211. My Name is Enkrid.
Graham, the captain of the Turtle Heavy Infantry in the first platoon, did his job.
"Who are we?"
At the captain's call,
"Uha!"
The soldiers responded in unison.
"We are the wall! The moving fortress of the Border Guard!"
At the captain's shout again,
"We are the fortress!"
The heavy infantry soldiers of the Turtle unit strained their throats, producing a roar that was almost grotesque, but somehow, the message got across. The more they strained their voices, the higher their morale soared.
Regardless of Enkrid's group's feats, Graham sought to be the fortress.
It was the thing his unit excelled at most and the operation that had been planned from the beginning.
Graham expected to face his old rival, Greg's assault platoon.
The assault platoon of Martai and the Border Guard's heavy infantry had been long-time rivals.
However, Graham never had the chance to face Greg.
Enkrid and his five companions had already disrupted Greg's assault platoon.
After witnessing that, Graham's battle felt almost leisurely, considering the chaos around him.
"Shields up!"
The typical strategy of heavy infantry was simple:
Raise the shields and hold the line.
"Two steps!"
They closed the gap. Clang! Clang!
"Two steps" meant they moved two paces forward, and though it was slow due to their training to maintain a unified step, it was reliable and stable.
The turtles crawled forward.
"Strike!"
The third order was to close the distance and swing their heavy maces.
Each soldier was armed with a mace, weighted with a round head.
Wham!
This was violence that even ordinary armor and leather helmets couldn't block.
Bam!
A mace slammed into the shield of a Markai infantryman. The wooden shield split vertically.
The incoming mace was too much to block with a head.
Crack!
The skull shattered, and the soldier collapsed in a bloody heap.
Even if a spear or blade narrowly missed, what could they do against a mace?
Dead bodies piled up in front of the heavy infantry.
Some soldiers managed to evade, skillfully stabbing with swords, but the sound of metal clashing could be heard.
The Border Guard's heavy infantry were clad in plate armor and chainmail, bolstered by layers of cloth and leather padding to defend against such attacks.
Even if the enemy's blade pierced through the chainmail, it couldn't breach the heavy inner armor.
"Die!"
A Border Guard soldier, wounded in the side, shouted as he swung his mace.
From above, the heavy mace crashed down on a soldier's shoulder, who had been pierced by a spear.
"Gah!"
If one arm was immobilized in a single strike, what would happen next?
The soldier would be shoved onto the shield and trampled to death.
Though the turtle-like movements were slow, once engaged, Graham's heavy infantry were terrifying in their strength.
Their slow violence crashed into the battlefield with force.
However,
"Even so..."
Graham's unit would never be the center of attention.
On one side, Enkrid and his companions were relentlessly raising the body count.
What five people could accomplish, fifty heavy infantrymen couldn't.
Such individuals were called irregular forces, and those at the top of this group were called knights.
Though they could not yet be called knights,
"At least junior knights."
Graham had the vision to see it.
"Shields up!"
After that, the simple tactics of the heavy infantry continued, but no one could stop them.
The enemies who should have been blocking them were already being torn apart, shattered, beaten, cut, stabbed, and killed by someone else's hand.
The Commander of the Border Defense quietly asked while looking to the side:
"May I ask your name?"
He noticed a small, specialized unit moving ahead.
They were all nimble in their movements.
Perhaps this could be called the second dagger prepared by Martai.
That seemed correct.
The Border Defense Commander immediately understood that this unit was clearly assembled with the intent of targeting them.
The nickname of the Border Defense was
Frontier Slaughterers
, the Butchers of the Border.
It was a name earned by their skill in cutting, slicing, and fighting well, and their small, elite force made them similar to their enemies in that sense.
However, now that name felt like a misfit.
'These days, just being the Border Defense is probably enough.'
Why not?
There's a class that dominates the battlefield through a few skilled warriors, with strategies and tactics emerging based on them.
That class is the knight.
So what happens when there are no knights? Would they return to fighting as they did in the past? No. The elite force, representing the tactics of knights, becomes the small, specialized unit—the special forces.
Until now, the Border Defense had maintained their reputation, but now, that reputation was cleanly overshadowed by Enkrid and the mad platoon's notoriety.
