Chapter 209

Encrid placed his hand on the grip of his sword and steadied his breathing.

Vanguard, blade tip, front line—whatever one called it, he was at the very front.

Thus began a massive battlefield clash.

The terrain was so flat it could be called a plains engagement.

He had expected a cavalry charge.

No, it was something anyone could have foreseen.

Which is why stepping out like this was sheer madness.

From the enemy’s perspective, they must be wondering if there was a single sane man on this side.

Still, he hadn’t expected the cavalry to charge immediately like this.

Dudududu!

The ground shook from the cavalry’s charge, even while they were still at a distance.

Separate from the rumbling, they weren’t quite close enough to begin swordplay just yet. But they were fast. The distance was closing rapidly.

The wild breath of the horses, the dust kicked up by their hooves, the uniformly armored cavalry—

All of it was enough to stir fear.

“Well, well. Look at him, loving every second of it.”

Sharp-eyed Rem commented upon seeing the cavalry commander closing in. He wore a helmet that covered his face—could he really see his expression?

“You can see that?”

“It’s just a feeling.”

Rem snorted through his nose.

Was the barbarian’s instincts as frightening as Jaxson’s?

Or was it simply a reflex triggered anytime he saw someone look down on him?

Either way, Encrid felt something similar.

He gauged the number of approaching cavalry. Over fifty.

Standing with him were Rem, Ragna, Jaxson, and Audin.

Finn, Dunbakel, and Esther had been pulled back.

“I can fight too.”

Dunbakel had protested right before deployment, but a beastkin who’d followed Audin and come back with her skull nearly bashed in didn’t really have the right to speak.

Bandages wrapped from her left ear to her forehead.

“Ha ha, sister. You nearly died. If you’d like to go to heaven, just say the word. I’ll send you there right now.”

Audin’s polite death threat shut Dunbakel up. She had followed Audin, acted out, and got injured. Not that she would have been brought along even unhurt.

“She’s way too soft.”

Rem muttered beside him, leaving her with a casual, “See you later.”

Just because he always acted flippantly didn’t mean his words carried no weight.

When Rem said “see you later,” it was the kind of thing that sent chills down your spine—though Dunbakel didn’t seem to notice.

Encrid brushed the thought aside. The cavalry was now almost upon them. Dudududu, their charge made the earth quake, their weapons coming into view.

Broad-bladed glaives gleamed in the sunlight, slanted diagonally toward the ground—not meant for stabbing, but for sweeping slashes.

The sky was far too clear.

Encrid thought the bright sun matched his blade well.

Then he should simply use it.

Shiiing.

He drew his sword, gripped it with both hands, and gave it a slight twist.

“Screw your damn walls!”

The leader of the cavalry unit shouted as he approached.

Encrid unleashed a technique from [Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship].

A [Valen-Style mercenary attack technique].

[Blinding Flash].

His blade, honed to a terrifying edge, mirrored the enemy’s face like a mirror.

It caught the sunlight and reflected it straight into the opponent’s eyes.

“Urgh!”

The charging enemy flinched and raised a hand. But the horse didn’t flinch—its speed remained unchanged.

Even so, the momentum seemed slightly dulled.

Whether the sunlight hit or not, the gleaming glaive still cleaved through the air, aiming for Encrid’s neck.

A slanted swing through the air from the broad glaive blade.

Sunlight reflecting, a blade sharpened to kill, an enemy, a foe, the sun, the earth, horses, dust, battlefield, the front line—

In a flash, Encrid recalled everything around him, then discarded it all to fully immerse himself.

Forgetting himself, forgetting the world—leaving only enemy and sword.

As the incoming glaive blade approached, his [Heart of Monstrous Strength] surged.

With the courage of a [Heart of the Beast], he didn’t blink at the incoming blade. Sharpened senses helped him read the perfect timing.

Thus, Encrid swung his sword vertically and struck the glaive’s blade.

Claaang!

The crisp ringing sound marked the beginning of everything.

The strength of well-trained muscles in both arms, paired with a rare sword—together they formed perfect harmony.

Clang!

Facing the enemy formation lined with glaives, Encrid shattered the first blade.

There was no time to watch it shatter and fly. In a world where only enemy and blade and self existed, there was only one task—to swing his sword.

He struck down, deflected, and redirected the charging glaives, and cleaved through any opening he found.

