Chapter 144 - The Trap, by Force (2)

Mustache, commander of the Gray Dog that now had fewer than twenty men left, furrowed his brow.

'They just charged straight in?'

He had laid a trap. A tempting trap.

That did not mean he had thought they would fall for it easily.

If anything, he had intended to use this trap against them.

He would create similar traps all over the place at random.

What would happen if they could not tell which was real and which was fake?

It would feel too unsettling for them to attack.

If that happened, it would be half a success.

"If that happens, they will withdraw. They won't be able to attack recklessly either."

That was what an officer in the allied command, one who was favorably disposed toward him, had personally told him.

The independent detached force Gray Dog was now reduced to little more than traces.

The repeated defeats on the battlefield and the death of Mitch Hurrier.

After failing several times, someone had to take responsibility.

This was the beginning of that responsibility.

Mustache had to shake up the enemy unit in the rear. He had to restrict their movements.

He had prepared many things for that purpose.

'Feels like everything's gone to shit before it even properly started.'

This was practically as if they had made eye contact, then charged in without the slightest hesitation and shoved a sword at him. As if they had cut and cut again, and only then asked, "Want to fight?"

Even without saying it aloud, it was written clearly in their bodies, actions, and attitude.

'Of course.'

It had gone to shit.

The Naurilia forces positioned behind the main force had begun to move, so command would have plenty to think about too.

Then what should he do now?

Give everything up like this?

The fact that the son of House Hurrier had died? That was fine. That house used its children as expendables anyway, did it not?

Then where was the path he had to take?

If stray thoughts kept rising, his concentration would blur.

He would throw his worries behind him, somewhere else.

Mustache steeled himself and drew his sword.

CLANG!

With no breath, he drew in one motion and raised the sword before his eyes.

'I just have to kill them all.'

The enemy guerrilla unit had broken through the trap and charged in?

Was that something to panic over? No. This was something to welcome.

'I'll kill that bastard first.'

The one who had put a hole in Mitch Hurrier's belly came first.

After that, he would kill the blond swordsman right beside him. Next was the one holding an axe.

He would have to leave a little strength in reserve each time.

One at a time, and he would have to keep coordinated attacks in mind as well.

Sorting through his thoughts, he stared straight at the opponent before him.

But had this bastard always been this much? There were things one could tell just from a stance. His presence was different. He was definitely the man who had stabbed Mitch Hurrier and fled. There was no mistaking him. His was not a face one could easily forget.

The bastard who had barely survived back then.

The bastard who had survived even an assassin's threat.

Had he been this much back then too? It did not seem so.

Had his skill improved? Even so, nothing changed. He was someone who had to be cut down.

The same went for the ones behind him.

Mustache's eyes gleamed.

Watching him, Krais felt uneasy inside.

'He doesn't look ordinary.'

Krais did not have an eye for reading opponents. That was why unease arose.

The opponent had laid a trap, and Krais had read the enemy's intentions.

So he had said they should crash into it and smash it apart.

Because the lunatic platoon he knew would be able to break it with force.

He had faith. Even so, his unease did not fully vanish. It was because of his personality.

It was also because he originally had a habit of assuming the worst.

So, what would the result be?

For now, it would probably begin with a fight between the Platoon Commander and the man with the splendid mustache.

Krais's eyes turned toward the two of them.

He had the illusion that the air had settled heavily.

The spring sunlight slipped between the two of them.

Neither moved a muscle. They stood still with swords in hand.

The dust that had spread through the air scattered as the wind blew it away.

In Krais's eyes, the two figures disappeared in a blur.

CLANG!

After that, the sound of metal burst out.

* * *

Ragna stepped aside and turned into a spectator.

'Not bad.'

The sword of the mustached opponent was sharp. It was a sword that showed traces of proper instruction, learning, and years of training.

It was like a table whose rough surfaces had been sanded down countless times until they were smooth.

A well-made piece of furniture.

Something touched by a craftsman's hand.

That was the feeling the opponent gave off.

By contrast, what about Encrid? His Platoon Commander was rough. Something whose rough surfaces had been sanded down countless times and yet was still incomplete.

Like an unfinished vessel.

One side was on the verge of completion.

The other was incomplete.

"What, is this some kind of duel between leaders? Man, that's boring."

The barbarian muttered beside him. Ragna did not particularly answer.

Unexpectedly, Jaxon answered in his stead.

"If you're bored, start by cleaning up."

His tone was calm, and then calm again.

