Chapter 43 - Mitch Hurrier

The Principality of Aspen was ruled by three houses at its core, and among them, the house that symbolized military might was House Hurrier.

In House Hurrier, whether boy or girl, every child learned martial arts from birth.

That was how they measured talent, then gathered and taught only the children who seemed promising.

Because talent was biased, and the tricks played by the goddess of luck could never be predicted.

To gather that biased thing called talent, House Hurrier brought people in regardless of whether they were from the main line or branch families.

Mitch Hurrier was one of them.

He had been born into a branch family, and the surname he originally used had been different, but now he was a member of House Hurrier.

Mitch Hurrier had possessed exceptional talent from childhood.

At fifteen, he could already take on a couple of adult soldiers.

By the following year, he had far surpassed the level of an ordinary soldier.

At eighteen, he proved his skill by defeating, one-on-one, a swordsman who could be called the representative of an entire village.

At only twenty-two, even when he sparred with those whose names were known throughout a city, he was not greatly pushed back.

Those who could match swords with him could be counted on one hand.

Among them, few were his age.

That environment gifted him arrogance.

'If I can do it after trying a few times, why bother?'

Why train until his thighs swelled and burst?

Why swing a sword until his palms tore open?

He did not want to do that.

He was satisfied with the present.

He did not work as hard as he had when he first took up the sword.

Even so, with talent alone, he became one of the top three fighters in the Gray Dog.

For Mitch, this was the first time something like this had happened.

CLANG!

He knocked away the descending sword from below to above.

The moment he let his guard down, the blade grazed his shoulder.

Mitch thrust his sword and kicked his opponent's shin.

It was a trick he often used on those less skilled than himself.

When someone was focused on the sword, blocking a kick aimed at the leg was not easy.

Even if it was blocked, it should at least create an opening.

But as if the opponent was used to this pattern, he twisted his shoulder to avoid the thrust and raised one foot to block the kick as well.

And yet his balance did not waver.

He was a bastard with solid fundamentals.

'He definitely wasn't at this level.'

Mitch recalled the moment he had faced the man a short while ago.

The man had suddenly come close and tossed out a remark.

"Hello, nice to meet you. Since we're here, how about we put our lives on the line and have a round?"

It was a face he knew.

It was definitely that bastard.

The enemy soldier who had carried out the night raid.

How had he made it all the way here when fog that blocked vision had spread everywhere?

He had no time to hold on to the question for long.

His opponent extended his sword first, long and straight.

CLANG!

As Mitch blocked it, he thought.

It might be another diversion.

So he said he would stop this bastard himself, and told the others to guard the rear.

If the flagpoles fell, it would cause a major setback to the operation.

Wasn't that the reason he was here?

If the Company Commander who led the Gray Dog was in charge of cutting off the enemy's retreat and driving them hard, then his role was to guard this place.

The enemy soldier who had blocked the kick dropped his sword, aiming for Mitch's crown.

Mitch formed a cross with his opponent's sword, blocked, and let it slide aside.

RING-RING-RING.

Their blades crossed and skimmed past each other at an angle.

At the final instant, both put strength into it and shoved each other away.

A gap of more than five steps opened between them.

Before attacking again, Mitch opened his mouth.

"Were you hiding your skill?"

"It just happened that way."

"What's your name?"

"Encrid."

He was a bastard Mitch had truly wanted to meet.

He felt he would not be satisfied unless he killed him himself.

That bastard had come to him in person.

Mitch licked his lips with his tongue.

"Good, Encrid. I'll remember your name."

"You don't have to. If you forget it, I'll tell you again."

"Crazy bastard. You die here."

Mitch raised his sword over his left shoulder.

After clashing a few times, he could measure the man's skill.

Then now was the time to show his true ability.

Five exchanges at most.

Within that time, Mitch believed he could cut off the neck of the man called Encrid.

And five sword strikes passed.

Mitch's brow narrowed.

He grimaced.

This was the first time this had happened.

If his opponent's skill had been far superior, that would have been one thing, but it was not.

