Chapter 42 - A Stroke of Luck
Ragna, while discussing the Single focus poing technique, asked:
"Are you going to learn it?"
"Of course."
Enkrid didn't hesitate.
When did he become this skilled?
The foundational techniques of the northern-style greatsword were solidly ingrained in him.
Not merely as postures learned by swinging in empty air but honed through combat, seamlessly integrated into his body.
Impressive.
The squad leader was a truly fascinating individual.
Just yesterday, he had relied primarily on the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.
Today, however, he displayed a rock-solid foundation.
"Where did you learn your swordsmanship?"
"It cost a lot of money."
He hinted at having trained under a swordsmanship instructor.
It must've been a fortune, thought Ragna.
That much was evident.
Even if he had personally intervened, the results wouldn't have been better than this.
Thus, it made sense to teach him beyond the basics—hence the introduction of the "Concentrated Point" technique.
Still, Ragna harbored doubts as he explained it.
Learning doesn't mean mastering.
Although he had developed the technique, it was originally a secret passed down within his family.
Naturally, he hadn't revealed the technique in its pure form—he'd modified and refined it before teaching.
So, calling it his creation wasn't entirely inaccurate.
Not that I've ever seen anyone succeed.
In all his years wandering the continent, Ragna had encountered fewer than five individuals who could enter the state of absolute concentration.
More like three, he corrected himself.
Of the supposed five, two had merely stumbled upon success by sheer luck, like arrows hitting a wolf's head by accident.
Only three had truly mastered it.
Achieving this level of focus required talent—a rare gift.
Forgetting one's surroundings and immersing oneself completely wasn't an easy task.
This ability wasn't limited to swordsmanship.
Scholars in their fields, for instance, displayed such focus when studying and learning.
Those truly skilled could even consciously put themselves in such a state when needed.
However, achieving such focus during a battle was an entirely different challenge.
It's near impossible.
Even Ragna, who had mastered "Concentrated Point," did so only after a significant ordeal.
Enkrid wouldn't find it easy.
Yet the glimmer in Enkrid's eyes told a different story.
"Aren't you going to explain? Skip the basics—I already understand those. Just teach me the 'Concentrated Point.'"
How could someone be so steadfast?
Ragna felt as though he were gazing at a mighty tree—one that stood tall against typhoons and lightning strikes, unmoving and unyielding.
Despite the technique being akin to chasing clouds, the squad leader declared he would learn it, nodding as if he already grasped its essence.
It almost seemed believable.
Enkrid had always been sincere, whether training, swinging his sword, or tackling any task head-on with his best effort.
Perhaps that dedication was why Ragna decided to teach him.
"I think I get it," said Enkrid.
Ragna nodded, though he suspected Enkrid might have misunderstood.
It was an encouraging nod.
Ragna was well aware of the limits of talent.
Most geniuses never looked down to see the ground beneath their feet, but Ragna had wandered the continent, observing the struggles of those below.
He had ventured underground, conversed with its dwellers, and crossed blades with them.
Talent.
How many had fallen victim to those two syllables?
The squad leader would likely be no different—it was the natural order of things.
Yet his refusal to give up inspired Ragna.
It was selfish, but Enkrid's determination allowed Ragna to keep walking his own path.
Thus, he resolved to teach him with all his might.
"Forget your surroundings, forget yourself, and focus solely on what remains. That's 'Concentrated Point.' It's similar to how people say their past flashes before their eyes in life-threatening moments. That experience could be a useful reference."
"I see. Got it," Enkrid replied.
Strangely, he seemed to brush off the explanation.
That's not like him.
He wasn't someone to give up because he thought something was impossible.
Despite Ragna's attempts to push Enkrid into a state of focus—by using his sword to heighten the tension—Enkrid failed to achieve it.
"Alright, let's go."
Still, Enkrid stepped onto the battlefield with a bright expression.
Seeing this, Ragna felt a surge of motivation.
"Guess I'll put in some real effort today."
Ordinarily, Ragna would have lazily swung his sword, embodying the stereotype of a lethargic genius. But not today.
Enkrid watched Ragna with a calm gaze.
What's gotten into him?
Well, taking the fight seriously wasn't a bad thing.
Leaving the determined Ragna behind, Enkrid focused on his own actions.
Another day had begun.
Ragna's training method for "Concentrated Point" was flawed.
Or rather, the method—developed and mastered by a natural genius—didn't suit him.
