Chapter 306
Whether it was good luck or bad, the sky was too clear. Even the wind barely blew.
It had been unusually warm for winter. The snow that had fallen before had melted away completely.
Green Pearl wasn’t the kind of place where snow piled up anyway. Only the peaks of the Pen-Hanil mountain range remained white year-round.
In short, it was a damn good day to fight. The sky itself seemed to be pushing them toward battle.
“The enemy is right in front of us.”
That was the messenger’s report.
Even then, Encrid was still walking casually among the regular soldiers.
“Meet them in front of the palisade! Everyone, move out!”
At the commander’s call, Encrid also began to move.
“Hey, shouldn’t you be going back to your position?”
Helma turned her head. She was talking to Encrid, who had come up beside her. She was just strapping on her buckler and short spear.
Encrid matched her pace and answered roughly.
“It’s fine.”
Helma blinked.
Fine? What part of this was fine?
But could this guy even fight? Usually, the ones with such clean, delicate faces were useless in a fight.
Helma, who had only known Encrid for two days, found herself worrying about him.
“If your superior finds out, your nose’ll be smashed.”
Encrid just replied the same way.
“I got permission.”
He had just asked himself the question and answered it, so that counted as permission. Besides, this was already a planned move.
What kind of variable could change the battlefield?
There was only one thing Encrid could do.
“Then go stand at the front while you’re at it.”
One of the soldiers muttered sourly. He’d been grumbling for a while now.
There was something in his tone that reeked of resentment, but Encrid didn’t care.
They were about to share blood anyway. Compared to Rem, this kind of whining was child’s play.
“Alright.”
He answered and kept walking. He was already heading forward anyway.
Helma, being part of the vanguard unit, moved that way too.
“Hey, mind your own business.”
Helma shot back at the soldier behind them.
The man didn’t respond further. He hadn’t expected Encrid to actually go.
By now, Encrid had roughly gauged the soldiers’ skill levels.
Rem was stupid but precise, and by Naurilia’s army standards, there were several high-ranking soldiers mixed in here.
Helma was at least mid-tier. Their overall strength wasn’t bad.
Most were close to low-tier, and they only had infantry and archers, but at least their discipline was solid.
They didn’t have cavalry, but they’d prepared supply wagons in the rear. Naturally, those carried provisions and other essentials.
‘They’re fully prepared to retreat if things go wrong.’
Whether they ended up as war criminals or fugitives, they weren’t planning on dying meaningless deaths.
Neither Encrid nor his subordinates would allow that.
It was the kind of formation Garrett would’ve approved of, and Encrid liked that.
As he walked, he swung his arms a few times.
The pain was faint. His right arm had recovered enough, and his left shin was fine now.
Most of his wounds had faded to scars. Jaxson had said the ones on his face wouldn’t leave marks.
His arms, shins, and torso would, though.
When he heard that, Krys had spouted nonsense again.
“Scars on the face aren’t bad, but it’s still better without them.”
A declaration that he’d drag Encrid to a salon no matter what.
What a ridiculous man.
Encrid felt the soft touch of the leather armor wrapped around his shoulders, chest, and thighs as he moved.
Even though it was a thin set, it still felt stiff. Wearing a gambeson underneath made it tight.
Taking it off would just make him cold—and halve his defense.
A bit of discomfort was a fair trade for protection.
“You’re carrying three swords? You’ll die fast if you fight up front.”
Helma spoke with genuine concern. She was a kind one.
He was about to reply when Jaxson appeared beside him—or rather, emerged suddenly.
Encrid’s sharpened senses had caught it, but Helma hadn’t noticed.
“Brought them.”
Helma nearly jumped out of her skin. It looked like the man had just popped up out of the ground.
He wore a thin cap instead of a helmet, and beside him joined another blond man constantly readjusting his leather helmet.
“You’re here?”
“Yes.”
“What about Dunbakel?”
“Big Eyes pulled her aside with Sinar. Said it’s better to keep our trump cards hidden.”
“Ah, right.”
Meaningless chatter to Helma’s ears—she couldn’t follow any of it.
But she realized the man before her wasn’t ordinary.
No, she’d known that already. She was just reminded again. He had always drawn attention from the start—moving as though tension meant nothing.
Encrid ignored her gaze. He was focused on the task at hand.
He needed a variable—something the enemy wouldn’t expect.
He’d decided that would begin with the very first strike.
Krys had agreed.
It was a tactic that had worked well before.
An unexpected blow would reveal the enemy’s reaction—and with that, part of their hidden cards.
Even seeing a glimpse would be enough to predict the rest.
It was far better than knowing nothing.
‘Please don’t…’
Krys was suppressing his unease.
Encrid was calm.
‘There’s a lot of them.’
Even with the enemy right in front of him, he didn’t feel nervous.
It didn’t feel particularly dangerous.
Whatever the enemy had prepared, it would be fine.
His instincts were quiet, and his body felt better than expected.
His right arm had recovered more than halfway.
‘Not bad.’
It really wasn’t bad at all.
“Waaaaah!”
A roar shook the air. Azpen’s army maintained its slow advance.
As soon as the enemy entered arrow range, their own archers loosed first.
Whishhh!
Arrows cut through the air, signaling the start of battle.
Azpen returned fire, and a black rain poured down from above.
It was as ordinary a start to a battle as one could hope for.
“Hold the line!”
