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He then defended against the anticipated sword strike, blocking everything.

Sparks flew between them, dissipating some of the fog.

Amidst this, two shining eyes.

‘The shoulder.’

The opponent’s line of attack aimed for his shoulder again. Encrid stepped back with his left foot, which he had previously moved forward.

Instantly, his left shoulder moved back, and the opponent’s sword thrust fiercely.

He pivoted on his right foot, rotating sideways while bringing his left foot behind his right.

With a whoosh, the blade grazed his shoulder.

Seizing the opportunity, Encrid raised his sword from a modified mid-stance, with the tip of the sword angled downward.

Usually, when holding a sword, the edge facing the opponent is called the front edge, and the edge facing oneself is called the back edge. Raising the sword from a lowered position was called a back edge strike.

The back edge of Encrid’s sword aimed at the opponent’s chin.

Encrid anticipated the opponent would dodge.

‘Even if he dodges, it creates an opening.’

This would allow him to attack in the direction he intended next.

It was a move he had honed through countless real battles. He intended to seize victory with a single step and a follow-up attack.

“You arrogant bastard!”

The opponent, enraged, swung the sword horizontally after thrusting at his shoulder.

Encrid had to quickly duck his head to avoid it. Naturally, the sword he was raising upward failed to fulfill its mission.

Clang!

Encrid instead pulled his sword close to his body and quickly raised it above his head to block the next attack.

The opponent had only feigned a horizontal slash and instead raised his sword above his head to bring it down. It was an overhead strike.

Barely managing to block that attack, their swords locked together, stopping them both.

“Trying to catch me with just one step?”

The opponent pressed down from above, losing his temper.

“Why? Is that not allowed?”

Encrid retorted bluntly. The soldier who introduced himself as Mitch Hurrier glared at him with anger in his eyes and expression. He had a remarkable talent for showing his anger through his face.

“You really don’t want to die peacefully, do you?”

“No, my wish is to die of old age.”

When it came to scratching at one’s insides, Encrid was no less skilled than Rem. In fact, he was even better at running his mouth than Rem.

A thick vein bulged on Mitch’s forehead.

“Fine, I’ll cut off all your limbs and shove you into a cesspool until you die of old age.”

“No, I’m going to die of old age next to my great-grandchildren with all my limbs intact.”

“You bastard!”

Thud!

Mitch lifted his foot and kicked forward, but Encrid deflected it with his own foot. This created a distance of more than two steps between them.

As soon as the gap widened, Encrid attempted to swing his sword, while Mitch used his momentum to rush forward.

Mitch’s body seemed to leave a long afterimage as he charged at a terrifying speed.

Seeing this, Encrid adjusted his sword’s trajectory and swung it downward.

Clang!

Their swords met again. The sound of grinding metal echoed as their blades clashed.

Encrid tried to push Mitch back with force, but Mitch’s sword stuck to his as if glued.

Mitch then twisted his wrist upward in an instant. With that single motion, the tip of his sword rose towards Encrid’s head, becoming parallel to the ground and lifting his sword.

In a flash, Mitch’s sword, with its strong part near the hilt, caught the tip of Encrid’s sword.

Mitch then thrust his sword straight forward.

Despite his raging anger, Mitch’s swordsmanship remained precise.

Clang, clang, clang.

Their blades clashed noisily.

If this continued, Encrid’s throat would be pierced.

Encrid mirrored Mitch’s movements, twisting his wrist to lift his sword.

Clang!

Sparks flew between them once more. In a split second, Mitch had flicked his sword away.

Without a moment to catch his breath, the next attack followed.

This time, Encrid initiated the attack.

From the upper right to the lower left.

A diagonal slash. He had trained and honed this move countless times. His skills, polished through real battles and rigorous training, shone brightly.

A graceful line was drawn. The line traced down Mitch’s body.

Step, timing, stance, sword strike.

It was a textbook slash, flawless in every aspect.

Mitch parried Encrid’s sword with his own.

At that moment, it felt to Encrid as if he was slicing through soft cotton rather than flesh.

Mitch’s sword bent gently, deflecting Encrid’s blade, then reversed direction, bringing its back edge down towards Encrid’s head.

Mitch rotated his wrist, drawing a small circle with his sword.

