"Dammit!"
Olf was startled by the news of a rebellion breaking out.
In this situation? At this moment?
"Who is it?!"
He also heard that the one who led the rebellion had seized the castle gates.
The rebel forces couldn't do much on the watchtowers or the walls, but the castle gates were the real problem right now.
"Guard unit!"
In a rush, Olf called for the guard unit. They ran ahead.
"Go! Block them!"
'Who the hell is it?!'
Olf quickly took off, forgetting the weight of his armor. He ran, breath tight in his chest.
A metallic taste rose in his throat. It smelled like dried blood.
Where he ran to...
"I'm sorry."
He saw three of the guards, now as spiny as bolts, lying there.
He also noticed a squad of soldiers, at least platoon-level, blocking the guards' path.
They aimed crossbows at him.
The one who had spoken earlier grinned cunningly. It was a sly grin, just as it seemed.
A twisted mouth, narrowed eyes, a face and demeanor that he'd never seen before.
It was the ignorant adjutant who had been shouting to charge with the cavalry and break the enemy.
A fool who only knew how to fight. That's what he had been until just a moment ago.
'That bastard?'
He couldn't believe it, considering how recklessly he fought. He never thought it would come to this.
Or was this his plan all along?
Had he been pretending to be the ignorant adjutant, the one who knew nothing but fighting?
If so, he was a natural actor.
Olf realized he'd been deceived.
"Enemy forces are coming!"
Booooo!
A large horn blared. It was a signal of danger and threats.
"Fire! Fire!"
The archers in the gallery and on the watchtower pulled their bows frantically and shot arrows, while the ignorant adjutant continued to hack at the castle gate pulley with an axe.
Thud! Crack! Thud!
To Olf, the sound felt like a death sentence aimed at him.
'Ha.'
It was a situation that could only bring out a sigh, but his mind froze. Even the words to stop it couldn't come out. It was already too late.
Even if he ran in and tried to stop it, there was nothing he could do about the gates opening.
Once those gates open, the monsters from the battlefield would pour in, wouldn't they?
It was a nightmare, a terror. The five monsters.
Just as he had expected.
He knew that the sorcerer's attack from last night had failed.
If not, why hadn't those who were demanding something in exchange even shown their faces?
'Damned shadow bastards.'
Olf emotionally gave up.
Would he continue to fight to the death here?
Risking everything, even his own life? Would he sacrifice the lives of these soldiers?
"Dammit, dammit, dammit."
He couldn't do that. What would be left if he killed them all and survived?
Olf didn't want to end his life in a foolish manner.
Even if he was a defeated commander, he wouldn't disgrace his name.
He would die alone, in the end.
"You must surrender."
Even though he had made up his mind, when the head of the guard spoke, Olf wanted to slap him.
This bastard?
A look of fury flickered in Olf's eyes, but...
"You must face reality."
The head of the guard spoke again. It was clear that he was so desperate to save his own life, his eyes were wild.
But this bastard wasn't even stepping up to fight, so why was he talking so much?
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
The Castle Gates Opened
Soon, a man with black hair, who seemed to be staring into the distance alone, appeared.
He wasn't even wearing a helmet.
His blue eyes weren't looking at anyone but seemed to be gazing into empty space.
As Olf watched him approach, the head of the guard quietly unsheathed his sword and lowered it.
He was preparing to surrender.
That damn bastard.
Olf mentally cursed him, wishing he could rip him apart, and gave up on everything.
However...
"There's no rule that we must surrender the city without fighting."
From behind, Zimor took a step forward.
"What?"
"Please allow me to take the final duel. I will show you the spirit of the Eastern Lion."
Zimor's eyes were ablaze. He called to Olf again.
"General."
Zimor had always been the most skilled swordsman among the battalion commanders, including Grek. He had properly trained in swordsmanship.
While the usually pompous head of the guard stood there, either contemplating whether to raise his hand to his head or kneel down, Zimor, who often handled the dirty work, stepped forward with his words.
'I've failed in judgment.'