Then is my way correct?
Only time would tell.
What's the solution?
I'll test it.
***
Enkrid moved along a familiar route, directing allies to take positions with shields and calling for Rem.
"Rem! Who's their shaman?"
Rem, busy deciphering enemy sorcery, seemed agitated.
"Follow me!" Enkrid tapped Rem on the shoulder.
"Huh?"
"Charge."
"What? Squad leader, are you crazy?"
Despite his words, Rem followed.
Unexpectedly, Ragna joined as well.
"Is this a charge? If we're breaking the enemy vanguard, I'm in."
"What's wrong with both of you?" Rem muttered, but Ragna ignored him and charged ahead.
Though the area was shrouded in mist, it barely hindered their movements.
Rem moved like a storm, dual axes crushing everything in his path.
He seemed ready to mow down an entire infantry unit of eighty soldiers alone.
Ragna resembled a massive battering ram, demolishing the infantry line as if it were a castle wall.
Slow yet unrelenting, he showed no mercy, cutting down everything—from flying bolts to incoming spears—with a single arming sword.
At least high-tier.
In the Naurilia Kingdom, "high-tier" referred to soldiers surpassing the advanced level. Above high-tier lay peak-tier and then top-tier.
Or perhaps peak-tier.
Enkrid wasn't sure of his own level yet, making it harder to gauge theirs.
Regardless, this wasn't the time for idle speculation.
Following the same route, Enkrid confronted Mitch Hurrier.
"Let's settle this."
This time, he initiated the challenge.
Mitch, momentarily surprised, laughed.
"You're insane, walking to your death like this."
He wasn't wrong.
Killing Mitch wouldn't guarantee survival.
But it didn't matter.
Enkrid wasn't here to die—he was here to give his all.
"You came for me? Unbelievable. This is a first."
Mitch seemed genuinely baffled.
"Why? Is this your first time being confessed to? I fell for you at first sight," Enkrid joked.
Mitch chuckled but quickly narrowed his eyes.
"My squad, the Grey Hounds, are relentless pursuers. It's been ages since someone pursued me first."
"Feeling left out? Should I hide so you can hunt me down?"
"Enough nonsense."
Mitch charged.
Enkrid steadied his breathing, trying to enter a focused state.
He failed.
The fight ended quickly—Mitch outclassed him in skill, willpower, and talent.
A single technique wasn't enough to challenge such an opponent.
"What made you think you could take me on? How did you even get this far?"
Enkrid's lungs and intestines were shredded by Mitch's blade.
His insides felt as though hot coals had been shoved into them—a searing, unbearable pain.
"I trusted myself. I made a mistake this time, but I'll get it right next time."
Reliving the same day wouldn't make repeating this experience any easier.
"What?"
"Next time, I'll succeed."
Just as he had once entered a focused state and attained enlightenment, Enkrid now felt a faint glimmer of realization.
"Even if I let you go, you'll die. What's the next move?"
"Isn't he insane? Don't engage, Platoon leader."
Swish!
One of the enemy soldiers beside him drew his sword and pressed it against Enkrid's neck.
Without waiting, Enkrid twisted his neck, letting the blade cut deep into him.
Rip.
The blade had been sharpened well, leaving a searing pain as a deep wound opened on his neck.
The agony from his neck and stomach flared simultaneously, a pain so intense it felt like death itself.
Barely holding on, enduring what felt like the threshold of death, Enkrid opened his mouth.
"See you again."
Leaving those final words, he bled out and died.
The day began anew.
Enkrid sought out Mitch Hurrier again.
"Nice to see you, my friend."
"…You came looking for me, didn't you?"
"Yep. That's right. I'm here for you, the tenacious lover and Grey Hound platoon leader. Let's have a go."
"You're out of your mind."
They clashed again.
This time, Enkrid realized his mistake.
'You can't force it.'
If you think too hard about focusing, you end up trapped in those thoughts.
Then what's the answer?
It's simple: go back to the beginning.
Move with the opponent's blade, let your sword match their rhythm as if in a dance.
Fight and fight again.
It took eighteen resets of the day using the same approach.
Only then did Enkrid manage to regain that state of focus.
It was such an overwhelming joy that even as one arm was severed and he fell to the ground, he couldn't help but smile.
The joy eclipsed the pain.
"You're smiling?"
Seeing this, Mitch swung his blade, ending it.
Another reset.
And so it went, again and again, until success.
