Chapter 48 - If There Was an End, Crawling Was Enough
In small-scale skirmishes, such a level of force had never been deployed before.
Just as the enemy had prepared their sorcery, this side had prepared a Squire.
The impact of that Squire on the battlefield was nothing short of catastrophic.
Dodging the rain of arrows with forward momentum, the squire unsheathed his sword and slashed.
Whing!
As a silver arc carved through the air, the heads of three soldiers blocking the front rolled to the ground in unison.
The Squire retrieved his sword and swung it down from above.
Like a bolt of black lightning, the blade struck downward and immediately rebounded upward.
The head of a spear-wielding infantryman was caught in its path.
Crack!
It wasn't just cut—it was shattered.
The force of the sword's impact crushed the soldier's skull.
And then the blade, as if taking flight like a butterfly, sliced through the air.
The fluttering wings of that butterfly transformed into a fearsome requiem of terror.
The piercing slashes of the blade sought out openings, snuffing the life from the enemy soldiers.
Two soldiers with heavy wooden shields stepped forward, blocking the path.
As they covered themselves entirely with their shields, the butterfly's wings were halted.
The sword struck the shields repeatedly, leaving deep dents in their surfaces.
"Close in!"
One of the enemy soldiers shouted, sweat pouring from his face, doing his utmost to command.
But no amount of effort could free him from the clutches of death.
The crimson-cloaked figure gripped his sword with both hands and swung horizontally.
Boom! Crack!
The blade battered the shields.
While the metal reinforcements on the shields held and prevented them from being sliced through, the hands of the soldiers holding them could not withstand the impact.
"Aaagh!"
The wrist of one soldier twisted and broke, the bone piercing through the skin.
As the shield fell limply to the ground, the blade cleaved through the soldier's torso.
His upper body was severed, and his innards spilled onto the ground with a sickening thud, blood splattering everywhere.
Terror seeped into the eyes of the surrounding soldiers.
"Damn it all..."
One soldier from the Grand Duchy of Aspen muttered a curse, his voice trembling.
The cloaked figure's nose twitched, as though catching the sound, and he immediately sprang forward.
As fearsome as his swordsmanship was, his most terrifying aspect was his footwork.
The moment his feet touched the ground, he would disappear in a flash, reappearing to decapitate a soldier or pierce a hole through their body.
Even raising shields or armor against him seemed utterly futile.
"Shoot him!"
One of the commanders gave a decisive order.
It was a bold decision.
Thirty crossbowmen, stationed nearby, loosed their quarrels.
Dodging all of the close-range projectiles was impossible—or so the commander thought.
But the cloaked figure shattered that certainty.
Bang!
Before the quarrels could reach him, he leaped into the air, soaring upward.
The bolts sliced harmlessly through empty space.
What goes up must come down.
Arcing gracefully through the air, the cloaked figure landed ten paces from the Duchy's commander.
The heart of the enemy formation.
"...Stop him!"
The Duchy's top commander's cry was pitiful.
If the Grey Hounds unit were still present, it might have been different.
But they had already withdrawn, burdened with the responsibility for the defeat, injuries to Mitch Hurrier, and other complex circumstances.
"Hoooo..."
The cloaked figure exhaled deeply and swung his sword once more.
From above to below, then from below to above.
Whoosh!
The blade, bending like a whip, tore through the bodyguards around the commander.
Thwack! Crackle!
The thick leather armor of one guard was completely split.
Another guard, wearing a steel helmet, was struck in the head by the flat of the blade and thrown aside.
Thud!
The guard, knocked to the ground, bled profusely from his nose.
Though he appeared intact outwardly, the impact had fractured his skull, killing him.
Having dispatched the guards, the Squire plunged his sword into the commander's throat.
Squelch.
Alone, the Squire killed the enemy commander in the heart of their formation and turned to retreat.
Even his retreat was remarkable.
With a single kick to an enemy soldier, he launched himself forward, sprinting across the battlefield in a series of bursts.
From a distance, the red figure seemed to carve a straight line through the heart of the battlefield.
Enkrid and his companions had watched the fight unfold from start to finish.
Rem, observing the cloaked Squire, couldn't help but acknowledge his skill.
"He knows how to put on a show."
A man who could wreak havoc in the middle of enemy lines, showing no mercy, instilled fear by demonstrating his overwhelming power.
Through that fear, he rendered the enemy formation utterly helpless.
Particularly impressive was how he evaded the ambush of crossbowmen.
'If it were me, I'd have charged straight into the crossbowmen first.'
Clearly, he was well-trained.
