CHAPTER 2

Through the eye slits of the leather helmet, it looked as if a black dot was flying towards him.

Encrid raised the shield fixed to his left forearm.

Thud.

He felt a heavy weight.

He tried to deflect it while striking, but only half succeeded, leaving his forearm stiff.

Encrid brought his blade down on the helmet of the one who thrust the spear at him.

Thunk.

The blade fell on the shoulder of the one who instinctively tilted his neck.

A heavy sound of hitting the scapula echoed, and his grip tingled.

"Ugh,I'll kill you."

The enemy muttered, then grabbed the spear shaft shorter and swung it.

It was a well-trained skill.

Without a second thought, Encrid kicked the enemy's stomach with the sole of his foot.

"Ugh."

The struck enemy lost balance and fell.

Close combat, it was a battle close to a melee.

When the vanguard of both sides entangled and mixed, friend and foe inevitably became intertwined.

Thus, falling down meant imminent death.

Taking his eyes off the fallen enemy, Encrid gripped the shield handle tightly and looked for an ally.

Losing one's mind and rampaging meant death. In a melee, pretending to be a berserker didn't turn you into one; it turned you into a corpse.

The reason he survived for many years with little talent.

Encrid knew his limits.

'Don't stand out.'

He blocked a blade flying from somewhere with his shield.

The blade struck the edge of the shield, denting the iron rim.

The oil-soaked wooden shield warped.

At best, it would be useless after a few more uses.

'Attack shortly and simply.'

After blocking, Encrid tightened his grip on his sword and swung.

Thud.

Soon, a heavy impact struck his hand.

One unlucky enemy got hit on the head and rolled to the side.

An ally's spear plunged into the chest of the fallen enemy with a squelch.

The thick gambeson, made by layering cotton and linen, couldn't withstand the spear's impact and was pierced.

The hit enemy struggled desperately to survive.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The ally soldier repeated the same motion without pause.

Whether blocked or not, he forcefully drove the spearhead while keeping his distance.

Squelch.

Eventually, the spearhead pierced through the armor and lodged into the unlucky enemy's torso.

"Guh."

The enemy coughed up blood and, trembling, grabbed the spear shaft that had pierced his belly.

"Shit, let go! I said let go, you bastard."

The enemy held onto the spear shaft to the end, and the ally soldier abandoned his weapon and picked up the enemy's spear.

Seeing this, Encrid stepped back and swallowed his breath.

"Hoo, hoo, hoo."

He took in his position, the positions of his allies, and the positions of the enemies, and mapped them out in his mind.

'If I stand out, I die.'

If he tried to break through the enemy lines with his skills, he would become fertilizer spread across the battlefield.

Just like the enemy who died a moment ago with a hole several times larger than his navel.

That one had rushed to the front lines in excitement, but his skills were mediocre.

He might have grown overconfident after catching a few enemies less lucky and less skilled than himself on the battlefield.

Or he might have simply been unlucky.

After all, he had fallen to Encrid's blade, which wasn't even aimed.

It hadn't rained for days, leaving the ground hard and stone-like.

Blood splattered across it, but that didn't change the dryness. There hadn't been enough rain.

He felt his throat burning, the smell of blood rising from deep within it.

Swallowing dryly, Encrid scanned for his squad members.

Of course, he couldn't see them.

Instead, he heard a scream.

"Uraaaah!"

Someone shouted.

Two steps away, he saw one of his platoon members thrusting a spear.

'What are you doing?'

The thrust itself was good, but the soldier stumbled and tripped over his own left foot with his right, falling.

With a thud, he dropped his weapon.

'Are you praying to be killed?'

The fallen soldier lifted his head, looking like he was praying while lying down.

Encrid cut off his thoughts and moved.

He advanced, raising his shield and holding his breath, tensing his muscles.

Thud. Crack.

An enemy blade struck his shield. The heavy impact spread through his arm to his whole body.

He barely managed to block the blade as the oil-soaked wooden shield split.

Encrid threw the broken shield forward and, using all his strength, swung his sword fiercely from side to side.

Once from right to left, then again from left to right.

Whoosh, whoosh.

Clang!

As he swung from left to right, his weapon clashed with the enemy's.

Sparks flew as blades met, and he saw the enemy's weapon slip from their grip.

He had aimed for this.

Encrid trusted more in his strength than his clumsy swordsmanship.

He had trained more than most elite mercenaries.

It was his strength that created this opportunity. But he didn't rush in. Just as there is always opportunity in crisis, there is always danger in opportunity.

"Waaaah!"

The enemy, having lost their weapon, hesitated and then rushed at him with arms raised.

He seemed to think he was a bear.