If someone had been watching, they'd call him relentless, tenacious beyond measure.
But for Enkrid, this wasn't about persistence.
Entering that state of focus—perfecting his swordsmanship through real combat against a worthy opponent—was pure satisfaction.
After 28 iterations of today, Enkrid had a grasp of focus.
After 48 iterations, he could summon a pinpoint focus deliberately.
After 94 iterations, he could call upon that focus whenever he wanted.
A perfect focus.
It was complete control over his sword and body.
With that achieved, his strength was paired with finesse.
Once he had mastered pinpoint focus, he took it a step further.
"Teach me."
He returned to Ragna to learn more.
When he demonstrated his newly honed focus, Ragna frowned.
"What's this?"
"Why?"
"It feels like you've already learned this somewhere. But this isn't something that can just be taught. Are you… a genius?"
A genius?
He'd had the sheer luck of grueling experience and over a hundred repetitions to finally ingrain it.
Enkrid knew he lacked natural talent, but he didn't dwell on it.
All he felt was joy in the moment.
And so, repeating today again, he replied with words that now felt second nature:
"Just lucky."
"You call this luck?"
Ragna was incredulous.
Watching him, Enkrid realized it was time to leave this endless loop.
Having distilled the essence of pinpoint focus, he feigned being a genius and, after leaving Ragna with this impression, turned away.
"Where are you going?"
"To see the company commander."
Ragna didn't stop him.
He couldn't help but marvel at the uncanny precision Enkrid displayed—like a meticulously crafted sculpture made from endless effort, not something grasped at a glance.
"How is that even possible?"
Pondering, Ragna soon dismissed the thought.
There was no answer to be found in idle musings.
Better to leave it alone.
Watching the captain like that was enough to ignite his own determination.
Enkrid, noticing the renewed fire in Ragna's eyes, thought to himself, "At least today's given him some motivation."
'I need to focus on my own task.'
There was no time to dwell on Ragna.
In this battle, no matter what, their side would face near-total annihilation unless two things happened:
First, the mist of massacre had to be lifted.
Second, the allied forces needed to take cover while the fog cleared.
Both couldn't be done at once.
Enkrid had only one body.
Breaking the enemy's flagpole was just one problem; even after a surprise attack, he'd have to escape the heart of enemy territory.
He had no intention of being trapped in today.
He would break through the enemy's strategy and shatter it completely.
"I need to see the company commander."
He approached the 4th platoon leader.
"…Now?"
With the approaching battle palpable, the entire unit's nerves were taut.
Asking to meet the company commander now was bound to raise eyebrows.
The platoon leader, reclining on a field bed with his spear leaned against the tent wall, stood up.
"Yes, now."
"Why?"
"I remembered something from our last reconnaissance mission."
The 4th platoon leader studied Enkrid carefully before nodding.
Cracking sounds came from his knees as he stretched, then he asked:
"What is it?"
"It seems the Aspen is hiding something—a curse."
"A curse?"
"Yes."
The platoon leader hesitated, skeptical, before recalling that Enkrid wasn't one to spout nonsense. He quickened his steps.
If something needed saying, it had to be said.
Judgment would be up to the company commander.
Soon, they arrived at the commander's tent.
"You wanted to see me?"
The green-eyed fairy commander asked.
The tent was cozy, with a short torch crackling softly. Enkrid nodded.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
The fairy's tone was cold, suggesting this had better be important.
"A curse."
Enkrid didn't mince words.
"A curse?"
"A flagpole and flag, along with someone in the enemy ranks—a shaman."
Thanks to the countless repetitions of today, Enkrid's memories were clear, though faint.
He adjusted his words slightly to make his claim persuasive.
If this wasn't convincing, he'd simply try again.
'That's the privilege of someone who repeats today.'
Fortunately, the fairy commander listened intently.
"Tell me more."
"Of course."
He explained hearing enemy soldiers shouting about their shaman.
The fairy commander's eyes gleamed.
Enkrid avoided mentioning the mist; that would be too much.
Curses were secretive arts, rarely shared beyond their practitioners.
Recognizing one at a glance was implausible.
He stopped there.
The rest was up to the commander's judgment.
Returning to his position at the frontline, Enkrid prepared himself.
It was time to surpass Mitch Hurrier and break the flagpole.
"This is as far as I can go."
The rest was up to the leadership.
"Hoo."
Now was the time to break free from today's loop.