CHAPTER 43

The Duchy of Aspen is governed by three main families, with the Hurrier family symbolizing military strength.

In the Hurrier family, regardless of whether a child was a boy or a girl, they all learned martial arts from birth.

They assessed the children's talents and only gathered those who showed potential.

Talent is biased, and the pranks played by the goddess of luck are always unpredictable.

To gather such biased talent, the Hurrier family did not discriminate between direct and collateral lines.

Mitch Hurrier was one of them.

Born into a collateral branch with a different last name, he eventually became part of the Hurrier family.

Mitch Hurrier showed exceptional talent from a young age.

By the age of fifteen, he could already take on a couple of adult soldiers.

By the following year, he had far surpassed the level of ordinary soldiers.

At eighteen, he proved his skills by defeating a swordsman who could represent an entire village in a one-on-one duel.

At just twenty-two, he could spar with those renowned in an entire city without being significantly outmatched.

The number of people who could match swords with him could be counted on one hand.

There were few peers of his age.

Such an environment bestowed upon him arrogance.

'If you try a few times, you'll get it, so why bother?'

Why train until your thighs are swollen?

Why swing your sword until your palms are torn?

He didn't want to.

He was content with his present. He didn't strive as he did when he first picked up a sword.

Even so, with talent alone, he became one of the top three skilled fighters in the 'Gray Hound'.

This was the first time for someone like Mitch to face such a situation.

Thud!

He deflected the downward slash from below.

Momentarily careless, the 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.

When focused on the sword, it's not easy to block a kick aimed at the legs.

Even if blocked, at least a gap would be created.

His opponent, as if familiar with this pattern, dodged the thrust by twisting his shoulder and blocked the kick with one foot raised.

Yet, his balance remained unshaken. He had solid fundamentals.

'He certainly wasn't at this level before.'

Mitch recalled the moment he faced the guy earlier.

The guy had approached him abruptly and casually said, "Hello, nice to meet you. How about we risk our lives for a duel?"

It was a familiar face. It was definitely that bastard.

An enemy soldier who had carried out a night raid.

How did he get here with the fog obscuring visibility?

There was no time to dwell on the question.

The opponent had been the first to extend his sword.

Thud!

Mitch blocked and thought it could be another diversionary tactic.

So this bastard would hold him off while telling his comrades to guard the rear.

If the flagpole fell, it would disrupt the entire operation. Wasn't that why he was here?

If the company commander leading the Gray Hound was to capture the enemy's retreat route and charge, his role was to hold this place.

The enemy soldier who had blocked his kick aimed his sword at Mitch's crown.

Mitch blocked and deflected the opponent's sword, forming a cross with his own.

Clang.

The blades scraped against each other at an angle. In the final moment, they exerted force and pushed each other away.

A gap of more than five steps formed between them. Before attacking again, Mitch spoke.

"Have you been hiding your skills?"

"Something like that."

"What's your name?"

"Encrid."

He was the one Mitch had desperately wanted to meet. He felt he couldn't be satisfied unless he killed him.

And this guy had come to him personally.

Mitch licked his lips with his tongue.

"Alright, Encrid. I'll remember your name."

"No need to remember. If you forget, I'll tell you again."

"Crazy bastard, you're going to die here."

Mitch raised his sword over his left shoulder.

After clashing a few times, he could gauge his opponent's skill. Now it was time to show his true ability.

At most, five strikes. In that time, Mitch believed he could behead this Encrid fellow.

Five strikes passed.

Mitch's brows furrowed. He scowled. This was a first for him.

He understood if the opponent's skill was far superior, but that wasn't the case.

It felt like his opponent was barely keeping up with him.

Yet, it was as if he knew all of Mitch's habits, blocking, enduring, and countering.

Mitch increased his speed. He mixed in some feints. Still, it didn't end.

After exchanging a few more strikes, he began to see only his opponent.

The sword and the opponent, the blade and himself, himself and the blade.

Mitch Hurrier felt the same sensation as when he first picked up a sword.

Back then, when he first held the sword, it felt like there was nothing under the sky but the sword and himself.

When he swung, it felt like his opponent would be cut. When he thrust, it felt like he would pierce. When he drew back to strike, it felt like he would be hit.

Mitch did just that.

He struck downward, swung around, extended, thrust, and then swung again.

And his opponent did the same.

* * *

Encrid drew upon a state of focus. In that state, he exchanged blows with Mitch.

Thanks to countless repetitions of 'today', his opponent's habits were clear.

He blocked his foot and parried the sword.

Then, suddenly, his opponent's sword changed.

It became fiercer and sharper than before.

Thrusting, curving, slashing, the blade twirled.

Thud! Clang! Thudududung!

With each forceful clash, sparks flew from the blades. A few strikes grazed his shoulder and slashed his side.

They weren't deep wounds, but blood droplets scattered in the air. At least three times, he narrowly escaped death.

