Chapter 216
“Shit!”
Olf panicked at the news that a rebellion had broken out.
At a time like this? In a moment like this?
“Who the hell is it?!”
He soon heard that the one leading the rebellion had taken control of the castle gate.
The rebels couldn’t do anything about the watchtowers or the walls, but the gate was the real issue.
“Guards!”
In his urgency, Olf called for the guards. They rushed ahead.
“Go! Stop them!”
‘Who the hell is it?!’
Olf also hurried off. He forgot the weight of his armor as he ran. His breath caught in his throat.
A metallic taste rose up his gullet. It was like the stench of dried blood.
And when he arrived—
“My apologies.”
Three of the guards had become porcupines pierced by bolts.
He saw a unit of at least a platoon blocking the guards’ path.
They were aiming crossbows directly at him.
The one who had just spoken twisted his lips into a sly grin. It was, quite literally, a devious smile.
Twisted lips, narrowed eyes—a face and expression he had never seen before.
That brute of a deputy who had shouted about unleashing the cavalry and smashing the enemy.
A dumb brute who only knew how to fight. That’s what he had always been.
‘That bastard?’
He fought so mindlessly that Olf never imagined he’d be capable of this.
No—was that also part of the plan?
Had he been pretending to be an ignorant brute who only knew how to brawl?
If so, he was a born actor.
Olf realized he had been fooled.
“The enemy is approaching!”
BWOOOO—
A large horn trumpet sounded. It was the signal of imminent danger.
“Fire! Fire!”
As the archers atop the gallery and watchtowers frantically pulled back their bowstrings and fired, the brute of a deputy hacked away at the gate’s pulley system with his axe.
Bang! Crack! Bang!
To Olf, the sound echoed like his own death sentence.
‘Ha.’
It was a situation that begged for a sigh, but his thoughts had stopped. He couldn’t even bring himself to shout for someone to stop it. It was already too late.
Even if he rushed over and tried to intervene, he couldn’t stop the gate from opening.
Once that gate opened, those rampaging monsters from the battlefield would pour in.
A nightmare. A horror. Five monsters.
He had anticipated this.
He realized the magician’s ambush had failed.
If it hadn’t, then why hadn’t the ones who demanded compensation for their help shown their faces?
‘Those damn shadow bastards.’
Olf resigned himself internally. A fight to the death here? Bet everything, even his own life? Sacrifice all these soldiers?
“Shit, shit, shit.”
No. He couldn’t do that. If everyone died and he survived, what would even be left?
Olf didn’t want his final act to be foolishness.
Even as a defeated commander, he would not disgrace his name.
He would die alone.
“You must surrender.”
Even as he steeled his resolve, the Guard Captain beside him spoke—and he felt like slapping the bastard.
This piece of shit?
Olf’s eyes flared with something like fury.
“You need to face reality.”
The Guard Captain spoke again. His eyes were clearly filled with a desperate desire to save his own life.
And yet the bastard had done nothing to fight. Why was he talking so much?
RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE.
The gate opened. And then came a man with black hair, as if gazing into the distance.
He wasn’t even wearing a helmet.
His blue eyes didn’t look at Olf, but at the empty air.
As the man steadily approached—
The Guard Captain silently laid down his sword.
He was preparing to surrender.
This fucking bastard.
Olf tore him apart in his mind. And then he, too, gave up.
But—
“There’s no rule that says we must hand over the city without even a fight.”
From behind, Zimmer stepped forward.
“What?”
“Please grant me the final duel. I will show the spirit of the Eastern Lion.”
Zimmer’s eyes burned with determination. He called out to Olf again.
“General.”
Zimmer had always been the best swordsman among the battalion commanders, including Greg. He was someone who had properly learned swordsmanship.
While the pompous Guard Captain was already contemplating whether to raise his hands or drop to his knees, Zimmer—the man who always took on chores and dirty work and spoke his mind—stepped forward.
‘So even my judgment was off.’