Encrid pretended to thrust his sword, then dropped it to the ground and bent his body, catching the charging enemy and throwing him over his back.

The weight of the armor, helmet, various gear, and the full-grown man's body pressed down on his back.

It was heavy.

As he carried the enemy on his back, his waist and thighs screamed in protest.

Ignoring the pain, Encrid straightened his back and stood up.

"Ugh!"

The enemy's body flipped backward.

He didn't need to look back at the fallen foe.

His position was just a step inside the line his allies had formed.

In this area, he would usually encounter three types of enemies.

One, the unlucky ones pushed to the front.

Two, the fools, full of overconfidence after several days of battle.

Three, the real deal who led the fight because they trusted their skills.

The enemy he had just flipped was the first type.

Rushing in recklessly, he had fallen among the enemies, a dead man.

Encrid picked up his sword from the ground.

He saw the allied soldier who had tripped over his own feet slowly getting up.

He noticed that the soldier's helmet was neatly split in half, and blood was flowing from his head.

'What incredibly tough luck this guy has.'

He had just saved this soldier's life moments ago.

He was indeed a lucky guy in many ways, and he was also someone Encrid knew.

"Bell, did you lose your mind because your head got split open?" Encrid said.

The soldier with the half-split helmet, Bell, wiped the blood running down into his eyes and replied.

"Fuck, damn it, I barely survived."

"If you barely survived, cover my back."

In the middle of a battlefield, it's difficult for a single soldier to read the tide of the battle. A squad leader and decurion's main role is usually to relay orders, not command strategy.

But Encrid read the tide.

To be precise, he felt it.

'This doesn't look good.'

For countless years, he had lived with the blood and blades of the battlefield.

Those days didn't give him a talent for swordsmanship, but they did teach him to sense the flow of battle.

To be honest, it was purely instinct.

But that instinct had saved him many times.

'This feels like a disaster.'

"Alright, let's do this," Bell replied, wiping the blood from his head. He retrieved his weapon and moved with measured steps.

Holding his spear, Bell took two steps while scanning the surroundings.

Thud.

A flash flew through the air and pierced his head.

It struck through the partially split helmet.

An arrow lodged into his head, the impact causing one of his eyeballs to pop out and hit Encrid's leather armor.

'Ah.'

Bell died without uttering even a short groan, his mouth agape.

Encrid turned his gaze.

Beyond the sky, specifically in the void, in an indeterminate space.

He saw a flash of light and a dot.

The moment he saw it, he knew it was headed for his head.

Encrid closed his eyes.

How many people remain composed in the face of death?

Encrid was no exception.

As he closed his eyes, memories of his past life surfaced, like the proverbial flash before his eyes.

Time seemed to slow down.

The battlefield noise faded, and even his breathing seemed to slow.

Thud, tap!

Soon that feeling vanished. The proverbial flash disappeared, and the noise of the battlefield returned. Encrid felt himself breathing normally again.

"Are you thanking me for killing you with a prayer?" It was one of his subordinates, from his decurion.

He had pushed him aside, and the arrow had lodged into the ground.

"Rem", Encrid called his name.

"A damn sharpshooter or a feathered son of a bitch has come in this battle, so watch out for arrows," Encrid warned.

"Do you think I wouldn't watch out?" Rem retorted.

"Just wait while I deal with it," Encrid replied. This guy was really audacious.

Encrid nodded his head, thinking, "Well, it's not like I'm giving up my life, right? Today I skipped training and took a nap."

"Is that meddling?" Rem asked.

"Just in case someone wants to get killed, I'd feel uneasy," Encrid responded.

"Damn it, who wants to die?" Eating a stab wound isn't the same as trying to commit suicide.

"It's just a saying that even though you fight well usually, you close your eyes at the critical moments."

"Do you close your eyes because you want to?"

It seems like he repeated something similar earlier.

Rem had an axe in his right hand and a broken spear in his left. He was proficient with weapons like swords, axes, and maces, using whatever was available.

He scratched his head with his thumb, holding the axe in his right hand. It didn't look refreshing.

Because he was scratching his helmet.

"Damn, this helmet smells like crap."

"I agree with that," Encrid replied.

"If you feel like you're about to die, focus even more," Rem said.

It was a common saying. Encrid knew it well. He understood the meaning behind those words.

Rem often said it.

At the moment of imminent death, that flash of light, people focus to the level of a supernatural being. He urged to apply that to combat.

Damn it, was that even possible?

That was his talent.

To open his eyes at the moment that separates life and death, to face the opponent and do what needed to be done.

"Focus is nonsense," Encrid said.

"Well, it would be nice to learn from dying hundreds of times, but you only have one life. See you again."

Rem chuckled and leaped back into the battlefield.

He's a good fighter.

