Chapter 116 - What makes another person's death more unpleasant?

"This is how you grip a sword."

The third-rate mercenary in Encrid's birth village did not even know how to grip a sword properly.

That was what he had learned from the first instructor he met.

How to press the blade down with his thumb as he gripped it.

How to hold the grip with his right hand in front and his left hand behind.

Even how to grip the pommel and how to make use of the ricasso.

Most people did grip a sword with both hands.

'But with one hand, too.'

It felt possible.

Through the isolation technique, his originally strong body had grown even stronger.

He held the longsword with only his left hand and tried swinging it.

WHOOSH.

The sword, swung with moderate force, drew a circle.

He did not like it.

But since it was possible.

He thrust again, cut, thrust and cut.

He cut diagonally and cut horizontally.

He even mimicked performing Bind.

He pictured an opponent in his head, but against Rem or his platoon members, it felt as though he would not last a single exchange.

The problem was not one-handed swordsmanship, but his unfamiliar left hand.

He changed the opponent.

Someone faceless, but reasonably skilled with a sword.

As he imagined it, an opponent similar to his past self appeared.

And then some piece of trash he had seen in his mercenary days, whose skill and character had not matched at all, sprang out.

It was the man who had shot thin blades like arrows.

He formed the image and swung his sword.

Tick!

As he scraped the ground with the sole of his foot and swung the sword wide.

Before he knew it, sweat was running, and droplets of sweat scattered in every direction with a patter.

A pebble caught under his sole and popped up with a clatter.

Encrid reflexively struck the pebble that had bounced up with the flat of his blade.

TINK!

Thanks to the imprecise strike, the pebble flew off and hit the toe of his own boot.

"If you grip it properly, you should also know how to cut as you intend."

The instructor's words came back to him one after another.

Even cutting a scarecrow standing there blankly was no easy task.

Still, Encrid could do at least that much.

Though it was extremely difficult with his left hand.

'It doesn't even go where I want it to.'

He built it anew.

He walked again with his left hand the path he had walked with his right.

He needed the process of swinging repeatedly and finding the feel.

It was something that might have bored someone else, but not Encrid.

Rather, it excited him.

As he retraced with his left hand the path he had taken with his right, he also looked back at what he had missed.

Before long, Encrid closed his eyes.

What he saw was not the present, but the past, his past self.

Deeper and deeper still.

He recalled his memories and recalled himself wandering within them.

'What if I had done that back then?'

The countless reviews he had done until now.

Battlefields, fights, monsters, beasts, people.

The sword he had swung against everything, another sword, blades, hands, people.

His feet caught, his head burst open.

He barely survived against monsters.

The time he had lived as though he had two lives.

Encrid walked again.

Concentrate on a Single Point naturally settled into his body, so he could see nothing but himself, but since the heart of a beast held his center steady, he did not get excited and make mistakes either.

Boldness and composure were among the most useful weapons Encrid possessed.

It even felt like some kind of helper that supplemented his willpower.

He swung the sword again.

As he went through the process of repeating, repeating, and reflecting again and again like that.

It felt as though he was mastering it twice as quickly as when he had done it with his right hand.

SNAP, SNAP.

He was drenched in sweat.

The leather cord wrapped around the grip snapped.

His strength drained away, and when he let his hand hang down, the tip of the sword touched the ground with a tap.

He could not say he had overworked his muscles to this extent.

But it definitely felt like he had used muscles he did not normally use.

His left arm seemed to tingle faintly.

"You really do seem like a crazy bastard."

Encrid's dazed gaze found its focus at the voice that came from the side.

"You didn't go out to the battlefield?"

Focus returned to Encrid's eyes, and after looking at the other man, he tilted his head and asked.

"Our platoon is in charge of defending the position.

Give it here."

It was the 3rd Platoon Commander of the 2nd Company, Vengeance.

He had felt the gaze a while ago.

He simply had not bothered to pay attention to it.

