Chapter 41 - Concentrate on a Single Point

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!

He stabs at the eye, then cuts straight into the shoulder.

After cutting the shoulder, he lowers his sword, scores around the thigh, and shoves the blade forward with all his strength.

Encrid opened his eyes wide, took in his opponent’s body, hands, and foot movements, then predicted what would come next.

Then he took the defensive in time with the sword strikes he had predicted and blocked them all.

Sparks flew between them.

The sparks wiped away part of the fog.

Beyond them, two eyes gleamed.

'Shoulder.'

His opponent’s line of attack aimed for his shoulder again.

Encrid pulled back the left foot he had set half a step forward.

In that instant, his left shoulder leaned back, and his opponent’s sword shot out with terrifying force.

He swung his left foot behind his right, pivoted on the big toe of his right foot, and rotated sideways, a step that turned to the side.

WHOOSH!

The blade grazed around his shoulder.

Encrid saw an opening and, from a modified middle guard with his sword tip lowered at an angle, struck upward.

Ordinarily, when holding a sword, the side facing the opponent was called the front edge, and the side facing oneself was called the back edge; when raised from a lowered position, it became a back-edge strike.

The back edge of Encrid’s sword aimed for his opponent’s jaw.

Encrid expected his opponent to dodge.

'Even if he dodges, there’ll be an opening.'

Then he could cast out the next line of attack as he intended.

It was a move gained through countless real battles.

He meant to seize victory with a single step and the attack that followed.

“You arrogant bastard!”

His opponent flew into a rage and swung horizontally with the sword he had thrust into Encrid’s shoulder.

At that movement, Encrid had to hurriedly duck his head and dodge.

Naturally, the sword he had been swinging upward failed to carry out its task.

CLANG-CLANG!

Instead, Encrid pulled his sword tight in toward his body, then quickly raised it above his head to block the next attack.

His opponent had only pretended to swing horizontally, then lifted his sword over his head and brought it down.

It was a crown strike.

When Encrid barely managed to block that attack, their swords stuck together, and both of them came to a stop.

“You thought you could take me with one step?”

His opponent pressed down from above with his sword and snapped at him.

“Why, am I not allowed to?”

Encrid tossed the words back.

The soldier who had identified himself as Mitch Hurrier expressed his anger with his eyes and his face.

He had a remarkable talent for getting angry with his face.

“You don’t want to die cleanly, do you?”

“No, actually, my wish is to die of old age.”

When it came to scraping at someone’s nerves, Encrid was no worse than Rem.

No, he had an even better mouth than Rem.

A thick vein popped red on Mitch’s forehead.

“Fine, then. I’ll cut off all four of your limbs and shove you into a cesspit until you die of old age.”

“No, I’m going to die of old age beside my great-grandchildren with all my limbs intact.”

“You bastard!”

THUD!

Mitch raised his foot and kicked forward, and Encrid knocked it aside with his own foot.

That became the turning point that opened more than two steps of distance between them.

As soon as the distance opened, Encrid tried to swing his sword, while Mitch used his feet to charge forward instead.

Mitch’s body, rushing in at terrifying speed, seemed to leave a long afterimage behind.

Watching that, Encrid adjusted the path of his sword and struck downward.

CHING!

Their swords met again.

The blades crossed, and metal scraped against metal.

Encrid tried to push him back with strength, but the sword followed as if glued to his.

Mitch stuck his sword to Encrid’s, then twisted his wrist upward in an instant.

With that single movement, the tip of his sword lifted toward Encrid’s head, became parallel to the ground, and turned into a posture with the sword raised high.

In that moment, his opponent wound the blade close to the hilt, the strong part of the sword, around the tip of Encrid’s sword.

Then Mitch drove his sword straight forward.

Even as he huffed and vented his anger, Mitch’s swordsmanship was precise.

TING-TING-TING.

Blade met blade and spat out noise.

If Encrid stayed like that, he was going to have a hole punched through his throat.

Encrid also twisted his wrist in the same motion as his opponent and lifted his sword.

TING!

Then sparks flew between them once again.

In that instant, Mitch had knocked his sword away.

There was no time to even catch his breath before the next sword strike followed.

This time, Encrid started first.

From upper right to lower left.

It was a Diagonal Slash.

He had trained and tempered it countless times until now.

The skill he had refined through rolling and rolling through real battle shone.

A graceful line was drawn.

The drawn line fell toward Mitch’s body.

Step, timing, stance, sword strike.

It was a textbook slash with not a single thing out of place.

Mitch received Encrid’s sword with his own.

In that instant, Encrid felt as if he were cutting not a sword, but a soft ball of cotton.

