Chapter 124 - Madman Andrew
Chapter 124 - Madman Andrew
Enkrid naturally intended to step forward.
Wasn't that why he came here in the first place?
He was itching to move his body.
Using two swords at once might still be too much, and while he should conserve his right hand for recovery, it wouldn't matter.
From the stance, the steps, and the gestures of the opponent—he was certain.
His left hand alone would suffice.
The opponent was no Mitch Hurrier.
Thud.
The flat side of an axe, held vertically, pressed against Enkrid's stomach.
At the same time, Jaxen grabbed his sleeve, Audin placed a hand on his shoulder—
And Ragna stepped forward entirely, blocking his path.
"I'll do it."
Ragna spoke.
"Where do you think you're going? You need to recover first."
Rem's words followed.
His sharp gaze carried an unyielding force—an unspoken command that he could not ignore.
The collective will of the squad was palpable.
So, were they the ones who would step forward instead?
Krais had warned that, if possible, Rem and the others should avoid fighting.
Then what—?
"Well, that guy should do. Hey, rookie."
Rem, still holding his axe, spoke.
The corner of his mouth curled upward, as if he found this situation amusing.
And the one he called out to—
"Andrew?"
Enkrid spoke his name, and Andrew tilted his head in confusion.
Why was he being called?
"Go out there and kill him."
Rem's tone was as if he were assigning the simplest of tasks—one neither difficult nor noteworthy.
Andrew blinked for a moment, then remembered the anger from earlier.
That bastard was the one who had said he was still unripe, wasn't he?
The enemy was armed with a spear. The Aspen Principality's main infantry force relied on spearmen.
A relatively short spear pointed forward.
In infantry warfare, few weapons were as effective as a spear.
"Come out, you cowards!"
If one were to list the most insulting words throughout history,
Even without ranking them, "coward" would certainly make the list.
Andrew let his forgotten anger surge back up.
"Fine."
As Andrew stepped forward, his opponent did the same.
They cautiously closed the distance, eyeing each other.
From behind, Mac watched Andrew with concern.
Winning or losing wasn't the issue—he worried that Andrew might end up like a pincushion, riddled with arrows.
Their captain had a way with words, that was for sure.
'If things go south…'
Mac tightened his grip on the handle of his buckler.
It was a larger shield than the one he usually used.
He was originally skilled in sword-and-shield combat.
'Hold the line and endure.'
Their allies weren't fools.
If arrows flew their way, their side would return fire.
Given that both armies had soldiers with large shields at the front, arrows wouldn't be a decisive factor.
'As long as he holds out and pulls back—'
His worries were fleeting.
When he thought about it, the people here weren't the type to die so easily.
All he had to do was keep an eye on Andrew and ensure he got out safely.
Mac set aside his concerns, deciding to watch with a calmer mindset.
Outside of the potential arrow threat, there wasn't much to worry about.
He had been observing Andrew for some time.
He had improved—grown.
His devotion to the sword had deepened.
The squad's gaze on Andrew was peculiar.
If Enkrid or the others had stepped forward, victory would have been assured.
But it wasn't them—it was another soldier.
Andrew Gardner.
A noble by birth, once a squad leader, who had voluntarily joined Enkrid's unit.
Some thought of him as an oddity.
Others worried whether a mere fledgling like him could even wield a weapon properly.
A sense of unease began to spread.
Too many confident soldiers had stepped forward, only to fall.
Some couldn't help but wish it had been Enkrid or one of the others instead.
Andrew stared at his opponent, his anger burning.
And his opponent mirrored that same fury.
"Hah! All talk, and now you send a subordinate to fight for you?"
That wasn't the case.
Andrew had never once seen Enkrid shy away from battle.
Besides, the difference in skill was vast.
Even injured, there was no way an opponent like this could trouble their leader.
To Andrew, Enkrid was a genius.
The kind of genius whose skills surged in an instant.
A talent utterly different from his own.
He truly believed that.
"What's that supposed to mean you bastard?"
"Bring out that ghoul-headed bastard who was flapping his mouth!"
Neither side was listening.
Only their anger spoke.
Soon, their rage took the form of weapons—
A chilling mist dispersed, revealing a battlefield of damp grass and scattered gravel under the glaring sun.