But the Commander wasn't upset by this.
'Just looking at them, you can tell. They're dangerous.'
The Border Defense Commander recognized Enkrid's skill.
In fact, who in the Border Guard's standing army wouldn't?
Everyone would recognize it.
Enkrid was the kind of person who made others feel good just by watching him. He stirred something up in people. A person you couldn't hate because he had that effect on you.
"No."
At the end of the commander's thoughts, he heard the fairy platoon leader's refusal.
Was she not going to even share her name?
The commander was already thirty-six years old.
He was getting on in age. His pupils shifted, though no one saw it. He subtly lowered his head, ensuring it wasn't visible to the fairy either.
Although officially their ranks were equal, the Border Defense Commander held a special position, much like a first platoon commander.
Even if the Border Guard Battalion commander held lower authority, sometimes the Border Defense Commander's word carried more weight.
But the fairy platoon leader didn't seem to care about that at all.
'Not even a name?'
Soon, nearing middle age, the Border Defense Commander let go of his fleeting excitement, focusing on preparing for battle.
However, a lingering doubt prompted one more question.
"Are you really that close to Enkrid?"
The fairy leader, fixed her gaze on the Border Defense Commander and replied,
"Wishing and achieving are different things."
Her expression was colorless, her tone devoid of emotion.
The Border Defense Commander closed his mouth but soon spoke again.
"Zenok."
The second lingering thought had made him utter his name.
She didn't even nod.
At that moment, Torres, who had been following behind, jabbed the Commander in the side.
"I told you not to."
The Commander didn't respond.
Torres had tried stopping him before he could even act.
But what could he do?
If his passion burned and he didn't speak now, who would be responsible if he died before he had a chance?
"Today, I'm going to fight fiercely."
The Commander said, and Torres nodded. Following this, the core forces of the Border Defense all seemed to light up with resolve.
For their broken-hearted commander.
Their eyes spoke their rallying cry. Soon, the dagger prepared by Martai's unit reached the designated point.
Shinar, the fairy platoon leader, had come to offer support, but none of her subordinates had come along. There were no soldiers under her command capable of matching the strength of the Border Defense.
The commander of Martai's special forces looked desperate. Their discipline was faltering, and their formation had collapsed. When the commander's heart races, it affects the soldiers as well.
They had prioritized speed over checking their surroundings.
And with that, the Border Defense charged in.
"For the heartache!"
One of the Border Defense soldiers shouted.
"Who the hell are they?"
The Commander yelled.
One of Martai's special forces soldiers, wielding twin swords, turned toward them with a fierce glare. His sharp eyes gave him an intimidating look.
Leading the charge, they all began to turn. The Border Guard's main force was targeted by the special forces, while the Border Defense attacked from their flank.
The twin sword-wielding soldier had lightning-fast reflexes.
He brought his swords in close to the fairy platoon leader, aiming for her neck.
His movements were fast. His reactions were flawless, and there was no hesitation in his attacks. He was elite.
Just as he closed in, Shinar, who had been standing still with her hand on her waist, made her move.
She stepped back, drew her sword, and swung it up towards the point where the twin blades crossed. Her leaf-shaped blade cleaved through the air and the swords alike.
Zing!
"Where are you aiming?"
Shinar, with a bored tone, swung her blade, dancing through the air.
Every time her blade swept through, a mist of blood erupted. The bodies of the wounded and slain fell to the ground.
Torres, too, was in the thick of it, closing in on an enemy armed with a sword and shield. He drew a hidden dagger from his wrist and slashed across the enemy's throat. A clean strike between the helmet and armor, and the man's neck split open. Blood gushed from the wound as Torres shoved the dying soldier aside.
With one enemy down, Torres returned to the Commander's side, and the Commander noticed Shinar was dancing with her sword as fiercely as Enkrid.
"How can anyone not be impressed by that?" the Commander muttered.
"Are you really impressed by that?" Torres replied, shaking his head inwardly.
To him, it seemed more like slaughter than anything impressive.
Of course, this was a battlefield, and Shinar was on their side, so it was more like a brilliant performance rather than senseless killing.
