Chapter 117: Left Hand

Running away was never an option.

Even if escape were the only solution.

‘There’s nowhere to go.’

Above all, when the path forward was visible, how could he turn away from it?

The signpost ahead of Encrid posed a question:

Could he overcome the wall without his right hand?

They say that if you lack teeth, you chew with your gums.

A village chief from a remote farming settlement once said that.

Encrid had liked those words.

If there’s no sword, take up a spear.

If there’s no weapon, fight with your fists.

If both arms are lost, bite.

If legs are gone, crawl on your knees.

‘So then.’

What remained if his right hand was out of commission?

Darkness, the abyss, fear, pain.

These were the things that gripped Encrid every time death approached.

And yet, even in such darkness, Encrid always saw the light.

“Give up.”

It felt like someone was whispering those words.

As if his own mind was driving him to the worst of situations.

Saying it aloud himself made it feel even more real, but in truth, it didn’t bother him.

Why? He didn’t know. Encrid understood the difference between himself and others.

How could he not?

He had seen comrades who once ate from the same pot retire one by one.

Not to mention others who had said:

“I can’t do this. With monsters like that around, swordplay is meaningless. It’s madness.”

He had watched people crumble, envious of the talents of others.

Encrid, too, envied such talent.

But envy alone changed nothing.

He couldn’t let even a single day slip by idly. Rain or snow, he had to swing his sword at least one more time.

It was the only way he knew.

So he had done just that.

Was it difficult?

It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t as though every day felt like swimming through an ocean of misery.

It was simply something that needed doing.

And so, he did it.

Death was the same. He knew it could be endured, so he endured. That was all.

‘For now.’

It seemed he had to try a variety of things. Hadn’t he learned that much from the repeated cycles of today?

‘That there isn’t just one way.’

There were three paths.

If he could use everything blocking his way to repeat ‘today,’ he would.

He now knew that struggle alone wasn’t the only solution.

Because of that understanding—

“Good morning.”

He could begin the day with a smile and greeting.

Esther gazed at him with tired eyes.

What kind of person greets the morning so cheerfully?

Her eyes seemed to be asking that.

“Get some more sleep.”

Encrid gently pushed Esther back into the blanket where he had been lying.

Normally, she would have wriggled in protest, but today she quietly let herself be wrapped in the blanket.

Once he tucked Esther in, Encrid stepped outside.

*Hoo.*

He exhaled deeply and began loosening up his body with the Isolation Technique.

As always, the physical exercise cleared his mind.

“A sound mind resides in a sound body, brother.”

Audin had once said this, and at the time, Encrid thought it was nonsense.

But now, he understood it somewhat.

It turned out to be true.

The more he trained his body, the clearer his mind became.

The sweat he shed sharpened his thoughts.

His wrist, splinted and injured before death, was intact once again after the reset.

Everything he trained for—building muscle, ingraining techniques into his body—remained through the cycles. But injuries did not heal unless he survived beyond today.

So relying on his healed wrist to overcome the wall was not an option.

‘Relax your shoulders.’

Broaden your view. At times, dive deeper.

He continued thinking, seeking the best path forward.

And when he found it, he followed.

What should the first step be?

What else?

Keep doing what he had always done.

The same things he had done repeatedly before his death.

Training and practice. The only difference now was that he would do it with his left hand instead of his injured right.

“Before you just watch, tie this for me.”

Before starting, he addressed Benzense, who had been idly observing from one side.

“Am I your subordinate? Why are you making me do this?”

Though grumbling, Benzense approached and tightened the leather strap on Encrid’s sword grip.

The sight of Benzense’s severed neck flashed through his mind—it had been truly wretched.

The same went for Esther.

When he saw the dark-eyed leopard thrown aside, anger had flared within him.

How to describe that feeling?

It was like rage. A miserable, wretched rage.

‘Why did they risk their lives for me?’

The bitter sentiment lingered. Like an afterimage, Benzense’s severed head and Esther’s prone form haunted his thoughts.

‘Why was Esther so weak today?’

Normally, that leopard was savage.

She clawed at soldiers’ shins, tore into flesh, and claimed lives—a true beast.

Underestimating her size meant having your throat bitten in an instant.

