Just because they were issuing combat orders didn't mean it was some grand meeting to explain strategy. It was all about telling us to be ready. As soon as Enkrid heard the order, he headed for the barracks in the back.
The sewing prodigy, who had faked being sick and sent a squad member to the Squad Leader assembly in his place, should have finished the items by now.
“You didn’t give me any thread.”
And so it was. Protectors for his hands, knees, and elbows, woven from tough leather, greeted Enkrid, looking quite decent.
“Thread?”
As he feigned ignorance, the alcohol-loving Squad Leader snorted.
“What am I supposed to do if you just give me the leather and leave?”
What do you mean, what?
‘You’d unravel the thread from a blanket, twist it well, and make them yourself.’
This had happened a few times before. Even without thread, this friend, upon receiving such a troublesome gift, always managed to do a fine job on his own.
“I forgot.”
“You don’t look like you forgot at all.”
Even while frowning deeply from his lingering hangover, he was sharp.
“No. I really forgot.”
“Hmph.”
He didn’t look convinced. But what did that matter? Enkrid casually picked up the leather protectors.
It was skillful needlework. Enkrid had made them himself before, but the quality was definitely better when this guy made them. He was satisfied.
“I feel like I’m being tricked.”
“You worked hard.”
He patted his shoulder once and returned to the barracks. As soon as he returned, Enkrid said only that there would be a battle in the afternoon, then sat in his spot and busied his hands.
Shing.
Enkrid drew his sword, took a deerskin glove in both hands, and sliced it back and forth. After stretching out the leather, which he had cut as if tearing it, he quickly fashioned a sheath for his throwing knives.
Finally, he used his sword to cut the end of the leather into several long strips, made a knot, and wore it like a belt. It wasn't something he'd only done once or twice. For Enkrid, it was something he had repeated dozens of times, so he was used to it.
His hands moved without hesitation. Seeing this, Rem craned his neck over his shoulder and asked.
“What’re ya doin’? You have a small knife, why are ya using that thing for this?”
“To test how sharp the blade is.”
“You’re good with your hands. Your sword skills should be just as good.”
This bastard always had to stab people with his words. They weren't hurtful words. Even when his skills weren't improving and he was stuck in a rut, they were words he didn't take seriously.
Enkrid ignored him.
“I went through all the trouble of getting that for you, and you tear it up just to make a sheath?”
From over his other shoulder, Krais poked his head out.
‘Why are these bastards so interested in me?’
Are their heads broken, making them think of me as their real Mother?
‘That’s a bit horrifying.’
“Because I used it all up.”
“I don’t know what you’re thinking. You didn't eat something you shouldn't have, did you?”
“Come to think of it, you were running around all day until your feet were sweating. Did somethin' happen?”
“It was nothing.”
He dismissed it casually. After wiping his blade once more, Enkrid sat quietly and closed his eyes. Then, he recalled the battlefield he had experienced countless times.
The events flashed by like a panorama. It was a battlefield he had repeated one hundred and twenty-five times. Enkrid replayed it in his mind.
All these miscellaneous preparations are for survival, not for improving my swordsmanship.
‘Because the battlefield is not a training ground for swordsmanship.’
Even if his swordsmanship was lacking, his long experience of survival didn't just disappear. During that time, was it truly his sword that had kept Enkrid alive? It wasn't. Situation, luck, preparation, calmness.
He survived by mixing all of them together. Therefore, ‘today’ too.
‘It's the same.’
He does his best to survive. Enkrid decided to escape today.
“Charge!”
The cry of an ally was heard. Enkrid was soon driven into the heart of the battlefield. He didn't panic.
He didn't run in excitement. He lifted his head, surveyed the battlefield with his eyes, and controlled his breathing with his mouth.
Hoo.
At the end of a short but calm breath. Enemies were visible.
Allies too.
Charging enemies, flowing allies.
Shing.
He draws his sword. And a blade comes flying. Enkrid parried the spearhead with the shield in his left hand.
Clang!
It was an action he had repeated countless times. There were no mistakes. After parrying the spearhead, he takes one step forward.
“Euk!”
He shoves his right foot inside the panicked enemy's heels and bends his knees to brace for the impact. It all happened in a single breath. As if in a practiced spar, the opponent, whose feet were naturally tripped, fell backward.
Thud!
The fellow who fell on the back of his head blinked. He had a bewildered expression. He probably didn't even know how it happened.
He had tried to thrust his spear and retreat, but his foot was caught with a thwack and he tripped. It happened in an instant. Enkrid passed by the fallen opponent, kicking him in the chin with the tip of his boot.
Crack!
With a crisp sound, tooth fragments and blood flowed from his mouth. He was knocked out. Enkrid didn't even feel the need to kill him.
Moving forward, he raised his left arm.
Clang-! Kggggk!
A club that struck his shield slid off and grazed Enkrid's elbow.
Grrrk!
It was a spiked club.
No injury.
The leather guard wrapped around his elbow had done its job.
“Grrr!”
The enemy gritted his teeth. Beneath the helmet that covered only half his face, the muscles in his jaw could be seen tensing. This one is a handful to deal with properly.