Mitch’s sword bent gently, diverted Encrid’s sword, then bent in the reverse direction, and the back edge fell toward Encrid’s head.

Mitch turned his wrist and drew a small circle with his sword.

“Hup!”

Encrid sharply sucked in the breath he lacked and, without even daring to block, twisted his body to the side.

WHOOSH.

Mitch’s sword cut through the space where Encrid’s head had been.

He dodged, but because of it, his stance broke.

The blade that fell straight down cut Encrid’s right forearm.

It was not a deep wound, but blood ran down in a stream.

There was no more time to exchange words.

'Abdomen.'

He had to knock away the sword thrusting toward his belly, and next, dodge the sword coming down diagonally toward his thigh.

He dodged, blocked, and swung his sword whenever he saw an opening.

He tried to force his opponent away with a high horizontal slash, but the enemy was tenacious.

Instead of retreating, he struck upward with his sword and kept closing the distance.

A distance where sword and sword held conversation.

Encrid was driven onto the defensive.

He was busy just blocking and dodging.

'High, diagonal, thrust.'

He poured out everything he had fixed into his body through fundamentals and tempered through real battle.

He thrust, cut, pulled, stuck close, and if he saw an opening, he used his feet too.

Mitch read all of those attacks, blocking what had to be blocked and dodging what had to be dodged.

At the same time, one by one, he made wounds on Encrid’s body.

First his forearm, then his shoulder, his thigh; small wounds continued to increase.

Encrid dodged by a hair, truly by a hair.

Among them, the attack that sent his helmet flying and split his forehead left him feeling as if he had survived by sheer luck.

Blood flowing from his forehead scattered in every direction because of his violent movements.

'Next is the shoulder.'

There was no room to breathe.

There was no room to think.

All that remained was the process of blocking, dodging, and striking away.

Even in the midst of that, he counterattacked from time to time.

He had to be cut three or four times to land one cut, but because he could still continue attacking, Encrid focused.

It truly felt as if one wrong breath would kill him.

The same was true for Mitch.

When he had first seen the crazy bastard who had raided the camp, his skill had certainly been pathetic.

Even though they had only exchanged swords a few times, his limits had been clearly visible.

Mitch had noticed that.

But what was this now?

In just a few days, his skill had grown so much that it made Mitch wonder if he was even the same person as before.

It would have been more believable to say he was a twin.

'Is he a twin?'

Whenever stray thoughts entered his head, without fail, the sword aimed for one of his openings.

Mitch knew that the thrust that had just grazed his cheek could have punched a hole in his throat if he had made one wrong move.

'This bastard.'

Mitch focused.

He had no room to care about trivial things like what was happening around him or where he was right now.

He concentrated his mind wholly on killing his opponent.

Encrid was the same.

He dodged and blocked.

He blocked and dodged.

In the midst of it, he saw openings, but even when several openings appeared, he did not dare to dig into some of them.

But if he hesitated when there was an opening to drive his sword in, he would immediately find himself aboard the ferry the Boatswain of the black river had prepared.

Even though he would repeat today again even if he died.

Because Encrid had no intention of wasting any today.

He did his best.

That was why repeating today had even more meaning.

'Chest, no, belly.'

He dodged a feint-laced thrust.

He blocked and diverted the line of the blade that dropped from above like an eagle.

He had not properly learned the technique of diverting, so it was clumsy.

Rather than diverting, it was closer to blocking.

The Heavy Sword Technique Encrid used was fundamentally about the pleasure of overpowering the opponent with strength.

Mitch, on the other hand, mixed the Righteous Sword Technique and the Flowing Sword Technique.

The Righteous Sword Technique’s orthodox form was to drive the opponent along a fixed sword path, then use a counter.

The Flowing Sword Technique was a sword that diverted the opponent’s attacks to create openings.

TING.

Sword met sword and gave off a blast of hot heat.

Encrid was using every bit of his strength; he could not neglect a single nerve.

It was a fight where he would lose the moment he so much as blinked.

And now, as they exchanged swords, there were no flagpoles, no victory or defeat, and no swordsmanship in Encrid’s mind.

All that remained was cutting and stabbing the opponent before him and swinging his sword.

Everything around him disappeared, and only one thing remained.

The sword and I, I and the sword.

The opponent’s sword, the sword and the opponent.

Again, myself holding a sword, and the opponent holding a sword.

After that, he forgot himself and forgot his opponent.

Self-forgetfulness, forgetting oneself.

Only the sword remained.

Swinging the sword, cutting, stabbing, blocking, and dodging filled Encrid completely.

