Enkrid placed his hand on the grip of his sword and steadied his breath.
He was at the forefront, at the tip of the spear, the cutting edge—whatever you called it, he was at the very front.
A vast battlefield had unfolded before them.
The terrain was so flat, it could be called a plain.
The charge of the cavalry had been anticipated.
No, it was something anyone could have predicted.
And yet, for this to unfold like this... it was madness.
To the enemy, they must have been wondering if there was anyone sane among them.
Even so, no one had expected the cavalry to charge right from the start.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Though the cavalry was still distant, the ground trembled under their galloping hooves.
The sound of the earth shaking aside, there was still quite a distance before it would turn into a clash of swords. Still, they were fast, and the gap was closing rapidly.
The fierceness of the horses, the dust rising from their hooves, and the unified armor of the cavalry—everything about them could easily become an object of fear.
"Well? Are you enjoying this?"
Rem, ever sharp-eyed, observed the approaching cavalry commander. The commander wore a helmet that obscured his face, but was it possible to discern his expression?
"Can you see that?"
"Yeah, I can feel it."
Rem snorted in response.
Was his instinct as terrifying as a Jaxen's? Or perhaps it was just that whenever someone looked down on him, his reflexive instincts kicked in.
Whatever the reason, Enkrid felt something similar.
He measured the number of approaching cavalry. Over fifty.
Those present at the front were himself, Rem, Ragna, Saxon, and Audin.
Finn, Dunbakel, and Esther were positioned further back.
"I can fight too," Dunbakel had protested just before coming out, but her claim was meaningless. After all, this was the same person who followed Audin and got her skull nearly cracked open.
Now she had a bandage wrapped from her left ear to her forehead.
"Heh, sister. You nearly died. If you want to go to heaven, just say the word. I'll send you there right now."
Audin's polite death threat silenced Dunbakel. She had followed Audin and talked big, but even if she hadn't gotten injured, Audin still wouldn't have taken her.
"She's too weak," Rem muttered under his breath before adding a chilling "we'll see" in parting.
Just because Rem's usual demeanor seemed lighthearted didn't mean his words carried no weight.
For those who heard him, the "we'll see" was downright terrifying.
Dunbakel had no idea.
Enkrid cast aside his fleeting thoughts. The cavalry was now right on top of them. Thud! Thud! Thud! The ground rumbled as the charging cavalry drew their weapons.
Their long, wide spears, angled downward toward the ground, glinted in the sunlight. It was a glaive, more suited for sweeping attacks than thrusting.
It was an unusually clear day.
Enkrid couldn't help but think the sunlight and his sword's blade went well together.
Well, that was the least of his worries.
Cling.
He drew his sword, gripped it with both hands, and twisted it slightly.
"Walls? What a joke!"
At the same time, the cavalry commander at the front of the charge shouted.
Enkrid performed a technique from the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.
Valen-style mercenary sword attack.
Blinding Flash.
The razor-sharp blade, gleaming like a mirror, reflected the sunlight directly into the enemy's eyes, blinding them with the glare.
"Ugh!"
As the charging cavalryman's eyes were hit with the sunlight, he raised a hand in an attempt to shield his eyes. But that did little to slow the horse's charge—it kept coming at full speed.
Despite the incoming glaive's deadly momentum, it seemed that the energy had diminished somewhat.
Whether the sunlight shone down or not, the approaching glaive's blade was cutting through the air, aiming to slice through Enkrid's neck.
The wide spearhead was angled to cleave through the air.
Reflected sunlight, the sharp blade of his own sword, the enemy, the foe, the sun, the earth, the horse, the dust, the battlefield, the vanguard.
In a single moment, Enkrid recalled everything around him, then let it all go to fully immerse himself in the task at hand.
He forgot himself, forgot the world, leaving only the enemy and the sword.
As the glaive came charging toward him, his beast heart thrummed with power.
The courage gained from the heart of the beast made him unaffected by the incoming spear, while his sharpened senses allowed him to read the perfect timing.
Enkrid swung his sword vertically, striking the glaive's blade with full force.
Clang!
The sharp, crisp sound rang through the air, marking the beginning of everything.
The combined strength of his youthful muscles and the rare, fine blade harmonized.
Thwang!
Against the line of spears raised in unison, Enkrid shattered the first glaive.
There was no time to observe the shattered glaive flying through the air. In this world where only the enemy, his sword, and himself existed, his only task was to wield the sword.
He parried, slashed, and deflected every spear that came at him, looking for openings to strike.
Thwack!
The blade cut between the gaps in the horse's armor, severing its right front leg.
A hot, steaming spray of blood erupted, and the shrill cry of the injured cavalryman echoed through the air.