Encrid refocused on the battle.

He fought alongside his shoulder with a fellow soldier. He repeated this.

Encrid drew his sword.

If you're lucky, you'll be lucky.

Or none of that.

Thump.

It would just be a blow at the level of stabbing with just the tip of the sword.

The tip of the sword that did not pierce the opponent's armor pushed the opponent like a blunt weapon.

"Um."

The guy who got hit groaned and stepped back, and a fellow soldier's war hammer passing by hit him on the head.

Bang.

He erased his thoughts.

It feels like your nerves are burning just blocking, avoiding, and wielding a sword, spear, or club flying in front of you.

He was nervous because he didn't have a shield, so he picked up an axe that fell on the floor and used it as a substitute for a shield.

He continued to block, hit, and stab with his fellow soldiers around him. When there was an opportunity, he showed off his mediocre swordsmanship.

With his left foot forward,he moved his weight and did not release the strength of his arm straight.

Stab.

With moderately tensed muscles and focus, and a sense to exploit openings, success seemed plausible.

Ping, ting ding ding!

Encrid's thrust only partially succeeded.

'Tch'

He aimed for the gap in the helmet and breastplate, but the opponent moved, narrowly avoiding it.

Though he left a deep cut on the opponent's neck, it wasn't immediately fatal.

The eyes of the bleeding man locked onto Encrid.

They were filled with venomous rage. The man clenched his teeth silently.

'Danger.'

The intuition of the battlefield spoke.

As Encrid stepped back, an allied soldier filled the gap.

Silently, the man shifted his body and struck the enemy's jaw with his fist clenched around a knife.

Crunch.

The sound of bones breaking echoed.

"Argh!"

As the soldier with the broken jaw fell, the enemy drew a dagger and slashed at the ally's throat.

The process of stabbing and withdrawing was seamless, almost like a preordained scene in a play.

Blood sprayed as the enemy breached the soldier's armor.

He pushed the fallen soldier away, still motionless.

Ah.

Critical moment.

The boundary between life and death.

Countless scenes flashed outside the radiant lamp, like pictures of Encrid's life.

Like a dream dreamed last night.

At the end of his life, in that fleeting moment, the enemy's blade pierced Encrid's throat.

It was the same thrust he had executed moments before.

A perfect thrust. At least, that's how it seemed to Encrid.

A searing pain engulfed him from his throat to his whole body.

Encrid faced the moment of life and death, and understood what Rem meant by that concentration.

However, it was simply too late.

"Was this something I could only learn by dying?"

Encrid cursed inwardly, closing his eyes.

No, his mind moved on its own.

Desire, yearning, longing.

'I wanted to wield the sword well.'

'I wanted to become a knight.'

'I wanted to become a hero.'

In the end, Encrid, who could not become any of those, found himself settling down in a decent village, earning a decent living, building a home.

But he didn't do that. He couldn't.

The burning passion in his heart wouldn't allow it.

Even in his final moments, he squandered the money earned from bloodshed on things like training schools.

'I could have done better.'

If only there had been more time.

In the time when others excelled, playing in what they called the time of prodigies or geniuses, he thought he could swing more.

At the end of the journey, the face of the artisan he had saved with his own strength for the first and last time emerged.

"The talisman will move according to the knight's wishes."

The talisman was a gift from the chief of the slash and burn village.

The old woman with a few missing front teeth that made a windy sound.

Regret and longing mixed, filling his chest with emotions he had never felt before.

Regret.

'Would things have changed if I had swung the sword a few more times?'

The two letters 'death' were engraved on his body. Beyond his eyes, he saw a black river.

And Encrid regretted taking a nap instead of wielding a sword this afternoon.

If I had done a little more then, I might not have known if the last thrust had succeeded.

A faceless sailor was sitting on a boat over the black river.

The sailor asked.

"Do you really think so?"

Hmm?

"You're funny."

Uhh?

"Then let's do that."

The faceless sailor said. The sound of his voice couldn't be heard anywhere. The area around his mouth was as dark as if he had worn a black mask, and it was just dark.

Encrid couldn't say a word.

He lost consciousness as it was.

And woke up again.

clang, clang, clang

The sound of a pestle tapping a mortar.

More precisely, it's the sound of hitting a pot with a ladle.

A familiar sound that woke up the morning.

"...."

Without saying a word, look beside you.

"Did you dream of something stupid?"

Next to him, Rem, waking up from a makeshift bed, muttered as he slipped his foot into his boots.

"Oh, a bug."

A bug in his boot.

Encrid blinked.

It was too real to be called a dream, memories flashing through his mind.

"Phew."

After flicking the bug away, Rem spat and crushed it with his foot.

Traces of bug fluid and spit mixed on the floor.