"So many wish to stand beside my Lord's side. Today is a good day."

Beside him again came the words of the ignorant religious bastard.

Aside from the mustache in front of Encrid, the rest had surrounded them from all sides with long spears.

At a glance, the enemy outnumbered them by more than three times.

It was a force close to roughly fifty men.

The ones hiding inside the supply wagons had crawled out too, and every one of them was armed well enough to be troublesome.

They could not be called heavy armored infantry, but among them, there were even three men wearing chain mail.

And yet everyone was carefree. It made one wonder where they had left their guts, or whether their guts had swollen so much they were roughly lodged in their throats.

CLINK.

"Should we start after that ends?"

One of the enemy soldiers in chain mail tossed out the words. He pointed with his thumb toward Mustache and Encrid.

There was confidence in his attitude.

This, despite the men who had died to Ragna's sword a moment ago lying sprawled on the ground.

"Let's do that."

Krais was the one who answered. Was it not a given that winning the duel between leaders before starting would be advantageous?

With the sound of metal as the beginning, Encrid and Mustache sent sparks flying again and again.

Ragna lost interest in what was happening around him.

It was none of his concern.

His eyes followed Encrid's hands and feet, his sword and movements.

If it was completion versus incompletion, who had the advantage?

CLAAANG!

SCREEEECH!

'Completion.'

That was only natural. However, what would happen if, despite being incomplete, the vessel itself was different?

'It's over.'

Ragna reached that conclusion inwardly. The difference in skill was one thing, but their mindsets were different in themselves. Like that, even a fight one could win would be lost.

* * *

Blade, feet, sword, air, dust, heat.

Even as such things brushed past him,

he paid them not the slightest mind. He did not see them. He did not feel them either.

Encrid focused solely on the sword.

"Hah!"

His opponent, Mustache, brought his sword down and released a shout.

A properly learned sword, a heavy blow following the fundamentals of the Heavy Sword Technique.

Encrid held the grip with both hands, turned his sword horizontally to block, and bent his knees.

Then he let the force flow aside and deflected it.

SCREEEECH!

Blade met blade, and sparks flew.

The opponent met him with strength, and Encrid with technique.

In the exchange of offense and defense that began again in reverse, it was the opposite.

Encrid brought his sword down with force, and the opponent received it and let it flow away.

It was an exceedingly smooth and clean skill.

Even more than Mitch Hurrier.

Of course, Mitch Hurrier had not come to mind in Encrid's head.

Encrid's eyes and ears, hands and feet, all of them were focused solely on swinging his sword and fighting.

What he saw by using everything, including Concentrate on a Single Point, heart of the beast, and Sense of the Blade.

He made a line connecting point to point.

With that line, he split his opponent.

He blocked, dodged, and read the intent of the opponent who did the same.

In that way, more than ten exchanges of offense and defense passed between them.

Encrid faced two crises.

Once, his wrist had nearly been cut, but he blocked with the guard of his sword and knocked it away.

The second was a blow that showed vertical and horizontal cuts in succession, then suddenly changed into a thrust, which he barely blocked.

Against a thrust aimed at the center of his abdomen, Encrid had to raise the flat of his blade, block the sharp sword tip, and knock it aside.

By anyone's eye, it was a defense close to a stunt.

If his timing had been off by even a little, a new hole would have opened in the middle of his leather armor.

"Hmph."

When his unexpected blow missed, Mustache snorted.

It was an expression of his will to kill him soon. Encrid ignored it.

This was after the two crises.

Encrid's feet twisted to the left as he stepped.

To avoid giving him a good position, Mustache also moved his feet.

Within sword's reach, the two circled each other.

As their positions changed that way, Encrid deliberately hid his left hand with his right shoulder.

After changing his stance, he gripped his sword only with his right hand and stretched his left hand toward his waist.

Mustache read Encrid's intent.

Countless duels and many years of experience.

He foresaw the next inch.

He had already been bothered by the fact that one more sword remained.

And he had already seen him use two swords.

'Left hand.'

The moment he saw Encrid's left hand descend, Mustache swung his sword with force.

From the upper right to the lower left.

A large Diagonal Slash.

A strike of the Heavy Sword. This was enough. It was his victory.

Encrid did not draw his sword with his left hand.

He only pretended to.

After that, he drove down the blow he had prepared while regulating his breathing several times.

'Heart of the superhuman.'

THUMP!

His heart beat. The rush of blood that began from his heart, beating as if it would explode, raced through his entire body.