And yet, she had been so easily subdued.

‘She was exhausted.’

Regardless.

They had risked their lives for him.

So Encrid decided to do the same.

To put his life on the line, even in training. To pour his heart into every swing of the sword.

“You’re insane. Rest when you need to.”

Benzense handed back the sword, muttering.

Encrid took it with his left hand and replied.

“Sorry about Jenny.”

“…You knew?”

Benzense ruffled his hair before blurting out,

“I know it wasn’t your fault.”

This guy really was peculiar.

His emotions swung wildly.

When Encrid hadn’t understood before, Benzense had raged at him.

Encrid clapped Benzense’s shoulder with his injured hand.

“Somewhere on the continent, there’s a woman who won’t care about looks.”

“…You bastard.”

Benzense’s twisted expression lightened Encrid’s heart.

Yes, this was it.

Now he understood Rem’s mindset.

Teasing people wasn’t for nothing.

Grumbling, Benzense walked off.

Encrid stood with his sword, its tip pointing diagonally toward the sky in his left hand.

What had he experienced in the many repeated days and deaths?

He reflected on the past. Built on the basics. Immersed himself in his own world.

And it brought joy.

A new kind of happiness.

The kind of pleasure that comes from immersing oneself entirely in something.

The afterimages of his banter with Benzense faded from his mind as he delved into his world.

Encrid re-lived the experiences of his repeated days.

Again and again, he reviewed and practiced.

This time, the leather strap didn’t snap.

“The first step is footwork.”

The teachings of countless sword instructors.

Recalling their lessons.

The basics. Standing before walking, crawling before standing.

Returning to fundamentals. Before mastering advanced techniques, there were things to learn.

He trained to move his sword exactly as he intended.

And so, Encrid practiced.

*Swish!* *Whoosh.* *Whir.*

Between the dullness of repetition, sharp sounds occasionally emerged.

Lost in the flow of time, he swung his sword countless times.

*Beep!*

A long whistle echoed.

“Huh?”

Benzense, who had been absentmindedly watching, reacted first.

“What now!”

He shouted and turned. Encrid emerged from his focused state.

*Hiss.*

Sensing the shift in the atmosphere, Esther stepped out of the tent and stood beside Encrid.

Tapping Esther lightly on the head, Encrid said,

“Stay out of this today. You’re tired.”

What? This human?

Esther looked at him in disbelief.

It was as if he knew she was exhausted. Had he realized what she did last night to relieve his fatigue?

Of course not.

It was only due to the accumulated experience from the repeated days.

“Captain!”

Krys shouted, running toward him.

Encrid briefly stuck the tip of his sword into the ground, considering.

Should he switch to his right hand?

Would that make a difference?

Injuries didn’t heal. Death only reset everything.

He would use his left hand.

He had already made that decision.

There was no hesitation. Encrid was not the type to overthink or agonize deeply over things.

Running away wasn’t an option.

Neither was remaining trapped in today.

That left him with one choice: to figure out what he could do and then do it.

This was it.

*Crunch.*

He kicked away a few pebbles, pulled the sword from the ground, and pointed it forward.

“…I’ll have to make an offering at the temple when I return,” said Mitch Hurrier as he appeared, stepping on the gravel. His hair was soaked, and his sword rested in his hand.

His stance was refined, his gaze sharp—clearly different from before.

“What are you even talking about?”

Benzense growled, aiming his spear. Beside him, Esther let out a real growl, a deep rumbling sound rising from her throat.

It was a noise that would make a coward’s knees buckle, but Mitch Hurrier’s steps didn’t falter.

He walked steadily forward, closing the distance without hesitation.

“I’ll go first,” Encrid declared, stepping forward.

“Captain, your wrist!” Krys shouted urgently from behind, clearly alarmed.

The sudden attack, with allies falling left and right, had rattled him.

Screams, curses, the clanging of metal—all around was chaos.

Mitch Hurrier’s footsteps came to a halt.

Encrid responded to Krys without looking back.

“My left hand is fine.”

What kind of crazy statement was that?

Krys’s wide eyes widened further. He couldn’t make sense of his captain’s absurd remark.

Nobody in their right mind would. It sounded like complete nonsense.