Olf acknowledged it. He had failed in his choices. He had been deceived by the ignorant adjutant, and in comparison to his support for the head of the guard, he hadn't shown enough regard for Zimor.
He felt a strong urge to gouge out his own eyes.
"Do it."
Olf nodded. He didn't believe he had the right to stop anyone who was willing to burn something of themselves, even in a lost cause, especially when they fought as a warrior.
Thus, Zimor moved toward Enkrid.
'When did he start planning this?'
As the castle gates opened, Enkrid recognized that this was someone's plot, specifically Marcus' scheme.
'Was this planned?'
It might not have been exactly planned this way. Maybe it was just something prepared in advance, not necessarily meant for this moment, but perhaps it was planted just in case?
His thoughts continued. The more he thought, the more his mind came to a conclusion that led to the martial style he had learned.
An unnamed swordsmanship, taught by the cursed spirit of the magic sword.
'The basic idea of swordsmanship is to force the opponent into a single direction.'
That's what the preparations were about. It was the basis of the sword style, and everything else stemmed from that.
If heavy swordsmanship crushed the opponent with power and swift swordsmanship won through speed, then...
The standard style of swordsmanship was about creating 'patterns' that forced the opponent to follow a set path.
And creating a 'pattern' required preparation.
A 'pattern' was the readiness and methods to push the opponent.
If the opponent moved as you wished, that was ideal, but if not, how should you react?
'Prepare broadly and extensively.'
By anticipating every possible move, one could adapt and act accordingly.
That's why standard swordsmanship excelled in tactical battles.
The key was preparation. To diversify and maximize your preparations.
The traps Marcus had set up were one such preparation.
There were probably more hidden schemes he had set, and even if the gates hadn't opened, he wouldn't have given up. He would have used other tricks.
Standard swordsmanship was similar. That's how it could be applied.
'Not confined to one pattern.'
By preparing in many ways, you could adapt to the opponent's reactions with a variety of tactics.
Just like Marcus had done.
As experience accumulated, the swordsmanship became stronger, particularly the standard and advanced styles.
The reason why they were different from others was the multitude of patterns that would become second nature through constant battles.
Marcus' magic, which had triggered this line of thought, led him toward a new direction in swordsmanship.
Battling the cursed spirit of the magic sword.
Then, facing Ragna.
And the lessons learned from Lagarne the frog.
All these experiences blended and interwove.
Enkrid took three steps and crossed the gates. As he walked, he realized how advantageous his position was.
'The repetition of today.'
Experiences of fighting with life on the line.
Experiences of fighting while willing to sacrifice life.
Endless defeats and battles, followed by reflection.
All of that was just patterns and experience, wasn't it?
Yes. Patterns and experience.
'That old teacher, I bet his specialty was standard swordsmanship.'
He also realized the specialty of his swordsmanship teacher from the coastal village, who had taught him the importance of reflection.
With this realization, he took two more steps.
As he walked the five steps, Enkrid felt the need to internalize and remember all the experiences he had accumulated.
Would a genius, or someone exceptionally talented, have figured it all out and acted immediately?
It would be a lie if he said he wasn't regretful of the talent he had during his life.
However, now, he no longer craved talent as he once did.
'One step at a time.'
Forward
He moves forward. This is the path that leads to 'will' and to becoming a knight.
A forgotten dream struck his heart once again.
Only then did Enkrid become aware of his surroundings.
The castle gates had opened, and one of the key players in the battlefield had stepped inside.
Even though arrows should have been raining down, maybe a hundred or more, or at least there should have been spears or maces in front of him, there was only silence.
"Ah."
A brief gasp echoed, and Enkrid lowered his shield. It was a wooden shield with an arrow stuck in it. He set it aside and looked around. In an instant, the situation became clear.
'There's no will to fight.'
All he saw were soldiers who had lost the will to fight.
These were the men who had returned battered from the previous battlefield and now found themselves in a defensive position.
Their last stronghold was the castle gates and the walls.
He had just witnessed the enemy foolishly pressing up against the walls.
