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The sword and spear clashed several times.

Vengeance was rough and strong. Even stronger than most people.

The opponent was a trained soldier as well.

It was difficult to overpower with strength using just one hand.

‘Then, how?’

He thought while fighting and executed his plan.

Deflect. Deflect the strong attacks and pierce the openings.

Connect the dots with lines.

He found the optimal path, thrust his sword, and retreated to observe the reaction.

His feet moved swiftly.

When he saw an opening, he brought down his heavy sword in a downward strike, showcasing the essence of the Tangum style.

Clang, clang, clang!

Vengeance blocked the strike with his spear shaft and tried to trip him.

This was a more familiar fight for Encrid.

Hadn’t he fought countless times against Finn’s Ail Caraz style combat technique?

He had also learned Valaf-Style martial arts and became familiar with ground techniques, often referred to as ‘bed techniques’.

He kicked Vengeance’s foot and aimed at the opening, striking hard with his sword against the spear blade.

Bang!

The spear blade tilted sideways.

In that moment, he forced the sword to the opponent’s neck.

A sound of something snapping came from the left arm muscle.

But he still won.

“You, your left hand.”

“I trained it regularly. When not seen often. It was my secret weapon.”

Prepared excuses always sound good.

Repeating the day so many times, he became skilled at giving excuses.

“Damn.”

“Why the sudden spar?”

“I don’t know, I just felt like having a bout while watching.”

Wasn’t he just practicing the basics?

Was there anything impressive?

Just stepping, thrusting, and slashing.

Nothing beyond that.

Vengeance had nothing to say either.

He knew Encrid was already ahead of him in rank.

In skill and character.

He couldn’t hate the guy since he saved him during the fire at the barracks.

He wondered why Encrid was also good with his left hand.

‘Why is he good with his left hand too?’

However, something seemed off.

“Hey, it’s weird.”

“What?”

Damn, who could understand an explanation like that?

Vengeance cursed himself and tried to find better words, finally expressing what he thought.

“It feels like a dead sword.”

This was the best he could do. Explaining further would likely result in a string of awkward words.

And what more could he say to someone who fought better than him?

But looking at the situation, it was quite a ridiculous scene.

He had suddenly challenged Encrid to a fight, lost, and now he was blaming his opponent.

“No, it’s just that—”

“Wait a moment.”

Encrid cut him off and began staring blankly into space.

Though his eyes were open, his mind seemed elsewhere.

Vengeance felt wronged.

He hadn’t approached out of jealousy or envy. Vengeance had been sincere at that moment.

Just like when he first held a spear.

He remembered the excitement when he first joined the army and swung his spear morning and night.

His blood boiled, and he couldn’t sit still.

A guy with a shattered right wrist.

He had heard that after returning from a brutal mission, Encrid would spar with his platoon members before going to bed.

That kind of person. He must have been injured and exhausted.

But why was he pushing himself so hard?

And why was he smiling?

It wasn’t jealousy or envy, it was pure, unbridled excitement.

“Thank you.”

Suddenly, Encrid, who had been staring into space, spoke. Then he looked at the dumbfounded Vengeance.

“What are you doing?”

He asked.

Vengeance blinked and answered.

“Nothing.”

But what was he thanking him for? Anyway, he was definitely a strange guy.

A madman obsessed with training—a fitting nickname.

Certainly better than being called the “Squad Leader of Enchantment”.

Encrid realized something from Vengeance’s words.

‘Inexperience.’

He had felt discord as he retraced the path he had walked in the past.

Instead of recognizing and correcting mistakes, he had been too busy swinging his sword every day.

Because he didn’t know a better way.

But now he knew.

It was a matter of sensitivity. There was a difference in sensation between the right and left hands, even down to the fingertips.

That was the first step.

‘Starting with meals.’

Starting with using a spoon and fork.

He also knew a training method that involved using the fingertip sensation and arm muscles together.

‘Hide Knife.’

Good. This would be the way.

“Captain!”

Krais’s voice rang out again.

“Growl.”

