Chapter 130 - Severance
Chapter 130 - Strike and Severance
"They're really making a scene."
That guy—what was his name again?
The one who taught me that skill and character don't always go hand in hand.
He twisted his lips, sneering.
"Want me to give you another asshole, Enki?"
He took a step forward as he spoke.
Enkrid decided he would exchange words just once before killing him.
"What was your name again?"
The man halted his step at the question, his stance shifting slightly.
"…Damn bastard, you sure have a sharp tongue."
He didn't answer.
Oh well.
Not like his name mattered.
"Kill him."
At the nameless bastard's command, the nine surrounding him moved.
They looked like what you'd expect from a corrupted border patrol unit—each wielding weapons with the scent of blood lingering on them.
One of them raised a slingshot.
Pang!
It was a swift, practiced motion—aiming, pulling, releasing in a single fluid movement.
A small metal projectile shot out, aimed directly at Ragna's eye.
With a slight tilt of his head, Ragna dodged it.
"Slingshot."
He muttered, his eyes burning with an unfamiliar heat.
That settled it—there was no need to worry.
"Alone?"
A voice came from behind.
Vengeance.
His gait was unsteady, one leg dragging slightly.
Enkrid's gaze dropped to his thigh.
Before he could ask what happened—
"Tried saving me from that filthy bastard."
A soldier standing behind Vengeance, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and resentment, answered instead.
Even without an explanation, Enkrid understood.
That bastard must have done what he always did—
Picked out a soldier to torment, forcing Vengeance to intervene, then exploited the opening to stab his thigh.
Exactly the kind of thing he'd do.
And in contrast, Vengeance had taken the injury to save one of his men.
If Enkrid hadn't come here, what would have happened?
Vengeance would have died.
He had already accepted that possibility.
A man like him… yeah, maybe he was worth befriending.
Vengeance was fine.
But that bastard?
No, not a chance.
"That thing's sharp."
Vengeance spoke again.
Enkrid, as if just remembering something, clapped his right fist into his left palm.
"Oh, right. I remember your name now."
The man smirked.
"You'd never forget my name. Stop the useless provocations, bastard."
Ting—
He drew his sword.
A thin, flexible blade made of soft iron, designed to bend under pressure.
The flimsy-looking blade caught the light.
Enkrid spoke.
"Ah, right. It was 'Son of a Bitch,' wasn't it?"
That was his name, wasn't it?
Probably.
"…You're going to beg me to kill you."
His eyes gleamed with murderous intent.
Was he mad?
That hadn't been the goal, but…
Enkrid shrugged.
The exchange was pointless, just heating them both up for the fight.
The slingshot moved again.
Thunk, whoosh, crack!
This time, the shot was aimed at Enkrid.
But Ragna, now right beside him, drew his sword in its scabbard, deflecting the projectile.
The small metal bead spun into the air before disappearing into the mist.
"You've got fast hands. Would be fun to put a hole through them."
The slingshot user sneered.
Beside him stood a man wielding twin axes—one in each hand, much like Rem's fighting style.
"You really think you can take us all on by yourself?"
The axe-wielder glared at Ragna.
That wasn't good.
Enkrid knew it instantly.
Sure enough, Ragna responded.
"A second-rate barbarian knockoff."
"…What?"
The axe-wielder, stared at the man with crimson eyes and blonde hair, not understanding.
But Ragna's crimson eyes glowed with unmistakable hostility.
Twin hand-axes?
That was a mistake.
Among the enemy were three more swordsmen.
Their blades were odd, deeply grooved for bloodletting.
And their faces were nearly identical.
Triplets.
"Once this battle is over, we'll be under Aspen's banner. Might even get a noble title if we do well."
The bastard spoke, his tone filled with self-satisfaction.
Same as before.
The same expression he had back then, when he didn't kill Enkrid.
As if declaring his motives in advance would make it all justified.
Enkrid was done talking.
Thunk.
He stepped forward, swinging his sword down.
The bastard smirked, parrying without hesitation.
Tiririring—
The flexible blade bent, striking Enkrid's longsword, then instantly snapping back toward his wrist.
A true sword technique—a strike within a strike.
"Wasn't it swordsmanship learned from the East?"
That was what he had said, wasn't it?
Enkrid watched the blade aiming for his wrist until the very last moment, then flicked his sword up and down.
