Chapter 397

Encrid readjusted Silver in his grip.

At the same time, he thought.

Charging cavalry. A flying spear.

The Heart of the Beast granted him boldness, and a point of focus made the opponent’s movements seem to freeze.

The sharpness of his senses let him calculate when the spear would arrive.

And he cut it down.

Yet something nagged at him.

‘Insufficient.’

Something was lacking.

The review ended in an instant, and he immediately knew what needed fixing.

What if he had taken one more step just now? Even half a step would have made it easier to carry the power through.

A difference in stride changed the transfer of power.

Encrid swung his sword, readjusted his grip, pulled it back, and moved the way he’d just imagined.

He widened his stride. Corrected his posture. Then he swung into the air.

Whoosh.

There was no need to swing fast. He only needed to feel the transfer of power at a moderate speed.

The blade cut through the air and stopped precisely at the spot he aimed for.

That was it. A wider stride made the transfer easier. Encrid understood it, then carved it into his body.

“Aren’t you coming?”

He raised his head as he spoke.

Thousands had gathered here. An army stood watching.

Of course, Encrid wasn’t looking at the army. He simply lifted his head, wondering why the next opponent wasn’t stepping out.

Why weren’t they coming?

He watched in quiet doubt.

It was his first battle, his first duel.

Those in the back couldn’t see clearly, but those up front saw everything.

Naturally, he also saw the enemy soldiers across the way.

It was only natural they hesitated to step forward.

—

‘One strike?’

Zalban furrowed his brow. He had two adjutants. The one who’d gone out first was the lesser of the two, but still talented—someone who shouldn’t be so easily overwhelmed by a Royal Guard Squire.

“Did he let his guard down? Fool.”

The other adjutant spoke, starting to step forward.

“Wait.”

Zalban raised a hand. The adjutant stopped, reins in hand.

Zalban judged the opponent’s skill was unusual.

But it was also true his adjutant had been careless. Still, he wasn’t someone who should fall in a single strike. After a brief pause—

“I’ll go. Binyu, follow behind and support me.”

Zalban didn’t go alone. He brought his adjutant with him.

The point was to look like he was only a few steps behind, ready to support.

The adjutant’s specialty was throwing spears.

One well-timed assist would be enough.

Even if someone else rushed out to support from the other side, the result wouldn’t change.

There weren’t many as skilled at spear-throwing as he was.

“Let’s go.”

Neigh!

Zalban spurred his horse forward, and his adjutant followed.

—

The guild master who’d been stuck to Encrid’s group was so shocked he stood there with his mouth hanging open. Only when two enemies finally rode out from the opposing camp did he manage to speak.

“S-shouldn’t someone from our side go out too?”

He aimed the words at Rem or Ragna.

“Haa, that level isn’t even close.”

Rem replied with a yawn.

Encrid had shown them what he could do for a month.

There was nothing to worry about.

Ragna had found an apple somewhere and was chewing on it with determination.

He looked like he might eat the seeds, too.

Jaxson was silent. Arms crossed, eyes closed—an unfathomable man. That was how he looked to the guild master.

‘Seriously, these people.’

Aren’t reinforcements coming from the main force, either?

He turned his gaze toward the main force. It was quiet. No—there was some commotion, but it didn’t look like they were about to surge forward.

In truth, they were simply watching, too.

With Ingis gone, Markus was in charge of the kingdom’s army.

His palms were slick with sweat. If they lost this exchange, they’d be pushed back before the real battle even began.

If they lost momentum at the start, there would be no hope.

The enemy’s strength was that overwhelming.

‘This is fucked up.’

That was what he’d thought the moment he first heard the enemy’s numbers.

After seeing their level of training, even Markus was close to losing his nerve—until Encrid stepped forward.

It was unexpected. An unexpected event.

A fight that began with him walking out alone.

Markus hadn’t seen Encrid fight in a long time, so the shock hit him hard.

‘He was this good?’

The opponents were the Count’s five weapons.

Even as adjutants, they weren’t ordinary.

But Encrid had cut one down in a single strike.

It wasn’t luck or a fluke opening. He stood there and crushed him with superior strength and speed.

Markus could recognize that much.

After that, he hesitated. Their situation was no different from hanging off a cliff.

Or stepping through a swamp and choosing the one solid patch of ground.

Either way, a single wrong choice meant ruin. That caution rose up and gripped him.

“Should we send support?”

Instead of deciding alone, he asked Aisia, the Royal Guard member right beside him.

“Just watch.”

Aisia answered, sullen, and thought—

‘I should be the one going out there.’

Not a word. Not even a signal. Encrid had gone out alone and cut the enemy down without warning.

‘I can’t cancel everything here and tell him to come back so I can fight him again.’

Aisia pictured herself striding out in front of the enemy army, stopping everything, and telling them to start over for a moment.

Absurd.

More than anything, if Encrid hadn’t stepped forward, they would’ve nearly lost before the battle even began.

They’d already gauged the enemy through reconnaissance. What they hadn’t grasped was the full extent of their training and equipment.