Esther showed hostility.

“Damn it.”

Vengeance cursed.

“Thank the Gods for letting us meet again.”

And then, there was Mitch Hurrier, who hadn’t been so immersed in religion before, now standing in his way, soaking wet.

Even if he tried to escape, the day would just reset to the same day.

The wall he had to overcome with just his left hand.

Words were unnecessary.

The answer lay in fighting with his sword.

Encrid fought silently. He swung his sword, tried to trip his opponent.

He tried to memorize his opponent’s patterns.

And then he died.

Pain, darkness, the abyss, death.

After dying and waking up again, he started living with his left hand from the next day.

“What are you doing?”

Krais asked, tilting his head.

“Feeding myself.”

“Did you hurt your right fingers too?”

“No, I’m just not using them. They won’t heal if I use them.”

“That’s excessive.”

Yeah, that was a hastily made-up excuse.

It had been twenty days since he started living with his left hand.

During that time, Vengeance requested to spar a few more times.

He had the face of a soldier who admired pure martial strength, driven by his boiling blood.

“Good.”

After twenty days, it was only today that Vengeance stopped calling his technique a dead sword.

‘Thanks to you.’

He swung his sword and died again.

He died, died, and died again.

He noticed a change on the ninetieth day.

‘Different.’

Would walking the path he had walked with his right hand with his left lead to the same results?

No.

The Encrid of then and the Encrid of now were vastly different.

‘Focus Point.’

Immersion, training that involved delving deep within oneself while swinging the sword.

A body changed through the Isolation Technique.

Immersion and a changed body.

And the Heart of the Beast that helped him maintain his composure.

How his body moved, which direction the trembling blade pointed.

At such times, how much did his body move?

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

He was in the midst of training so repetitive it could be considered tedious.

Encrid faced a moment he had never felt before.

Swish.

Swish.

Swish.

The blade moved exactly as he intended.

He realized that he could roughly mimic the basic forms of the Correct Sword Technique.

Precise, heavy, fast, smooth, and strangely fluid.

His body moved on its own.

What is talent?

It couldn’t be defined in just one word.

It required the skill to use one’s body.

Even the ability to forget everything and focus was part of talent.

He didn’t even have the capacity to feel pleasure.

The sword moved on its own, finding its path.

The body moved on its own.

There was no need to look around. Even while moving like this, he could sense the gazes of those around him watching him.

It was something he experienced by refining a meager talent through effort.

Something he was experiencing for the first time.

Something he might never have experienced in his lifetime.

Adding sensitivity to the balance provided by immersion, physical training, and composure.

Encrid realized that his swordsmanship had advanced dramatically in just one day, rather than through repetition.

“Hu.”

At the same time, he saw what he lacked.

Precision.

What did he need to fill that gap?

Simply swinging the sword wouldn’t suffice.

He needed to make the Hide Knife a natural extension of his hand.

So, it was back to repetition. Seeing what he lacked clearly didn’t change anything.

And so, he repeated the process.

Sometimes, the days were boring, sometimes they were grueling.

‘Can I really do this?’

Encrid felt joy as he retraced the path he had taken with his left hand.

Seeing himself grow.

Nothing fueled him more than that.

On a day when he felt he had sharpened his senses and was finally ready.

“Let’s spar.”

Vengeance challenged him, as usual.

By now, he was a friend who challenged him every day.

The fight didn’t last long.

Clang!

He deflected the spear blade and swung his sword up, making it seem like the blade bent like a snake.

The blade stopped just in front of Vengeance’s neck.

“Damn, it’s your left hand.”

“I’ve always trained it.”

Vengeance fell silent at the familiar excuse, similar to what he’d heard on other days.

He was simply astonished.

‘How can he do this with his left hand?’

He didn’t lament. He had simply admired Encrid’s skill and asked to spar.

“What are you thinking about?”

Encrid asked.

Vengeance spoke honestly.

“I’m thinking I need to work hard when I get back.”

At those words, Encrid looked at him blankly for a moment before showing a gentle smile. He had a face that was handsome enough to be envied.