The curved blade that had been flowing along his sword's edge bounced upward.
Thunk.
'Look at this bastard.'
A flicker of doubt and surprise appeared on his opponent's face, but Enkrid was uninterested.
He simply advanced, swinging his sword as he had learned, trained, and mastered.
Hadn't he also been taught how to deal with sword energy?
"Begin with a straightforward strike."
And so he did—just as Ragna had taught him.
Whoosh.
His blade sliced through the air.
With a single point of focus, everything seemed to slow, as if he could grasp it in his hands.
He connected the points, layering power over them—a diagonal slash descended toward his opponent.
The bastard quickly stepped back, raising his sword in defense.
Fweeereeeeng!
The curved blade cut through the wind, aiming for Enkrid's neck.
But that was all it did—aim.
Because by then, Enkrid's diagonal slash had already reached his opponent.
Faster, stronger, and more precise.
One strike was enough.
Crunch.
He felt resistance in his hand.
The blow had been executed so cleanly that there was hardly any sensation left in his grip.
Still, slicing through armor and other obstacles couldn't be entirely devoid of feeling.
Enkrid's longsword had cleaved through the man's armor, split half his ribs, and severed the wrist gripping his sword.
The curved blade that had been twisting toward Enkrid's neck fell to the ground.
Ting.
Enkrid held his stance for a moment before swinging his sword sideways.
Splatter.
Blood scattered across the ground.
Lying before him was a remnant of the past, its eyes wide open in shock, lifeless.
Enkrid spoke inwardly to his fallen comrades.
'I have avenged you.'
They gave no reply.
The dead never do.
Neither did his opponent, whose life had been severed in a single strike.
No final words.
No cries of agony.
A natural outcome.
The mercenary who had wielded Eastern-style flexible swordsmanship had been highly skilled.
But compared to the Frog and Mitch Hurrier?
He was lacking.
Compared to his own squadmates?
Not even worth mentioning.
Laughable, really.
Still, had it been anyone but Enkrid, this battlefield would have been in chaos.
As disastrous as the one where the giant had appeared.
It was all relative.
This side had killers—men who made a career of death, who honed their skills through murder.
Against someone stronger, they could die just as easily.
But in the opposite scenario, they would become efficient slaughterers.
Uncontrollable monsters.
"...The hell was that?"
One of the three brothers holding swords muttered.
"What do you think?"
Ragna responded, stepping toward the slingshot-wielding opponent.
His movement was astonishing.
In just a few steps, he had closed in on the man's side.
"Tch!"
The man twisted his body to evade—his last mistake.
The moment he clicked his tongue in frustration, his head flew skyward, frozen in shock.
When?
When had he drawn his sword?
When had he swung it?
The speed and precision were terrifying.
Even to Enkrid's eyes, the curved blade left only afterimages.
"Slingshot."
Ragna murmured toward his fallen opponent before shifting his gaze.
"Three swords."
The words were meant for the three brothers.
All three drew their blades—they weren't planning to go down without a fight.
Ragna saw the murderous intent burning in their eyes.
Killers.
Men who lived by the sword, who made a profession out of slaughter.
He had encountered their kind before.
Fools who didn't even know how to properly refine their skills.
Swords that had been honed only by slaughtering the weak, that had learned only to cut down the defenseless.
No matter the opponent, no matter the situation.
Ragna was in a good mood.
How many times in his life had he felt this rush of enthusiasm?
Three times?
Five?
No, probably not even five.
The irritation, the frustration that had built up inside him had transformed into this—the sparring with Enkrid had ignited a spark.
A fire lit within his already red eyes.
His gaze gleamed.
Leaving only an afterimage, Ragna swung his sword.
Swish.
Thud.
Splat.
Crunch!
The three sword-wielders were impaled, beheaded, and cleaved from chin to crown.
Ragna's blade cut through everything—swords, armor, flesh, bone.
It was remarkable.
"Pitchfork."
Ragna's gaze shifted again.
The next opponent wielded a pitchfork—a weapon chosen purely to inflict pain.
The man gulped.
It seemed he had met his match.
"All at once!"
He shouted.
Before his words had even finished, they charged.
And he?
He ran for his life.
Enkrid's eyes widened in surprise.
Normally, Ragna wouldn't even glance at cowards like that.