“Hah!”

Out of breath, Encrid twisted his body sideways, unable to even think of blocking.

Whoosh.

Mitch’s sword cut through the air where Encrid’s head had just been.

He dodged, but it threw off his stance. The falling blade slashed Encrid’s right forearm.

Though it wasn’t a deep wound, blood flowed freely.

There was no time for more words.

‘The abdomen.’

He had to deflect the sword aimed at his stomach and then dodge the diagonal slash targeting his thigh.

Dodge, block, and strike at any openings. He tried to force the opponent back with an upper horizontal slash, but his foe was relentless.

Instead of retreating, Mitch raised his sword and continued closing the distance.

They were now at a range where their swords could converse.

Encrid found himself on the defensive, barely able to block and dodge.

‘Upper slash, diagonal, thrust.’

He poured everything he had learned from basic training and real combat into his defense. Thrust, slash, pull, parry, and when he saw an opening, he used his feet as well.

Mitch read all his moves, blocking what needed to be blocked and dodging what needed to be dodged.

All the while, he inflicted more and more wounds on Encrid.

First, his forearm, then his shoulder, thigh, and numerous minor cuts accumulated.

Encrid barely, just barely managed to dodge.

One attack that knocked off his helmet and grazed his forehead was so close that he felt lucky to have avoided it. It was a complete defense.

Blood flowed from his forehead, splattering everywhere due to his intense movements.

‘Next, the shoulder.’

There was no time to breathe, no time to think. All that was left was blocking, dodging, and counter attacking.

Even amidst this, he managed to counterattack occasionally. For every three or four hits he took, he could deliver one, but he could keep attacking, so Encrid stayed focused.

It felt like one wrong breath could mean death.

Mitch felt the same way.

When he first saw the lunatic who attacked their camp, he was clearly lacking in skill.

Even after exchanging only a few blows, his limits were obvious. Mitch had noticed this.

But now, something was different.

In just a few days, his skill had improved so much that Mitch questioned whether he was even the same person.

It was almost more believable to think he had a twin.

‘A twin?’

Whenever he had distracting thoughts, Mitch’s sword would unfailingly target his openings.

Mitch realized that the thrust that had grazed his cheek just moments ago could have easily put a hole in his neck.

‘This bastard.’

Mitch focused. He couldn’t afford to worry about what was happening around him or where he was. He concentrated solely on killing his opponent.

Encrid was the same.

He dodged and blocked. Blocked and dodged. Even when he saw openings, he hesitated to exploit them.

Hesitating to thrust the sword into an opening meant he would soon be on the ferryboat prepared by the ferryman of the Black River.

Even if he had to repeat today endlessly until death.

Encrid had no intention of wasting any day.

He gave his all. Because of this, repeating today had meaning.

‘The chest, no, the abdomen.’

He dodged a feinting thrust.

He blocked and deflected the descending blade as if he were an eagle.

The deflecting technique was something he hadn’t properly learned, so it was clumsy. It was more like blocking than deflecting.

Encrid’s heavy sword style primarily relied on overpowering the opponent with strength.

Conversely, Mitch mixed precise sword techniques and fluid sword techniques.

The precise sword technique involved driving the opponent into a predetermined path and then countering.

The fluid sword technique involved deflecting the opponent’s attacks to create openings.

Clang.

Their swords met, radiating intense heat.

Encrid gave his all, unable to neglect a single nerve.

Even blinking could lead to defeat.

At this moment, as they exchanged blows, Encrid’s mind was free of everything: no flags, no thoughts of victory or defeat, no swordsmanship.

Only the act of cutting, thrusting, and swinging at the opponent remained.

Everything else vanished, leaving only one thing.

The sword and him, him and the sword.

The opponent’s sword, the sword and the opponent.

Encrid, holding the sword again, and the opponent holding the sword.

After that, he forgot himself and forgot his opponent.

In a state of oblivion, forgetting himself.

Only the sword remained.

Swinging, cutting, thrusting, blocking, and dodging filled Encrid completely.

An endless ecstasy surged within him, and conversely, a fervent desire boiled up.

Clang! Clang! Ting! Clang! Clink!

The metal clashed in various ways, producing a variety of sounds.

But nothing lasts forever.

Knowing this.