Vengeance came over, took Encrid's sword, and tightened the leather cord around the grip.

His hands were skillful.

He pulled both sides taut, wound it around, and fixed it again inside the grip.

"It just looked hard to do with one hand, so I'm doing it for you."

Since when had Vengeance been this kind?

Since he had saved him from the fire?

Suddenly curious, Encrid asked.

"Why did you hate me?"

At that, Vengeance worked his lips for a moment before speaking.

"Jenny."

"Jenny?"

Who was Jenny?

Encrid blinked.

His memory was not bad.

So if he did not remember, it meant one of two things.

It was something not worth remembering.

Or it was a name he did not know.

This time, it was the former.

When Encrid looked at him with eyes that still said he had no idea, Vengeance's voice rose in pitch.

"Jenny who sells herbs!"

Jenny who sells herbs?

When Encrid looked at him again with a gaze that remained thoroughly clueless.

Vengeance muttered a curse, then shouted at the top of his lungs.

"I hated you because I didn't like your damn face!"

The kid's personality swung all over the place.

Just a moment ago he had helped maintain his sword, and now this.

"Anyway, I don't like that slick face of yours."

Vengeance growled and sprang to his feet.

"Take good care of your sword."

He did not like him, but he was worried?

Vengeance turned his back, and as Encrid watched him trudge forward, he gave a small laugh, propped his chin on the back of his hand, and said,

"I wasn't interested.

The one who was interested was her.

What I cared about was the herbs."

After saying this much, there was no way he would fail to remember.

Encrid visited the city often.

When he did, there would sometimes be women who said they liked him just by looking at his face.

What should he call that?

It was literally nothing more than the fantasy of a frontier city maiden lost in an illusion.

When Vengeance said Jenny who sold herbs, he did remember her.

He had only pretended not to know because he was teasing him while they were talking.

That friend's reactions were amusing.

It was probably for this same taste that Rem teased the soldiers around him.

"Like I give a damn!"

Vengeance yelled again.

He was a friend with a surprisingly cute side.

That did not mean he was simply cute.

He was sharp, his skills were not bad, and he took good care of his subordinates.

'If his luck isn't bad, he's the type who won't die easily.'

MEOW.

While thinking this and that, Encrid was about to look for a stream to wash off his sweat when he heard Esther cry.

"Why do you have so little energy?

Are you hungry?"

HISS.

At Encrid's question, Esther narrowed her eyes.

It looked like she was glaring at him.

"Are you sick?"

As he spoke, he stroked and combed Esther's fur, and soon Esther closed her eyes with a purr.

There was no other reason Esther was tired.

It was because she had spent the whole night taking the fatigue lodged in Encrid's body into her own and relieving it.

'Brainless human.'

Though she cursed him inwardly, Esther did not dislike Encrid all that much.

The desire to improve that knew nothing of giving up.

Was that not the same as herself?

Though she had ended up in this state after exploring the world of spells.

Her own desire to improve was no less than this man's.

Esther lowered her head and sought sleep.

It seemed fatigue had built up.

Today, the magician was closed for business.

She had no energy at all.

To begin with, drawing out and using a part of the world of spells with this body itself was a shortcut.

FWEEEEET!

It happened just as she was drifting off to sleep.

A sharp sound woke Esther.

Encrid's hand, which had been scratching her head, stopped as well.

In Esther's eyes, as she lifted her head, she saw Encrid's jaw.

He turned his head left and right, then stood up.

"Captain!"

Encrid set Esther down on the ground.

From one side, he saw Krais running over.

The sharp whistle continued.

FWEEEEEEEEET!

It was a long tone.

A way of holding it long and giving off a warning sound.

Among its signal systems, the Naurilia forces used whistles.

When a long note was sounded at length like now, in the long-tone method, it meant one thing.

Enemy attack.

"From which side..."

Encrid started to ask Krais, then closed his mouth.

As soon as the whistle burst out, the voices of allies struck their ears first.

"It's a surprise attack!

Enemy troops!