The scream soon faded as the battle pressed on, and the spears continued their relentless assault. This was the nature of a cavalry charge—once it began, it couldn't be stopped.
Amidst Enkrid's focus on the battle, a thought from Ragna's words resurfaced in his mind.
"When you apply the longsword techniques, there are two types of cuts you learn."
Typically, when teaching techniques, one would explain their effectiveness first, but with Ragna, that was not something to expect.
"The lion cut and the steel cut," Ragna had said.
Though the explanation was poor, Enkrid understood it well.
The lion cut wasn't about slaying an actual lion but rather about slicing through dynamic, charging targets in a single, decisive strike. The steel cut, on the other hand, was about cutting through hard, solid materials, even when still.
Initially, they were two separate styles—dynamism and resilience—but later, the goal was to combine them in a single strike.
"If you wish to obtain willpower, you must master both," Ragna's last words had stuck in Enkrid's mind, as well as the realization that the technique Ragna had shown—his "cleaving" skill—had started with these two cuts.
As the cavalry charged, Enkrid recalled the lion cut.
In his mind, the image of the swordsmanship remained. Reacting with his instincts, his body, hands, feet, and sword moved as one, striking down the charging cavalry.
Thwung!
Thwack!
Ssszzzzzt!
Three chaotic sounds collided as they rushed past his ears.
The horse and rider, cleaved from head to front leg, collapsed to the ground behind them.
"Ugh!"
A cavalryman who had fallen from his horse screamed, unlucky enough to be the one to face the final blow.
He died in his fall, his head striking the ground and causing his limbs to twitch uncontrollably.
And with that, the first wave of the charge had passed.
As expected, no one on Enkrid's side had fallen.
Cavalry was a weapon in itself. To directly face the charge of a galloping horse head-on?
That was something only giants or frogs would attempt.
But was that truly a wise decision?
If you could stop one, what about the rest charging right behind it?
If you liked being crushed by the weight of a horse and its armor, then maybe it was a good strategy.
Yes, generally speaking, facing a cavalry charge head-on was madness.
Even if you were confident in your abilities, that was the case. So, what were these opponents thinking?
Marcus had witnessed the reaction of those facing the enemy cavalry's charge.
From the moment Enkrid parried the first glaive to the sight of the largest soldier in their ranks, he noticed him first, perhaps due to his size.
"Wasn't his name Audin?"
A devout soldier who began his day with prayer.
Yet, despite that, he was also someone who could kill anything—be it man, beast, or monster.
He met the charge of the cavalry head-on. He knocked aside the spear aimed at him with a short club about the length of his forearm, then blocked the horse's head with his palm before redirecting it.
Did the blade truly bounce off like that?
Could one truly change the direction of a horse's charge with just their arm strength?
Heeyah!
That wasn't the end of it. With a single blow, the horse crumpled sideways, losing its momentum and collapsing in a heap. To watch him absorb the cavalry charge like that left Marcus beyond astonished—he was flabbergasted.
This doesn't make sense.
It was an astounding feat. To Marcus's eyes, it was hard to tell, but Audin hadn't actually struck the glaive's blade directly.
Instead, he had struck the shaft of the spear at the junction where the blade met.
The enemy cavalry had connected the spear to the back of the saddle, holding the midsection to steady it. That was the core tactic, the method of striking in time with the charge's speed.
Audin, however, didn't budge, fully countering the charge.
After taking down one cavalryman, the devout bear of a man then ducked to avoid the next glaive and, on the third strike, brought his club down on the horse's head.
Bang!
This time, there was no scream as the horse perished. Its helmeted head burst open, spraying blood. Through that chaos, Audin wore a gentle smile, though Marcus couldn't even see that much.
It wasn't just Audin who caught Marcus's attention. If Audin was first, the next was the madman wielding an axe.
"Hua!"
With a yell, Rem swung his axe to deflect the glaive. Strangely, the axe blade and the spearhead locked together, refusing to part. Then, as though entangled in vines, the two seemed to move backward, along with the mounted knight. Rem then pulled off an astonishing maneuver.
Without breaking form, he snatched the middle of the spear's shaft, used his foot to stomp on the horse's head, and then climbed over the rider.
Marcus could hardly comprehend what he was witnessing.
It was something only possible with lightning-fast legs, reflexes, and brute strength beyond reason.
Crack!
From atop the horse, Rem delivered an axe strike to the cavalryman's skull.
Then, like a leap, he moved sideways to evade the next mounted knight, who had drawn an Esterc—a specialized three-pronged sword meant for stabbing.
Before the cavalryman could even unsheath it, the blade of Rem's axe had already cut through his shoulder.
The dazzling, flashing axe blade was like magic in its swiftness.