The Count’s territorial army was solid.

Like a rock.

The gap in strength was dizzying.

It was only natural her body had stiffened for a moment at the sight. The more experience you had, the more it happened.

So had Encrid stepped out without knowing?

No.

Encrid knew everything, and still didn’t hesitate. He took responsibility for the opening by rushing forward alone.

Aisia admitted defeat cleanly.

Not just in skill, but in heart.

‘Cool bastard.’

She watched without blinking.

Far away, the man who’d stepped out to fight.

The man who’d said, with absolute certainty, that his dream was to be a knight—and who’d half-crushed her face.

And the man who’d saved her anyway.

“Ah, go. Kill them all.”

Aisia muttered. Before she realized it, her heart had spoken out loud.

Across the battlefield, a shout tore through the stillness as both armies watched.

“Yaaah!”

It was one of the five weapons.

Zalban—wielding two short spears—charged forward, and Aisia saw it.

—

Encrid could see dust hanging in the air.

He could see droplets of blood scattered across the grass like small circles.

About ten steps away, the man who’d ridden out dismounted.

The instant his boots hit the ground, the dust that puffed up beneath him looked like grains.

The grass swayed in the wind. Rustle-rustle—like the blades greeting each other.

Encrid felt the weight of the sword in his hand. The brush and heft of cloth and armor against his body.

‘It’s the right weight.’

He had named the sword Silver. Today, the weight of Silver felt especially pleasing.

Looking at the blade, he saw the edge was slightly chipped. It would be good to take a whetstone to it.

“You must be confident in your skills to come this far, right? What’s your name?”

The man approaching asked.

Encrid didn’t answer.

He simply let his senses drink in everything.

The wind brushed his cheek. Sunlight pressed down on his helmet. That part was a shame.

Encrid took the helmet off.

The sun and wind felt closer than before.

The plains were wide, with not even a mound to hide behind. A place made for the wind to play.

The Nauril Plains had once been called the Land of Wind.

The wind ran across the open land with nothing to block it—an endless sprint.

Whoooooosh!

A strong gust surged from somewhere.

Zalban reflexively tightened his stance.

Encrid loosened his body.

The wind flowed through him, wrapped him, then scattered away.

Zalban frowned.

Had the opponent’s body floated for a moment just now?

Or was it just his eyes?

He wanted to rub them—

But he couldn’t take his gaze off him for even a heartbeat.

If his focus wavered even slightly, that blade would be in his stomach.

Even if the man who went out first hadn’t lowered his guard, he wouldn’t have lasted more than a few exchanges. Zalban was certain the moment he saw Encrid up close.

‘It’s real.’

The opponent’s skill was above his.

Zalban tightened the hand holding the short spear. Veins stood out on the back of his hand.

He hardened his mind and drew the fight in his head.

‘Block the sword with my left hand.’

Then his gaze dropped to Encrid’s waist.

Two more swords.

A belt of throwing daggers across his chest.

Three swords. He wouldn’t carry them for nothing.

So he’d use the other weapons, too.

Looking closer, Zalban spotted a knife hidden at Encrid’s ankle.

Encrid still stood with his arms hanging, wind tugging at him.

‘Again.’

Zalban redrew the fight from the start.

Block the sword with his left hand, then stab faster than anyone with the short spear in his right?

‘No, again.’

Sweat beaded on Zalban’s forehead. It meant he was burning that much mental energy.

He tried again.

‘Stab with my left. Force him to defend.’

Then twist the grip of the short spear in his right. Use everything prepared.

Yes.

His eyes stung. Like he was trapped somewhere he wasn’t even allowed to blink.

Still, Zalban endured the pressure. He was a warrior who had crossed the river of death countless times.

He’d tasted pressure like this again and again.

‘I’ll kill him.’

When he moved, his subordinate—his hands and feet—would throw a spear.

‘He can’t block that either.’

A spear thrown from outside his field of vision while he was engaged.

And thrown by a companion whose skill was above first-rate.

That adjutant fought as well as a decent Squire.

And in spear-throwing alone, he could be considered a Junior Knight.

Sweat dripped from Zalban’s brow and fell to the ground.

The opponent blinked once.

Zalban flinched, shoulders twitching.

That bastard—

Relaxed enough to blink?

He nearly burst forward on instinct.

‘[Illusion Sword]?’

A feint? Deception?

The instant he decided that, Zalban pushed forward.

Step by step, he began to close the ten-step distance.

Cautious.

Encrid watched the opponent approach—and also looked past him.

One by one, things came into focus, intricate and clear.

The sensations on his skin were the same.

Yet suddenly his vision sharpened, and the world around him snapped into clarity.

First, the man in the back, moving sideways—stealthy.

He would interfere if things went wrong. The spear slung behind him was an eyesore.

And the man approaching, inching forward like this, was irritating too.

At the same time, a thought surfaced.

‘If I lose here, the impact will be huge.’

He could already picture the outcome.

The opponent had the advantage in strength.

