Chapter 118 - Leap
Chapter 118 - Leap
"Come at me!"
Clang, clang, clang.
The sword and spear clashed repeatedly.
Vengeance fought with raw power and ferocity.
No matter how strong an ordinary person might be, his opponent was still a trained soldier.
Using brute strength alone, it was hard to overpower the enemy with just one hand.
How then?
Enkrid thought as he fought, then acted.
He let the powerful strikes flow past him and targeted the openings.
Connecting points to create lines.
Finding the most optimal trajectory, he thrust his sword and gauged the reaction before retreating.
His feet moved swiftly.
When he spotted an opening, he brought his sword down heavily, embodying the essence of the greatsword's might.
Clang!
Vengeance blocked the strike with his spear shaft and attempted a sweep with his leg.
This was a style of combat Enkrid was more familiar with.
He had faced countless practitioners of the Karaz hand-to-hand combat techniques. Moreover, he had learned Valaf martial arts, which incorporated ground grappling techniques, often referred to as the "bed techniques."
With a sharp motion, Enkrid kicked Vengeance's leg away and seized the moment to strike the spear blade hard with his sword.
Thud!
The spear blade twisted to the side momentarily, and in that brief opening, Enkrid forced his sword against Vengeance's neck.
A cracking sound came from the muscles in his left forearm, like something tearing.
Still, he had won.
"Your left hand..."
"I trained it in secret. It was my hidden weapon."
A prepared excuse is always a beautiful thing.
Over time, as this routine repeated itself, Enkrid had grown adept at making excuses.
"You're full of it."
"Why the sudden sparring match?"
"I don't know. Watching you, I just wanted to fight."
He had only been practicing the basics — footwork, thrusting, slashing.
There wasn't anything extraordinary about his movements.
Vengeance had nothing more to say.
He already knew that Enkrid was in a higher league than him — in both skill and character.
From the time Enkrid saved him during the fire at the medical barracks, Vengeance had been unable to truly hate him.
Watching Enkrid train his left hand with a sword had made him wonder.
Why is he so skilled with his left hand too?
Yet, something felt off.
"This... what is it... it's strange."
"What is?"
Damn it.
Explaining like this wouldn't make sense to anyone.
Cursing himself, Vengeance racked his brain, searching for the right words.
When he finally spoke, his tongue stumbled out the best explanation he could muster.
"It feels like a dead sword."
That was the best he could do.
Explaining further would only lead to clumsy words.
What could he even say to someone who fought better than him?
Still, the situation seemed absurd.
He had been the one to challenge Enkrid, lost the match, and now found himself criticizing his opponent.
"No, I mean..."
"Wait a moment," Enkrid interrupted, his gaze drifting blankly into the air.
Though his eyes were open, his mind was elsewhere.
Vengeance felt frustrated.
His actions hadn't been driven by jealousy or envy.
At that moment, Vengeance was pure.
It was like when he first picked up a spear, when he joined the army and caught his first monster.
Back then, he had practiced morning and night, unable to contain his excitement.
The sight of Enkrid stirred those memories, reigniting the fire in his blood.
Why was this man, injured and exhausted from brutal missions, still pushing himself so hard?
Why was he smiling?
It wasn't jealousy or envy.
It was pure instinct.
"Thank you," Enkrid said suddenly, snapping out of his daze.
Then, looking directly at Vengeance, he asked, "What are you doing?"
Vengeance blinked, confused, and answered, "Nothing."
What's he thanking me for?
One thing was clear: Enkrid was an oddball.
A madman obsessed with training.
The nickname "Madmen Unit Commander" suited him far better than "Magnetic Leader."
Enkrid realized something from Vengeance's earlier words.
Clumsiness.
Looking back on the past, he had walked a dissonant path, swinging his sword blindly each day without addressing his mistakes.
He hadn't known a better way.
But now, he did.
The difference lay in the senses.
The contrast between a right-handed person's dominant hand and their off-hand was evident from the fingertips to the muscles.
That's where he would start.
Even with meals.
From holding spoons and forks, he would train his left hand in every small task.
Coincidentally, he knew a training method that could help refine both hand sensitivity and arm muscles.
