so wide. Wasn't this the Squad Member who always spoke with a calm gaze and tone? He was a friend who showed little change in emotion or expression.
The gaping mouth, an expression of shock, quickly closed. His eyes were still wavering, but his expression returned to normal. His mouth had only been open for about a second.
“Jacksen?”
“Where did you learn this?”
“Some guy on the battlefield was throwing daggers like a madman.”
“Like a madman?”
“I learned by watching.”
“You learned by watching?”
He was like a parrot, busy repeating Enkrid's words. In truth, it was worth being surprised about. This kind of skill wasn't something you could get just by training.
It was separate from honing the fundamentals. Without innate sense, just learning it was nonsense. Jacksen knew that all too well.
That's why he was so surprised. And yet, the Squad Leader? His skills had improved by leaps and bounds recently, but this was something else entirely.
After looking intently at Enkrid, who had nodded, Jacksen finally spoke.
“That should be enough. It’s not a skill worth delving deeper into. However, what you’re holding now has some weight, so it would be better to put heft into your fingertips rather than lightness.”
Jacksen chose his words carefully and spoke what was necessary.
Enkrid nodded.
“It is called the Throwing Sword Arts.”
Jacksen said suddenly. Even if it wasn't an equivalent exchange, Jacksen wasn't the type to be stingy with his teachings. Enkrid corrected his posture.
It was an attitude already ingrained in his body, and he had even learned how to express it from watching Krang—a posture of attentive listening. For there was a way to do one's best even in listening. Seeing that attitude, Jacksen felt a sense of enjoyment.
Who would listen so seriously to a mere throwing technique? Then again, if he hadn't shown such an attitude normally, he would have ignored and disregarded the existence of a Squad Leader long ago.
“It is a technique whose foundations were laid by an unrivaled assassin of the past named Georg. There is a theory that he was inspired by Lionesis’s compilation of the five sword styles, but the details are unknown.”
It was a technique with a history. Enkrid's focus burned brighter than ever. Jacksen explained and simultaneously told him the path forward.
Listening, Enkrid's eyes shone with utmost seriousness. Although it was named the Throwing Sword Arts, it couldn't be said that it was a technique for only throwing swords. It covered all thrown weapons.
In the middle of his explanation, he brought up the Whistle Dagger without being asked.
“There is a throwing dagger called the Whistle Dagger. If you encounter it, you must avoid it. It is difficult to face. The reason the word ‘sword’ is in Georg’s Throwing Sword Arts is because of the Whistle Dagger.”
An additional explanation followed. The Whistle Dagger was originally made by layering thin blades. He said that the state Georg pursued was to use a throwing knife of just one layer, a single sheet.
He added that if you threw a single blade, it wouldn't even make a sound anymore, so it wouldn't be called a Whistle Dagger.
‘How many layers was it?’
Enkrid reflexively recalled the throwing knife the half-elf had thrown. He searched his memory of when it had lodged in his forearm. The throwing knife stuck in his arm had been three layers.
“Hey, aren't you on duty today?”
Bon came up to the front of the barracks and called out to Enkrid. He had been so engrossed that he hadn't even realized his duty time was approaching.
“Ah, I forgot. Let’s go. We were on the same duty today, right?”
“Yes, my name is Bon.”
“I know. You’re with the reconnaissance team.”
Enkrid replied to Bon nonchalantly, then turned to Jacksen.
“I've learned well.”
“Is that so?”
Jacksen had never thought of himself as having a loose tongue, but he had to admit that whenever he stood before his Squad Leader, he became unusually talkative. Though he only said what was necessary. He did talk a lot.
‘Did I go too far with the Whistle Dagger?’
Why did that story even come up? Thinking back, it made sense. It was a story that was bound to come out.
It was because of the posture Enkrid had shown.
‘The throwing form is similar.’
Georg's Throwing Sword Arts was not a throwing technique with a fixed form, but it had a basic framework. But the posture the Squad Leader had just shown brought the Whistle Dagger to mind. It was a clean posture, as if someone had corrected it for him by his side.
Jacksen could never know, but the one who had corrected Enkrid’s posture was him.
“Let's go this way.”
Enkrid arbitrarily changed the patrol route.
“Huh? But the order from above was to patrol the market. Damn it, we’ll get disciplined for this.”
Jack argued.
“I’ll take responsibility.”
A Squad Leader, promoted to high-rank soldier, and a talent coveted by the First Company and the frontier garrison. A late bloomer who was only now beginning to get attention at the age of thirty. That was Enkrid.
There was nothing two soldiers from the reconnaissance team could do by protesting.
“I said I’ll take responsibility. You have to take it easy on duty too. Let's go.”
Enkrid took the lead. His attitude made it clear that they were expected to follow.
“Deviating from the patrol route is grounds for discipline.”
Bon muttered as he looked at Jack. Jack's hands moved busily.
‘What do we do?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bon shook his head. Even without seeing, it was as if Enkrid could hear the conversation between the two. Discussing it wouldn't yield an answer.
There are some things in the world that can't be helped. Just like when a superior tells you to do something, you do it. And right now, the superior and senior officer was him.
The assassin had prepared the place, the time, and the people. Was there any need to play along?
‘Change the location.’
The opponent was an assassin; there was no need to walk onto the stage he had prepared. That was the answer Enkrid came up with after much deliberation. He moved on his own.
