Through the Luagarne-style Tactical Swordsmanship, countless lines are drawn, erased, and redrawn.
'Make my body into a single sword.'
Tactics become the tools of swordsmanship. That’s how the battlefield is cleaved.
With restraint, he revealed neither his presence nor his will, charging forward with the strength of his trained body. He located his next target and stabbed in with the Three-Iron.
If he pulled his left foot outward, he could stab with more force, but he couldn’t afford such luxury now.
So instead, he kept his stride narrow and added rotational force by twisting his waist as he thrust.
He condensed the elasticity of his entire body and released it, layered with will.
The blade skillfully pierced through the Scalor’s scales, slid past its jaw, and tore through the crown of its head.
Thud! Stab.
As the blade was pulled out, blood and brain matter followed, but this was a land ravaged by storms. The foreign matter on the blade was soon washed away.
KRA-KOOM!
A bolt of lightning struck nearby, tearing through his hearing. The world, previously only defined by the sound of rain, was suddenly drenched in white. It was as if he had gone blind from the flash.
Encrid paused, dulling his senses.
He couldn’t move right away. Everything in sight trembled, as if an earthquake had struck.
Still, pausing didn't mean wasting time.
No day should be allowed to pass by unmarked, and while he always gave his best, now he had to use his time even more densely. So he did.
‘Minimize movement.’
Within the brief window, he replayed the process of killing the monster just moments ago.
Had he wasted a bit too much time reaching the target?
Because of that, a kid who used a mix of Ail Caraz-style martial arts and swordsmanship had been momentarily seized by telekinesis.
That alone nearly cost the child their life—a Scalor with membrane wings had dive-bombed, aiming right for them.
It was only stopped by Riley’s thrown dagger, but the young swordsman’s forearm had been slashed.
Calling it a scratch would be generous—it was deep enough that blood dripped freely, and since the monster’s claws might have been poisoned, their movements had grown sluggish.
They wouldn’t die, but it meant one less combat-capable soldier. If this kept happening, their side would be pushed back.
To put it simply—
‘Almost died.’
That kid nearly became a corpse, sprawled on the storm-soaked ground. It hadn't happened, but the image appeared vividly in his mind.
It wasn’t a good feeling.
Encrid didn’t plan to let a single one of those behind him die. So then, what must he do?
“Ask the question. Then find the answer.”
That’s what the Luagarne-style Tactical Swordsmanship teaches.
Swoooosh.
Rain poured down again, reopening a black-and-white world. He closed his eyes and saw with his ears.
To the question of ‘how’, there was only one answer.
‘Reduce errors.’
No one is perfect. Even reducing mistakes isn’t enough. Then what comes next? Shorten movement paths to buy time. Create breathing space.
To trace the minimal path, what should he do?
‘Mark the points.’
Then connect them with the shortest distance. Like climbing a perilous cliff, like walking a tightrope across the limit.
Crack.
His ankle flexed smoothly as he pushed off the ground. The muddy earth sank under his boot. The wet soil compressed beneath the sole, forming a solid foothold.
Encrid leapt toward the first marked point.
From above, if one looked down at the battlefield, the once-elegant curves had now turned into straight lines.
‘Brush past anything unnecessary.’
Only shove, strike, and cut the things that get in the way.
With the Three-Iron in his right hand and the Penna in his left, he advanced with light taps. He sensed the flow of the battlefield with his body. Instinct chose the next target. He turned toward it again. And without hesitation, stabbed sideways with the Three-Iron.
Thwack!
The blade tip struck a Scalor’s elbow—one wielding a black spear. Encrid yanked the blade as he ran.
Crack!
Even the sharpest of blades won’t slice cleanly just by touching flesh. Especially not when the opponent is a monster armored with hard scales. Yet Encrid kept stabbing and slashing.
How? He used sheer strength.
Rather than slicing, it was more accurate to say he tore it apart.
He stabbed near the elbow and didn’t pull the blade out, instead severing it with brute force. Naturally, the cut was jagged, and it hurt far more than a clean slice.
Screeeeeech!
Thanks to that, the Scalor screamed. That scream acted like an alarm, signaling the presence of an enemy, and all surrounding monsters turned their heads—but Encrid had already vacated the spot.
He kept running, both swords dangling from his hands.