Two men, seething with fury, prepared to exchange their views through combat.
As the enemy's spear lunged forward, Andrew's mind flashed through the past few months.
It hadn't been that long, yet—
'Crazy barbarian bastard.'
After facing Rem's axe so many times, an enemy's spear felt almost like a child's toy.
Of course, if it pierced his body, he would end up with a gaping hole.
It wasn't an attack he could casually deflect.
But—
'A bastard who hesitates when he sees an opening has no right to complain when he dies, kid.'
Rem's words, repeated over and over, had sunk deep into his bones.
Even Mac had to admit—Andrew had talent.
And Rem had seen it too.
He was training Andrew in a completely different way than Enkrid.
Of course, he had only gone so far—never teaching him techniques like the Heart of the Beast or anything of that level.
Those were not things one handed down carelessly.
But even without them, Andrew had enough.
His talent was real—exceptional.
As the spear thrust forward, Andrew swung his sword.
From right to left.
Clang!
Rather than striking the shaft, his blade hit the very tip of the spearhead.
If spears were superior in thrusting attacks, then short weapons like swords had the advantage in sweeping motions.
The spear deflected sideways.
In that brief opening, Andrew's foot pressed against the gravel.
Crunch.
He closed the gap.
A battle began and ended with footwork.
"Ugh!"
The enemy yanked back his spear and swung his elbow.
Andrew, maintaining his momentum, slashed.
His blade rose from below—
And split the enemy's forearm halfway through.
Splurt.
Blood spurted from the soldier's arm, soaking through his gambeson.
Between the falling droplets, Andrew's eyes gleamed.
Why stop with just one cut?
No.
This was battle.
This was war.
Andrew stepped forward again.
A single step left—his sword swung again, striking the spear shaft with a crisp snap.
Then, with steady precision, he drove his blade forward.
It wasn't particularly fast nor slow.
But for an opponent reeling in pain from a nearly severed arm, it was more than quick enough.
Schlick.
Andrew felt the slight resistance of flesh through the grip of his sword.
A sword lodged between the gaps of armor and helmet.
When Andrew pulled out the blade, which had sunk about half a span deep, blood gushed forth.
"Krrrk."
The enemy soldier staggered before falling to his knees.
He clutched at his neck, but what use was that?
The difference in skill was stark.
This was because Andrew was exceptional.
The enemy soldier was no mere conscript but a well-trained professional.
A soldier who had slain plenty of allied troops until now.
But he was no match for Andrew, who had been tormented by Rem and was brimming with talent.
As the enemy, kneeling and tilting forward, stretched out his hand in vain, Andrew stood behind him and drove his sword vertically downward.
Fwoop.
He made sure of the kill.
With unwavering intent, he plunged the blade from the back of the enemy's neck, claiming his last breath.
Silence.
The quiet sunlight.
That was all that remained.
From a step behind, Krais observed the scene and thought that this was an even better outcome than when Enkrid had stepped in.
An unexpected display of prowess.
"Madman Andrew!"
And when the name that had once sapped the morale of their own forces now rang out like a nightmare to the enemy—
Soon, the name of Andrew, who had just slain an elite enemy soldier, echoed everywhere.
"Uoooooh! Madman!"
"Andreeeew!"
What was this?
Enkrid shrugged as he listened.
This was proving more effective than expected.
Somehow, it even felt like the cheers were meant for him.
Between the shouts calling Andrew's name, there were murmurs about the 'Madman' and the 'Hero who slew the Ghoul-Head.'
Rem chuckled.
"Boss, for something like that, even the rookie will do."
"Andrew, fall back!"
Mac shouted at Andrew.
It was time to retreat.
Andrew took a few steps backward but kept his eyes sharp, still fixed on the enemy.
"I'm all done here! You bastards!"
Oh, now what the hell was that?
Mac was dumbfounded.
"Pfft."
This time, even Enkrid couldn't hold back his laughter.
Was this lingering resentment after being teased to shift the mood earlier?
"Come back, Andrew."
With cheers in the air, Andrew returned after killing the enemy soldier.
And as the atmosphere began to shift—
What Krais had been anticipating had finally begun.
The long-awaited blade of Battalion Commander Marcus.
***
Marcus's mouth was starting to dry.
'Something needs to break soon.'