What was certain, however, was that the fairy leader was no subordinate of Enkrid or the mad platoon.
So, was there any real chance of them losing this fight?
"Crazy woman!"
A group of soldiers with tattoos on their faces from the enemy side shouted as their apparent leader let out a wild scream. Some of the Commander's subordinates moved with him.
"Rip that mouth open!" the allied Commander yelled, driven by his infatuation.
His subordinates rushed to obey, charging forward into a one-sided battle. The momentum of the main forces had swung the fight in their favor. Martai's special forces had made the first move, and even with a surprise attack from their side, Shinar's performance was undeniable.
Now, they were no longer worried about losing; their focus had shifted to minimizing the casualties.
The Blade-Ending Elites.
When had it come to represent his name?
The memory was hazy.
He had hidden his presence, silencing his steps.
Moving through the fallen allies, he observed a particularly fierce-looking enemy archer rallying his troops while continuously firing arrows.
Killing that one might be useful, but...
He licked his lips and dismissed the thought.
Had he really come this far just to deal with someone like that?
He lowered his stance and hid his breath. Regardless of skill, he squeezed through the gap between enemies and allies, silently moving.
Sometimes, when an unsuspecting enemy charged at him, he quietly pulled them in and twisted their necks, choking them to death.
Killing without a sound—one of his specialties.
He continued walking like that.
"Are you really going to give up being a squire?"
A memory from the past pricked at his mind, fragments of his former instructor's words.
What had he said in response?
Without hesitation, he nodded.
"Yes."
"Are you really going to waste your talent?"
Becoming a squire for a knight meant handling errands and tasks for knights and junior knights—at least, that's how it started.
After proving one's skill, you could become a junior knight, and if you didn't continue up, you became just a regular swordsman or warrior.
The path to becoming a full knight was called the "Flow"—the continuous, unbroken progression.
That was unimportant, though. Knights were few, and their paths varied.
Still, even with the possibility of rising, he had given up.
"Fool."
His instructor had been angry, but the man himself was not.
There was no reason to get angry.
Killing was easier than fighting, so he had chosen that path, but it was not out of any particular reason.
He gave up being a squire and left the knight order.
He wandered for a while until Count Molsan approached him.
The Count, known as the King of the Border.
It had seemed like an arrogant title, but the proposal was not bad.
"Would you consider working under me?"
He nodded.
"Do you regret not becoming a junior knight?"
The Count asked. The man smiled and responded.
"I may not become a junior knight, but I can kill one."
That was his answer. The man had mastered the art of silent movement and held a blade sharper than willpower itself. One day, he had seen a fairy's signature weapon, the Needle, and searched for a sword like it.
He eventually found a weapon resembling it, which now hung at his waist, chest, and forearms.
A blade resembling a stiletto, sharp and pointed like an awl.
It had been made by an unknown craftsman from the Carmen Collection, famous for their mastery of assassination blades. Whether it was plate armor or chainmail, the weapon could pierce through anything, leaving holes in the opponent's body.
It was a blade made from solid Valerian steel.
It had also been a gift from Count Molsan, and with his skill and this weapon, he soon gained the title
The Blade-Ending Elites
If a few could dominate the battlefield, surely there would be a blade designed to hunt them down.
His goal was clear: one day, he would pierce the neck of a knight.
In fact, he had once come close to taking the life of a junior knight.
Instead of a neck, he had taken a few fingers as trophies.
"That talent is wasted," he remembered the junior knight who had lost his fingers saying.
So what?
It wasn't as if the one he had taken them from had any right to complain.
His memory faded, and his attention returned to the current battlefield. The man's goal was clear.
The guy with black hair.
The one who tore through the battlefield as if he were one with the chaos.
The one at the forefront, the one who introduced himself, the one who stood out from the beginning.
That bastard was Enkrid.
He appeared to be at the level of a junior knight. And that only made him more excited. He could kill someone like that.
"One down, then hide, and take them one by one."
It was rare to find someone with both skill and keen perception. Thus, his opponent wouldn't even recognize him.
Like most junior knights, the guy was bound to be arrogant.