WHOOOSH.
The storm kept soaking his blades and his entire body. Because of it, blood didn’t cling.
Whether it was because of his state of immersion or because the wind was so intense, it felt like the storm breeze passed straight through his ribcage. It was oddly refreshing.
‘Or maybe it’s refreshing because I’m letting it all out.’
Regardless of thought, his hands and feet were busy.
Clack, ping, thud, stab.
To some, it might be noise. To Encrid, it was residue left in the brain. It was the sound of action, as he struck down foes with special abilities while moving by sound.
And just that alone began to change the current of the battlefield.
Can a single human change the flow of a river like a battlefield? If one stacks up heavy stones and persistently digs the earth, maybe. That’s how some carve new paths for the waters.
Though such a feat would take days, months, or even years.
A Knight is a calamity. They can change the course of the battlefield like a flood reshaping terrain.
Like an earthquake creating a new path, so too can a Knight. Just as Encrid was doing now.
SSSCCRRREEEEE!
A ritual serpent floating overhead let out a cry. That sound blanketed the entire battlefield. With the snake’s cry, his heart pounded.
‘A higher-tier monster’s aura of domination?’
Just the sound gave him chills and made him feel he needed to look back—his body bristled with alertness.
Unreasoned fear, a formless terror, demanded a reaction from his whole being. To tremble in fear.
Of course, it was useless against Encrid. No one here would crumble just from that. But there would be adverse effects.
Just then, Riley shouted from behind with fury. His voice came into focus, and his figure appeared. He was far away, but distance didn’t matter to his vision.
Such is the benefit of auditory sight. Though it has its drawbacks—this black-and-white world consists only of lines and shades. Things like the veins bulging in one’s neck don’t appear.
Well, those could be imagined anyway.
“Anyone who’s out of gas, catch your breath!”
Riley’s throat was probably bulging with veins as he yelled that.
“Woooohoo!”
And Anahera’s shout from afar was no different.
They stood their ground against the surging tide of monsters. Of course, they couldn’t hold forever.
‘Preserve your stamina. Fight to the end.’
In that respect, Riley was a superb deputy. Fighting on one leg, his stamina burned twice as fast. So even in his first real battle, he knew he'd die if he fought too recklessly.
That’s why he focused on stamina management.
‘Hold on.’
Encrid didn’t stop walking or raise his head, but he felt a gaze. It was violent, filled with murderous intent.
From beyond the black-and-white world drawn by the storm, a monster serving as the vessel for sorcery stared at him.
The gaze of Medusa. Even without seeing it, the pressure was clear.
‘A monster no one but a Knight could even dream of challenging.’
That’s why the gaze alone had such weight.
High-ranking monsters instinctively used techniques similar to a Knight’s aura. They instilled terror in those they saw as prey.
Like a frog frozen before a snake, humans and other sentient species were made to cower.
The ritualistic cry from above was also part of Medusa’s aura of domination.
The Demon Realm must be crawling with monsters like that.
That’s why the sentient races had never conquered it—they could only fight and endure.
Was it scary? Not at all.
One day, he would meet every monster in the Demon Realm.
If it were easy to achieve, it wouldn’t be called a dream. Encrid’s dreams had always been difficult, outwardly impossible.
That’s how they looked.
‘I’ll cut them all down.’
There was no room for petty worries to intrude upon such a simple and straightforward objective.
For the first time, the greatness of Hescal truly struck the heart.
Using Medusa not as a combatant, but as a medium for sorcery was a strategy impressive in itself.
‘A more efficient deployment.’
A tactic that slowly saps stamina. Indeed, Hescal had to be called clever.
How many had he killed by now? He had cut and stabbed so many that counting was meaningless. He used his Will sparingly, so there was no overwhelming pressure or explosive momentum—just a steady reduction in their numbers.
At present, Encrid’s field of awareness was twice as wide as what the eye could see.
So much so that he could read enemy movements before his intuition even issued a warning.
‘Skilled.’
Someone had been observing his actions and prepared a trap. While marking points and weaving through monsters, he realized there were eight archers targeting him, and dozens of arrows with dark tips floated midair even in the storm.
Amidst them stood a single ‘human’ wearing an overturned helmet. Clad in thin metal armor that shimmered faintly even in the rain—whatever it was made of.