Thud!

His sword split through the horse’s right foreleg, slicing between its armored plates.

Hot blood sprayed as the steed shrieked in agony, Neeeeigh!

The cry soon faded, but the glaives continued to descend without pause. A cavalry charge, once started, could not be stopped.

In that space where only sword, enemy, and self remained, Encrid recalled something Ragna had told him—just briefly slipping into that thought.

“When you begin applying [Heavy Sword Style], you’ll train in two types of slashes.”

You’d think someone would begin training with an explanation of why the technique was useful—but that’s not something Ragna ever bothered with.

“The [Lion Slash] and the [Steel Slash].”

The explanation was crude, but Encrid understood perfectly.

The [Lion Slash] didn’t mean slashing a literal lion—it referred to cutting through dynamic, charging foes in a single stroke. The [Steel Slash] meant cutting through unmoving, refined hardness.

Dynamic and solid—initially trained separately.

Eventually, to cleave both at once.

“If you wish to attain [Will], you must master both.”

Those final words from Ragna left a deep impression. He also realized the “Severing” technique Ragna had once demonstrated began with those two slashes of [Heavy Sword Style].

As he cleaved through the charging cavalry, Encrid thought of the [Lion Slash].

Traces of that swordsmanship lingered in his mind. His body, hands, feet, and sword reacted by instinct, cutting through the incoming rider.

Whoosh, Thwack, Crunchhh!

Three chaotic sounds rang out at once, slicing through the air past his ears.

The horse and rider, cleaved from head to foreleg, collapsed to the ground in a heap.

“Graaagh!”

The scream of the cavalryman thrown from the saddle rang out. He was unlucky. That final cry had been his death throe.

His fall had caused his head to strike the ground wrong, and after a violent spasm of limbs, he died just like that.

Thus, one cavalry charge passed.

Naturally, not a single one from Encrid’s side had died.

* * *

Cavalry weren’t just fighters—the horses themselves were weapons. Standing directly in the path of a charging horse?

Perhaps a giant or Frok could pull off such a feat.

But was it really a wise decision?

Even if you blocked one, what about the masses right behind it?

Unless you had a fetish for being crushed by the weight of horse and armor, it was typically a bad idea.

That’s right. Facing cavalry head-on was generally suicide.

Even if you were confident, it wasn’t something to be done lightly—so what were they?

Marcus watched how Encrid’s group responded to the cavalry’s charge.

Starting from the moment Encrid clashed with a blade, all the way to the biggest man among them.

The man stood out due to his sheer size.

‘Was his name Audin?’

A devout soldier who began each day in prayer.

And one who smashed enemies—be they human, beast, or monster—with ease.

He stood firm against the cavalry’s charge. As the glaive came at him, he knocked it aside with a short club the length of his forearm, met the horse’s head with a palm strike, and pushed it off to the side.

Was it even possible for a blade to bounce back like that just from a hit?

Could a man really redirect a charging horse just with arm strength?

Neigh!

That wasn’t even the end of it. That one strike caused the horse to crumple sideways. He took the full brunt of its charge and flowed with it. Marcus, seeing cavalry charge negated like this, could only stare in astonishment.

‘This makes no sense.’

An impressive feat. Marcus didn’t even catch the fine details—Audin hadn’t struck the blade itself, but the shaft connecting the glaive’s parts.

The cavalryman had only slotted his weapon into the saddle’s back groove and was holding it in the middle. That was their core tactic: to match their cutting strike with the speed of their charge.

And yet Audin met it without budging an inch.

After dispatching one horse with devout, bear-like strength, Audin ducked under the next glaive, then brought his club down on the third horse’s head.

Crack!

This time the horse died without even a scream. Its head exploded inside its armor, blood spraying. Through that red mist, Audin offered a gentle smile—though Marcus could not see it.

Audin wasn’t the only one who stood out. After him came the axe-wielding madman.

“Huah!”

With a shout, Rem slammed his axe against the glaive’s blade. Somehow, the two blades tangled like vines and refused to part. Sticking close, he appeared to be pushed back with the horse—then pulled a wild stunt.

Still in the pushed-back position, he grabbed the middle of the lance shaft, stomped on the horse’s head, and climbed on top of the rider.

Marcus couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

You’d need faster reflexes and footwork than the cavalry themselves, not to mention insane strength, to pull that off.