Rem killed two cavalrymen in quick succession and rolled across the ground, narrowly avoiding being trampled by the horse's hooves as he swiftly dodged.
For Marcus, it was a series of bewildering, impossible feats.
It was akin to watching an acrobat troupe perform in a central city—completely incomprehensible.
Enkrid had also made his mark, smashing through the first spear with pure strength before continuing to strike and cleave through more. His movements were raw, almost brutal, but with each swing, his sword effortlessly cut through the mounted soldiers, leaving a trail of cleaved foes. His strikes were reckless, but they were also satisfying to watch—each blow struck with such force that it left a sense of triumph in the air.
Nearby, Ragna also exhibited a similar fighting style.
The difference, however, was that instead of wild swings, he employed more subtle thrusts and strategic positioning with his blade, rendering the cavalry's charge useless.
That too was an impressive skill.
Enkrid's weighty, powerful strikes that broke the charge of the cavalry were exhilarating to watch, each one as refreshing as a breath of air.
Yet, one of them was barely even visible, but what did that matter?
No one cared about him.
What truly mattered was this:
The cavalry charged, yet on the charging side, dozens of knights had disappeared. Meanwhile, the intended targets remained unharmed.
The blood of the cavalry and their horses spilled across the ground in streaks.
The blood was the result of the cavalry's continued charge, now stained with death. Those whose heads had burst open or been cleaved in half left a fountain of blood behind them.
Dust kicked up by the hooves mixed with the blood, turning the ground a red hue.
Seeing all this, Marcus's mouth opened.
"Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
"Who gathered them all in one place?"
The lieutenant, already aware from his investigation, recited the facts.
"It was the former battalion commander."
"Even that idiot did something useful for once."
It was unlikely that the former battalion commander had intentionally set up this situation. From assaults on superiors to causing various issues, he had gathered troublemakers into one unit, likely with plans to use them as expendable pawns for meat shields or sacrificial tactics. He probably thought that if these men died in battle, the glory would be his, as he had a history of taking credit for the achievements of his subordinates.
He didn't have the stomach to dismiss them, but he probably saw them as nothing more than disposable tools.
The idiot had surely intended to throw them away as pawns.
"And then, that Enkrid guy came in and became the centerpiece of it all."
Marcus, the political strategist, immediately realized the origin of the squad's formation. The former commander might have been a fool, but in this case, he had inadvertently made a smart decision.
"Well, something good came out of it. I'd almost want to pin a medal on him."
Gathering them all together and placing Enkrid as the squad leader was indeed a stroke of genius.
Look at this—truly marvelous.
While Marcus marveled at the outcome, the enemy commander, who had ordered the charge, was in utter disbelief.
The commander of the Bentra Baron's army, leader of the cavalry with the spears, was forced to halt. After completing the charge, he had to wheel his forces around. The formation needed adjustment, and twelve out of fifty men had already been killed.
The commander of the Bentria Baron's army, leader of the cavalry with the spears, was forced to halt. After completing the charge, he had to wheel his forces around. The formation needed adjustment, and twelve out of fifty men had already been killed.
It was only luck that he himself had survived. Had he been caught in the same range as his men, he would have been dead too.
The commander saw the flashing blades passing by.
He saw the one wielding the sword.
It was Enkrid. The same name he had first heard when it was written on the walls of a castle—a name that seemed to belong to the subject of ridiculous rumors.
"That was all just a bluff."
The rumors had been completely unfounded.
The tactic had only seemed like an attempt to intimidate, to make the other army retreat by puffing out their chest.
So, they were supposed to be slaughtered in this charge and become nothing more than meat.
But what was this? Was this a dream?
"What the hell is going on?"
The commander muttered, momentarily losing his will to fight.
But he couldn't afford to give up just yet. The battle had only just begun.
As he repositioned his troops and prepared the formation, four survivors emerged from the carnage.
Among them was a man with black hair and a helmet that didn't quite fit, his piercing blue eyes visible.
He looked deep in thought, muttering something to the side, though it wasn't clear what he said.
Just as the commander regained his resolve, it happened.
Thud!
"Ugh!"
Suddenly, a blade pierced into his neck, as if a torch had been shoved into him. The searing pain spread throughout his body. His muscles froze for a moment.
"Commander!"
He heard his subordinate shout from behind. He tried to speak, but no words came out.
When your vocal cords are severed and your throat pierced, it's impossible to say anything.
"Grrrgh!"
Blood and foam bubbled from the commander's mouth as his head jerked to the side.
The cause of his death was a slash to the back of the neck.
And the man who gave him that final gift was Jaxen, a red-haired soldier of the enemy.
The noise vanished. The murmurs stopped. In the silence, Jaxen moved purposefully as all eyes turned to him.

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