Chapter 107 - One-on-One

Chapter 107 - One-on-One

Enkrid knew his plan had succeeded.

Turning the battlefield into chaos—that was his intention.

Look at the battlefield now, a complete mess.

It was more than chaotic; it was exactly as he had envisioned.

Among all the battles today, this one stood out as a prime example of what he had repeatedly orchestrated—a perfectly executed mess.

'It worked.'

He had instigated a melee, and the chaos had taken root, leading to a massacre of the werewolves.

Although many soldiers had died in the process, the ones who fought in small, organized groups with a minimum formation held the upper hand, even amidst the chaos.

'The soldiers will win.'

While taking a breather at the outskirts of the chaos he had engineered, Roger suddenly charged at him.

He lunged forward with his spear, its blade so sharp it appeared like a pinpoint.

It was a frightening thrust.

Instead of making a big movement, Enkrid merely twisted his body slightly.

Although his gambeson was already in tatters, he trusted the toughness of the leather armor he wore beneath it.

Swish. Grind.

The spear's blade grazed his side.

There was no sharp pain, meaning the armor had held up.

Enkrid immediately trapped the spear shaft under his arm.

"Hah!"

Roger grunted and tightened his grip on the spear, seeing that Enkrid had caught it under his arm.

He planned to yank the spear back and tear through Enkrid's side and arm.

Catching the blade with your side? I'll rip you to shreds.

Beep!

At the exact moment Roger exerted his strength, a strange sound reached him, and a sense of foreboding pierced the space before his forehead.

He instinctively leaned his head back.

No—just tilting his head wasn't enough; his entire torso bent backward.

It was an extraordinary display of reflexes and agility.

'What the hell?'

A sharp blade grazed the hair on his head and the edge of his helmet.

A throwing knife had sliced through the darkness, leaving a faint trace.

Of course, Roger didn't actually see it—it was only a sensation he had perceived.

The chilling sensation quickly turned into anger.

As he straightened himself with fiery rage fueling him, he suddenly realized that the weight of the spear in his hands had disappeared.

"It's time to meet your hair again."

A voice rang out simultaneously, and a shadow loomed over his head.

It was Enkrid, plunging down from above.

'Damn it.'

How is he so fast?

Such agility didn't match his size.

The descending blade was the last thing Roger saw.

Crack!

His helmet, which had once protected his skull, was split in two, and his head was cleaved apart.

Blood and brain matter spilled from the shattered remains.

Thud.

Landing softly on the ground, Enkrid began checking his own body.

Trapping the spear, throwing a knife at his opponent's forehead, and following up with a vertical slash—it had all unfolded exactly as he had planned.

'Not bad.'

He wasn't seriously injured.

Although his side ached slightly from catching the spear earlier, it wasn't a major concern.

He prodded his ribs with his fingers.

'Not broken.'

That meant it was just a bruise—nothing to worry about.

"Damn it! Commander!"

The shout of an enemy soldier echoed.

Some soldiers had witnessed Roger's death, but there wasn't much they could do.

Even if their eyes turned red with fury, they couldn't simply abandon their fight against the werewolves to rush at Enkrid.

The werewolves still bared their fangs menacingly.

Still, this one swing of his sword had shifted the tides of the battle.

Roger's death seemed to sap some morale from the enemy spearmen.

Though they still held the upper hand, a few of them were still falling prey to the werewolves.

Right now, as well.

A soldier who had been distracted by the sight of his commander's death got struck down by a one-eyed lycanthrope that had been hiding.

Smash!

The one-eyed lycan didn't use its claws but its fists.

Rather than instinctively relying on claws and fangs, it delivered a calculated punch.

Yes, that was the mark of a true colony leader.

After all, not just anyone could lead a colony of monsters.

Of course, it didn't solely rely on its fists. It used all the weapons its body offered.

The one-eyed lycan slashed with its claws, deflecting a few spear blades and breaking two spear shafts in quick succession.

After killing two soldiers, it retreated behind its pack.

In the shadows of trees, behind enemy soldiers, amidst the chaos caused by other lycans rampaging—it found a place to hide and waited for another opportunity to strike.

It had employed the same tactics several times, exploiting gaps in the enemy formation through stealth and ambush.

Enkrid gave up searching for the lycan hiding among his troops and focused on catching his breath.

Meanwhile, a spearman charged at him.

"For the commander!"

What nonsense.

If their commander had lost in a one-on-one fight, how could a lone soldier fare any better?

Wasn't that why he had created this chaos in the first place?

Enkrid deflected the incoming spear with the flat of his sword, pushing himself forward as he followed the shaft with his blade.

Shing!

The blade scraped along the shaft, reaching the spearman's neck.

Slash.

The well-honed blade severed the enemy's neck.

Blood sprayed like a fountain from the half-severed neck.

Using the momentum of his swing, Enkrid spun around and readied his sword in front of him.

'I was wondering when you'd show up.'

