Chapter 2 - Life Flashing By

A black dot seemed to fly in through the eyeholes of the leather helmet.

Encrid raised the shield strapped to the back of his left hand.

THUD.

He felt a massive weight.

He had tried to parry it by striking it away, but since he only half-succeeded, his forearm throbbed.

Encrid brought his blade down onto the helmet of the bastard who had thrust the spear.

SMACK.

The blade fell onto the shoulder of the man, who had instinctively twisted his neck away.

Along with the heavy sound of striking the pauldron, a sharp sting rang through his grip.

"Ugh, I'm going to kill you."

The enemy soldier muttered, gripping the spear shaft short and swinging it.

It was a well-trained move.

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

"Gah."

The struck man lost his balance and fell.

It was close-quarters combat, practically an all-out brawl.

When the vanguards of allies and enemies tangled and merged, friend and foe were bound to mix.

Therefore, falling meant instant death.

Tearing his eyes away from the man he had knocked down, Encrid gripped his shield handle tightly and looked for his allies.

Losing reason and running wild meant death. Imitating a berserker just because it had become a melee wouldn't make him a berserker; it would only make him a corpse.

The reason he had survived for so long with his meager talent.

Encrid knew his place.

'Don't stick your neck out.'

He blocked a blade flying in from somewhere with his shield.

The iron rim dented as the blade struck the shield's edge.

The oiled wooden shield warped.

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

'Keep attacks short and simple.'

After blocking, Encrid put strength into his sword hand and swung.

THUD.

Soon, a heavy sense of impact slammed into his grip.

An unlucky enemy soldier got smacked in the head and tumbled to the side.

An ally's spearhead sank deep into the fallen bastard's chest.

The thick gambeson, layered with cotton and linen, couldn't withstand the impact of the spearhead and was punctured deep inside.

The struck man thrashed around, desperate to live.

SHUCK! SHUCK! SHUCK!

The allied soldier relentlessly repeated the same motion.

Whether it was blocked or not, he kept his distance and forcefully drove the spearhead in.

SHUCK.

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

"Gah."

Coughing up a mouthful of blood, the man trembled as he grabbed the spear shaft piercing his stomach.

"Fuck, let go! Let go of it! You son of a bitch."

The enemy held onto the shaft until the bitter end, and the allied soldier abandoned his own weapon to pick up the spear the bastard had been using.

Having confirmed that much, Encrid stepped back and swallowed his ragged breaths.

"Huu, huu, huu."

He took in his own position, the allies' positions, and the enemies' positions, picturing them in his mind.

'If I stick my neck out, I die.'

If he dug into the enemy lines with his level of skill, he would just become fertilizer scattered on the battlefield.

Just like the enemy soldier who had just died with a hole several times larger than his belly button.

The guy had excitedly rushed to the front of the line, but his skills were only mediocre.

He might have grown arrogant after killing a few guys on the battlefield who were unluckier and less skilled than he was.

Or maybe he was just plain unlucky.

After all, he had been caught by Encrid's blade, which hadn't even been aimed at him.

It hadn't rained for days, making the ground as hard as stone.

Blood had been splattered over it, but that didn't make the dryness go away. There simply hadn't been enough rain lately.

His throat felt like it was burning, and the smell of blood surged up from within it.

Encrid swallowed dry saliva and searched for his squad members with his eyes.

Of course, just because he looked didn't mean he could see them.

Instead, he saw something else.

"Waaaah!"

Someone let out a shout.

It was two steps away. He saw one of his allied platoon members raise a spear to thrust.

'What are you doing?'

The thrust itself was good, but he lost his footing and tripped over his own left foot with his right.

*THUD. * He fell and lost his grip on his weapon.

'Are you praying for them to kill you?'

The way the fallen guy peeked his head up made him look like he was praying face-down.

Encrid cut off his thoughts and moved.

He stepped forward, raised his shield, held his breath, and flexed his muscles.

THUD. CRACKLE.

The opponent's blade smashed into his shield. A heavy shock spread through his forearm to his entire body.

As he barely blocked the blade, the oiled wooden shield split apart.

Encrid threw the broken shield forward and swung his sword fiercely from side to side with all the strength he had left.

Once from right to left, then once more in a wide arc from left to right.

SWISH, SWISH.

CLANG!

The opponent's weapon was caught at the exact moment he swung from left to right.

Sparks flew as blade met blade, and he saw the opponent's weapon slip from their grasp.

He had aimed for that.

Rather than his clumsy swordplay, Encrid trusted the physical strength he had built up all this time.

When it came to training, he had done more than most first-rate mercenaries.

It was an opportunity created by that physical strength. Even so, he didn't charge in. Just as there is always opportunity in crisis, there is also crisis in opportunity.

"Waaah!"

The disarmed enemy faltered before raising his arms and lunging forward.

He seemed to think he was a bear.