It felt as though his opponent was barely keeping up with him.

And yet he blocked, endured, and drove away the sword as if he knew every one of Mitch's habits.

Mitch increased his speed even further.

He mixed in feints as well.

Even so, it did not end.

After exchanging a few more blows, gradually, he saw only his opponent.

The sword and his opponent, the blade and me, me and the blade.

Mitch Hurrier felt as if he had taken up a sword for the first time again.

Back then, when he had first gripped a sword, that sensation of only the sword and himself remaining under the sky.

If he swung his sword, it felt as if his opponent would be cut just like that.

If he thrust, it felt as if he would be stabbed.

If he pulled back and struck, it felt as if he would be hit.

Mitch did just that.

He struck down, swung in a curve, extended, thrust, and struck with a turn.

And his opponent did the same.

* * *

Encrid drew out the focused state.

In that state, he exchanged swords with Mitch.

Thanks to the today he had repeated countless times, his opponent's habits were clear to his eyes.

He blocked the foot and blocked the sword.

Then, in one instant, the enemy's sword changed.

It was fiercer and sharper than before.

It thrust and curved, cutting as the blade turned.

CLANG! CLANG! RAT-TAT-TANG!

As they collided with all their might, the blades scattered sparks.

Several sword strikes grazed his shoulder and cut his side.

They were not deep wounds, but drops of blood sprayed into the air.

At least three moments passed when his life was in danger.

In that moment, Encrid's immersion deepened further.

Deeper.

Encrid deliberately drove himself further into that state.

He forgot his surroundings.

He went to a world where only he and his sword remained.

Concentrate on a Single Point fully activated.

In his eyes, only Mitch Hurrier's sword was visible.

In Mitch Hurrier's eyes, only Encrid's sword was visible.

The two fought like madmen.

They wagered their lives against each other.

Attacks passed back and forth that made even those watching dizzy.

PSSHT.

When both failed to cut each other's throats, blood flowed from both their necks.

Still in the focused state, Mitch used his killing pattern.

He pulled his left foot back and set his right foot forward, creating a new distance rather than the familiar one.

He let the tip of his sword droop behind his backside.

"Hup."

As he drew in a short breath, strength entered his muscles.

Righteous Sword and Flowing Sword.

Both were closer to sword styles meant for receiving attacks.

Mitch had learned a technique that struck with a reversal.

It was a technique called the Wheel Cut, drawing a large circle from bottom to top.

By changing his stance and hiding the blade with his body, he concealed the starting point of the attack and created a single blow his opponent could not block.

Even the adjustment of his foot position beforehand to change the distance was solely for this one Wheel Cut.

When his opponent prepared the Wheel Cut, Encrid experienced a deep state of immersion.

What he had gained through that experience was not only swordsmanship.

'I can see it.'

He could not see it with his eyes, but his opponent's movements were drawn in his head exactly as they were.

His hearing, having entered Concentrate on a Single Point, became frighteningly sharp.

The sound of a foot leaving the ground, even the sound of the sword being drawn back as his opponent steadied his breathing.

Every sound entering his ears was gathered as information and formed an image in his head.

He had died to the Wheel Cut more than ten times.

Because he had the experience of being struck countless times by the technique his opponent was now swinging, the image that rose in Encrid's mind was clearer than anything.

He felt the hidden sword as clearly as if he could see it, and he heard his opponent's breathing too.

All of that combined, and he read the timing of the Wheel Cut.

WHOOSH.

The sound of the blade cutting through the wind stabbed his ears.

Soon, the blade surged upward as if curving from below to above.

Sunk in a state of immersion, Encrid reflexively brought his sword down.

It was exactly the trajectory needed to block the Wheel Cut.

CLANG!

The sword rising from below and the sword striking down from above met.

Both had put so much force into it that, with a crack, a fissure appeared in Encrid's sword.

The moment the swords met, Mitch was shocked that his blow had been blocked, and his focused state half broke.

But not Encrid.