They were outnumbered, and outmatched in training.

The Count had prepared properly.

Still, it felt like it would be fine.

Wars on the continent were decided by a handful of elites. A knight’s power could change the shape of a battlefield.

The one called the first knight had changed the very meaning of the word knight—once handed down like an empty title.

Knights reshaped battlefields.

Encrid was here to reshape something, too.

‘I’ll change it.’

Why had he wanted to become a knight?

‘To save and protect.’

To fight for what he believed was right—and protect the people behind him.

That was how he’d wanted to live from the moment he first gripped a sword.

The minstrel’s lyrics had carved themselves into his heart and become a marker on his path.

He walked and walked—

And now he was here.

Dawn had left its mark on his faded, torn dream.

Ignoring the opponent’s careful steps, Encrid strode forward.

The way he kicked off the ground looked half like a run.

But he didn’t seem hurried.

As he walked, his sword arm swung naturally, and the blade swung with it.

When the distance closed to five steps, Zalban kicked off the ground.

“Yaaah!”

He thrust the spear in his left hand.

Encrid gripped Silver, angled it across his chest, and twisted his wrist.

A soft block didn’t turn the blade into cotton.

The moment the sword met the spear tip, he let the force flow through. Silver accepted the force, carried it, and moved forward.

He saw the opponent’s eyes.

Brown. Bloodshot. Dry.

Why were this man’s eyes like that?

Miscellaneous thoughts slipped in.

Zalban raised his right hand and stabbed.

It didn’t reach. Still, he drove it forward as if it would.

Bang!

The short spear’s tip fired with a sharp explosion—a weapon with a special mechanism.

Encrid didn’t shove the flowing sword away. He drew it back in again.

Clang!

The explanation sounded long, but it was only a heartbeat.

Zalban stabbed with his left and fired the short spear in his right, and two metallic sounds rang out.

Then came a single tearing sound.

Thwack!

Encrid blocked twice and swung once.

All with the sword in his right hand.

His third strike pierced the opponent’s chest.

Zalban wore layered leather and thick underclothes that doubled as armor, but Silver cut through it all and carved into muscle and flesh.

Right over the heart.

The redness in Zalban’s eyes deepened.

“Cough!”

He coughed blood, staggered back a few steps, then collapsed, hitting the ground on his knees first.

“Hiss!”

The man in the back finally threw his spear.

It flew straight for Encrid’s face.

The pressure of the air hit first.

Encrid brought his sword down.

Clang!

The spear met the sword’s path, deflected to the side, and rolled across the ground.

The adjutant’s hand—ready to throw a second—stopped.

It was obvious a second throw wouldn’t change the result, so his body froze on its own.

Encrid swung his sword a fourth time and ended the fight.

Zalban saw the ground rushing up.

The world turned red.

And he thought—

‘From the start, the difference in skill.’

The opponent’s level was different.

He had cleanly blocked both attacks, even the spear fired from outside his expectations.

How had it come to this?

The reason was simple.

Encrid struck faster and more accurately.

What he had built up was different.

That was Zalban’s conclusion.

Encrid flicked his sword through the air.

Until then, the spear-thrower couldn’t attack or run.

He only rolled his eyes.

“Aren’t you attacking?”

Encrid asked calmly, indifferently.

Not a taunt. Not a scolding.

Just a question.

A strange tension settled over the field. The spear’s owner wavered—then tightened his grip.

“Crazy bastard!”

One impatient enemy soldier suddenly ran forward. He grabbed the reins and surged out.

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud!

About twenty steps away, the man released the reins, raised a short bow from the saddle, and drew.

He was skilled.

A mounted archer wasn’t common.

An arrow loosed while closing the distance would fly like a ray of light.

Encrid watched the man run and shoot, then moved his left hand.

Containing the [Will of the Moment] came naturally.

He accelerated the motion of drawing, gripping, and throwing.

Whoosh, swish.

The sword and arrow crossed on different paths.

Thwack!

A crisp sound.

The archer who’d drawn at twenty steps took a sword through the chest the moment he released the arrow. His body lifted briefly behind the horse.

A scene made by Encrid’s thrown blade.

His gladius flew straight and pierced through the man’s chest.

Encrid saw the arrow as a dot, but it was well within his perception.

With nothing else to do, he rolled to the side the instant he threw his gladius.

Thud!

The arrow buried itself in the ground.

Beyond it, the horse—its rider gone—bolted off to one side.

Clatter! Clatter! Clatter!

Neigh—neigh—neigh!

The horse screamed for a long time. Maybe it sensed its owner’s death.

The man who’d been skewered rolled across the grass after flying backward, blood soaking the ground.

Encrid walked over, step by step, and pulled out his Gladius.

Something cracked and snapped—ribs splitting under the blade.

‘What if, just in case, I were given exactly three todays to face the bastard Junior Knight from the Royal Palace before?’

It felt like he could prove it here.

Instead of three Todays, he’d condensed everything into one month.

Encrid felt especially light today.