Encrid pretended to thrust his sword, but then dropped it to the ground, ducked low, caught the charging bastard, and flipped him over his back.

The weight of armor, a helmet, various weapons, and a grown man settled onto his lower back.

It was heavy.

The moment he loaded the opponent onto his back, his waist and thighs screamed.

Ignoring those screams, Encrid forcefully straightened his back and stood up.

"Gah!"

The enemy's body flipped cleanly over backward.

There was no need to look back at the guy who had landed with a thud.

His current position was one step inside the front line formed by his allies.

In this area, one usually only encountered three types of enemies.

One, an unlucky bastard who ended up in the vanguard after being pushed forward.

Two, an idiot full of arrogance from fighting over the past few days.

Three, a true expert leading the charge because they were confident in their skills.

The guy he had just flipped backward was the first type.

Having charged in desperation only to land among enemy lines, he was a dead man.

Encrid picked up the sword he had dropped on the ground.

He saw the ally who had tripped over his own feet during the charge stumbling back up.

He could also see that half of his helmet had been neatly split open, hit from god knows where.

Blood was pouring from his head too.

'What an incredibly lucky bastard.'

Furthermore, he had just saved the guy's life when he was about to die a moment ago.

He was a lucky friend in many ways. And a guy he knew, too.

"Bell, did you lose your mind because your head split open?"

Encrid said.

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

"Keuh, fuck, goddamn it, barely made it out alive."

"If you barely lived, then watch my back."

It was hard for a mere soldier to read the tide of battle in the middle of a battlefield. A Squad Leader and decurion's main role was usually to relay orders to their ten-man unit rather than act as a commander.

But Encrid read the tide of battle.

More accurately, he felt it.

'This isn't good.'

For a countless number of long years, he had lived breathing in the blood and blades of the battlefield.

Those days hadn't given him a talent for swordsmanship, but they had still allowed him to clumsily read the flow of the battlefield.

To be honest, it was pure instinct.

Still, it was a fact that this instinct had saved his life many times.

'I think this is going to shit.'

"Ugh, let's do that."

Wiping the blood from his head, Bell replied, grabbed his weapon, and moved at a pace neither fast nor slow.

Spear in hand, Bell took two steps while staying wary of his surroundings.

THWACK.

A flash of light flew in and pierced his head.

Right through the gap in his half-split helmet.

An arrow flew in and lodged into his head. The impact popped an eyeball out, which slapped against Encrid's leather armor.

'Ah.'

Bell died without even letting out a short groan. His mouth simply hung open.

Encrid shifted his gaze.

Across the sky—more accurately, the empty air. A space he couldn't quite pinpoint.

He saw a flashing light and a dot.

The moment he saw it, he knew it was going to lodge into his head.

Encrid closed his eyes.

How many people could remain detached in the face of death?

Encrid was no exception.

As he closed his eyes, his past life suddenly popped out like a dream he had yesterday, ready to pass by like a kaleidoscope of memories, just as people always said.

It felt like time was slowing down.

It felt as though the noise of the battlefield was erased and even his breathing slowed.

THUMP, SMACK!

Soon, that feeling vanished. The flashing memories disappeared, he heard the noise of the battlefield again, and he realized he was breathing normally.

"Are you offering up a prayer of thanks for them killing you?"

It was his subordinate.

One of the members of his ten-man unit.

He had shoved him, and the arrow had struck the ground.

"Rem."

Encrid called his name.

"They said that son of a bitch called Hawk's Eye or Hawk's Feather or whatever is in this battle, so watch out for arrows."

"Do you think I won't get hit just because I watch out?"

"I'm gonna go wreck him, so just wait."

This bastard was refreshingly crazy too.

Thinking that, Encrid nodded.

"You're not giving up on life or anything, right? You even skipped training today and took a nap."

Rem said.

"Are you trying to meddle?"

"Just in case you wanted to die; I'd feel like shit for saving you."

"Goddamn it, who the hell would want to die?"

Making a living by the sword wasn't the same as attempting suicide.

"I'm saying this because you usually fight fine, but you always close your eyes at the crucial moments."

"Do you think I close them because I want to?"

He felt like he had asked a similar question just a moment ago.

Rem was holding an axe in his right hand and a broken spear in his left.

It was a loadout made possible because he was skilled with any weapon, whether it be a sword, axe, or blunt weapon.

He raised his right hand holding the axe and scratched his head vigorously with his thumb.

It didn't look very satisfying, though.

Because he was scratching on top of his helmet.

"Fuck, this helmet smells like shit."

"I agree with that."

"I'm telling you, focus more when you feel like you're going to die."

Rem said.

It was something he said often. Encrid knew it, too. He knew what those words meant.

Rem used to say it frequently.

That in the moment when you feel like you're about to die, in that moment your life flashes before your eyes, a person focuses to a superhuman degree. And to use that in combat.

Bullshit, as if that would work.

That was talent.

To keep one's eyes open in that split second between life and death, face the opponent, and do what needed to be done.

