Chapter 118: Leap

“Come at me!”

*Clang, clang!*

Steel clashed against steel several times.

Benzense fought with raw strength and ferocity. While he was physically strong for a soldier, strength alone wasn’t enough to overwhelm an opponent, especially when using just one hand.

‘So, how should I do this?’

Encrid thought as he fought, testing his ideas in real-time.

Deflect. He redirected Benzense’s powerful strikes and targeted openings with quick thrusts.

It was about connecting points with lines—finding the optimal path for his blade to move and probing for reactions while stepping back.

His feet moved swiftly.

When he spotted a gap, he executed a heavy downward slash, showcasing the weighty elegance of the mid-sword technique.

*Clang!*

Benzense blocked the strike with his spear shaft and attempted to trip him.

This was a style of fighting Encrid was more familiar with.

After all, he had faced countless opponents using Aile Carraz-style grappling techniques.

Additionally, he had studied Valaf-style martial arts, becoming proficient in so-called “ground techniques,” which resembled wrestling.

With a sharp kick, Encrid knocked Benzense’s leg aside, capitalizing on the opening to slam his sword hard against the spear’s shaft.

*Thud!*

The spear twisted to the side, leaving an opening. Encrid forced his sword against Benzense’s neck.

He heard a faint sound from his left arm, as though something in his muscles had strained or torn.

But he had won.

“Your left hand…”

“I’ve been training it for a while, in secret. My hidden weapon.”

A prepared excuse was always a beautiful thing.

After repeating today so many times, Encrid had grown adept at crafting believable excuses.

“Damn it.”

“Why the sudden sparring match?” Encrid asked.

“I don’t know. Watching you made me want to try.”

All he had been doing was practicing the basics.

There hadn’t been anything particularly extraordinary—just repetitive steps, thrusts, and slashes.

Benzense didn’t have much to say in response.

He already knew that Encrid was on a higher level than him, both in skill and character.

From the moment Encrid had saved him during the infirmary fire, Benzense had been unable to hate him.

Watching Encrid train his left hand had seemed bizarre, though.

‘Why is he good with his left hand, too?’

Still, something seemed off.

“It feels… strange,” Benzense said hesitantly.

“What does?”

“Like… like your sword is dead.”

That was the best way he could put it. Any further explanation would likely come out clumsy and incoherent.

And what could he say to someone who was clearly better than him?

Looking at the situation, though, Benzense realized how absurd he must seem. He had challenged Encrid out of nowhere, lost, and was now criticizing him.

“It’s just that—”

“Hold on.”

Encrid cut him off and began staring blankly into the air. Though his eyes were open, his mind was elsewhere.

Benzense felt frustrated.

He hadn’t sparred out of jealousy or envy. In that moment, his intentions had been pure.

It had been like the first time he picked up a spear.

He remembered the thrill of taking down his first beast in battle, the excitement that had driven him to practice morning and night.

His blood had boiled, and he couldn’t stay still.

Here was a man with a shattered right wrist, known to return from grueling missions and spar with his platoon before collapsing into sleep.

Someone who should have been injured and exhausted.

So why was he still pushing himself?

Why was he smiling?

It wasn’t envy or jealousy.

It was pure, boiling blood.

“Thank you.”

Then, out of nowhere, Encrid broke his trance to speak. He looked at Benzense, who was standing there, dumbfounded.

“What are you doing?” Encrid asked.

“Nothing.”

What was he thanking him for? No idea. But one thing was clear—this guy was strange.

A madman obsessed with training—a nickname that suited him better than any charming title.

Certainly better than “the magnetic platoon leader.”

Encrid, for his part, had come to a realization from Benzense’s words.

‘Clumsiness.’

In his efforts to retrace the paths of the past, he had felt a persistent discord.

Instead of identifying and addressing his mistakes, he had been too focused on swinging his sword every day.

Because he didn’t know a better way.

But now he did.

The difference was in sensation. The fine control of his dominant right hand was absent in his left hand.

That was the first step.

‘Start with eating.’

He would begin with basic tasks, such as using a spoon or fork with his left hand.

He also knew of a training technique that involved using both the fingertips and arm muscles together.