It was no accident he was called a master of combat and war.
Instead of neutralizing the crossbowmen, he left them untouched.
Then, when they aimed for him, he displayed his reserved strength. He leaped into the air and struck at the enemy commander.
He was like a flying tiger.
A winged predator.
Ragna assessed the opponent's skill level and compared it to his own.
This was someone who had already traveled the path he himself was walking.
"At that level..."
It wouldn't take long for him to reach it.
There was no need for shortcuts or grueling training.
Rem had analyzed his strategy, while Ragna evaluated his level of ability.
"His swordsmanship is sharp."
A hybrid of quick swordplay and heavy strikes.
At first glance, it seemed like he used orthodox techniques, but it was all sleight of hand.
Quick and heavy techniques intertwined seamlessly.
Clearly, he had an excellent sword instructor.
Normally, mixing two styles like that would result in sloppy basics.
But the crimson-cloaked Squire showed no signs of such flaws.
"Well, he is a Squire, after all."
Ragna felt a strange lack of motivation.
The path was clear, and the destination was visible.
Watching someone who had already gone ahead didn't stir competitiveness within him.
All that remained was to keep walking, enduring the monotony of training.
The tedium of honing his blade in a state devoid of emotion—this was the burden of his exceptional talent.
Jaxen, meanwhile, evaluated the gaps in the enemy's actions.
"At least five times."
The enemy could have eliminated the cloaked figure at least five times.
It wasn't an issue of ability but of strategy.
The commander's foolishness played a part, as did the shock of an unexpected assault.
If Jaxen had been in their position, the battle would have ended before reaching that point.
The religious zealot among them, watching the Squire's movements, nodded.
"A brother who skillfully leads souls to the lord's side."
A high compliment for his combat prowess.
"We don't even need to step in now."
Krais, watching the battlefield, clicked his tongue.
It was astounding that just one man could dominate the flow of the battle.
Victory seemed assured before the fighting even began.
And Enkrid...
"This is what it means to be a knight."
He was moved to his core.
His heart pounded furiously, and his body trembled.
Goosebumps rose on his skin, and he felt a chill down his spine.
At the same time, a burning heat rose from his abdomen.
His gaze never left the Squire.
In the current continent, Squires and junior knights formed the backbone of knightly forces.
They were one step away from knights who could singlehandedly change the tide of war.
A killing machine had just swept through the battlefield, slain the enemy commander, and returned unscathed.
"How can someone like that exist?"
The cloaked figure wasn't a beastkin or a Frog.
Yet, how could he possess such power?
The symbol of might, capable of cutting down a thousand foes alone—that is what it means to be a knight.
What makes such a feat possible?
What drives someone to push the boundaries of human limitations?
Enkrid didn't know.
Perhaps that very ignorance made him marvel all the more at the Squire's movements.
At the same time, he felt something explode within his mind, a sudden spark of inspiration.
"Sometimes, learning is as simple as watching," echoed the words of a swordsmanship instructor from the big city, passing through his thoughts.
As his initial excitement subsided, an unintentional yet pure focus took hold of him.
Once his concentration sharpened to a superhuman level, he began to understand the purpose behind the Squire's steps and the intent of each swing of his sword.
'Middle Sword Technique.'
The strength of the middle blade.
The ability to wield a sword with great power inherently meant the ability to swing it swiftly as well.
The opponent had fused the essence of the middle sword with the speed of a quick blade.
Enkrid could finally see it now.
'He shifted his footing.'
It seemed like the Squire was subtly stepping back, as though defining the range of his attacks.
'No, he's not defining it—he's already defined it.'
The northern-style middle sword that Ragna had taught him was built upon establishing an attack line as its foundation.
The Squire's method was slightly different.
He drew a circle around himself as his focal point.
It was swordsmanship rooted in the Central Continent's foundational techniques.
The Squire carved a circle with his body at the center and slaughtered anyone within it.
If they entered, they were cut.
If they approached, they were pierced.
At a glance, it appeared as though he was using footwork to dominate his opponent, but the reality was different.
'He's guarding his range.'
He only used his feet when necessary.
Though a few impressive sword strikes caught the eye, most of his attacks were thrusts.
Enkrid observed repeatedly, gathering the details his eyes absorbed and organizing them in his mind.
'Does middle swordsmanship always have to rely on raw power to strike downward?'
The ultimate move displayed by Mitch Hurrier wasn't an advanced or light technique—it was a decisive strike in the middle sword style.
The Wheel strike, which cuts through anything in its path.
Why did he choose that as his trump card?
To deceive his opponents?