"Focus, my ass."

Encrid said.

"Well, it'd be great if you could learn by dying hundreds of times, but you only have one life. Anyway, see you later."

Rem giggled and easily leaped back out, dashing into the battlefield.

He was a truly great fighter.

Encrid focused on the battle once more.

He fought with allied soldiers by his shoulders. He repeated that process.

Encrid thrust his sword forward.

If lucky, it would pierce; if unlucky, they'd dodge.

And if it was neither,

THUD.

It would just be a strike at the level of smacking them with the tip of his sword.

Unable to pierce the opponent's armor, the sword tip pushed the enemy away like a blunt weapon.

"Ugh."

The struck man let out a groan and staggered backward, and a passing ally's war hammer smashed into his head.

CRASH.

He erased all idle thoughts.

Just blocking, dodging, and swinging his sword at the blades, spearheads, and clubs flying right at him felt like his nerves were burning away.

Feeling anxious without a shield, he picked up an axe that had fallen on the ground to use as a substitute.

Still keeping allies around him, he blocked, struck, and thrust. Whenever he saw an opening, he displayed the clumsy swordplay he had learned over the years.

Left foot forward, shifting his center of gravity, keeping the sword tip straight without relaxing the strength in his arm.

A thrust.

With moderately tense muscles, concentration, and the sense to seize the opening, it should have been successful.

CLANG, CLATTER!

Encrid's thrust was only half successful.

'Tch.'

He had aimed for the gap between the helmet and the breastplate, but the opponent moved and he missed.

He did leave a long gash on the opponent's neck, but it was hard to call it a fatal wound.

Bleeding, the man's eyes turned toward Encrid.

They were eyes full of malice. The bastard silently gnashed his teeth.

'Danger.'

His battlefield instinct spoke.

While Encrid stepped back, an allied soldier filled the gap between them.

The guy silently ducked and struck the shin of the ally blocking his path with his sword-gripping fist.

CRACK.

The sound of breaking bone rang out.

"Argh!"

As the soldier collapsed with a broken shin, the enemy drew a dagger and stabbed the ally's neck.

The process of cleanly stabbing and pulling it out was so natural. It looked like a scene from a play choreographed just for that.

Blood spurted, soaking the bastard's breastplate.

The guy casually shoved the dead soldier away.

'Ah.'

Life flashing before his eyes.

The boundary between life and death.

Countless images swept past outside a glowing lantern. Those images were Encrid's life.

Like the dream he had last night.

At the end of that life, the moment everything passed by, the opponent's blade pierced through Encrid's neck.

It was the bastard replicating the exact same thrust he had just shown.

It was a perfect thrust. At least, that was how it looked to Encrid.

Just as a burning pain raced from his neck through his entire body.

Facing the moment of life and death, Encrid realized what that concentration Rem talked about really meant.

It was just too late.

'Was this something you could only learn by dying?'

Cursing Rem in his heart, Encrid closed his eyes and thought.

No, his mind moved on its own.

Longing, craving, desire.

'I wanted to be good with a sword.'

'I wanted to be a knight.'

'I wanted to be a hero.'

Ultimately, failing to become those things, Encrid was destined to make a decent amount of money, settle down in a decent town, build a house, and live out his days.

But he hadn't done that. He couldn't.

Because the seething passion in his heart wouldn't let him.

Right up until the very end, he had blown the money he earned with his blood on the battlefield on things like training halls.

'I could have done better.'

If I had more time.

He thought he just needed to swing his sword more during the times when others slept, during the times when those so-called prodigies and geniuses fucked around.

At the end of this flashing life, the face of the one person he had saved by his own power for the first and last time popped up.

"The talisman will move according to your wishes, Sir Knight."

The one who had gifted him the talisman was the village chief of a slash-and-burn farming village.

That old woman with a few missing front teeth whose voice leaked air as she spoke.

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

Regret.

'Would things have been different if I had swung my sword a few more times?'

The reality of death settled into his body. Beyond his closed eyes, he saw a black river.

And Encrid regretted taking a nap today instead of swinging his sword.

If he had practiced just a little more back then, his last thrust might have been successful.

A faceless boatman sat on a ferry over the black river.

The boatman asked.

"Do you really think so?"

'Hm?'

"You're interesting."

'Hmm?'

"Then let's do that."

The mouthless boatman spoke. He couldn't tell where the voice was coming from. The area around his mouth was just dark, as if he were wearing a black mask.

Encrid couldn't say a single word.

He lost consciousness just like that and opened his eyes again.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

The sound of the night watchman striking a piece of iron.

To be exact, the sound of a ladle hitting a pot.

The familiar sound of waking up the morning.

"..."

As he silently looked to his side.

"Did you have a shitty dream or something?"

His subordinate in the next bed, Rem, grumbled as he got up from his cot and shoved his feet into his boots.

"Ah, a bug."

A bug in the boot.