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He had set a trap, an enticing one at that.

But he didn’t expect them to fall for it so easily.

Instead, he planned to use this trap to his advantage.

The idea was to scatter similar traps all around.

If they couldn’t tell what was real and what was fake, what would they do?

They wouldn’t dare to attack recklessly.

That would mean half the battle was won.

“If that happens, they’ll retreat. They won’t attack recklessly.” said a soldier from the command who had a favorable view of him.

The independent Gray Hound squad was now a mere shadow of its former self.

Defeats in successive battles and the death of Mitch Hurrier had taken their toll.

After numerous failures, someone had to take responsibility.

And it started with him.

The mustached commander needed to disrupt the enemy forces at the rear. He had to limit their movements.

He had prepared a lot for this.

‘It feels like everything’s gone to waste before it even started.’

The enemy just charged in without hesitation, swords drawn, and after cutting down his men, then and only then did they ask, “Shall we fight?”

Even without saying a word, their bodies, actions, and attitudes made it abundantly clear.

‘As expected.’

It was a disaster.

The Naurillia forces, stationed at the rear, had begun to move, which would complicate things for his command.

So, what to do now?

Give up on everything?

The death of the Hurrier family’s son? That’s fine. That family always treated their children as expendable.

So where was his path leading?

Such thoughts only distracted him from the task at hand.

He decided to push the concerns to the back of his mind.

The mustached commander steeled himself and drew his sword.

Clang.

In one breathless motion, he drew and raised his sword before him.

‘If I kill them all, it will be resolved.’

The enemy’s guerrilla forces had broken through the trap and charged in?

Was that a cause for panic? No, it was a reason to welcome them.

‘First, I’ll kill that bastard.’

The one who had put a hole in Mitch Hurrier’s stomach would be the first to die.

Then, he would kill the blonde swordsman next to him. After that, the one wielding an axe.

He would leave himself some reserves of strength, considering a possible ambush.

As he organized his thoughts, he fixed his gaze on the opponent before him.

But, was this bastard always this formidable? Just by his stance, he could tell something was different. The presence was extraordinary. It was the same one who had stabbed Mitch Hurrier and fled, unmistakable. It was not a face he could easily forget.

The one who had barely escaped that day.

The guy who survived even the assassin’s threat.

Was he this formidable back then? It didn’t seem like it.

Did he improve? Regardless, the fact remained that he needed to be taken down.

And the ones behind him were no different.

The mustached commander’s eyes glinted with determination.

Krais, observing this, felt a creeping unease.

‘This guy doesn’t seem like an ordinary opponent.’

Krais lacked the ability to gauge his opponent’s true skill, which fueled his unease.

The enemy had set a trap, and Krais saw through their intentions.

He decided to confront and crush it head-on.

He believed in his Madmen Platoon’s ability to break through with sheer force.

However, the unease didn’t completely disappear, perhaps due to his nature.

He had a habit of anticipating the worst-case scenario.

So, what was the outcome?

It would likely begin with a fight between the Platoon leader and the mustachioed opponent.

Krais’s gaze shifted to the two men.

It felt as though the air grew heavier.

Sunlight filtered between them.

Neither moved, standing still with their swords drawn.

Dust that had been suspended in the air scattered in the breeze.

The figures of the two blurred in Krais’s vision.

Clang!

A sharp metallic sound erupted.

* * *

Ragna stood to the side, observing the scene as a spectator.

“Not bad.”

The mustached opponent’s swordsmanship was sharp. It was evident he had learned and practiced it over many years.

It was like a well-crafted table, with rough edges smoothed to perfection.

An example of fine craftsmanship.

That was the impression the opponent gave.

In contrast, how was Encrid? Their Platoon leader was rough. Despite having honed his skills countless times, there was still something unfinished about him.

Like an incomplete vessel.

One side was nearly perfected.

The other was still a work in progress.

“Well, is this some kind of duel of leaders? Seems pretty boring.” muttered a barbarian nearby. Ragna didn’t bother to respond.

Surprisingly, Jaxon replied instead.

“If you’re bored, start cleaning up.”

He spoke in a calm and collected tone.