He then spoke.

“Sure. Then one day, even Jenny will come around.”

“This bastard?”

How could he get worked up so easily?

Jenny was Vengeance’s trigger.

Encrid laughed and pushed him away, and Vengeance chuckled as well.

‘I should at least let him confess to Jenny.’

So, he shouldn’t die here.

A whistle blew.

The one hundred and twelfth day began.

Gravel crunched underfoot as Mitch Hurrier appeared.

“Captain!”

Krais was a bit late today.

Even if the days repeated, they weren’t always the same.

Of course, it didn’t matter whether Krais was late or not.

He strapped his sword to his right hip and gripped the hilt with his left hand.

“This is, well. Should I call it lucky?”

Mitch Hurrier muttered as he looked at Encrid.

Encrid didn’t listen.

At some point, he forgot the sound of the whistle, Mitch Hurrier, Vengeance, Esther, and Krais.

He even forgot himself.

He focused solely on the sword. The sword and the opponent, the line connecting the dots.

What is speed?

The blade met the scabbard with a sharp sound.

Before the sound even finished, the sword drew an optimal path and descended toward Mitch Hurrier’s forehead.

Finng.

A sound rang in Encrid’s ears.

In the split second of time, he entered a state of immersion, unleashing his full power in a preemptive strike.

This strike could be said to be better than what he could currently do with his right hand.

And then.

Clang!

Mitch Hurrier’s sword was drawn.

Ka-clang!

The blades met.

The crossed swords, Encrid pushed with force.

Thud, thud, thud!

Mitch’s feet slid back.

If he took another step, he would have fallen. But he stood his ground, and Encrid closed the distance without giving him a chance to withdraw his sword.

He closed the distance so much that there was no need to extend his hand.

Encrid released his grip on his sword and grabbed Mitch Hurrier’s hand, which held the sword.

As he squeezed with all his strength.

Crack.

A satisfying sound of bone friction was heard.

“You crazy bastard!”

Whack!

Mitch Hurrier kneed Encrid in the thigh.

Encrid tried to maintain his grip on Mitch’s hand, but he was forced to retreat after taking a punch to the cheekbone.

‘That punch was sharp.’

“Esther!”

As he retreated, he called out, and the quick-witted panther sprang forward.

“My sword!”

It wasn’t a command to attack, you panther.

Esther, who was already watching Encrid’s reckless actions with disdain, responded to her name and dashed forward.

At the following shout, she bit down hard on the grip of Encrid’s sword and tossed it back.

Esther had to use all her strength for this simple action.

Today, her magic was off, and her body wasn’t in its normal state.

Whoosh, clatter. Thump.

The sword flew low and landed just a step in front of Encrid.

Thud!

A spear landed where Esther had been.

It was from an enemy soldier behind them.

As the soldier tried to kick Esther with his foot after stabbing the ground with his spear.

Bang!

This time, Vengeance blocked it.

“Where do you think you’re going, bastard?”

The enemy soldier, face to face with Vengeance, snorted, and they started trading spear thrusts, punches, and kicks.

In the midst of this, Encrid picked up his sword.

“Is your hand okay?”

Encrid, who had a splint on his right wrist, asked the question, though it might not have been the most suitable one for him to ask.

“You bastard.”

Mitch Hurrier twisted his lips into a snarl, glaring at Encrid.

From the recent clash, his thumb had been broken.

Without a functional thumb, he couldn’t properly grip his sword.

Mitch looked at his broken thumb and then back at his opponent.

Now he noticed that Encrid was holding the sword with his left hand.

Had he always been left-handed?

That didn’t seem to be the case.

When they fought before, he used his right hand.

And he had fought with full force.

Remembering this, the situation seemed all the more absurd.

“Sorry, but I’m ambidextrous.”

Mitch Hurrier said as he switched the sword to his other hand.

His left hand.

Encrid, naturally, was holding the sword with his left hand.

“Yeah, me too, starting today.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Through the repeated days, he had become quite accustomed to using his left hand.

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