Having donned the common soldier's armor and helmet to obscure his identity, he crawled through the mud and blood, his body covered in the dirt and blood of others, approaching carefully.
He calculated the distance to the blond man and, ignoring the wild axe-wielding lunatic on the other side, closed in on Enkrid.
Excitement filled him.
"I may not become one, but I can kill one."
That was what drove him.
He gripped the specially crafted assassination dagger tightly. Holding his breath, he aimed for a gap and struck with precision, closing the distance in a split second. It was a deadly strike.
The forceful step as he lunged forward was something he had learned during his squire days.
Having snuck in so close, the fight was already over in his mind. This was the moment he would strike.
Thud!
"Blocked?"
He saw his dagger being stopped, the blackened blade of his weapon visible.
"What are you?" came a voice laced with disappointment, frustration—maybe both.
Before he could react, a devastating strike came from behind. Instinctively, he rolled forward.
In front of him, a point appeared. No, it wasn't a point—it was the tip of a sword. He ducked, narrowly avoiding it.
Twice dodging an attack like that was impressive enough, but there was no avoiding the final strike.
A massive object, like a log, swept through the air toward him.
Crack!
"Ugh!"
It was Audin's lower kick. In one blow, both of his legs were shattered.
A fearsome display of brute strength and technique.
The man wasn't sent flying, but his legs were snapped cleanly, and his upper body collapsed, his head hitting the ground before bouncing back up and then slumping down once more.
It was an involuntary display of skill produced by the immense force of the kick.
Before the man could even regain his bearings, a sword fell above him. He saw blue eyes staring down at him.
Thud.
That was the end.
Turning his head to the side saved him from the sword plunging directly into his neck, but it still grazed his shoulder. He fell to the ground, bleeding profusely.
It was clear his death was imminent.
The man twitched as he lay there, his body fighting for its final breath.
The one with the blue eyes stared at him for a moment, then turned away.
The dying man's memories flickered back to his last instructor.
"Why are you throwing away your talent?"
The question echoed in his mind.
At the time, he should have answered.
"I didn't throw it away. It never existed to begin with, you fool."
If he could have risen higher, he would have. But he was surrounded by monsters—only monsters.
He realized the limitations of his own talent soon enough.
That was when his goal changed. He didn't want to become a knight anymore. His goal was to become the one who killed knights.
That was the end of the man's dream.
He had forgotten his name and had lived by the blade given to him by Count Molsan, the blade that hunted elites.
Enkrid would never understand this.
However...
"Is he crazy?"
Rem's words summed it all up. Did he really intend to run into the middle of this?
It was like charging straight through five junior knights.
Each one of them was formidable in their own right.
Enkrid was the type of person who, at any moment, could draw the best move and wield his sword with total commitment.
Whether it was the killing blow or even just a single step, he put everything into it. That was just who he was.
In many ways, that was what made him a monster.
Of course, there was also the cunning of Jaxen, who was always ready to wait for the perfect moment to strike in the heart of the chaos.
It was an easy hunt.
"I wouldn't really call this a hunt,"
Rem thought to himself as he clashed axes with Jaxen.
Thud!
"Come at me more!"
Rem might have shouted those words, but by now, the surrounding soldiers had backed off. The area around them had cleared, a ring of space forming in the center.
The ground was littered with corpses, blood, severed limbs, and entrails.
In the midst of this gruesome scene, Enkrid felt his muscles twitch with the aftereffects of his immense strength and the intense combat.
So what if he felt a bit sore? It didn't matter. It wasn't enough to hinder him.
He glanced around. The sky was clear. It wasn't the kind of weather for rain, though the air reeked of blood. Still, the morale of his victorious troops pushed him forward.
He had come into the midst of the enemy forces, isolated, yet now he heard the distant voice of Vengeance—something like that.
Having taken in all the details of the battlefield, Enkrid felt a surge of adrenaline.
"My name is Enkrid."
It was just a single phrase.
He felt that this was a good name to live by.
But when it reached the ears of the enemy, there was no reaction like before.
In the center of the battlefield, surrounded by the carnage Enkrid had created, a chilling silence spread.
"If you come at me again, I'll kill you."
Enkrid spoke.

Comments

Loading...