“So many people standing around me today, it’s a good day.” added the simple-minded religious zealot next to him.

Except for the mustached commander facing Encrid, the others had surrounded them with spears.

There appeared to be at least three times as many enemies.

Around fifty strong, from a rough estimate.

Some of them, hidden in the supply wagon, had also come out, all heavily armed.

While they weren’t exactly heavy infantry, three of them were wearing chain mail.

Yet, they remained at ease. As if their courage was boundless, or perhaps their nerves were just frayed enough to be hanging by a thread.

Clank.

“Should we start after that ends?”

One of the enemy soldiers in chain mail casually spoke, gesturing toward the mustached commander and Encrid with his thumb.

His attitude exuded confidence.

This was the same even though the bodies of those killed by Ragna’s sword lay scattered on the ground.

“Sure.” Krais replied. It was a given that winning the duel would give them an advantage.

As the metallic sounds clashed, Encrid and the mustached commander continued their intense exchange.

Ragna lost interest in what was happening around him. It didn’t matter to him.

His eyes were fixed on Encrid’s hands and feet, his sword and movements.

When it comes to completion versus incompletion, who has the advantage?

Clang!

The sound of swords clashing continued to ring out.

‘Completion does.’

That much was obvious. However, even if something is incomplete, if the foundation is different, what does it matter?

‘It’s over.’

Ragna silently concluded. It wasn’t just about the difference in skill, their mentalities were worlds apart. A battle that could be won would be lost with such a mindset.

* * *

Blades, feet, swords, air, dust, heat.

Even as these things brushed past him, Encrid paid them no mind. He neither saw nor felt them.

He was entirely focused on his sword.

“Hah!”

The mustached opponent shouted as he swung his sword down.

It was a solid strike, following the basics of the traditional sword technique.

Encrid gripped his sword with both hands, positioning it horizontally while bending his knees.

He deflected the force sideways with his sword.

Clang!

Sparks flew as the blades met.

The opponent used strength, while Encrid countered with skill.

In the reverse exchange, Encrid struck powerfully, and the opponent deflected.

The opponent’s movements were smooth and precise, even more so than Mitch Hurrier’s.

However, Encrid’s thoughts weren’t on Mitch Hurrier.

His eyes, ears, hands, and feet were all focused on the act of wielding his sword and fighting.

Using all his senses—his focus, the heart of a beast, the feel of the blade—he sought to see everything.

To draw a line connecting point to point.

And to use that line to cut down his opponent.

As Encrid read his opponent’s intentions, he deftly blocked and evaded the attacks.

After about ten exchanges of blows, Encrid faced two critical moments.

The first was when he almost had his wrist cut, but he deflected the strike using the guard of his sword.

The second was when his opponent, after a series of vertical and horizontal slashes, suddenly changed to a thrust aimed at his abdomen. Encrid barely managed to block it, setting his blade upright to deflect the sharp point to the side.

It was a defense so skillful it seemed almost miraculous. A slight miscalculation would have left a new hole in the center of his leather armor.

“Hmph.”

The mustached opponent sneered when his surprise attack missed. It was a clear sign of his intent to kill. Encrid paid it no mind.

After these two crises, Encrid shifted his stance, stepping to the left. The mustached man also adjusted his footwork to prevent Encrid from gaining a better position.

They circled each other, staying within striking distance. During this maneuver, Encrid intentionally shielded his left hand with his right shoulder.

After adjusting his stance, he held his sword in his right hand and moved his left hand toward his waist.

The mustached man read Encrid’s intentions. With countless duels and years of experience, he could anticipate what would happen next.

Already wary of Encrid having another sword, he had seen him dual-wield before.

‘Left hand.’

Seeing Encrid’s left hand moving downward, the mustached man swung his sword forcefully.

From the upper right to the lower left, a powerful diagonal slash.

A decisive strike with his heavy sword, he believed this would secure his victory.

But Encrid didn’t draw another sword with his left hand.

He only pretended to.

Then, after taking a few deep breaths, he delivered a powerful strike.

‘The Heart of the Beast.’

Thump!

His heart pounded, sending a surge of blood through his body like an explosion.