In those moments, Encrid's concentration deepened.

Even deeper.

Encrid intentionally pushed himself further into a focused state.

He forgot his surroundings and entered a world where only he and his sword existed.

His Focus Point activated fully.

In his eyes, there was only Mitch Hurrier's sword.

In Mitch Hurrier's eyes, there was only Encrid's sword.

They fought like madmen.

Both risked their lives.

Their exchanges were so intense that even those watching felt dizzy.

Swoosh.

Failing to cut each other's throats, they both bled from their necks.

Mitch, still in his focused state, used his ultimate technique.

He stepped back with his left foot and forward with his right, creating an unfamiliar distance.

He lowered the tip of his sword behind his hip.

"Hup."

With a short intake of breath, his muscles tensed.

True sword and Phantom sword.

Both resembled sword techniques meant to counter.

Mitch had mastered a technique of counter-slashing with a reversal.

It was called the Wheel Slash, a technique that drew a large circle from bottom to top.

By changing his stance and hiding the sword with his body, he concealed the starting point of his attack, creating an unblockable strike.

He adjusted his footing to alter the distance solely for this one Wheel Slash.

As Mitch prepared for the Wheel Slash, Encrid experienced a deep state of focus. What he gained from that experience wasn't just swordsmanship.

'I can see it.'

Although he couldn't see it, he could clearly picture his opponent's movements in his mind.

His hearing became incredibly acute as he entered a state of intense focus.

The sound of feet stepping, the sound of a sword being drawn back while steadying his breath—every sound that reached his ears was processed into information, forming an image in his mind.

He had died more than ten times to the Wheel Slash.

Due to his countless experiences with the technique his opponent was now using, the image in Encrid's mind was exceptionally vivid.

It was as if he could see the hidden sword and hear his opponent's breathing.

Combining all this, he read the timing of the Wheel Slash.

Whoosh.

The sound of the blade cutting through the air pierced his ears. The blade soon soared upward, curving from below.

Encrid, in his focused state, reflexively brought his sword down.

It was precisely the trajectory needed to block the Wheel Slash.

Clang!

The sword rising from below met the sword coming down from above.

Both exerted such force that a crack appeared in Encrid's sword with a snap.

In the moment their swords met, Mitch was surprised his strike was blocked, causing his focused state to waver.

But Encrid remained unwavering.

The cracked sword in Encrid's hand moved along the opponent's blade as if sliding.

Screech!

As the blades rubbed against each other, they emitted a strange noise.

Mitch instinctively raised his sword. Normally, his blade would have risen, but Encrid pressed it down with sheer strength.

It was only natural that pressing down from above was more advantageous than lifting from below.

Moreover, with daily training, Encrid had superior strength.

In a contest of strength, Mitch couldn't match him.

Encrid pressed down on the blade, extended his left foot forward, and applied more force, pushing his sword downward as if flicking it away.

Whoosh!

Mitch's sword was knocked downward.

Encrid, still in motion, stepped forward with his left foot and twisted his waist. His sword extended forward, pinpointing its mark.

The tip of the sword thrust into Mitch's chest with a thud.

Although Mitch was wearing armor, the force behind the sword was overwhelming.

His chest was pierced.

However, it didn't penetrate completely. Encrid quickly withdrew his sword.

With a swoosh, the blood-stained blade came out.

"Hoo, hoo."

Encrid retrieved his sword and took a deep breath.

He had exerted all his strength in that brief moment. His limbs were trembling.

Blood gushed from Mitch's chest.

Staggering back like a drunk, Mitch took a few steps and then steadied himself.

His pupils seemed to dilate, but he soon widened his eyes and gathered his strength.

"I should have aimed for the counter."

Mitch spoke. Blood continued to flow from his chest, not in small amounts. The streaming blood quickly soaked his clothes.

"If I had blocked, deflected, and created an opening, it would have been a fight in my favor. Don't you agree?"

"Isn't the result what decides the outcome?"

Encrid responded with a question.

"You're not wrong, but I feel so frustrated. Or maybe not. Yeah, I shouldn't have skipped training. In the end, I lost purely to strength."

Mitch's gaze grew hazy. He was going to die even if left alone. The blood flow increased.

Encrid raised his sword and took two steps forward.

"Stop!"

Just as he was about to thrust his sword, someone shouted and rushed forward.

With a heavy thud, Encrid angled his sword to partially shield his upper body.

Thud!

A heavy impact landed on his sword.

Encrid took two steps back and looked at his opponent.

It was a man with a mustache. He stood in front of Mitch, blocking Encrid.

"Protect Mitch!"

The man shouted. Encrid glanced around. Three or four more soldiers appeared and similarly stood in front of Mitch.

Then they sprinkled powdered medicine on Mitch's chest.

The bleeding from his chest stopped quickly.