Olf admitted it. He’d failed in appointing the right people. He had been deceived by the brute of a deputy, and he had favored the Guard Captain while undervaluing Zimmer.
He felt like gouging out his own eyes.
“Do it.”
Olf nodded. Even if the battle was over, he wouldn’t deny a warrior the chance to burn with purpose.
And so, Zimmer moved to face Encrid.
—
A spy had been planted in Martai.
‘When did they plan this?’
The moment the gate opened, Encrid realized this was someone’s scheme—specifically, Markus’s.
‘Was it really planned?’
Maybe it wasn’t planned but simply prepared in advance. Maybe they hadn’t intended to use it now but kept it ready just in case.
The thoughts flowed. And those thoughts quickly linked to the Formed Sword Technique.
An unnamed swordsmanship learned from the demon of the cursed sword.
‘The Formed Sword Technique is fundamentally about pushing the opponent in one direction.’
Preparation for that was the foundation—and the whole—of the technique.
If the Heavy Sword Style crushed with strength, and the Swift Sword Style relied on speed—
Then the Formed Sword Technique was about creating “patterns” that drove the opponent.
And “patterns” required preparation.
A “pattern” was the groundwork for pushing an opponent—a method.
What if the opponent didn’t respond the way you expected?
‘Widen the preparation. Diversify it.’
You just had to prepare for every possibility and act accordingly.
That’s why the Formed Sword Technique excelled in tactical combat.
It all came down to preparation. Preparation that was broad and varied.
The spy Markus planted was just one form of preparation.
He surely had many other tricks up his sleeve. Even if the gate hadn’t opened, he wouldn’t have given up. He would’ve pulled another stunt.
The same went for the Formed Sword Technique. That’s how it should be used.
‘Not being bound to a single pattern.’
The key was having many forms of preparation, so one could adapt to the opponent’s reaction in different ways.
Just like Markus had done.
That was why the Formed Sword Technique and Fluid Sword Technique were often cited as sword styles that grew stronger with experience.
The more one engaged in tactical combat, the more patterns would naturally become ingrained into the body.
The thoughts sparked by Markus’s magic trailed onward, eventually touching upon a certain direction in swordsmanship.
From fighting the demon of the cursed sword.
To dueling Ragna again.
To the teachings of Frok Ruagarne.
Everything was interwoven.
Encrid took three steps forward and crossed the castle gate. In those three steps, he realized his advantage.
‘Today’s repetition.’
The experiences of fighting with his life on the line.
The experiences of throwing away his life to fight.
The countless reviews and reflections that followed many defeats and battles.
Weren’t all those things patterns and experience?
Yes. They were patterns and experience.
‘That old teacher… he must’ve specialized in the Formed Sword Technique.’
He realized now that the old swordsmanship teacher in the coastal village who taught him the importance of ‘review’ had been a practitioner of the Formed Sword Technique.
With an awareness of pattern diversity, he took two more steps.
In those five steps, Encrid felt the need to once more reflect and absorb all the experience he had accumulated.
If he had been a genius, or even just especially gifted, would he have realized and executed all this instantly?
It would be a lie to say he never envied natural talent in his life.
But now, he no longer yearned for talent the way he used to.
‘One step at a time.’
He moved forward. This was the path to ‘Will’ and the road to becoming a knight.
A long-forgotten dream struck his heart once more.
Only then did Encrid become aware of his surroundings.
The castle gate had opened, and one of the main figures of the battlefield had stepped inside.
If arrows were going to fly, they should’ve rained down hundreds of times by now. Even if not that, this should’ve been the moment when spears, swords, or hammers were brandished in front of him—but it was silent.
“Ah.”
A short gasp escaped someone’s lips as Encrid lowered his shield—a wooden one riddled with arrows. He set it down beside him and looked around, quickly taking in the situation.
‘There’s no fighting spirit.’
In front of him were only soldiers who had lost the will to fight.
They were the ones who had returned, beaten down from the previous battlefield, and thrown into the defense of the city.
Their last bastion was the castle gate and the walls.
And they had just witnessed the enemy attach themselves fearlessly to the walls.
