The adjutant, holding a spear, hesitated and finally retreated. The opponent didn't pursue. It was as if they were saying, 'Come at me if you dare.'
He quietly wiped the blood from his sword and returned to his original position without a word.
The horse he rode on whinnied once beside him.
The horse had an imposing build and eyes that were far from ordinary.
The adjutant had witnessed all of this and backed away, returning the way he had come, trembling.
Watching the adjutant retreat, Lierbart struck his sword against the horse.
"You should have fought to the death instead."
Crack!
The skull split in two. Lierbart withdrew his sword.
With a wet squelch, the sword came free, leaving a long stream of blood trailing behind it.
"Stupid Zalvan."
A clear voice from the side cursed the dead man.
It was the Fairy warrior, Banat. Her short blonde hair was cut as short as a man's, and her voice held no emotion, just cold logic. It was her signature way of speaking. Her cold, venomous words betrayed no hint of feeling.
"He was the weakest among us. I'll take care of it."
Banat stepped forward, but Lierbart shook his head.
"I'll go."
Did the other side want to build momentum by sending just that one guy? Then he'd crush them himself.
Aside from Count Molsen, Lierbart held the highest rank here, second-in-command.
He didn't need anyone's permission.
Banat nodded with the same emotionless expression. Her face gave no clue to her feelings, as usual for Fairies.
Malten remained silent, and Benukt seemed indifferent.
"Let me fight."
Benukt had the blood of Giants flowing in his veins. And he never tried to suppress his lust for slaughter.
"If I kill him, charge all at once."
It would be that way. Lierbart gave the command and began to move his horse. He gripped the reins and urged the horse forward at a brisk trot.
He dismounted at the spot where two corpses now lay. He glanced at the dead Zalvan. Lierbart then dismounted and checked his equipment.
He adjusted his sword belt, grabbed a short sword, and fastened a thick machete with a single-edged blade behind his waist. It was a magical weapon. He also secured a plain kite shield to his left arm.
The shield wasn't held by a handle but fixed to his gauntlet, its size slightly reduced. Even so, it was heavy enough that only someone confident in their strength would use it.
As Lierbart moved, there was a clinking sound. It was the noise of his armor: plate armor over a gambeson.
With his preparations complete, he advanced.
Even then, his opponent simply stood there, quietly watching him.
Lierbart found those eyes irritating and asked,
"What's your name?"
"Encrid."
"Lierbart."
It was the first time Encrid had heard the name. The Count's Five Blades were quite famous within their own territory but didn't operate much beyond it.
Their names weren't widely known.
In contrast, Encrid was several times more renowned.
"Looks like I've already won."
After coming to this conclusion, Encrid spoke up.
"...We haven't even started."
"I said that because my name is more famous."
What the hell?
It wasn't that Encrid was truly crazy.
It was a simple taunt, intended to break Lierbart's composure. He felt it was necessary.
The way Lierbart walked, prepared his equipment, and initiated conversation—everything about him showed he was a formidable opponent.
"A Madmen Platoon, they say."
"Jealous?"
Lierbart paused for a moment.
Jealous?
Honestly speaking, is there anyone who wouldn't want to build a reputation and have their name known far and wide?
Even without an overwhelming desire for fame, it was still appealing.
And Lierbart was an ambitious man. He had plenty of experience, too.
He realized he had fallen for the verbal trick.
"You're a real piece of work, aren't you?"
"I'm tough to chew."
Is he saying he's too tough to bite through?
Lierbart, being sharp with words himself, quickly grasped Encrid's meaning. That made him even angrier.
"Alright, I'll kill you."
Lierbart stepped forward and swung his sword in a diagonal slash. To Encrid's eyes, the sword was neither particularly fast nor intricate, revealing an opening. Seeing it, he moved. Encrid put power into his first strike.
In an instant, he thrust Ember forward like a glowing needle, aiming for the opponent's sword-wielding arm.
Lierbart, mid-swing, pulled his left arm with the kite shield to block it.
Clang!
Ember was blocked. The shield was unpierced. The material was no ordinary substance, and the wielder's skill was remarkable.