Crunch!

From above, Rem drove the axe down into the rider’s skull.

Then, he leapt sideways toward another horse. One of the riders tried drawing an [Estark], a slim sword meant for thrusting.

But before it could be fully drawn, his shoulder was cleaved off.

It was magic in motion—the axe flashed like lightning.

Rem killed two riders and rolled to the ground.

By some miracle, he didn’t get trampled and rolled away cleanly.

To Marcus, it was all nonsense. He had no idea what he was witnessing.

It was no different than a traveling circus act from a central city.

Encrid also stood out. He shattered the first lance with raw power, then continued to slice and slice again. As he dodged and struck, he cleaved through rider and horse alike with powerful, almost brutish strikes—but they were exhilarating to watch.

Next to him, Ragna displayed similar movements.

The difference was that, unlike Encrid’s sweeping strikes, Ragna simply poked and pressed with his sword to disrupt the cavalry’s charge.

It was no less impressive.

Encrid’s weighty, destructive slashes breaking through a cavalry charge were both satisfying and awe-inspiring to behold.

Meanwhile, one man hadn’t even been seen in action—but who cared?

No one gave it a second thought.

What mattered was this:

The cavalry charged, but over a dozen riders disappeared, and the ones they had charged at were completely unharmed.

The blood of horses and riders stretched across the field.

The galloping horses that dragged the dead left streaks of blood behind. Some heads burst, others were cleaved in two, leaving sprays of gore on the earth.

The dust from hooves mixed with blood and turned red.

Marcus, having seen it all, finally opened his mouth.

“Lieutenant.”

“Yes.”

“Who gathered those people into one unit?”

The lieutenant recited what he already knew.

“The former battalion commander.”

“That bastard actually did something useful for once.”

The former commander surely hadn’t intended for things to turn out like this.

He had likely grouped together the most problematic men—ones who assaulted superiors, caused endless trouble—and planned to use them as expendable pawns for some minor gain.

That bastard had always liked to take credit for the work of subordinates. He probably thought if they died in battle, it would count as his own achievement.

Too troublesome to promote, but too skilled to discard.

He meant to use them like disposable blades.

Gathering such wild cards into one unit? There could only be one intention: to throw them away.

‘And then Encrid ended up leading them, and the picture came together.’

The political strategist Marcus figured out the origin of this problem unit while sitting down.

Sure, the former commander was an idiot, and it wasn’t intentional—

“But what’s well done is well done. Makes me want to pin a medal on him.”

Bundling them together and putting Encrid in charge had been a stroke of genius.

Behold—was it not wondrous?

While Marcus felt awe, the enemy cavalry commander was baffled.

The man led the elite cavalry under the Count Vantra forces, known for cutting down infantry.

He had no choice but to stop. He had to make it look like he was circling around—he needed to reform their formation. Twelve out of fifty were dead.

That he had survived? Pure luck.

Had he been in range, he’d be dead.

He recalled the flash of a blade that had nearly grazed him.

And the man wielding it.

The name was Encrid. First heard on the walls—supposedly the figure behind those absurd rumors.

‘That was just bravado.’

Weren’t the rumors exaggerated nonsense?

Wasn’t it just a bluff to scare this army into retreat?

So then why had they become chunks of meat from one charge?

Was this a dream?

“What the hell is this?”

The commander said. For a moment, his will to fight nearly broke.

But he couldn’t afford that. The battle had only just begun.

As they reformed formation and circled back, he spotted four survivors.

One of them, wearing a loosely-fitted helmet over black hair, had blue eyes that looked lost in thought.

He turned his head and muttered something, though the words didn’t carry.

Seeing that, the commander tried to steel himself again—

Thunk!

“Ggk!”

Suddenly, a blade slid into his neck. It felt like someone had jammed a torch into his throat. The searing pain spread from his neck across his entire body. His limbs froze.

“Captain!”

A subordinate shouted behind him. He tried to open his mouth, but no real words came out.

That’s what happens when your vocal cords are sliced and your throat pierced.

Gurgle!

Foam of blood spilled from the commander’s mouth as his head slumped to the side.

Cause of death: stab wound to the neck.

The one who delivered the gift was a red-brown-haired man named Jaxson.

Sound disappeared. Not even murmurs remained. In the moment of shock, as all eyes turned toward him, Jaxson calmly moved to retrieve something.