“Think it’ll break?”
“Shit, our gate’s not made of damn mud, is it?”
Uneasy chatter spread among the soldiers, and a tense air filled the space.
Even though they knew, there was nothing they could do.
The castle gate opened, and the five fiends of the battlefield entered.
“Goddamn.”
Is it bravery or foolishness to charge toward certain death?
The soldiers of Martai didn’t need to know the difference. They didn’t even try to find out.
They simply stopped.
Their defeated gazes locked onto Encrid.
Silence. Wind blew. It brushed the flags planted above the city.
Flaaaap.
The fluttering flags were joined by a few soldiers cursing under their breath.
Curses laced with resignation and self-mockery.
Having seen and felt all this, Encrid finally spoke.
“Do I need to say my name again here?”
My name is Encrid.
Once considered arrogance, mockery, or even madness—that single phrase now weighed heavily upon the city of Martai.
And yet.
Even if everyone else gave up, there was always someone who would resist to the very end.
In the midst of the heavy silence and frozen soldiers—past the ones hesitating with fingers on bowstrings—a slender man stepped forward.
Encrid could tell that while the man wasn’t large, his frame was lined with solid muscle.
His balanced stance drew attention, and his gaze lacked any trace of fear.
“My name is Zimmer.”
The man introduced himself.
Encrid didn’t know who the man was.
He hadn’t acted with any such expectations to begin with.
“I’m the Second Battalion Captain of Martai.”
The man introduced himself formally, prompting Encrid to respond in turn.
“Independent company commander under the standing forces of the Border Guards.”
“I see.”
Encrid met Zimmer’s eyes. They weren’t the eyes of a man who had given up. At the very least, they belonged to someone determined to act.
“Well, this is awkward to interrupt.”
Rem grumbled from behind, and Audin added with a smile.
“A duel is sacred. Brothers, allow me to speak on behalf of the Lord’s will.”
It sounded like something only a priest in full ceremonial garb would say, but no one objected.
Simply—
“I can’t just retreat without swinging my sword at least once.”
Zimmer expressed his intent.
Behind him stood General Olf, but he already looked half out of his mind.
Someone who had returned from the brink of rage and reason. Of course, Encrid didn’t care in the slightest.
Krys was merely scanning the area.
The fight was over, but for someone, it wasn’t a battle that could end in surrender alone.
‘Why risk your life over this?’
Krys didn’t understand it.
But the others seemed to have accepted the situation.
Ragna stepped to the side. If any archers or others interfered, he would unsheathe his sword without hesitation.
A presence usually kept hidden was now fully unleashed, making him seem several times larger to the enemy.
And there really was a warrior among them that size.
“If anyone interferes, your heads will be cracked and sent to heaven, brothers and sisters.”
Audin declared himself the arbiter, and Rem stepped back as well.
Even Rem respected the man’s spirit. To challenge with sword in hand in such a situation—wasn’t that the mark of a true warrior?
Zimmer, if he were part of Rem’s tribe, would surely have been called a warrior.
Jaxson had already vanished from sight, likely plotting to slit the commanders’ throats if things went south.
Encrid was also impressed by Zimmer’s stance.
Even if he won, the odds of dying were high in this duel.
Yet he didn’t flinch.
A warrior. A man who knew how to fight.
Ching—
Encrid drew his sword. Once a cursed blade, now simply an incredibly sharp and sturdy weapon.
“My sword is not ordinary.”
And Encrid spoke of the weapon’s advantage.
He honored the courage shown by the man who had stepped forward.
Zimmer nodded.
He soon drew his own sword.
Ting.
It was a short and straight blade. An Esterk.
The moment Encrid saw his stance, he guessed Zimmer’s specialty. No—it was more of a certainty than a guess.
‘A fast sword, light on his feet.’
Light feet meant agile movement.
Zimmer lowered his knees. As the tip of his blade pointed forward, his foot struck the ground.
The tip of the sword blurred like an afterimage, shooting toward Encrid as if flying.