Behind him, near Roger's corpse, crouched a lycanthrope, lying in wait.

It was the one-eyed lycanthrope, the leader of the wolf pack.

Its yellow eyes gleamed as it stared at Enkrid.

"Want to come first? Or should I go to you?"

The lycan leader was undoubtedly a tougher opponent than Roger.

Even so.

During these seventy-eight battles, not once had Enkrid faced an easy day.

It wasn't as if he hadn't fought desperately even when he let his guard down.

So.

"Let's get this over with."

Killing this one wasn't going to be that difficult, he thought.

Its claws slashed through the air, splitting gaps in an instant.

Sword and claws clashed repeatedly—clang clang clang—before, finally, Enkrid's blade severed the lycan's arm.

'Weapon superiority.'

He had never appreciated it more than now.

The sword, forged with a significant investment of Krona, proved its worth.

He repeatedly shattered its claws before finding an opening to sever its arm and seize the upper hand.

When the one-eyed lycan swung its claws vertically, Enkrid sidestepped, spinning his body.

Placing all his strength into a rotational strike, he unleashed a powerful slash from the crown of the lycan's head to its groin.

Swish.

The blade split the lycan's neck effortlessly.

There was no resistance.

The sound of the blade cutting through the air and the sight of the lycan's head flying were all over in an instant.

There was no silence after the fight.

Few had witnessed this moment, and those who had didn't linger.

If the spearmen had maintained their formation, Enkrid would've died.

The same would've happened if the lycan pack had overwhelmed him.

But in a chaotic one-on-one battle?

'I won't lose.'

That's why he had orchestrated this chaos.

Furthermore, he had already experienced the one-eyed lycan's habits and fighting style multiple times.

Of course, such knowledge only mattered when paired with sufficient skill.

As he spun to deliver his final blow, the moonlight seemed to swirl around Enkrid, creating an illusion.

Of course, it was just an illusion.

Enkrid quietly stepped back.

It was time to catch his breath.

After all, "today" wasn't over yet.

The wall still remained.

***

"Hey, doesn't that seem strange?"

"Was it always like that?"

Though he sensed the urgency and started running, Torres couldn't afford to cut through the heart of the battlefield.

He had to take a longer route, circling around.

On his way, Torres had already witnessed Enkrid slicing down Roger and taking the head of the one-eyed Lykanos.

It left him with one thought.

Something's changed.

Over the past days, they had sparred countless times.

But the Enkrid now and the Enkrid he had sparred with were undeniably different.

What changed?

Was his skill suddenly leaps and bounds better?

Torres didn't think that was it.

His swordplay feels... colder.

There was an air of calmness, an added confidence that hadn't been there before.

"Was he always that, um, skilled in combat?" Finn asked from the side.

It was rare talent.

Anyone who saw it would think the same.

"He's absurdly good," Torres muttered in admiration, just as Finn's sharp gaze shifted, her eyes gleaming with focus.

Suddenly, she extended her left foot far forward, stepping firmly on the ground, and with her opposite foot, she kicked a small rock into the air.

As the rock popped up, she snatched it mid-run and hurled it sideways with precision.

The stone flew with a crisp snap and struck an enemy soldier in the back of the head.

The man staggered forward just as a werewolf clawed at his back.

Thwack!

The claws didn't pierce through his armor entirely—it was impressively durable.

But the soldier, left unbalanced, rolled aside to escape further strikes.

The disruption, however, caused their formation to falter.

Two Lykanos immediately took advantage, diving into the broken ranks.

In a broken formation, the Lykanos gained a clear upper hand.

Torres glanced in that direction for a brief moment before turning back.

Sure, Finn's stone-throwing antics were odd.

But right now?

Enkrid was downright strange.

Something felt so off that it jabbed at Torres's chest, leaving an unshakable unease.

He couldn't quite put it into words.

It was just... wrong.

Deeply, profoundly wrong.

Why?

Thinking back, everything felt strange.

Even if he tried to pinpoint a few things:

First, his skill.

Torres had no intention of going toe-to-toe with a Lykanos under the full moon.

He could win, sure.

But there was also a high chance of dying.

If his dagger missed its mark while aiming for the neck, or if it got caught on their claws even slightly—

"Ugh."

The thought alone made his skin crawl.

And what about Enkrid?

"Is his heart made of stone?"

His audacity went far beyond bravery.

Enkrid wasn't just bold—he danced through enemy soldiers, werewolves, and the frenzied mob with acrobatic ease.

He struck down enemy commanders without hesitation.

And that one-eyed Lykanos?

Just like that.

With a few deft strikes to its claws, his blade swept cleanly through its neck.

It was so masterful that Torres felt a subtle pang in his gut, like a phantom blow.

The way Enkrid's blade whipped around—it seemed to bend like a whip mid-strike.

What kind of man is this?

Ah.

That's when it hit Torres—the difference between the Enkrid he had sparred with and the one now.

His skill.