The rushing blood lent strength to his muscles.

Nearly twice his usual muscle strength, superhuman strength surged up.

There was no shout. Only two pairs of eyes with veins rising in them glared at each other.

It was the moment life and death would be decided by a single blow.

Facing the heavy blade flying toward him, Encrid sent the sword held only in his right hand flying horizontally.

CLANG! CRACK! THUD!

Three lines of noise burst almost at the same time.

Their sword strikes crossed, and they each stepped forward.

In that way, the positions of the two changed.

"... Did you aim for this?"

"From the start."

With their backs turned to each other, Mustache asked.

Encrid answered.

Mustache's blade was clean. There was no blood or anything of the sort on it.

More than anything, it had been split in half.

Encrid's sword was the opposite.

A sword made by mixing Valery steel and Noir wrought iron.

'It's a fine sword.'

At least to him right now, it was.

Mustache pitched forward as he was.

His chest split open wide and blood poured out in a gush, and his ribs were cut and broken, unable to protect his heart.

If the heart was destroyed, even a Frog died.

So Mustache's death after collapsing was only natural.

Encrid did not know it, but he had been the last of Gray Dog, and its hope.

To speak only of the conclusion, it could be said that this was the moment the name Gray Dog disappeared into the back pages of history.

"Hoo."

Encrid let out a breath and shook the blood from his sword.

His opponent had been conscious of his left hand.

That was why he had answered, from the start.

He meant he had shown it for this moment.

Valen Mercenary Sword Technique, showing it beforehand.

It was a technique that planted an attack pattern in the opponent's head and made his thoughts complicated.

'It works.'

He had thought about it, and he had become able to move his sword in the direction he intended.

That came before the joy of victory.

'It works.'

That thrill filled his chest first.

Just because he used twin swords did not mean they had to be the main focus.

He simply had to handle what was needed in the moment it was needed.

'A spear, or other weapons, and a shield too.'

Even the things he had given up on now felt within reach.

It would not be bad to try handling all those things too. Of course, they would not fit in his hand as perfectly as a sword, but would there not be value in simply experiencing them?

That thought came to him.

"Not bad."

That was the single phrase Encrid muttered after finally killing his opponent.

"I don't know why watching the Platoon Commander fight gets me so excited."

Rem opened his mouth. In truth, his face looked quite, no, very excited. He was smiling with the corners of his mouth curling round and round.

The opponents, the three in chain mail, were calm. Even at Mustache's death, they were composed.

"Hm, he wasn't someone who should have died like that."

"It is a shame."

"He underestimated his opponent. One must face an opponent fighting with all his strength with all one's own strength."

That was what the three in chain mail exchanged.

Yes, you have eyes too.

Rem nodded inwardly.

Those words were right.

Encrid had used his full strength entirely, but the opponent had worried about what came after.

What kind of bullshit was a bastard with even less skill worrying about after the fight?

So of course he died.

"Hey, should we do it all at once?"

Rem stepped forward.

Tap.

"You are being too greedy. Brother."

What landed on Rem's shoulder was a hand resembling that of a bear.

Audin shook his head.

"You going to move that hand?"

It was a single phrase and gaze from Rem, whose murderous air had grown along with his excitement. Audin still laughed heartily and shook his head.

"I said you are being too greedy. Barbaric Brother."

"This bastard?"

SWISH, TAP.

Rem's axe moved. Vertically, honest and straight.

Audin stepped back in a way that did not suit his build.

Cold air passed between the two.

At some point, Audin's smiling face seemed to have hardened like a statue.

The three in chain mail, watching the two of them, were dumbfounded.

What the hell are these bastards? Why are they fighting among themselves?

And they are fighting over which one of them gets to face the three of us?

It was disregard. It was disregard. It was mockery.

"Crazy bastards."

In the end, one of the chain mail soldiers stepped forward first.

He was a man whose weapon was an iron hammer with a rounded head.

When he abruptly sprang out, there was a sword blocking his path.

"You're mine."

Blond hair and red eyes, a man whose eyes seemed to hold some kind of flame. Then followed a sword strike like a blazing fire.

The man holding the hammer swung a large, round large shield like a weapon.

It was both offense and defense.

CLANG!

Ragna's sword, which had struck the shield, returned to its place like a swallow striking the surface of water.

"Cutting in line?"

Seeing that, Rem sprang out.

"If you break order, the Lord will be angry. Brother!"

Audin moved as well.

In other words, the battle continued.