‘Hidden Knife.’

Good. That would be his next approach.

“Captain!”

Krys’s voice rang out again.

*Grrr.*

Esther growled, her hostility rising.

“Damn it,” Benzense cursed under his breath.

“Thanks be to the gods for allowing us to meet again.”

Soaked from head to toe, Mitch Hurrier stepped forward, blocking their path. He seemed to have developed a newfound piety since their last encounter.

Running away would only lead back to the start of the day.

The wall that lay ahead had to be overcome with just one left hand.

Words were pointless.

The only answer was to grip his sword and fight.

And so Encrid fought in silence. He swung his sword and tripped his opponent.

He studied Mitch’s patterns, trying to memorize them.

And then he died.

Pain, darkness, the abyss, death.

When he rose again, he began living with his left hand.

“What are you doing?” Krys asked, tilting his head.

“Eating.”

“Did you injure your right hand too?”

“No. I’m just not using it. Can’t recover if I keep relying on it.”

“That’s overdoing it.”

Sure. It was just an excuse.

Twenty cycles of today passed as Encrid lived this way.

During that time, Benzense challenged him to spar several more times.

The soldier’s face showed his pure admiration for strength—a respect born of raw, boiling blood.

“Good.”

By the twentieth repetition, Benzense no longer called Encrid’s sword “dead.”

‘Thanks to him.’

Encrid swung his sword again. And then he died.

Again, and again, and again.

It was on the ninetieth day that he noticed a difference.

‘It’s different.’

Walking the same path with his left hand instead of his right didn’t mean he was merely repeating things.

No.

The Encrid of now was completely different from the Encrid of then.

‘Focus.’

Immersing himself deeply in his training, refining his movements through the Isolation Technique.

His transformed body, aided by the Heart of the Beast, maintained balance and composure.

His sword moved with precision, directed by his intent.

The process repeated, over and over, in seemingly endless training sessions.

Then, for the first time, Encrid experienced something entirely new.

*Swish.*

*Swish.*

*Swish.*

Not only was his sword moving as he intended, but he also found himself mimicking the basic forms of *Proper Heavy Recovery* with ease.

Accurate, heavy, swift, smooth, and strangely refined.

His body moved on its own.

What was talent?

It was impossible to define with a single word.

The ability to use the body skillfully, the capacity to focus entirely—these, too, were facets of talent.

Even the joy of accomplishment was beyond him now.

The sword moved on its own, carving its path.

His body responded instinctively.

He no longer needed to see his surroundings; he could feel the gazes of others as he moved.

Through sheer effort, he had reshaped his limited talent.

And now, for the first time, he had achieved something he never would have in his lifetime otherwise.

Immersion, a transformed body, and the composure granted by the Heart of the Beast combined to bring balance and sharpen his senses.

Encrid realized that his swordsmanship had leapt forward—not through repetition, but within a single day.

*Hoo.*

At the same time, he saw his shortcomings.

Precision.

What needed to be done to fill that gap?

Simply swinging a sword wasn’t enough.

Through the cracks of newfound talent, Encrid glimpsed possibilities.

Living with his left hand wasn’t sufficient; he needed to fully master the *Hidden Knife Technique*.

Thus began the repetitions anew. Simply recognizing his deficiencies didn’t change anything.

And so, he repeated. At times, the days were monotonous; at others, they were grueling.

‘Is this possible?’

As Encrid retraced the paths with his left hand, he found joy in the process.

Watching himself grow—there was nothing else that could ignite him more.

By the time his senses were sharpened, and he felt sufficiently prepared, the day came.

“Let’s spar,” Benzense challenged.

By now, it had become a regular occurrence—a daily challenge.

The fight didn’t last long.

*Clang!*

Encrid parried the spear blade and flicked his sword upward. His blade moved like a snake, stopping just before Benzense’s neck.

“Damn it, and with your left hand, too?”

“I’ve been secretly training it. My hidden weapon.”

Using the same excuse as before, Encrid silenced Benzense.

Benzense could only shake his head in disbelief.

‘How is he this good with his left hand?’

He didn’t feel despair, however. His admiration for Encrid had prompted him to ask for the sparring match in the first place.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Encrid asked.