Hide Knife.
This would be his path forward.
"Captain!"
Krais's voice echoed once more, accompanied by Esther's low growl of hostility.
"Dammit," Vengeance muttered under his breath.
Meanwhile, a drenched Mitch Hurrier, who seemed to have found sudden religious fervor, stood before them, muttering prayers of gratitude.
There was no escape from this cycle.
It was a wall Enkrid had to overcome with just his left hand.
Words wouldn't matter.
The only answer lay in fighting, sword in hand.
Enkrid fought silently, swinging his sword and setting traps with his feet.
He memorized his opponent's patterns.
And he died.
Pain, darkness, the abyss, death.
Each time, he rose again, starting anew with his left hand.
"What are you doing?" Krais asked, tilting his head curiously.
"Just eating."
"Did you injure your right hand too?"
"No. Just not using it. That's how it heals."
"That's excessive."
Another lazy excuse.
After twenty days of living with his left hand, Vengeance challenged him to spar several more times.
Each time, Vengeance's face held the pure admiration of a soldier, drawn to raw strength.
"Alright."
On the twentieth day, Vengeance no longer called his sword a "dead sword."
Thanks to you.
And so, Enkrid continued to swing his sword, fight, and die.
It wasn't until the ninetieth day that he began to notice a change.
It's different.
Walking the same path with his left hand as he had with his right didn't mean repeating the same results.
Because the Enkrid of today was not the same as the Enkrid of back then.
Perfect focus.
Immersion — diving deep within himself while honing his swordsmanship.
A body transformed through isolation techniques.
Balance between immersion and the Heart of the Beast that kept his mind calm.
The movements of his body, the swaying blade—where would it point?
How much would his body shift with each motion?
Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.
It was relentless, grueling training that seemed endless.
For the first time, Enkrid experienced something entirely new.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
The blade moved as if responding to his will, and beyond that, he found himself effortlessly mimicking the foundational techniques.
Precise, heavy, swift, smooth, and eerily fluid.
His body moved on its own.
What is talent?
It was impossible to define it in just one word.
The ability to use one's body skillfully was certainly a part of it, as was the capacity to forget everything else and focus entirely.
He didn't even have the luxury to feel exhilaration.
The sword moved as if it had a mind of its own, finding its path.
His body followed suit without hesitation.
He didn't need to pay attention to his surroundings.
Even as he moved, he could sense the eyes watching him.
It was a moment born from reshaping mediocre talent through sheer effort—a moment he'd never encountered before.
Something he might never have experienced in a lifetime under ordinary circumstances.
Balancing immersion, physicality, and tranquility, while sharpening his senses further, Enkrid realized something extraordinary: in just a single day, his swordsmanship had progressed leaps and bounds.
"Phew."
At the same time, he noticed his deficiencies.
Precision.
How could he fill that gap?
It wasn't something that could be fixed by simply swinging his sword repeatedly.
Through the cracks in his newfound talent, possibilities emerged.
Beyond merely compensating with his left hand, he thought he could master the Hide Knife technique until it felt like a natural extension of himself.
And so, the cycle of repetition began again.
Simply noticing his shortcomings wouldn't change anything.
Thus, he continued.
The days could feel tedious, sometimes even painful, but...
'Can I really do this?'
As Enkrid retraced the path step by step with his left hand, he found joy in it.
Watching himself grow—that alone was enough to ignite his passion.
Honing his senses further, until he felt prepared, today came.
"Let's spar."
As always, Vengeance challenged him.
He had become a daily fixture now, relentlessly sparring with Enkrid.
The fight didn't last long.
Clang!
Parrying the spear tip and sweeping his sword upward, Enkrid's blade curved like a snake, stopping just before Vengeance's neck.
"Damn it... and you're using your left hand, too?"
"I've always been training it."
With an excuse no different from the ones he gave every day, Vengeance fell silent.
He was dumbfounded.
'How is this even possible with his left hand?'
There was no room for complaints.
After all, he had only asked for these duels out of admiration.
"What are you thinking about so much?"
At that moment, Enkrid spoke up.
Vengeance replied honestly.
"I was just thinking I need to train harder when I go back."