By his assessment, their numbers were even, their level of training was comparable.
But those damned Aspen bastards had a knack for embellishment.
They had sent out their most skilled troops, turning it into something resembling a knightly duel.
As a result, morale had plummeted.
Still, it was manageable.
What they needed was a moment to shift the mood.
He had been hoping that would come from the Madmen Squad.
But then that barbarian soldier, Rem, had stepped in—
'Why does it feel like things are just getting worse?'
A grimy, vile, venom-laced atmosphere.
Both allies and enemies had grown tense.
If that was the case, maybe he needed to change the flow elsewhere.
He had been mulling it over when it happened.
One of those nameless Madmen Squad soldiers—one of the random men conscripted just to fill numbers—had effortlessly bested an enemy.
Not in a close fight, but overwhelmingly.
This was it.
"Send them in!"
At Marcus's command, both the messenger and his adjutant moved.
Soon, a small flag was raised above the battalion commander's tent.
The signal reached the unit commander waiting near the rocky riverbank.
If Aspen had their Grey Hounds—
Naurilia had the Frontier Slaughterers.
Each one of them was a warrior worth ten men.
'Idiots.'
Marcus welcomed the enemy commander's foolish theatrics.
The tide of battle could shift in an instant.
And morale, if once crushed, was to be rekindled, its resurgence was always greater.
Marcus had always believed that the side that killed more efficiently won the battlefield.
So—
"Slaughter them all."
His muttered words reached no one.
But the order had already been given.
The Frontier Defense Force, Naurilia's proud independent company, moved as one, striking the enemy's flank.
Near the riverbank, among scattered rocks, they had shrunk their bodies, feigning smaller numbers.
Then, at the moment of engagement, they charged.
For the Aspen commander, it was an unforeseen strike.
"Sweep them."
The Frontier Slaughterers Captain commanded, and his troops obeyed.
Torres was among them.
An enemy soldier thrust a spear at him.
Torres caught the shaft mid-air, yanking the soldier forward.
The soldier resisted, but Torres used that force against him, stepping in and driving a dagger under his chin.
Thud.
With a brief, dull sound, the enemy—his chin armored with a metal beard plate—slumped to the side.
Torres didn't have time to retrieve his dagger before charging at the next foe.
The rest of the defense force was equally engaged.
One among them was Hyoun, a master of the longsword.
A northern soldier, Hyoun's blade moved like a dance.
In a flash, he took two enemy lives and then spun, sweeping his sword outward.
Clang!
The powerful strike sent an enemy, shield and all, stumbling backward.
A heavy, devastating blow.
The enemy, flung backward, was finished off by Eisen.
Eisen's specialty was the trident.
A former fisherman, his skill with the weapon was unparalleled.
His trident pierced through an enemy's back, the central prong punching through gambeson and emerging from the soldier's belly.
Barney was known for her speed.
Being a woman put her at no disadvantage.
She weaved through the battlefield, hurling daggers and leaping back, slinging stones at enemies.
Thwack! Whiz! Crack!
An enemy soldier crumpled as a stone smashed into his skull.
Leather helmets were no match for slingshot projectiles.
Though costly to craft, the sharpened stones were incredibly effective.
The Frontier Defense Force was full of specialists.
They were guerrilla fighters, not traditional line troops.
And so they fought as such.
Carving through, killing as they advanced.
Torres led his men in driving into the enemy ranks.
Hyoun kept pace beside him, cutting down soldiers in their path.
Their target was the enemy's archers.
More precisely, their commander's throat.
Each squad within the Frontier Defense Force moved toward their respective targets.
And with their movements, the battlefield roiled.
The enemy commander, sensing the shift, chose not to force a reversal.
"Retreat."
The Borderland Defense Force sent the Grey Hounds to intercept.
The rest of the enemy fell back.
If it were the wind, it would be a storm.
If it were an earthquake, it would be a great tremor.
If it were waves, it would be a tidal wave.
Such was the flow of battle.
That they had remained in a stalemate this long was the oddity.
Enkrid, too, could sense the shift.
Even if he hadn't seen the Frontier Slaughterers in action—
Something had begun.
Otherwise-
"Fire!"
The allied archers would not have moved like this.
Tudududu.
Over Enkrid and the Madmen, arrows arced through the sky…