Yet, despite the words, Encrid’s spirit was unyielding, matching his opponent’s.

The aura emanating from Mitch Hurrier pressed down on those nearby.

Benzense felt himself shrinking under the weight.

This was what it meant to overwhelm others with presence.

Even Esther felt the pressure.

Krys, of course, was no exception.

There was no chance for help from nearby soldiers, and they all knew how easily things could go wrong and lead to death.

And yet, despite the suffocating atmosphere, why did Encrid’s back seem so broad?

He stood there, ahead of them all, his back facing them.

That single fact alone seemed to push back the oppressive aura.

A spirit that matched his opponent’s.

Yes, that was what it felt like.

Encrid and Mitch Hurrier locked eyes.

“I hoped we’d meet again,” Mitch said.

“Thanks to me, you opened your eyes, right?” Encrid retorted.

Mitch’s brows furrowed slightly at that. Shaking an opponent’s resolve with words was a basic principle of Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship.

Using what he had learned from the repeated days, Encrid sought to unsettle his enemy’s mind.

He waved his injured right hand as if it were fully functional.

Mitch reflexively shifted his sword in response.

Using the verbal feint and the distraction of his right hand, Encrid drove the sword in his left hand upward in a stab.

It was a dual-feint maneuver from the Valen-Style technique.

The left-handed stab wasn’t perfect, far from satisfying.

He had only been using his left hand for two days.

*Clang!*

It was blocked.

The stab itself had been clumsy, but more importantly, Mitch Hurrier’s skills had grown significantly.

Almost on par with Encrid, who had repeated today countless times.

Mitch deflected the upward stab with his blade and stepped forward with his left foot in a fluid motion.

His sword drew an elegant arc and slashed at Encrid’s chest.

*Rip.*

Encrid reflexively stepped back, his leather armor absorbing the slash.

But it couldn’t hold up much longer.

*Grrrr!*

Esther lunged again from behind.

“You madman!” Benzense shouted in frustration.

“Captain!” Krys called out.

Mitch Hurrier ignored all distractions. He focused solely on his task.

As if he had anticipated Encrid’s retreat, Mitch adjusted his stance, switching the position of his feet to close the distance, and thrust his sword forward.

*Thud!*

“Your right hand?” Mitch asked as he stabbed.

Encrid raised his splinted right hand—clearly injured.

“Hmm.”

Encrid’s attempt to reply was cut short as blood poured from his mouth.

“Unlucky.”

*Crunch.*

Mitch pulled out the blade. No one could survive a pierced heart.

Behind him, Krys shouted something, Benzense charged, and Esther sprang forward.

Why did they keep throwing themselves into this?

Following that, as the chaos unfolded, Encrid met the darkness of the abyss once again.

Death had come again.

When he opened his eyes, he resumed left-hand training.

On some days, he quietly devoted himself to practice.

On others—

“Jenny had good taste.”

“…I’ll kill you,” Benzense grumbled in irritation.

So the cycle repeated for over ten days.

“Your right hand is injured!” Krys exclaimed in exasperation on one of those days.

“My left hand is still fine,” Encrid replied.

“What nonsense are you spouting?!”

He mixed Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship into his techniques, but it wasn’t very effective.

So he began incorporating grappling moves.

Before drawing his sword, he threw his last remaining Whistle Dagger, closed the gap as if to draw his weapon, then tripped Mitch with his foot.

Mitch, however, with a simple lowering of his center of gravity, countered the attempt.

“Not so fast.”

And so, it was back to swordplay.

Initially, Encrid couldn’t last a single exchange. By the thirtieth repetition, he managed two or three.

On the forty-second day, something unexpected happened.

“Let’s spar,” Benzense suddenly suggested, watching from the sidelines.

Feeling the sweat trickling down his forehead, Encrid tilted his head.

“With me?”

“Who else?”

Encrid nodded. It was second nature to him. He never refused a sparring match.

Ordinarily, Benzense wouldn’t stand a chance against him, but with Encrid now using his left hand, things were different.

“No holding back,” Benzense said, thrusting his spear forward. His spirit was fierce.

*Clink.*

Encrid tapped the spear’s blade with his sword in greeting.

The sparring match had begun.