Hearing that, Enkrid gave him a blank stare, then a soft smile.
His face, annoyingly handsome, caught Vengeance off guard.
Then Enkrid spoke.
"Alright. One day, Jenny might notice you."
"You bastard!"
Why did this man always know how to push his buttons?
Jenny was Vengeance's trigger.
With a laugh, Enkrid pushed him aside, and Vengeance couldn't help but grin back.
'Heh, I'll make sure I confess to Jenny one day.'
And so, he couldn't afford to die here.
Beeeep!
A whistle blew, signaling the start of the 112th day.
Crunch.
The sound of gravel underfoot announced the arrival of Mitch Hurrier.
"Captain!"
Krais was a little late today.
Repetition may define the day, but that didn't mean it was always the same.
Not that it mattered whether Krais was late or not.
With the scabbard strapped to his right side, Enkrid gripped his sword in his left hand.
"Lucky, huh."
Mitch Hurrier muttered as he looked at Enkrid.
Enkrid didn't hear him.
At some point, the whistle, Mitch Hurrier, Vengeance, Esther, Krais—even himself—were forgotten.
There was only the sword.
The sword, the opponent, and the disappearance of point and line.
What is speed?
Shring!
The blade screeched as it scraped against the scabbard, and before the sound even faded, his sword traced the most optimal path toward Mitch Hurrier's forehead.
Ping!
A sharp sound rang in Enkrid's ears.
In that split second, he entered a state of focus, delivering an all-out preemptive strike.
This one strike was better than anything he could have done with his right hand.
And then—
Clang!
Mitch Hurrier's blade was drawn.
Kaaaang!
The blades clashed.
Crossing their swords, Enkrid pressed forward with sheer force.
Thud, thud, thud!
Mitch's feet slid backward.
If he took another step, he would fall.
Mitch held his ground, but Enkrid didn't give him a chance to regain his footing.
Closing the gap, Enkrid moved within arm's reach.
Then, letting go of his sword, he grabbed Mitch's hand, the one holding the blade.
Pouring all his strength into his grip—
Crack.
The satisfying sound of bones grinding together followed.
"You crazy bastard!"
Thwack!
Mitch's knee struck Enkrid's thigh.
Though Enkrid held onto his opponent's hand, Mitch followed up with a punch to Enkrid's cheekbone, forcing him to retreat.
'What a punch.'
"Esther!"
As Enkrid retreated, he called out.
The quick-witted panther leaped forward.
"My sword!"
It wasn't an order to attack—just to fetch his weapon.
The message got through.
Esther, who had been shaking her head at her reckless human companion, immediately reacted.
With a burst of energy, she dashed forward, bit the grip of Enkrid's sword, and tossed it back to him.
Even for this simple action, Esther had to exert all her strength.
She was running on empty, both magically and physically.
Clatter, thunk.
The sword landed a step in front of Enkrid.
Thud!
A spear struck the spot Esther had just vacated.
It came from an enemy soldier in the back.
The spear-wielding soldier kicked at Esther, but—
Bang!
Vengeance intercepted him.
"Where do you think you're going, punk?"
The enemy soldier let out a snort and exchanged blows with Vengeance, their spears clashing as fists and feet flew.
Meanwhile, Enkrid retrieved his sword.
"Your hand okay?"
It wasn't the most fitting question for someone with a splint on his own right wrist, but it was Enkrid who asked.
"You bastard..."
It was enough to make Mitch Hurrier glare at him with gritted teeth.
His thumb was broken from their earlier clash, rendering him unable to grip his sword properly.
Looking at his injured thumb, Mitch turned his gaze back to his opponent.
Only then did he notice—Enkrid was wielding his sword with his left hand.
Wasn't he originally right-handed?
At least, that's what Mitch remembered.
Enkrid had fought with his right hand before, giving it his all.
That memory made this moment all the more absurd.
"Sorry, but I'm ambidextrous."
Mitch shifted his sword to his left hand.
Enkrid, naturally, held his weapon in his left hand as well.
"Yeah, me too. Starting today."
It wasn't a lie.
Through repeated practice, he had become quite accustomed to using his left hand.