‘Just a little more.’

Encrid wished for this moment to last longer.

He instinctively knew that merely repeating today would not easily bring him to this moment.

He had experienced it once before.

There had been a time when he felt no resistance at all and had cleanly cut down his opponent.

It was a perfect slash.

He had tried so hard to recreate that experience.

It wasn’t easy. He had not succeeded since then, even up to now.

It was the same now.

Having forgotten himself and being left only with his sword, he wished this moment would last forever.

But everything has an end.

Thud!

As he brought down his heavy sword from above, his opponent skillfully deflected it. The force was perfectly directed outward, leaving Encrid’s chest exposed.

Squelch!

The opponent didn’t miss that opening.

The blade, like a hot iron skewer, pierced his chest.

“Ugh…”

With the sword lodged in his chest, Encrid stopped his arm. His limbs trembled.

Having focused and exerted all his strength, his muscles were strained.

Encrid, with his trembling arm lowering his sword, lifted his head. He saw his opponent drenched in sweat.

“I remember now.”

Encrid said, blood dripping from his mouth.

“Finally?”

“You’re the one with the torch, right?”

As the blade struck him, memories slowly resurfaced. It had left that much of an impression.

“Mitch Hurrier. Platoon leader of the Duchy of Aspen.”

“Encrid, Squad Leader of the Kingdom of Naurillia.”

Encrid was soaked with blood and sweat. Sweat and blood streamed down his forehead.

He was drenched as if caught in the rain, and his opponent was in the same state.

They silently stared at each other in that condition.

Encrid felt something he had never experienced before. He harbored no ill feelings toward the opponent who had just killed him.

He only had a desperate desire to fight once more.

Mitch Hurrier was expressionless. But his eyes told a different story. His gaze had changed.

The anger had subsided, replaced by an indescribable emotion.

“The dream has shattered.”

A dream? Ah.

“It was a lie. Would a swordsman’s wish really be to die of old age?”

“Yeah, just die now.”

Mitch spoke and pulled out the sword.

The blade, like a hot skewer, tore through his chest again.

The pain came, making his head go white. Encrid endured the pain and fell to one knee.

Blood gurgled from his throat and flowed out of his mouth.

Without the need to cough it up, the blood just flowed back up.

“What’s going on? Has the enemy arrived?”

Suddenly, a group of Aspen soldiers surrounded them. One of them spoke as he approached.

‘I didn’t even notice them.’

Encrid glanced around. The area was filled with enemies.

“Yes. He sneaked up here. Seems like he’s good at ambushing.”

“You seem regretful, Platoon Leader.”

“…No.”

Mitch spoke, staring intently at Encrid. Honestly, he felt regret. Meeting such an opponent was rare.

He felt as if he had stepped into a new realm by fighting with his life on the line.

Naturally, this brought a sense of regret.

However, there was no trace of such emotions on the face of his opponent.

He looked relieved and even excited, like a seven-year-old child holding a wooden sword.

“What are you?”

Mitch opened his mouth in disbelief, but Encrid was no longer listening to him.

He was dying, and a single thought dominated his mind.

‘Ragna, you crazy bastard. It’s not the fear of death that’s needed.’

The prerequisite for achieving Focus Point wasn’t concentration at the moment of death.

It was about having an opponent who would push your abilities, emotions, and everything else to the limit through long, life-and-death battles.

An opponent against whom you had to pour out everything you had to survive.

A fight filled with the exhilaration that it would end if you looked away for even a moment.

He needed a worthy adversary.

In that sense, Mitch Hurrier was perfect. He was a worthy opponent.

Encrid realized this as he lay dying.

The sensation and experience from earlier were exactly what Ragna had referred to as Focus Point.

He realized he had achieved it.

And he understood that he had the chance to relive that sensation and experience by repeating today.

To draw out that moment he wished had lasted a bit longer.

That was Focus Point.

Would it be easy? Probably not. But he would keep trying until he succeeded. Mitch Hurrier’s presence made it possible.

Encrid realized this.

So how could he not feel excited?

Seeing the path forward again, Encrid died with a smile.

“Was he a madman?”

Mitch could only tilt his head in puzzlement as he watched Encrid die with a smile.

[T/L: Please support me here: /revengerscans ]