No.
Dividing swordsmanship into five methods didn't necessarily mean they were entirely distinct from one another.
All five styles shared intersections.
The middle sword didn't always have to rely on sheer force to slash downward.
Enkrid's eyes darted about.
His mind churned.
His fingers twitched involuntarily.
"Enjoying the show? Hm?"
Rem casually tried to start a conversation but quickly stopped.
Ragna, finding the Squire's movements no longer intriguing, turned his attention to the voice behind him.
"Leave him be," Ragna whispered.
He could immediately tell what state the squad leader was in.
In battles, taverns, alleys, or even the embrace of a lover—epiphanies often struck like a prank played by the goddess of fortune.
Suddenly, abruptly, without warning, they would arrive in silence, shaking one's very core.
"Guard the flanks," Jaxen suggested, stepping forward.
Ragna moved to the right, while Rem took the left.
The squad's cleric silently moved to stand behind Enkrid.
Big Eyes whispered, "What's going on?"
Rem answered in a hushed tone, "Looks like the squad leader's breaking through his shell. About time, too. All those nights practicing alone are paying off."
Rem acknowledged the squad leader's efforts.
He deserved this moment.
Of course, this wasn't mere luck.
It was the natural result of countless battles, rigorous training, and a constant return to the fundamentals of swordsmanship.
Ragna, now more intrigued by Enkrid's state than the Squire's, thought to himself,
'How is this possible?'
What drives a man like the squad leader to push himself so relentlessly, despite knowing his limits?
It was an enigma to Ragna, more fascinating than any opponent tearing through a battlefield.
Shortly after the knights returned, the commanding officer's rallying cry echoed through the air.
"Chargeee!"
The allied forces surged forward en masse.
Their shouts mixed with war cries, and the earth trembled beneath the stampede of infantry.
And yet, Enkrid stood still, his gaze lost in the void.
He remained in his trance-like state.
The squad of troublemakers, thanks to their exploits in the earlier battle, could afford to stand aside as mere observers.
No one dared to question their inactivity.
Even if someone had wanted to speak up, the sheer intensity emanating from the four—excluding Big Eyes—was too overwhelming to approach.
Though the Squire's feats of strength on the front lines drew awe, those close enough to witness the troblemakers squad agreed—they were far more terrifying.
Thus, as the war hurtled toward its conclusion, the squad remained untouched.
This winter and the following spring would surely be busy.
Supplies would see them through the colder months, but fortifications would need to be rebuilt.
The borders between Naurilia and Aspen would be redrawn.
While the allies charged ahead, Enkrid replayed the fundamentals he'd learned.
Intersections, swordsmanship, Valen-style mercenary techniques, northern-style middle swordsmanship.
Everything was a weapon in his arsenal.
There was no need to confine those weapons within the rigid framework of "fundamentals."
A middle sword could deflect and divert.
Binding, the technique of attaching swords, was the foundation of parrying.
When he first learned it, he hadn't even noticed.
Though his state of enlightenment didn't instantly elevate his skill, it provided clarity.
His innate talent was modest, so he couldn't instantly embody what he had realized.
However, Enkrid had identified his limitations.
That realization carried immense significance—it meant that, given enough time, he could train to his limit and even surpass it.
The impossibly high cliff, its peak shrouded in mist, had begun to reveal its summit.
When the wall before you is too tall, too broad, and its end is unseen, you cannot climb it.
But if you can glimpse its end, no matter how distant or daunting, you can scale it—even if you must crawl.
Enkrid understood this now.
"Ahhh."
The joy overwhelmed him, even causing him to drool slightly in his trance-like state.
"What's with the drooling, seriously?" Rem quipped, unimpressed.
Enkrid snapped back to reality and scanned his surroundings.
He realized there wasn't a single allied soldier nearby.
"They've all charged forward. If you're tired, rest in the barracks. Don't doze off standing here," Rem chided.
"Ah."
"Ah, nothing. Let's head back. Seems like the battle's wrapped up without us."
And so it was.
The crimson cloak squire returned to the main camp.
The battle had ended.
The enemy forces were retreating—no, fleeing back to their homeland.
It was time to withdraw.
Time to return to the city.
As Enkrid turned, his eyes lingered on the setting sun.
The Squire's overwhelming strength had reignited a flame within his chest.
His destination, his ideal, stood before him once again.
And with it, an old dream resurfaced.
'What does it take to become a knight?'
It wasn't just about honing one's strength.
He would first need to prove his skill.
The time for remaining a low-ranking soldier had ended.
Enkrid silently vowed this to himself.

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