But this time—
Snap.
He moved so fast that he was nearly invisible.
With a burst of speed, he launched forward, swinging his sword left and right.
His movements were so swift that it looked like wings were flaring from his back.
Though, in truth, the wings originated from his hands.
Wings formed from the afterimages of his swordplay.
They split the head of a spear-wielding foe.
Severed the arms of a dagger-wielding woman.
Clang!
Even the dagger she had been holding was sliced clean in half.
It was an unthinkably devastating strike.
"GYAAAAH!"
The woman's scream tore through the air.
Without hesitation, Ragna bolted after the fleeing man.
The pitchfork-wielder spun around, raising his weapon in defense.
The weapon was made entirely of iron.
Ragna swung his sword again, just as before.
From his stance, it was a back-edge strike.
It was a motion meant to parry the enemy's weapon to the side and then counter with the back edge.
However, this time, the very first strike was different—it sliced halfway through the iron pitchfork.
Then, in a seamless motion, Ragna's sword swung back and cleanly severed the man's neck.
Ssshhk.
What the hell?
If he had put in just a little more strength, the entire pitchfork would have been cut through.
Now, only one opponent remained.
"Shit."
A man wielding two axes.
"You're the main dish, barbarian."
Something was… different.
Ragna was acting unlike his usual self.
Something was off—something very different, in fact.
He walked straight toward the axe-wielding enemy.
Though his appearance bore no resemblance to Rem, that didn't matter to Ragna.
"To the legs first."
And he made it happen immediately.
His sword moved.
The axe-wielding man was skilled—anyone could see that.
But this...
It reminded Enkrid of someone—his past self, to be exact.
It was that moment when one faces a wall that no amount of effort or training could overcome.
"Gahhh!"
The man howled in desperation.
But that was all he could do.
Ragna first slashed the man's thigh, then severed the tendons in both his arms.
Thud.
The axes fell from his limp hands, and Ragna placed his sword atop the man's crown.
That was when he realized—he was actually quite excited.
It was a different kind of feeling.
'Should I even be feeling this way?'
Regardless, it wasn't a bad sensation.
"S-Spare me! I'll tell you where we hid the goods—"
Crunch.
Ragna didn't listen.
And so, the last surviving member of the mercenary group wielding real swords died with his skull split in two.
Ragna checked his sword.
The blade was completely chipped, and the handle was loose.
He discarded it.
Then, he collected the swords the three brothers had been using.
"Hm. I've got three swords now."
With that, he strapped one sword to each side of his waist and slung the third one diagonally across his back, just like Enkrid.
"You a three-sword style user?"
"No. I'll use them one at a time."
Ragna shook his head at Enkrid's question and then spoke again.
"Do you know what technique I just used?"
His speech was quicker than usual.
That, too, was unusual.
How could Enkrid know?
From what he saw, it was just slashing and cutting—nothing more.
Though, there was something remarkable.
No matter what weapon was used to block it, Ragna's sword cut through everything—daggers, whatever.
As Enkrid pondered, Ragna spoke again—his tone still unusually fast.
"I've named it 'Severance.'"
A rather plain name.
But despite that, the technique's power was undeniable.
Severance—cutting.
A swordsmanship technique built entirely on the act of cutting, honed into a personal skill.
"I'm going to teach it to you."
Ragna announced it.
Enkrid nodded.
Vengeance, who had been watching, couldn't even bring himself to click his tongue.
'Monsters, the lot of them.'
That was all he could think.
Enkrid picked up the two axes from the ground.
Rem had broken his weapon while fighting the giant—he would need new ones.
Aside from that, the only other things worth taking were a few throwing daggers from the mercenary who specialized in them.
It was a shame he had used up all his Whistle Daggers.
'It'd be nice to craft some more.'
And so, they wrapped up the battle and began gathering supplies.
***
From the front—
"Whoaaa!"
"Audin! Audin!"
A roar of cheers erupted.
The frontlines.
Something had happened where Audin had gone.
Enkrid's gaze turned forward.
At some point, the sun had risen, and the mist was starting to lift.
The surroundings were becoming clear.
It wasn't some kind of sorcery—just the morning mist by the river, dissipating with time.
And beyond the lifting mist—
Audin stood.
Alone.
Right in the middle of the enemy ranks.