Enemy troops!"

"Counterattack!"

"Don't fall back!"

"Fuuuck, this is a goddamn mess!"

It was a discord created by panic and a sense of crisis.

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!

Amid it, the noise made by chunks of metal burst out.

And blood was soon sprayed.

"Aaagh!"

A death-cry-like scream mixed in.

The attackers entered Encrid's sight as well.

A stride neither fast nor slow.

CLATTER.

A stride that announced itself by the sound of stepping on gravel.

A stride that gave the feeling that he alone existed in a different flow of time.

The spring rain had stopped, a warm breeze was blowing, and the gravel field where sunlight had settled held warmth.

The opponent stood there, stepping over that gravel field with a clatter.

Broad shoulders, thin yet sturdy leather armor, and a helmet unique to the Principality of Aspen that covered the head to the forehead while leaving only the ears exposed.

Water dripped to the ground from the faded brown hair that had spilled out through the helmet.

Behind the path he had passed, two enemy soldiers were swinging short spears, and their skill was far from ordinary.

CLANG-CLANG.

*THUNK!

THUD! *

Just by watching the process of blocking, striking, and stabbing, he could tell.

They were elite soldiers refined through repeated training.

He had encountered elite soldiers of that level before.

Gray Dog, a special unit of Aspen nicknamed the Persistent Lovers.

A unit well suited to use in this kind of surprise attack.

So that was what they did.

They used the characteristics of the unit and launched a surprise attack.

On top of that, the man who led the unit walked over, step by step, until he reached Encrid.

GRRRR!

Esther, who had been on the verge of falling asleep, bared her fangs.

"Esther, back."

Encrid shielded Esther with his body and opened his mouth.

"You're not dead."

It was an opponent whose face he knew.

A commander of Aspen, perhaps the Platoon Commander of the Gray Dog.

He had been quick to anger, and Encrid's sword had pierced his chest.

His name was Mitch Hurrier.

He was a Platoon Commander of the Principality of Aspen.

Perhaps he had crossed the river, because his entire body was soaked.

At a glance, he was not in a normal state.

Running through the night to shorten the route, then crossing a river and launching a surprise attack.

This was likely the result achieved by spending that much stamina.

However, Encrid was in worse condition.

'Will my wrist hold?'

He did not know.

Mitch Hurrier caught his breath.

Then he lifted his chin slightly, looked at the sky, and murmured.

"My thanks."

Was it reverence offered to a god?

"I wanted to meet you again, Encrid."

He lowered his gaze again as he continued.

"I'm honored you remember my name."

"Then."

SHING.

He drew his sword.

The moment Encrid saw Mitch draw his sword, he sensed death.

He was an opponent who would have been difficult even if his wrist were perfectly fine.

The discernment he had gained as his skill improved allowed him to measure the opponent's ability.

"Thanks to you, my eyes opened."

There was no need to understand what he meant.

Mitch had not said it hoping Encrid would understand either.

The words simply came out because he was joyful in the present.

He had come to plunge the morale of the enemy troops, thrown into chaos by the attack on their position, down into the abyss.

And here he had met a big prize.

The opponent he had wanted to meet so badly.

The opponent he had wanted to cut down so badly.

He had to meet him again and prove himself.

He had to defeat that man and surpass him in order to move toward what came next.

Mitch Hurrier's sword moved.

It was a vertical slash from above to below.

CLANG!

Encrid switched the sword to his right hand and met it.

CRUNCH.

One blow was enough.

The splint that had been added broke, and the strength drained from his right hand.

His wrist ached and went numb.

His fingers trembled.

"You're injured."

Would he go easy on him?

Not a chance.

Encrid would not have done so either.

What did it matter whether the opponent was injured or not?

This was not a place to discuss honor, and right now, they were in the middle of war.

Even if it were a duel, he would not have gone easy.

Attacking a weakness in the middle of combat was something to be encouraged, rather.

"Unlucky bastard."

Mitch showed a bitter smile.