Encrid's half-cracked sword moved as if sliding along the blade his opponent held.

SCREEEEECH!

Blade grinding against blade spat out a strange noise.

Mitch reflexively lifted his sword upward.

Normally, the sword should have risen, but Encrid pressed it down with force.

It was only natural that pressing down from above was more advantageous than lifting from below.

On top of that, because he had continued training every day, Encrid's muscular strength was superior as well.

If they competed strength against strength, Mitch could not match him.

As Encrid pressed the blade down, he stretched his left foot forward and put even more strength into it, shoving the sword down as if knocking it away.

RING!

Mitch's sword was knocked downward.

In that state, Encrid stepped forward with his left foot and twisted his waist.

The sword in his hand became a single point and shot forward.

The tip of the sword stabbed deep into Mitch's chest.

He was wearing armor, but the force carried by the sword was simply too great.

Mitch's chest was pierced.

But it did not go all the way through.

Encrid pulled the sword back just like that.

With a slick sound, the bloodied blade withdrew.

"Huu, hu."

After recovering his sword, Encrid breathed hard.

For a brief moment, he had used all his strength.

His arms and legs were trembling.

Blood surged from Mitch's chest.

He retreated several steps like a drunk man, then put strength into his legs and stopped.

For a moment, Mitch's pupils seemed to lose focus, but soon he forced his eyes wide open.

"I should've gone for a counter."

Mitch spoke.

Blood still flowed from his chest.

It was not a small amount.

The flowing blood quickly soaked his clothes.

"If I'd received it and let it slide to make an opening, it would've been a fight in my favor. You admit that, don't you?"

"Isn't victory or defeat decided by the result?"

Encrid answered the question with a question.

"That's not wrong, but I just feel too wronged. Or maybe not. Yeah, I shouldn't have stopped training. At the end, I was purely pushed back by strength."

Mitch's eyes grew hazy.

Even if left alone, he would die.

More blood began to flow.

Encrid raised his sword and took two steps forward.

"Stop him!"

Just as he was about to thrust his sword, someone shouted and charged in.

At the same time as he heard a heavy whoosh, Encrid raised his sword at an angle and half-covered his upper body.

CLANG!

A heavy impact struck the sword.

Encrid stepped back two paces and looked at his opponent.

It was a man with a mustache.

He stood in front of Mitch.

"Protect Mitch!"

The man shouted.

Encrid looked around.

Three or four more soldiers appeared and likewise blocked the way in front of Mitch.

Then they sprinkled powdered medicine over Mitch's unconscious chest.

The blood flowing from his chest quickly stopped.

"You bastard. How dare you come here alone!"

The mustached man glared.

He looked furious.

His eyes swept briefly over Mitch.

Was that fellow someone important?

Encrid steadied his breathing and observed his opponent.

Seeing his shoulders rise and fall, his breathing seemed ragged.

And yet there was no opening in his stance.

The mustached man had just returned after checking the flagpole.

He had thought Mitch would win.

Because Encrid's skill had not looked impressive.

But the result was the complete opposite.

Encrid did not get excited just because he had beaten Mitch.

There was still work left to do.

This was a battlefield, and they were in the middle of battle.

Because his purpose was not a romantic one-on-one duel or sparring match.

Encrid clearly understood what he had to do.

"I heard the larger a spell's medium is, the shoddier it is. Is that true?"

Encrid spoke while watching two soldiers support Mitch Hurrier and carry him away.

The mustached man blocking his path narrowed his eyes.

"You bastard, you know something."

A lot.

Encrid tapped the ground with the tip of his foot, then kicked upward in one breath.

PUFF!

Dust and bits of short weeds surged upward and covered the mustached man's face.

The man hastily raised his hand to block it and shouted.

"Catch him! Don't let him get to the flagpole!"

The moment Encrid thought he had blinded his opponent, he sprinted.

WHIZZ-WHIZZ-WHIZZ!

Quarrels flew from behind him.

Even though he urgently twisted his body to the left, one shot struck the back of his right shoulder.