"You bastard. Do you know where you are, daring to fight alone?"

The mustached man glared at him.

He looked furious. His eyes darted to Mitch.

Is that guy important?

Encrid steadied his breathing while observing his opponent.

His shoulders heaved, indicating he was out of breath.

Yet, his stance had no openings.

The mustached man had just returned after checking the flagpole.

He had thought Mitch would win. Encrid's skills didn't seem impressive.

But the result was the exact opposite.

Even though Encrid had defeated Mitch, he didn't get excited.

There was still work to be done.

This was a battlefield, and they were in the midst of a fight.

The purpose was not a romantic one-on-one duel or a sparring match.

Encrid was clear about his task.

"They say the bigger the medium for a spell, the worse it is. Is that right?"

Encrid spoke as he watched two soldiers support Mitch and take him away.

The mustached man blocking his path narrowed his eyes.

"This guy knows something."

A lot.

Encrid tapped the ground with his toe and swiftly kicked upwards.

Dust and short weeds flew up, covering the mustached man's face.

The man quickly raised his hand to block and shouted.

"Stop him! Don't let him get to the flagpole!"

The moment Encrid saw his opponent's vision obscured, he dashed forward.

Swish!

A quarrel flew from behind. Though he quickly twisted his body to the left, one shot hit the back of his right shoulder.

'This much is fine.'

Encrid sprinted straight toward the flagpole.

An enemy soldier blocking his path wielded a spear.

Charging like a rhino and snorting, Encrid planted his foot firmly five steps ahead and veered to the right.

The quarrel fired at Encrid from behind struck the soldier with the spear instead.

"Ah! My eye!"

The unfortunate soldier was hit in the eye by the quarrel. More than three others were hit in their arms or torsos.

"Stop shooting! Stop shooting!"

A commander among the crossbowmen shouted. Encrid, though not in a full state of focus, maintained a partial state of concentration.

His Focus Point and the sense of his blade overlapped. He used the sounds to map out the positions and situations of the enemy in his mind.

He spun backward with his sword raised and leaped into the midst of the crossbowmen.

"Ah!"

As he slashed downward on the head of a surprised soldier, there was a sickening crack as the skull split open.

Due to the force of the chopping motion, the sword was lifted upward by the recoil.

He swung his sword in a sweeping arc around him.

Whoosh!

The startled enemy soldiers retreated.

"Gray Hound! Chase him!"

The mustached man who was pursuing shouted. Encrid, after jumping into the group of crossbowmen, dashed to the opposite side.

Thrust!

As he moved forward, he stabbed an enemy soldier in the neck with his sword.

He picked up a fallen quarrel and threw it to the side.

The quarrel flew with a twang, hitting an enemy soldier's armor and falling uselessly to the ground.

The struck soldier drew a shortsword and charged, but a throwing knife thrown by Encrid right after the quarrel embedded itself in his forehead.

He had let his guard down after blocking the quarrel.

"Huff!"

Encrid exhaled shortly, weaving through the enemy lines as if they were his own territory.

He had two main objectives.

One was to destroy the flagpole.

The second was hoping that his allied commander would stop doing something stupid and cover his back.

"You bastard!"

The mustached man snorted, anger seemingly boiling to the top of his head.

Encrid, after dodging and weaving, finally reached the vicinity of the flagpole.

He threw all the throwing knives in his hand.

Thwip, thwip, thwip!

Five knives flew through the air.

All five throwing knives struck the fluttering flag.

Since the flag was made of thick cloth, it didn't easily get punctured.

The enemy soldiers were startled when Encrid threw the knives.

"Damn it!"

More enemy soldiers started cursing.

"Stop him! Stop him!"

A voice, presumably from a sorcerer under the flagpole, shouted in panic.

As everyone turned their eyes to the flag being struck by the knives, Encrid rolled on the ground.

Even though no one was shooting quarrels or arrows at him, he suddenly did a forward roll. No one paid attention to that.

His roll caused him to come to a halt, and the mustached soldier closed the distance.

Got you, you bastard.

Just as the mustached soldier was sure of his victory.

Encrid was in the process of picking up a fallen spear from the ground.

"Stop him!"

"No!"

Both the mustached man and the sorcerer shouted.

Encrid responded with his actions. He planted his left foot firmly and used his whole body's momentum to hurl the spear.

With a thud, the spear flew and struck the flag.

Rip!

The flag tore, creating a hole.

If the medium for a spell is damaged, it falls apart. There was no need to topple the entire flagpole.

Just tearing the flag was enough.

He didn't have to reach the front lines.

Seeing the fog around him dissipate, Encrid let out a long breath, almost a sigh of relief.

"You crazy bastard, do you think you can get out of here alive?"

The mustached man's eyes blazed with anger.

Encrid raised his sword, assuming 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 most people, those odds would be terrifying.

But not for Encrid.

If he failed, he could always try again.