"Isn't it going to break?"
"Damn it, is our castle gate made of mud?"
Tense words were exchanged in anxiety, and an unsettling air spread among the soldiers.
Even knowing this, there was nothing they could do at that moment.
The gates opened, and five evil spirits from the battlefield entered.
"Damn."
Was it bravery or foolishness to run toward death?
The soldiers of Martai did not need to know the difference between bravery and foolishness. They did not stop to think about it.
They simply stopped.
The eyes of the soldiers who had given up were now fixed on Enkrid.
Silence. The wind blew. The breeze swept over the flags raised above the city.
Swish.
The sound of flags fluttering mixed with the curses of soldiers who had been caught.
Curses filled with resignation and self-mockery.
Seeing and feeling all of this, Enkrid spoke.
"Do I have to say my name again here?"
My name is Enkrid.
At first, it had sounded arrogant, foolish, and like a madman's utterance, but those words now weighed heavily within the walls of Martai.
Even so...
Even if everyone else had given up, there were always those who made a final desperate effort.
A heavy silence, and the frozen soldiers. A slender man stepped forward, threading through soldiers who were still drawing their bows, cautious and uncertain.
Enkrid didn't know the man's size, but he could tell the man had solid muscle.
His balanced stance caught Enkrid's eye, and it was also impressive that there was no fear in his gaze.
"My name is Zimor."
The man introduced himself.
Enkrid didn't know who the man was.
He hadn't moved with such a thing in mind.
"I am the commander of the 2nd Battalion of Martai."
Since the man had introduced himself politely, Enkrid also spoke.
"I am the commander of an independent company, part of the Border Guard's regular forces."
"I see."
Enkrid met Zimor's eyes. These weren't the eyes of someone who had given up. This was someone determined to act.
"This is a bit of a nuisance," Rem muttered from behind, and Audin chuckled as he added,
"Duels are sacred things. Brothers, on behalf of the Lord's eyes, I will relay His will."
It sounded like something a full priest would say, but no one bothered to challenge it.
Instead...
"I can't back down without properly swinging my sword."
Zimor showed his resolve.
Behind him stood General Olf, but he appeared half out of his mind.
He was someone who had returned after a frenzy of anger and reason. Of course, Enkrid didn't care about him.
Krais was just looking around.
A fight that was over, but for some, it couldn't just end with surrender.
'Why risk their lives like that?'
Krais couldn't understand it.
Others seemed to accept the situation.
Ragna stepped to the right. If any enemy archers or others tried to intervene, he would unsheath his sword without hesitation.
The usual unassuming presence of Ragna was replaced by an overwhelming aura, making his figure appear several times larger to the enemy.
And indeed, there was a warrior of that size among them.
"If you interfere, your head will be split, and you'll be on your way to heaven, brothers and sisters."
Audin took the role of the judge, and Rem stepped back.
Rem also respected his opponent's spirit. In such a situation, to face an opponent head-on with swords drawn was truly the behavior of a warrior.
Zimor, was it? Even if he came from another tribe, he would still be worthy of the title of a warrior.
Jaxen had already disappeared, likely planning to cut down any of the commanders if things went wrong.
Enkrid was also impressed by Zimor, stepping forward.
Even if Zimor lost, the likelihood of survival in such a duel was slim.
And yet, he wasn't backing down.
He was a warrior. A man who knew how to fight.
Clink.
Enkrid drew his sword. Once a cursed sword, it was now a finely sharpened and sturdy blade.
"My sword is not ordinary."
He acknowledged his opponent's courage with respect.
Zimor nodded.
Soon, he also drew his sword.
Ting.
It was a short, straight sword. An Estrek.
As soon as Enkrid saw his stance, he could guess the man's specialty. No, it was more of a near certainty.
'A fast sword. Light on his feet.'
Light feet meant swift movements.
Zimor lowered his knee. As he pointed his blade forward, his foot struck the ground.
The sword blurred, almost like an afterimage, and then shot toward Enkrid with terrifying speed.

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