It wasn’t difficult to persuade them to disguise themselves as a caravan and enter the Cross Guard in two days at dawn.
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
It was the sa reason as when they suggested scaling the wall.
Torres supported the idea, and Finn nodded nonchalantly.
“Then I guess we’ll stay here for tonight.”
They were camped in a dugout.
Hearing the news, the cook smiled and said, “Should we bring that out for dinner then?”
Led by Ranger Finn, the forward scout unit had been stationed here for an average of six months on operations. Sotis, they returned after only a month or two if sothing urgent ca up, but they had been here for eight months already. Over ti, they had tried all sorts of things, including curing the at of captured animals to make ham.
“Shall we have a drink then?” Finn responded excitedly.
Despite being a unit that should have been more on edge than those on the front lines, it was hard to tell if their nerves were dulled or if they had thick skin.
‘Maybe they’re more sensitive on normal days for tis like this.’
They were careful not to let smoke rise from the area they used as a dining hall and took turns patrolling in a large circle to keep watch. Two keen-eyed mbers always watched the periter. Watching this scout unit, a saying they had heard before ca to mind.
“If you’re always straight, you’ll break easily. You need to know how to bend softly when needed.”
Who had said that? ‘It wasn’t an instructor.’ It was a paladin from a religious order who was traveling through the region. He said he didn’t have ti to give proper instruction, so he offered a brief but intense training session instead. With his hearty laugh and habit of stroking his beard, he looked more like a bandit than a clergyman, but he was a respected religious figure and a skilled warrior.
“Bending doesn’t an you’re weak. If your core is strong, you won’t break easily. Want to explain in simple terms? It ans stop being so stubborn.”
Apparently, they had said it sounded like he was shouting angrily whenever he swung his sword.
Maybe that’s why he suddenly felt curious about how his swordplay appeared.
Ching.
He moved as his heart desired.
“Why’s he acting like that when we just talked about having a drink?”
Finn muttered as she received the bottle of stashed liquor from a mber who had just fetched it.
Encrid, who had stood up, drew his sword and swung it. It wasn’t related to anything that had happened today or sothing he had recently learned. It was just a stroke born of curiosity.
The paladin who had confronted Encrid had said he sounded like he was shouting in desperation every ti he swung his sword, as if insisting he couldn’t break.
“You need to use your muscles softly to let the sword flow better.”
The face of the squad mber overlapped with the laughing paladin’s face.
Hundreds of sparring sessions.
How was Rem during those sessions? His muscles were pure elasticity.
The basis of his ability to handle the axe freely was a sense of ease.
Because he believed he wouldn’t lose?
‘No.’
His forearms and axe bending like a whip, Rem’s face, his supple muscles.
All combined to give the answer.
‘He used just enough strength when needed.’
How about Ragna? His seemingly weak gestures, yet absurdly skilled swordsmanship.
The sa went for Jaxon and Audin.
Despite his stiff deanor, Jaxon always had a sense of ease.
Audin would twist Encrid’s arms this way and that, teasing him but also offering advice.
And what about himself?
‘Shoulders.’
No, he fought with his whole body tensed. Even when connecting the dots.
Because he always had to give his all.
Because anything less than the best was aningless.
This ant his shoulders were always tense.
Encrid swung his sword in the air. The swing was far less forceful than usual, almost empty.
‘This is just relaxing the muscles.’
Relaxing the body doesn’t an diminishing the power of swordsmanship.
He began to vaguely see the thod, the path, the signposts.
Knowing doesn’t an you can imdiately do it.
He knew this all too well.
Encrid was painfully aware of his own talent.
He rely realized that he needed to relax his shoulders.
But even this realization made his heart pound with excitent.
Joy and exhilaration filled his entire being.
Just knowing he could walk straight brought the joy of seeing the path ahead.
For Encrid, the sword was life, and life was the sword.
A companion walking towards his dreams.
And with this joy ca a question.
‘Is desperation the only answer?’
He had always resolved not to waste today for the sake of tomorrow.
He had steeled his mind countless tis.
Enduring and desperately struggling wasn’t difficult, so he had done it that way.
‘But it’s not always necessary.’
With his thoughts, he swung his sword down.
Shing.
The sound of the blade cutting through the air was different from before.