The rush of blood fueled his muscles with strength.

His strength surged to nearly double its usual power.

There was no battle cry, only two pairs of eyes, veins bulging, locked onto each other.

It was a moment where life or death would be decided with one blow.

Facing the heavy blade coming towards him, Encrid swung his sword horizontally with just his right hand.

Clang! Thud! Crunch!

Three loud sounds erupted almost simultaneously.

The swords clashed, and both fighters stepped forward, changing their positions.

“…Was this intentional?” the mustached man asked.

“From the beginning.” Encrid replied.

They stood with their backs to each other.

The mustached man’s blade was clean, without a drop of blood on it.

More importantly, it was broken in half.

Encrid’s sword was intact.

Made from a blend of Valyrian Steel and Noir Mountain iron.

‘A fine sword.’

At least, it was to him at that moment.

The mustachioed man collapsed forward.

His chest split open, blood pouring out, ribs severed and unable to protect his heart.

When the heart breaks, even a Frog dies.

So, the death of the fallen mustached man was inevitable.

Unbeknownst to Encrid, he was the last hope of the Gray Hound.

In essence, this moment marked the end of the Gray Hound’s history.

“Hah.”

Encrid exhaled and shook the blood off his sword.

The opponent had been conscious of his left hand.

That’s why he answered “From the beginning”.

He had shown it for this moment.

It was a technique of the Valen Mercenary Sword, a feint to implant an attack pattern in the opponent’s mind, complicating their thoughts.

‘It works.’

He realized he could maneuver his sword as intended.

The satisfaction of achieving this was greater than the joy of victory.

‘It works.’

That thrill filled his chest first.

Using dual swords didn’t have to be the main focus.

He just needed to use the right tool at the right time.

“Spears, other weapons, even shields.”

He felt as if he could now reach for things he had previously given up on.

Trying out all these different weapons wouldn’t be bad. Although they might not fit his hands as perfectly as a sword, even experiencing them could be valuable.

That’s what he thought.

“Not bad.”

Encrid muttered this as he finished off his opponent.

“I don’t know why, but watching the Platoon leader fight always gets me excited.”

Rem spoke, looking genuinely excited, grinning from ear to ear.

The three opponents in chain mail remained unfazed, even at the death of the mustached man.

“Hmm, he wasn’t supposed to die like that.”

“That’s a shame.”

“He underestimated his opponent. You have to go all out against someone who fights with full power.”

This was the exchange between the three soldiers in chain mail.

So, they do have some sense, Rem thought, nodding to himself. They were right.

Encrid had fought with all his strength, while the opponent held back, worrying about what came after.

How could someone weaker than their opponent think about what happens after the fight? Dying was inevitable for them.

“Hey, should we take them all at once?”

Rem stepped forward.

Thud.

“You are too greedy, brother.”

A hand, large like a bear’s, landed on Rem’s shoulder. It was Audin, shaking his head.

“Aren’t you going to move your hand?”

Rem’s words and gaze were as menacing as his excitement. Yet, Audin continued to laugh and shake his head.

“I said, you’re too greedy, barbaric brother.”

“You little…”

Swish, thud.

Rem’s axe moved, vertically and straightforwardly.

Audin, despite his large size, stepped back.

A cold tension settled between them.

Audin’s smiling face seemed to harden into a statue.

The three soldiers in chain mail were baffled watching this.

What’s with these guys? Why are they fighting among themselves?

Are they arguing about who gets to fight us?

This was disrespect. It was mockery.

“Crazy bastards.”

Finally, one of the soldiers in chain mail stepped forward. He wielded a rounded war hammer.

As he lunged forward, a sword blocked his path.

“You’re mine.”

A blonde man with red eyes, as if they held flames, said. His sword strike followed, like a blazing flame.

The man with the hammer swung a large, round shield like a weapon. It was both an attack and a defense.

Thud!

Ragna’s sword struck the shield, then quickly returned to its original position, like a swallow skimming the water.

“Cutting in line, huh?”

Seeing this, Rem charged forward.

“If you break the order, the Lord will be angry, brother!”

Audin also moved.

And so, the battle continued.

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