Judging from the situation, it was like a prey running blindly into a trap lured only by bait.
That it only now appeared within his auditory vision suggested the trap wasn’t hastily made.
Well, maybe not, but that’s how it felt.
* * *
“Didn’t they say he was just a regular Knight?”
Drmule’s apprentice, with a monster’s eye embedded in his forehead, could see Encrid’s movements.
Hescal didn’t have such a special eye, so he couldn’t track Encrid’s presence or movements with sight, but he knew tricks were being played.
As soon as Encrid disappeared, monsters with supernatural abilities began dropping like flies, so deducing the situation from the cause and effect wasn’t difficult.
Also, observing the battlefield from afar made it easier to grasp the broader picture.
‘See the trees up close, the forest from afar.’
A lumberjack need only cut the tree in front of him, but a forest keeper must watch the whole forest and trees in moderation.
In that sense, Hescal was more of a forest keeper.
“I was surprised myself.”
“Nothing’s going according to plan.”
“The opponent is from Zaun. It’s only right they show this level of strength.”
“Doesn’t feel like it’s Zaun showing that strength though, does it?”
Which made it even more surprising. The disease—worthy of being called a curse—hadn’t spread further either.
‘Encrid of the Border Guard, you fight well.’
To Hescal, that was the truly fascinating part.
He could have expressed admiration outwardly, but Hescal simply opened his mouth with a composed demeanor.
“There’s something I prepared. It was meant for Lynox, but it should suffice.”
Hescal spoke. The eye embedded in his apprentice’s forehead blinked twice. With that blink, its viewpoint shifted. Its gaze now turned toward the head of the house and Alexandra.
“You’re just going to leave them alone?”
Though the words were abrupt and context-less, Hescal understood perfectly. This battlefield was a painting born from his own mind, after all.
“This level isn’t enough to say they’ve been weakened. Those who should be drained from their illness still look fine.”
“Blasphemy. Are you blaming the gods’ power?”
“That’s not it.”
He had expected at least this much from Zaun. He had even killed Millestia to make sure it didn’t turn out like this—and still they endured.
Well, not everything goes your way. If it did, none of this would have been necessary.
“It’s just beginning now.”
So said Hescal, lifting his head to look at the sky. Because of the dark clouds and the rain, he could barely open his eyes.
Unless he stuck a monster’s eye into his own forehead, he couldn’t really see the sky properly. And maybe that was a good thing.
“Whew.”
Though Hescal said it was just beginning, he let out a long sigh.
That breath carried a hint of bitterness, but Drmule’s apprentice probably didn’t hear it.
The eye was special, but the ears were still human.
Since the apprentice couldn’t move from his post, who would take action was already decided.
Even if part of the picture in his mind had been ruined, the overall framework remained intact. Hescal looked ahead. Nothing had changed. Victory would still be his.
“Do you want to obtain divinity? Then be loyal, Hescal of Zaun.”
“I know.”
Hescal replied as he took a step forward. It was time for him to move as well.
“Tell your master to bring out what was prepared.”
“A single Death Knight would be enough to cut down that family head and those standing beside him.”
“That’s your opinion. The command of this battle lies with me.”
Andante had become a Knight returned from death. That alone might be enough to kill someone like Alex.
Or maybe not.
“If you lose despite even your master stepping in to guard you, your life won’t be spared either.”
“If I survive after losing this battle, I’ll hang myself with my own hands.”
He meant it when he said he’d hang himself if they lost.
Hescal was sincere in everything he did. And that was something he’d learned from the head of the house.
‘Whatever you do, do it with sincerity.’
Even if it meant deceiving someone, it had to be done sincerely.
It was from the head’s creed and way of life that he’d formed his own style of swordsmanship.
Even a deceptive sword must be wielded with sincerity.
He didn’t believe his blade would work on the head of the house. So where would his sword be aimed instead?
The answer was already clear.
‘Sorry about this.’
If he killed Ragna—the prodigal son returned—the family head’s rock-solid heart would surely tremble.
That would become a factor to shake his judgment, creating an opportunity for their side to gain the advantage.
Hescal headed toward Ragna, in sync with four monsters moving to hold down the head of the house.
Coincidentally, Ragna had just started to move as well.
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