Hearing this, a faint smile appeared on Encrid’s face.
That sword stroke just now.
He felt a sense of nostalgia from that simple downward swing.
When was it?
It was in the tall grass field with Andrew and Enri.
The commonly known “cut that doesn’t feel in the hand”.
That strike that those called geniuses achieve countless tis.
Had there been an opponent before him just now, he could have cut through without even feeling it in his hands.
Despite countless attempts to replicate that sa sensation, he had never been able to perform that “cut that doesn’t feel in the hand” again.
‘It’s happening.’
To think that this strike had co from his hand now.
How could he not be happy about this?
“That stroke just now seed a bit different.” Finn remarked.
“Indeed. It was an unusual cut.” Torres added, sitting alongside Finn, both observing. They both had a keen eye.
Finn continued, “But is he really okay? Why does he keep grinning to himself?”
“Don’t ask . I’ve only seen him a few tis. He’s famous back at the main unit for being a bit odd.”
Encrid lightly ignored their conversation.
He just wanted to swing his sword again and again.
And as he did, he continued to think.
‘Even if you’re desperate.’
What about desperation without tension in the shoulders?
It wasn’t just about struggling desperately every day.
Shouting in anger wasn’t the only way.
What was important? Taking steps forward towards tomorrow, the mindset, and gaining everything possible along the way.
It was an enlightennt. A realization. A new learning.
And while smiling with joy at this thought,
“Ah, with a face like that, he can smile like that and still look fine. Normally, he’d look like a madman, but why does it seem fitting?” Finn said, taking another drink.
“And what about ?” Torres interjected, oblivious to the topic.
He was promptly ignored.
A few squad mbers laughed and patted him on the shoulder.
Though they had only known each other for a few days, they quickly beca close.
As Encrid continued to swing his sword vigorously, Finn, Torres, and a few others shared a few drinks.
There wasn’t much to drink, and it wasn’t strong liquor either.
It was cheap fruit wine that could be easily found in the city.
As they ate a few slices of the ham they had cured and smoked in the makeshift dining area in the forest,
“You should open a restaurant.” soone quipped.
These words naturally ca to the scout whose dream was to beco a cook.
Encrid didn’t even get a sip of the drink. He didn’t intend to drink today anyway, but even if he wanted to, there wasn’t anything left to drink.
While he was swinging his sword and washing up, the rest had quickly finished it off.
“What’s the matter? You think you can drink with that face too?” Torres grumbled for no reason.
Though not in the mood for laughter and chatter, it was a ti to unwind a bit.
Of course, there were always a few who stayed alert, like antennae on edge.
Finn was one of those. She had taken a sip or two, but she was responsible for everyone.
Thus passed the day, and night returned to the dugout.
Whether heading to the burrow they called the “rabbit hole” or going to the wall, no one should have stayed here tonight.
When Finn left, they were supposed to empty the camp and regroup closer to the main unit.
All plans changed when they decided to disguise themselves as a caravan, and the night that shouldn’t have existed arrived.
Two moons rose, casting a blue light around. Before entering the dugout, Encrid looked up at the two moons.
The large, round moon was always visible, while the second, smaller moon only appeared during the full moon.
‘Bright.’
The surroundings were clear. Staying up all night would just repeat today. He had already learned this while digging under a cobbler’s shop in the city.
So, struggling to stay awake was pointless.
He decided to rest his eyes to avoid unnecessary fatigue.
Just as the deep night began,compared to yesterday, it was around the ti they had reached the front of the wall.
Awooooo!
A cry rang out from quite close.
Encrid had a rough idea why his sixth sense hadn’t activated when he was killed by the wizard.
The reason for the absence of a sense of foreboding.
‘When spells are at work.’
While climbing the wall, a wizard with rose vines or thorns had been above him.
Because she had cast spells, he couldn’t sense anything from above.
He hadn’t heard or felt the danger.
But now?
“Damn! Wake up! Ergency! Ergency!”
It was the cry of a scout on guard duty.
The howl of wolves, the warning shout of a soldier, followed by a sound.
Tat! Tat! Tat!
It was the sound of sothing rushing.
And then, a beast appeared, silhouetted against the moonlight.
There is a race known as beastfolk living at the eastern edge of the continent, a unique species with characteristics of both humans and beasts.