Endless joy welled up, and desire boiled in reverse.

CLANG! CLASH! TING! KLANG! SCRAAAAAPE!

Metal met metal along all sorts of paths and spat out all kinds of noise.

But nothing could last forever.

Because he knew that.

'Just a little longer.'

He wished this moment would continue a little longer.

Encrid instinctively knew.

This was not a moment he could easily greet just by repeating today.

He had experienced it once before.

There had been a time when he cut down an opponent with not even a handful of resistance left in the hand holding his sword.

The experience of unleashing a clean slash.

How hard had he tried to draw out that experience again?

It had truly not been easy.

After that, even until now, he had never succeeded.

It was the same now.

Because he had forgotten himself and only the sword remained, he wished this would last forever.

But all things had an end.

CLANG!

The opponent magnificently diverted the downward strike from above that held the principles of the Heavy Sword.

The force was perfectly directed outward, and at the same time, an opening appeared in Encrid’s chest.

SHUNK!

His opponent did not miss that opening.

The blade became a red-hot iron skewer and pierced through his chest.

“Huuuuh.”

With the sword lodged in his chest, Encrid stopped his arms.

His arms and legs trembled.

Because he had concentrated wholly and fought with all his might, his muscles were overloaded.

With trembling arms, Encrid let his sword hang down and raised his head.

He saw his opponent, drenched in sweat.

“I remember now.”

Encrid spoke with blood flowing from the corner of his mouth.

“Only now?”

“That’s right, isn’t it? The bastard who was holding the torch?”

Once he had been stabbed, the memory slowly surfaced.

That was how impressive the man had been, too.

“I’m Mitch Hurrier. Platoon Commander of the Principality of Aspen.”

“Encrid, Squad Leader of the Naurilia Kingdom.”

Encrid was also soaked from head to toe in blood and sweat.

Sweat and blood streamed down from his forehead.

His whole body was drenched as if he had been caught in the rain.

The same was true for his opponent.

In that state, the two silently stared at each other.

It was a feeling Encrid had never felt before.

Looking at the opponent who had stabbed him to death, he felt no ill will.

All he felt was a desperate desire to fight him once more.

Mitch Hurrier was expressionless.

But one could tell from his eyes.

The look in his eyes had changed.

Before he knew it, his anger had settled, and only an emotion that could not be put into words remained.

“There goes your dream.”

Dream?

Ah.

“That was a lie. What swordsman’s wish would be to die of old age?”

“Fine. Then die already.”

Mitch spoke and yanked the sword out.

The skewer heated by fire tore through his chest again.

Pain arrived and turned his head blank.

Enduring the pain, Encrid dropped to one knee.

Blood gurgled up from his throat and flowed out of his mouth.

There was no need to spit blood separately; the blood was flowing back on its own.

“What is it? Has the enemy come?”

At some point, a group of Aspen soldiers had surrounded the two of them.

One of them opened his mouth and approached.

'I didn’t even see them.'

Encrid glanced around.

It was full of enemies.

“Yes. He made it all the way here in secret. Seems he’s the kind of bastard who specializes in hitting from behind.”

“You look disappointed, Platoon Commander.”

“... I’m not.”

Mitch spoke and stared intently at Encrid.

To be honest, he was disappointed.

Because it was not easy to meet an opponent like this.

Fighting with his life on the line, he felt as if he had set foot into some realm.

Naturally, disappointment arose.

And yet, not a trace of that emotion could be seen on his opponent’s face.

He looked somehow refreshed, and he also looked excited, like a seven-year-old child who had just received a wooden sword.

“What the hell are you?”

Mitch opened his mouth in bewilderment, but Encrid was no longer listening to him.

He was dying, and one thought ruled his mind.

'Ragna, you crazy bastard. It wasn’t the fear of death that I needed.'

The requirement for drawing out Concentrate on a Single Point was not the concentration of the moment before death.

It was having an opponent with whom he could fight with their lives on the line for a long time, spurring and heightening their abilities, emotions, and everything else.

An opponent against whom he had to pour out everything he had just to endure while fighting with his life on the line.

A fight filled with such exhilaration that looking away for even an instant would end it all.

He needed a worthy rival.

In that sense, Mitch Hurrier was perfect.

He could be called a worthy rival.

As he died, Encrid realized it.

That the sensation and experience from moments ago had been the Concentrate on a Single Point Ragna had spoken of.

That he had finally done it.

And that, by repeating today again, he had the chance to reflect on that sensation and experience.

Drawing out at will the moment he had wished would last just a little longer.

That was Concentrate on a Single Point.

Would it be easy?