He had wanted to fight properly, but now that things had turned out this way.

CLANG-CLANG.

Encrid barely blocked the blade that came in as if it were nothing.

'I'm dead.'

It was the moment he thought he would not be able to block the next attack.

"You son of a bitch!"

Vengeance, his whole body smeared with blood, charged in and thrust his spear at Mitch Hurrier's back.

WHOOSH!

The tip of the spear was quite sharp.

Mitch Hurrier stepped away without even looking.

Using his left foot as an axis, he spun his body and avoided the spearhead, then brought his sword down diagonally as it was.

CRACK!

His blade struck the middle of the spear shaft.

Even so, Vengeance did not let go of the spear.

Instead, he tried to lift it upward and strike Mitch's chest with the shaft.

But it was meaningless resistance.

At the same time he struck the spear shaft, Mitch Hurrier's foot moved.

And from a half-turned posture, Mitch Hurrier had somehow taken a stance perfectly facing backward, and his sword split the air.

After the sword came away from the spear shaft, the trajectory it drew became level with the ground.

SLICE.

Vengeance's neck was cut.

Vengeance, sensing danger, barely pulled his body back, but he was too late.

His neck was already half severed.

He let go of the spear and clutched his own neck.

Ah, you idiot, you could have just run away quietly.

Vengeance sank to his knees on the ground.

Mitch Hurrier stood beside Vengeance and looked at Encrid as he said,

"I'll cut your neck like this too."

SLASH!

He cut the half-severed neck again.

Vengeance's head, its neck cut through, rolled over.

What was this?

Even though he knew that when he died, the repeating today would come.

It still felt fucking terrible.

It was damn awful.

It was goddamn disgusting.

HISS!

The blue-eyed panther watching tried to rush in as well.

But the panther was stopped by a soldier swinging a short spear.

"As if a mere beast could."

The enemy soldier muttered as he brutalized Esther.

If she did not run, she would die soon too.

"Go, Esther."

Encrid spoke, and Mitch Hurrier, who had approached before he knew it, raised his sword high.

Mitch Hurrier was a liar.

He had said he would cut off his neck, but in the end, he stabbed Encrid in the chest.

"Come to think of it, this was where I was hit."

His tone was calm.

His sword pierced Encrid's heart.

Encrid could not even think of throwing the remaining Whistle Dagger.

With his right wrist in this state, it was impossible.

"It's a shame we couldn't fight properly, but farewell."

As he spoke, Mitch Hurrier pulled out the sword that had stabbed Encrid's chest.

*SCHLUK.

GRRRK. *

When the blade that had torn through his chest came out, red life force gushed out and spilled onto the ground.

GURGLE.

As Encrid collapsed forward where he sat, blood foaming at his mouth, he saw Vengeance's severed neck and Esther flung off to one side.

SCREECH!

'This feels truly.'

Damn awful.

It was strange.

That seeing another person's death felt worse than his own.

The moment of death came.

By now, after experiencing it countless times, he might have grown used to it.

But far from familiarity, it was an abyss that planted pain, agony, and fear in his mind.

Even though he knew that after wandering through the abyss and waking, morning would come again.

It was the kind of darkness that made him not want to die.

He did not dream.

Therefore, there was no Boatswain either.

Encrid opened his eyes again.

MEOW.

Esther rubbed her face against his chest.

It was the start of a morning with sleeping in and no platoon members.

And.

'This is fucked.'

Encrid thought the situation was genuinely fucked.

His right wrist was gone, and his platoon members were not here.

Before afternoon came, the enemy elite would raid the position.

And that included that bastard Mitch Hurrier.

'Running away won't solve it either.'

It would not.

Even if he survived, he would merely return to the same day.

Unless he crossed the wall, he could not escape today.

Then how was he supposed to cross it?

Encrid's gaze dropped downward.

It turned toward Esther, who was rubbing her face against his chest.

More precisely, he looked at his left hand, which was stroking Esther's fur.