The beast that appeared now was known as a failed creation of these beastfolk.
Being a failed creation of the creator,they always craved blood and harbored hatred for humans.
Awooooo!
It was the owner of the howl.
Their ankles jutted backward, as if they were standing on their toes.
Covered in gray fur, their yellow eyes glead with a beastly glare.
A pronounced snout protruded, revealing sharp fangs.
The creature, silhouetted against the moonlight, was a lycanthrope, commonly known as a werewolf.
As expected, since they weren’t a part of the beastfolk race, they couldn’t communicate like most monsters.
The one leading the pack had a distinctive scar running across its left eye, leaving it blind in that eye.
With its single remaining yellow eye, it surveyed the area and opened its mouth.
“Kaaaah!”
The monster’s cry rang out.
To Encrid, it sounded like a command to charge.
“Stay alert!”
He shouted reflexively.
How would this night end?
He thought it was a fifty-fifty chance.
Either it would be a night where nothing happened because they didn’t take any risks.
Or sothing would happen.
The result was the latter.
Werewolves, and not just one or two.
Besides the one in the lead, the others scattered in all directions.
Despite the bright moonlight, it was hard to spot them at a glance.
All that remained were shadows darting across the darkness with the sound of paws hitting the ground.
Between the trees and in the places where the moonlight was obscured, yellow eyes glead like lines.
The werewolves under the moonlight circled the clustered humans.
They ran so fast that they seed like afterimages.
“Damn.”
Encrid realized sothing else here.
A sense of foreboding. Why hadn’t he felt any sense of danger? Why had Finn, a veteran, been so late in noticing the approach of the werewolves?
‘They must have used so trick.’
It ant that there was likely a wizard involved here too.
The fact that werewolves had gathered and co in such numbers was unusual.
He didn’t know what trickery the wizard had used. The results were clear before his eyes.
There were over ten of them, even from a rough count.
“Over ten of them. This isn’t good.”
Torres spoke as they stood back-to-back. Encrid drew his sword as well.
Shing.
With his back against Torres, he decided to think later.
While he had planned to struggle just enough to survive,he couldn’t just die quietly.
‘No, that’s not an option.’
As always,he would take a step towards tomorrow.
Encrid steeled himself and held his sword steady.
The na of the creature was Lycanthrope.
A monster imbued with magical power in its heart.
It was a far more challenging adversary than a ghoul, the flesh-eating undead.
To take down even a single werewolf typically required an entire trained squad.
Attempting to hunt with fewer numbers was not recomnded.
It would likely result in severe injuries or deaths.
And if lycanthropes ford a pack, it was advised not to engage even with a platoon.
But now it seed,
“Ha, there must be over twenty of them.”
The number had increased even in that brief mont.
There were ten scouts, including himself and Torres.
The werewolves numbered over twenty.
And, as if to prove Encrid’s suspicion of a wizard’s involvent, they were surrounded and under attack.
Werewolves, a difficult adversary even when driven by primal instincts,were even stronger on nights when the dual moons were out.
And now they were launching a coordinated attack?
How could one describe this situation?
“We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”
Torres’s sarcastic remark was his answer.
There was no way out.
Encrid fought valiantly, killing three werewolves and severing the arm of a fourth.
During the chaos, he managed to throw a whistling dagger at the one-eyed leader, making two new ‘friends’ for the creature.
It was truly a fierce battle.
This was the aftermath of fighting a pack of lycanthropes.
Torres had a similar fate.
He fell before Encrid but not before taking down two werewolves himself.
Finn managed to kill one before succumbing to the second.
The other mbers fared no better.
Encrid, bleeding profusely, let his injured arm hang limp.
As he turned to deliver a final blow, he stumbled over sothing at his feet.
It was the head of the scout who had dread of becoming a cook.
“This is a bit annoying.”
Even knowing that death would reset the day,seeing such things wasn’t exactly pleasant.
“Rooargh!”
Six werewolves pounced on Encrid at once.
Surviving was out of the question.
It was the first ti he experienced being torn apart and devoured.
Naturally, it was a painful ordeal. As ti passed in agony, he eventually closed his eyes.
When he opened them again,the pain was gone.
He saw a black river, silently rippling.
Floating on the river was a small boat with a ferryman.
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