He walked along the outskirts of the city walls. He didn't even go near the urban area with buildings. Jack and Bon were in a difficult position.
They tried to persuade him to head to the market, but Enkrid was adamant. It was after they had walked like that for about half an hour. Enkrid suddenly stopped.
“Huh? Why are you stopping?”
The two who had passed Enkrid took two steps forward before stopping and turning around. They had slowly given up on entering the market. After giving up, they had been secretly leaving coded signs here and there.
So, now was the time. Enkrid, who had been staring at the two, asked.
“Why did you do it?”
Blank stares.
Jack and Bon looked at Enkrid, then at each other. What the hell is that bastard talking about? How should I know?
“Pardon?”
Bon asked on their behalf.
“I asked why you did it.”
“What are you talking about? Damn it, say something I can understand.”
Jack shot back in a blunt tone.
“I've thought it over a few times, but I just can't figure out the reason. Does playing spy as a mere soldier change anything? Krona? Was it for money?”
At the sudden words, Jack and Bon jumped back as if they'd been struck. Then, looking embarrassed, they exchanged glances. Bon scratched the back of his head and spoke up.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“What the hell? Are you suddenly accusing us of being spies?”
Jack also shouted angrily.
“Don't you think it's a pathetic excuse when you've already stepped back and placed your hands on the hilts of your swords?”
At Enkrid’s words, the two exchanged glances again.
And then. Clang!
Both drew their swords. Bon drew a thin-bladed stiletto. Jack, a relatively thicker shortsword.
Enkrid stood still.
“Shit, you're damn quick on the uptake.”
“You'll have to die here.”
The plan had gone awry, but their task was clear. Jack and Bon met each other's eyes and nodded. While the two exchanged glances and hesitated, Enkrid also drew his sword.
Sching!
The sharpened longsword, as it was drawn, reflected the sunlight. Then, just as he drew it, he took a large step forward and drew a semicircle with his sword. As he swung it so widely, Jack and Bon read the distance and dodged.
No, it didn't end there. Because Enkrid had swung his sword widely, he had many openings. Bon rushed in to exploit one.
He was a soldier who had always been exceptionally skilled with his body. He pushed off his back foot and charged forward. Enkrid was at the point where he had just gripped his sword with both hands and swung, his center of gravity shifting to the right.
The moment Bon, who had closed the distance to within reach of a shortsword, approached.
Thwack!
A blade suddenly shot out from under Enkrid's left armpit. That blade pierced straight through Bon's neck. Vallen-style Mercenary Swordsmanship, Shadow Thrust.
Pretending to swing widely to draw the enemy in was just the beginning. After that, he supported the longsword with only his left hand, shielded his right hand with his body, and drew the dagger from his right hip to stab it through the space under his armpit. His opponent would never have imagined a blade would come from there.
It was because Bon, trusting his own agility, had closed the distance too much. And Enkrid had predicted Bon’s reaction. A guy who prided himself on his swiftness wouldn't miss a chance to close the distance.
Just because he had built his foundation on the Northern Heavy Sword didn't mean he had to forget what he learned before. This was an enlightenment he gained from his battle with the mustached soldier at the end of the war with Azpen. The basics are just the basics; adding and subtracting from them is up to the user.
So he could swing a heavy sword and then smoothly let it flow, or aim for a counter. And he could mix in the Vallen-style Mercenary Swordsmanship. As long as the foundational framework remained unshaken, that was all that mattered.
With a gurgle, Bon collapsed to the ground. Blood flowed from his pierced neck, staining the ground.
“……Damn it, what a mess.”
Seeing this, Jack's face turned pale. He had no confidence in running away, nor in fighting. But what could he do?
“Why did you do it?”
“What's it to you? Shit!”
Jack was consistent, and since Enkrid hadn't prepared a blade of mercy for his opponent, their fight was short. A single strike from the longsword, chopping down from above. Jack dodged rather than blocked.
Enkrid, who had predicted that movement, turned the sword he'd swung as if to chop straight into a horizontal slash.
Shhlick! Splat!
The well-sharpened blade created a hole in Jack's side that shouldn't have been there.
“Huuuk, shiiit.”
That was Jack's last word. Instead of a death rattle, Jack collapsed with a curse. Enkrid stood still in that spot for a moment, waiting.
He planted his sword in the ground and took a long time to catch his breath. Only then did the others arrive.
Swish!
A quarrel flew from behind. Enkrid, who twisted his head to dodge, saw one man with his face covered by a mask, Rotten hesitating beside him before stepping forward, and finally, the assassin clad in rags. With his sword still planted in the ground, Enkrid asked.
“You're all coming at once, right?”
It seemed that suggesting they fight one-on-one wouldn't work. His words were literal. The man with the quarrel aimed at him again.
Enkrid took a short breath. He drained the strength from his entire body. Leaving the sword stuck in the ground, he let his arms hang limp.
His dangling hands swung like pendulums. Then, his right hand whipped upwards like a lash, flinging away the dagger he held.
Ssek!
The Throwing Sword Arts, using the elasticity of the whole body. The flying blade lodged itself in the forehead of the masked crossbowman. It was truly like a bolt of light.
Seeing this, the half-elf's shoulders flinched and trembled, if only for a moment.
“Interesting.”
He muttered soon after. They were the very words Enkrid himself wanted to say.