Benzense spoke his mind honestly.

“I think I need to work harder when I get back.”

At this, Encrid looked at him, then smiled softly—a smile that matched his annoyingly handsome face.

“Well then, someday Jenny might come around, too.”

“You bastard!”

Why did he always react this way? Jenny was undoubtedly Benzense’s trigger.

Encrid laughed and pushed him lightly. Benzense couldn’t help but chuckle as well.

‘I’ll make sure he gets to confess to Jenny.’

For that to happen, they couldn’t die here.

*Beep!*

The whistle blew.

The 112th iteration of today began.

*Crunch.*

Mitch Hurrier appeared, stepping on gravel.

“Captain!”

Krys was slightly late today.

Though the days repeated, not every detail was the same.

Whether Krys was late or not didn’t matter, of course.

Encrid strapped the sword sheath to his right side and gripped the handle with his left hand.

“Well, I guess you could call this luck,” Mitch Hurrier muttered, looking at Encrid.

Encrid didn’t respond.

At some point, the whistle’s sound, Mitch Hurrier, Benzense, Esther, and even Krys—all faded from his awareness.

He was focused solely on the sword. On his opponent. On the line connecting point to point.

What was speed?

*Shing!*

The sword screeched against its sheath.

Before the sound even ended, Encrid’s blade traced the optimal path, aiming for Mitch Hurrier’s forehead.

*Ping.*

That sound echoed in Encrid’s ears.

A split-second strike executed at full power in a state of complete focus.

For this one strike, his left hand surpassed his right.

Then—

*Clang!*

Mitch Hurrier’s sword emerged to meet his.

*Clang!*

The blades clashed, crossing in an X. Encrid pushed forward with sheer strength.

*Crunch, crunch, crunch!*

Mitch was forced to step back, nearly losing his balance. He barely managed to hold his ground as Encrid pressed in, giving him no chance to retreat.

Encrid closed the distance to the point where his own sword was unnecessary.

He released his weapon and grabbed Mitch’s sword hand with both of his.

Applying all his strength—

*Crack.*

A satisfying sound of bone grinding against bone followed.

“You lunatic!”

*Thud!*

Mitch struck Encrid’s thigh with his knee.

Encrid tried to maintain his grip despite the blow, but Mitch’s fist smashed into his cheekbone, forcing him to step back.

‘His punches pack a punch.’

“Esther!” Encrid called out as he retreated. The perceptive panther sprang forward.

“My sword!”

Not an attack command—just a request for his weapon.

Esther understood. Despite her exhaustion, she responded to her master’s call.

Snatching the sword’s grip in her teeth, she hurled it back toward Encrid with all her might.

For her, even this simple act required every ounce of her strength. Today, she wasn’t in peak condition, her magic and body both drained.

*Thud, clatter.*

The sword landed just a step in front of Encrid.

*Thunk!*

A spear stabbed into the spot Esther had been standing moments before.

It was one of the enemy soldiers.

As the soldier kicked at Esther, trying to finish her off—

*Clang!*

Benzense intercepted the blow.

“Where do you think you’re going, bastard?”

The enemy soldier huffed through his nose as their weapons clashed. They quickly traded blows with spear shafts, blades, fists, and kicks.

Amid the chaos, Encrid picked up his sword.

“Your hand okay?”

The question came from Encrid, splint still on his right wrist, making it somewhat ironic.

“You bastard,” Mitch growled, his lips curling into a sneer as he glared at Encrid.

The question was more pointed than it seemed—Mitch’s thumb had been broken in their earlier clash. Without it, he couldn’t properly grip his sword.

Mitch glanced at his injured thumb before turning his gaze back to Encrid.

For the first time, he noticed that Encrid was wielding his sword with his left hand.

‘Was he always left-handed?’

No, that didn’t seem right.

When they’d fought before, Encrid had used his right hand—and with full strength.

That memory made the current situation all the more absurd.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m ambidextrous,” Mitch said, switching his sword to his left hand.

Encrid, naturally, continued to hold his weapon in his left hand.

“Well, starting today, so am I.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Thanks to the countless repetitions of today, Encrid had grown thoroughly accustomed to using his left hand.