“Raise your shields! Don’t lower them!”
“Argh!”
“You idiot!”
Arrows shot high in an arc and came raining down. One unlucky soldier took one in the shoulder.
A comrade pulled him back as another soldier stepped forward, raising his shield to cover them.
Their coordination wasn’t bad. They’d trained well.
But it still wasn’t enough.
Compared to the Border Guards’ standing army, they were weaker—solid clay against stone.
‘We’ll need stricter drills.’
He’d plan tougher training for the survivors later.
A random thought, but not a bad one. Preparing for the future was never wasted effort.
Such thoughts were part of his preparation too.
Mental readiness mattered as much as adjusting one’s sword belt.
Encrid dodged the incoming arrows with ease.
He’d dodged thrown daggers before; this was nothing.
He didn’t bring a shield. Proper armament was important, but—
‘Just the three swords for now.’
That would be enough.
Beside him, Ragna avoided arrows without even looking, leaping sideways to gain distance, while Jaxson had already vanished.
‘They’ll handle themselves.’
No reason to worry about Jaxson. None at all.
Encrid focused on his own task.
“Phew.”
He steadied his breathing. No matter the battlefield, no matter the opponent, no matter how good or bad his condition—
Danger always existed. It could never be ignored.
As always, Encrid brought out his best.
He drew one of his swords, both hands gripping the hilt.
Clink.
The steel blade, tinged with a faint blue sheen, slid from its sheath and gleamed beneath the winter sun.
It had lost a few teeth, but it was still sturdy.
Even after maintenance, it was worn down—proof he’d used it too roughly.
If it had been a normal steel blade, it would’ve broken long ago.
A good sword was always worth it.
‘One more time, partner.’
Encrid spoke to his sword. When the time came, he’d let it rest—but not yet.
Both armies advanced, closing the distance.
Encrid moved with them, striding forward without hesitation—half a step past his allies, then another, and soon he’d left their line entirely.
Naturally, it looked like he was charging alone.
“Hey, where are you going!”
Someone shouted from behind. Probably that grumbling soldier.
“That lunatic! Hey!”
He ignored them. It was time to draw everyone’s attention.
“Shake them with the first strike.”
That had been Krys’s request, but Encrid’s blood boiled on its own.
What had they prepared?
A knight? A magic sword? A spell? Some ritual? A hero of their own?
If not—how would they stop him?
Those thoughts flickered through his mind, and then he stepped forward onto the arrow-pierced ground to meet the enemy.
He was the first to reach them.
“That bastard’s insane!”
A panicked enemy soldier thrust his spear.
Encrid shifted his speed mid-run, lowering his stance and accelerating. The soldier’s eyes couldn’t keep up. Encrid’s foot slammed into the man’s shin.
Crack! Crunch!
Bone snapped as the soldier was lifted off the ground and thrown back down.
“Argh!”
Leaving the scream behind, Encrid smashed his elbow into the next soldier’s head. Foot and elbow struck almost simultaneously.
“Guh!”
A dying grunt followed. Crack! The man’s neck broke, and blood spilled from his helmet. His skull had shattered.
Then came the sword. Pivoting on his left foot, Encrid swung from right to left.
A heavy diagonal slash cut through the air with the wind. It was a mid-sword rotational slash.
Then he twisted it.
Using the momentum, he switched pivots, lowering his blade, then swinging from lower left to upper right.
His feet crossed as his body shifted, and the sword’s path traced an infinity symbol in the air.
Everything caught in its arc was shattered, broken, or sliced apart.
“Gaaah!”
“Ugh!”
Those screams came from the ones lucky enough to survive the blow. The rest—those whose necks or skulls met the blade—ended instantly.
Two bold swings. Nine enemies dead.
Switching stances widened his range.
“Kill him!”
Bloodshot eyes glared from a nearby enemy officer.
Instead of retreating, he clenched his teeth and shouted orders.
‘Better discipline than ours.’
Their training, their soldiers, their leadership—all superior.
Encrid didn’t analyze it consciously, but instinct told him: that commander needed to die.
That was the surest path to victory.
As he advanced, spears thrust from all directions.
They stabbed and stabbed again.
Encrid parried what he could and dodged the rest.
He cut through a forest of spearheads and reached the commander’s range. Then—one downward strike.
The slash didn’t split the man’s skull; it crushed it.
The sheer force of the blow shattered the helmet, and bone burst through scalp. Blood and brain followed naturally.
“Huuh.”
He swung wide, scattering blood as he threatened the next line.
Then Encrid unleashed the [Heart of Monstrous Strength].
The power wasn’t endless, but right now, it was time to stab, smash, and tear apart.
“Shit! What the hell is that thing?!”
One soldier screamed. Encrid’s blade didn’t stop. He was death incarnate—the reaper walking through the enemy ranks.
“Monster!”
Someone cried out, but it was meaningless.
There was no hesitation in Encrid’s strikes.
Dozens fell before him, and the enemy formation crumbled.
“Are you all just going to watch?!”
The enemy commander shouted.
Someone stepped forward.
If they left him alone, the line would collapse completely.
From Azpen’s side, a warrior who had been gathering his breath began to move.
He advanced toward Encrid—and then stopped.
The man measured his opponent.
‘[Proper Sword Style].’
A fighting form focused on weight and decisive strikes, ignoring minor exchanges.
Assessment complete. Now it was time to fight.
The man stepped forward.