'This much is fine.'

Encrid ran in a straight line toward the flagpole.

An enemy soldier blocking his path held something like a short spear.

Encrid, who had been charging like a rhinoceros and snorting hard, planted his foot into the ground five steps away and leapt as if curving to the right.

A quarrel fired from behind at Encrid flew into the enemy soldier holding the short spear.

"Argh! My eye!"

The unlucky enemy soldier took a quarrel in the eye.

More than three others were hit in the arm or torso.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

The commander among the crossbowmen shouted.

Encrid was not in a state of immersion, but he was maintaining a half-focused state.

Concentrate on a Single Point and Sense of the Blade overlapped.

He listened to the sounds and grasped the enemy's positions and situation in his head.

Just like that, he reversed his body backward and, sword in hand, leapt into the midst of the crossbowmen.

"Huh!"

When he brought his blade down on the crown of a startled soldier's head, the skull cracked with a thud.

Because he had swung his sword in a chopping cut, the reaction lifted the sword upward.

In that same motion, he swung the sword in a circle around himself.

WHOOSH!

The startled group of enemy soldiers stepped back.

"Gray Dog! After him!"

Then the mustached man chasing from behind spoke.

Encrid had leapt into the crossbowmen, then ran again to the opposite side.

STAB!

As he ran out, he stabbed one enemy soldier through the neck with his sword.

He picked up a quarrel that had fallen to the ground and threw it to the side.

The quarrel flew with a twang, struck an enemy soldier's armor uselessly, and fell to the ground.

The soldier who was hit drew a short sword instead of his crossbow and charged, but the throwing knife Encrid threw immediately after the quarrel lodged in his forehead.

It was because he had blocked the quarrel and let his guard down.

"Huu!"

Breathing out in short bursts, Encrid moved in and out of the enemy formation as if it were his own home.

There were two things he wanted right now.

One was to break the flagpole.

The second was for the allied commander to please stop doing stupid things and cover his back.

"You son of a bitch!"

The mustached man snorted hard.

His anger seemed to have risen all the way to the top of his head.

After running this way and that, Encrid had finally reached the vicinity of the flagpole.

He threw every throwing knife he had in his hand.

WHIZZ-WHIZZ-WHIZZ!

Five knives flew.

All five throwing knives struck the fluttering flag.

Because it was a thick cloth flag, holes were not easily pierced through it.

When Encrid threw the knives, the enemy soldiers were startled.

"You fucking...!"

More enemy soldiers grew angry.

"Block him! I said block him!"

A man presumed to be a spellcaster shouted from right beneath the flagpole.

And when everyone, startled, turned their eyes to see whether the knives had pierced the flag, Encrid rolled across the ground.

It was a sudden forward roll even though his opponent had not fired a quarrel or arrow and there was no threat.

No one paid attention to it.

Because his feet had stopped, the mustached soldier closed the distance.

Got you, you bastard.

The mustached soldier was certain of it.

Encrid was in the middle of rising while gripping a short spear that had fallen to the ground.

"Stop him!"

"No!"

The mustached man shouted.

The spellcaster shouted too.

Encrid answered with his body.

He planted his left foot into the ground and used the elasticity of his entire body to throw the short spear.

With a sharp crack, the short spear flew and struck the flag.

RIP!

The flag tore.

A hole opened.

If a spell's medium was damaged, it became a mess.

Then there was no need to knock down the flagpole.

Because tearing the flag alone would be enough.

He had not needed to go all the way up there.

Seeing the fog clear around him, Encrid let out a deep breath.

It was like a sigh of relief.

"You crazy bastard. Do you think you can get out of here alive?"

Seeing that, flames of rage blazed in the mustached man's eyes.

Encrid raised his sword, took a defensive stance with it aligned to the centerline of his body, and nodded.

"Probably?"

The odds were half and half.

Half a chance of surviving, half a chance of dying.

To an ordinary person, those were dreadful odds.

But not to Encrid.

Because even if he failed, he only had to do it again.