In past ‘todays,’ there were many days when this guy had gotten his left arm. Grip the hilt, left foot forward. This is Vallen-Style Swordsmanship.
His eyes meet the opponent's. If he draws his sword, a fight cannot be avoided. The opponent knows it, and Enkrid knows it. The moment their eyes meet, a tacit agreement is formed.
To fight with sword against club. The opponent's eyes were fixed on Enkrid's right hand.
Shing.
Before even an inch of the sword was drawn, Enkrid's left hand moved first. A throwing knife tucked at his waist flew through the air. The club-wielding opponent, flustered, raised his arm.
Thwip—the blade lodged in the enemy's arm. Even though he was wearing a padded armor, one can't wrap the cloth thickly around the arms. Because it would restrict movement.
Therefore, the blade would have easily reached his flesh and pierced it.
“You cowardly bastard!” the enemy said.
In a fight, is there such a thing as cowardly or cheap? Enkrid silently sheathed his sword with a click. Vallen-Style Swordsmanship was originally about feinting a draw while throwing a dagger or a rock.
“You-! Bastard!”
The enraged spiked-club enemy had veins popping on his forehead. That would only make the poison spread faster. The fellow charged, then suddenly pitched forward.
The paralyzing poison had taken full effect. He slammed into the ground face-first with a thud. Then he gasped, breathing raggedly.
Watching this, Enkrid calmly walked past. The next opponent, he kicked in the balls and shoved aside. The one after that, he quietly walked up to and pushed from behind.
The head of the enemy, who was flustered from being pushed, was smashed by an ally's hammer.
Crack!
Even with a helmet, a head will burst if hit by a blunt weapon. And this was a leather helmet, not even a steel one. It wasn't that Enkrid had performed some great feat.
He had simply shown the necessary movements and actions at each moment. Of course, all of it resulted in small victories for the allies around him.
“Thanks to you, I'm alive.”
Said a guy whose face he didn't even know. He gave a rough nod and passed by. It wasn't anything to make a big deal about.
“I owe you one.”
“Four-Four-Four Squad Leader? Was that luck, or skill? Anyway, I'll buy you a drink later.”
“Shit, I almost died.”
There were more than one or two like them. Growth incomparable to before his first death. It was only natural that the Heart of the Beast was at the center of it all.
‘Calmly.’
And again, composedly. The Heart of the Beast does not waver carelessly. Because it holds a wild nature, it can face everything with composure.
In the middle of the battlefield, Enkrid felt the beat of his heart and walked on. A battlefield repeated over dozens of times. That didn't mean he wasn't tense.
‘The more familiar you get, the more you're caught by variables.’
Just because today repeated didn't mean everyone he met would repeat the same actions. The opponent's actions also change depending on how Enkrid responds. Therefore, he prioritized walking slowly and taking in his surroundings.
‘Around here.’
Swish.
Someone slashes with a dagger from below. A novel attack, aiming for the legs while fallen in a fight.
‘I fell for this one too.’
He'd tried to dodge it a few times. Then he found an easier way. It's like blocking an arrow.
If you can't dodge it, you block it.
Thwack.
The dagger, striking his leather greave, failed to cut Enkrid's shin. It was only natural.
“Huh?”
The foolish enemy's single word served as his last. Enkrid smashed the steel rim of his shield into the back of the fellow lying on the ground.
Thwump!
“Gack!”
The scream was short and small.
“Uwaaaah!”
Instead, only the battle cries of the field rang in his ears. Enkrid's hard-fought struggle couldn't change the course of the battle. It only made things a little easier for those around him.
‘I can't save everyone.’
This is a battlefield, a place where dozens or even hundreds die. To charge in trying to save everyone in such a place was a foolish and stupid act.
“Hooah, come on! All of you bastards!”
The owner of the shout is a spearman from another squad. He knew without even seeing his face. The number of enemies Enkrid had dealt with while walking was over five.
That guy, shouting triumphantly, had actually died dozens of times. If Enkrid hadn't intervened, he would have died today, too. He usually died after getting his shin cut and rolling on the ground.
He straightened his back, took a deep breath, and exhaled.
‘This is the first one.’
It's a battle repeated dozens of times. Enkrid had set his own standards. Joining the front lines without getting hurt was the first goal.
‘No injuries.’
He had just achieved that goal a moment ago. The second is.
‘Finding a familiar face in the chaos of battle.’
Of course, he had to avoid injury even in a chaotic melee. Only then would it be worth having a proper fight with that perverted enemy lancer. Rolling through the battlefield over a hundred times, he had thought of only one thing.
‘I want to try fighting in perfect condition.’
Will what I've learned, practiced, and trained by repeating today actually work? Can I win against a pervert who prefers mercy? With all the effort I've put in, can I get past today?
Thump-thump.
His heart pounds. Separate from the courage given by the Heart of the Beast.
‘Get past today.’
Because he had set a clear goal, because his purpose was clear. Enkrid's heart pounded. The battlefield again.
He walks.
Sometimes, he runs.
“Uwaaa!”
“Shit, help me.”
“Cooome oooon!”
“You bastards!”