Back then, there had been a clear awkwardness, a rawness to Enkrid's movements.

Torres had pointed it out, advising him on how to cover his gaps through practice.

But now?

It was as if those gaps had vanished overnight.

At least, the sweeping strike he had just witnessed looked as refined as a master's.

In just a few days?

Was he some kind of prodigy?

No, Torres knew better.

They'd spent enough time together for him to know.

Enkrid's talent for physical combat was... average.

If anything, it was embarrassingly clumsy compared to others.

And yet—

"Wow. This is just..."

Every swing of his blade was lethal, claiming a life with each motion.

Even after slaying the commander and the one-eyed Lykanos, more werewolves and soldiers rushed at him.

But Enkrid's deliberate steps and precise downward strikes cracked skulls, while his devastating horizontal sweeps left ribs shattered and organs ruptured.

Even when his blade didn't pierce directly, the sheer force of his strikes wreaked havoc.

It was a textbook demonstration of the brutal efficiency of heavy swordsmanship.

How are they not terrified of him?

If Enkrid were an enemy, Torres thought, he'd dread facing him.

And Torres wasn't the only one thinking this.

After the commander, the one-eyed Lykanos, and a handful of others fell, the remaining enemies avoided him entirely.

Even the frenzied Lykanos, maddened by the full moon, began to treat Enkrid as if he didn't exist.

They saw him but turned away.

They went around him.

I'd do the same.

With that, the battle was reduced to the skirmish between the enemy soldiers and the Lykanos.

Even that was drawing to an end.

And there stood Enkrid, still and solitary, basking under the moonlight.

Oddly enough, he didn't look out of place.

His composed demeanor under the moon seemed natural as he calmly observed the dying fight.

That image sent chills racing down Torres's spine.

Sure, the sight of werewolves and soldiers avoiding a lone human was bizarre enough.

But that wasn't the only reason for his unease.

There was something else.

It didn't make sense.

The Lykanos and the Gray Hounds meeting here.

The questions about what lay beyond that hidden passage.

And how did he know the commander's name?

That couldn't be a coincidence.

Once doubt crept in, it only snowballed, and Torres couldn't stop his mind from spiraling.

As he circled around the battlefield, muttering to himself about how strange everything was, Finn asked, "What's with you?"

She was scanning the battlefield as they ran, reading the flow of the fight.

Regardless of which side won, they'd need to clean up the survivors.

At first, the humans had the upper hand.

But now?

It looked like the Lykanos might pull through.

While the Lykanos had been avoiding Enkrid, the soldiers hadn't.

They tried to target him a few more times and lost even more men because of it.

All of this—one man had orchestrated it.

Enkrid, the platoon leader of an independent unit.

A man with a beautiful build and an equally handsome face.

Maybe he's some kind of tactical genius?

Finn thought as much.

"Everything's just so weird," Torres muttered beside her as they ran.

They seemed close, but it was clear Torres was full of questions and doubts about Enkrid.

"Focus up. We still need to deal with whoever's left," Finn said as she drew an axe from her belt.

The moment she locked eyes with an enemy soldier, she hurled the axe.

Whoosh!

The spinning weapon struck the soldier squarely in the chest with a thunk, sending him staggering back before he collapsed to the ground.

"Bet that hurts," Finn smirked, running ahead.

Meanwhile, Torres kept muttering about how strange everything was.

Eventually, they joined up with Enkrid.

Though it had taken longer due to their roundabout route, they'd made it within range as instructed.

"I've got a question," Torres said.

And he had to ask.

About this situation.

About what was going on.

Setting aside Enkrid's inexplicable improvement for now, the most pressing matter was:

"How did you know the commander's name?"

It was impossible to come up with a plausible excuse for this.

Enkrid remained calm, as if it wasn't a big deal.

"By chance."

"By chance?"

What were the odds of learning an enemy commander's name by chance?

"Krais mentioned there was a peculiar guy among the enemy," Enkrid replied.

It was a lie.

But how could they verify it?

They couldn't.

And it sounded convincing.

"Oh."

"He even mocked him for hiding his head all the time."

The enemy commander wasn't a city-level powerhouse, but he was a peculiar figure.

It wasn't out of the realm of possibility for such rumors to reach them.

Some Aspen soldiers probably knew the names of a few border officers too.

So, sure—it wasn't entirely impossible.

"Then you planned all this, didn't you?"

"Of course not. Who could've predicted a pack of werewolves would show up here?"

Enkrid's expression said it all—what kind of question was that?

It irked Torres to no end, but before he could press further—

"Does it matter? I've got a plan," Enkrid said suddenly.

Finn, intrigued by the possibility of Enkrid being a tactical genius, leaned in closer.

And Torres, despite the strange feeling in his gut, couldn't deny one thing.

This man—the same man he had sparred with and defeated countless times—now stood before him as someone unrecognizable.

Someone who knew how to turn a battlefield into chaos.

Someone... impossible.