Amidst a duet of curses and shouts. Enkrid whipped his head around, looking in all directions.
‘The guy who ducks down and watches.’
That's the one he's looking for. He was easy to spot. He could see a large figure stealthily hiding among the enemy troops.
‘First, one.’
He saw a task he had to deal with before facing the enemy lancer.
‘Back-of-the-head Club.’
A fellow he'd even given a nickname to. If left alive, this bastard always hit Enkrid on the back of the head during fights. If you could call it fate, it was fate.
Of course, Enkrid didn't believe in things like fate.
‘Everything is decided from birth? That’s all bullshit.’
If his sword broke, he'd use the broken blade. If he had no weapon, he'd use his fists. If he had no teeth, he'd use his gums.
If talent wasn't enough.
‘I'll crawl my way up like this if I have to.’
Just what kind of people are knights? What is the martial power that changes the tide of battle? An unattainable wish becomes a delusion.
However, if you can get closer to it, it becomes a dream. Enkrid did not give up on his dream.
“Hoo.”
He breathes out.
Flick.
He takes out a dagger and pulls his arm far back. In the middle of the chaotic battlefield. He feels the weight of the dagger with his fingertips.
He locks the target in his sights and draws an imaginary straight line. This was the throwing technique taught to him by the winner of a dagger-throwing contest at a tavern one day. This too, he had practiced dozens of times while repeating today.
He lifted his left foot slightly, then twisted his waist as he planted it, thrusting his right hand forward. At the last moment, he focuses on the sensation in his fingertips and snaps his wrist.
Swish!
The dagger flew along the imaginary line Enkrid had drawn.
“Ugh!”
The thrown dagger lodged itself somewhere in the club guy's shoulder. His armor was flimsy, so it wasn't a difficult task.
“Which son of a bitch.”
The guy spits a curse. He looks around. There was no need to meet his eyes.
With no priest and no antidote, he would have to lie down quietly. Soon the fellow collapsed, and watching him, Enkrid calmly began to search for the second one. This time, it's the guy who's good at throwing axes.
This bastard also always interfered by throwing an axe. He had to be dealt with beforehand so he wouldn't interfere with the duel.
“Oh God!” cried a devout allied soldier.
Curses and bloodthirsty words could be heard from all over. While surveying his surroundings, Enkrid walked, searching for exactly what he wanted. He blocks minor attacks with his shield.
If he sees an opening, he trips them. He hits their heads with the flat of his sword. For the ones foolishly wearing their helmets low, he brings his sword down on top of their heads.
Just with that, the allies standing around Enkrid became much more comfortable.
‘Three daggers left.’
The axe-throwing guy was nowhere to be seen.
‘His location changes every time.’
Still, this general area is correct.
‘First, Bell.’
It was time to save the ally whose head was about to be pierced by the guy with ‘hawk eyes’ or whatever.
‘To the right from here.’
He walks while watching the movements of his allies. While walking, after blocking a few attacks, he threw away his broken shield. This shield always broke, no matter how many times he repeated this.
‘Around here.’
A battlefield repeated over a hundred times; even if it changed each time, some things were bound to become familiar to his eyes and body. It's a shield rolling on the ground. Enkrid stepped on the edge of the shield with his foot.
The shield, which was on top of an embedded stone, shot into the air with a thump. He snatches it with a thwak. It was an act close to a stunt, but after repeating it countless times, it was more comfortable than bending over to pick it up.
“... Hey, nice trick.”
It was the voice of an allied soldier who happened to see it.
“Enemy behind you.”
This is the guy who dies in several ‘todays’ while staring blankly at him. Because he told him not to die. He whirls around.
And comes face to face with an enemy approaching with a spear.
“Shit, you rat-like bastard.”
Soon the two fought for their lives. The ally wins. It's a fight he's watched about twenty times.
Therefore, there's no need to watch. On a battlefield so familiar it was beyond second nature. Enkrid drew a map in his head, dividing the area into sections.
‘Let's go to Bell first.’
He moves his feet.
“Ugh!”
Bell falls. Thwack.
The shield blocks an arrow.
“Ugh, what, I'm alive?”
“Don't lift your head. Crawl back. Arrows are coming.”
Bell faithfully followed my advice. In the repeated ‘todays,’ a second arrow had pierced Bell's head dozens of times. So crawling was the right thing to do.
“... What? You got a secret love affair goin' with the Goddess of Fortune?”
It was Rem. What a barbarian bastard. He says things that would make a devout follower of the Goddess have a fit, and he says them so casually.
“Not even a scratch?”
Facing the lancer guy in top condition. That was Enkrid's final goal for today.
“Shouldn't you go do your job?”
“I'm goin'. But, you seem different today.”
“I am a man who is different every day.”
Among the repeated ‘todays,’ no two days were the same. Because every day was a day of growth.
“... I think you need to take your medicine, Squad Leader.”
With those words, Rem left.
‘Was I being too arrogant just now?’
Maybe so.
But what could he do, it was the truth. Just then, the guy who enjoyed throwing axes came into Enkrid's view. An enemy with an axe dangling at his waist.
What was the point in waiting? Enkrid drew a poison-coated dagger.