As Encrid withdrew Ember, Lierbart's sword came flying at him. It was a simple thrust—no sudden acceleration or disruptive motion.
Instead, it was calm and precise. If Encrid remained still, it would graze his throat, so he bent backward, avoiding it by the narrowest margin.
He expected the sword to drop down, so he prepared with Silver, but Lierbart pulled the sword back and adjusted his stance, raising his shield once again.
Had he charged recklessly, he might have gained the advantage, right?
Encrid had several countermeasures ready for such a scenario, but despite seeing the opening, his opponent did not charge.
As Encrid straightened from his evasive position, he gazed at the visor of Lierbart's helmet.
Through the slit, Lierbart's eyes were visible.
'A trick?'
Was he pretending to be calm?
No. His opponent was serious.
Bring ten Knights to walk the path of Knighthood, and each will take a different route.
That's what makes the Knight's path so arduous and challenging.
Following the path of another won't necessarily yield the same results.
It's the same for Junior-Knights.
Each had their own way.
Lierbart's path was sturdier and more stable than most.
He wore thick plate armor and carried a shield.
He only thrust and slashed but never attacked without a perfect opportunity.
No risk.
Even if there were a stone bridge built on steel pillars, he would take a longer route rather than cross it.
On this firm foundation, he completed his swordsmanship with the weapon of the tongue.
After Encrid's initial taunt, he had fallen silent.
Lierbart's defense was solid.
Ember couldn't pierce it, Silver couldn't cut it, and the Whistle Dagger he threw found its mark blocked by the helmet.
It wasn't just that he was wearing armor, he skillfully used his body's defenses.
That was impressive.
All the while, Lierbart continued to speak.
"You dream of being a Knight, don't you?"
Encrid retrieved Ember and gripped Silver with both hands.
It was the Crushing Sword—a technique that pressed down and overwhelmed the opponent with sheer force. Lierbart raised his shield to meet the blow.
Thud.
The sound wasn't one of an intense clash but rather a somewhat muffled impact.
The blade of Silver struck Lierbart's shield. As the sword hit, Encrid pressed down with all his might, utilizing the Crushing Sword technique. Lierbart angled his shield, deflecting the blade to the side.
He blocked it and stepped back. He wasn't overwhelmed by the force of the Crushing Sword. His stance and skills were as firm as his armor.
"So, are you satisfied with the path you've walked so far?"
Lierbart's words came through, but Encrid only moved for the next attack.
If Crushing Sword didn't work, then it was time for the Trapping Sword. It was a battle of strategies now. But no matter how unique Encrid's moves were, Lierbart's armor and shield neutralized them.
A soft light emanated from both the shield and armor, clearly enchanted magical gear.
'Would Severance split them?'
If no tactic worked, it was time to put all his strength into a single blow. If he imbued it with the will to cut through anything.
A mimicry of true intent. Though Encrid couldn't fully embody that Will, he could substitute it with the Heart of Great Strength to strike down with incredible force.
As soon as he thought about it, he acted.
It was a slash based on Ragna's Technique, combined with the Spiral Slash of the Middle Sword Technique. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, twisted his waist, and transmitted all his power to the sword.
Just as he was about to unleash it with full force, Lierbart, despite wearing armor, charged swiftly, attempting to body-check him.
If he followed through with the slash, at best, it might only graze Lierbart's arm.
Encrid had to retreat. His stance faltered momentarily, but Lierbart didn't press the attack. He gripped his shield and readied his posture once again.
He lowered his knees, shifting his weight downward, his eyes locked on his opponent, always ready to thrust or slash.
A troublesome foe.
"If the path you've chosen turns out to be wrong, what will you do?"
Lierbart spoke.
Encrid looked at him and thought.
His opponent's skill was equal to his own, but he focused solely on defense. What did this situation imply?
He seemed to understand his opponent's strategy.
"The path to Knighthood is rough. It's a thorny road, a path where you embrace brambles and leap off cliffs. Even one misstep, and you'll never reach that ideal. You have to jump off the cliff holding brambles every single time."
Lierbart spoke steadily, his breathing unchanging.
He was preparing for a long fight.
Using his armor and shield to nullify his opponent's attacks, all while continuing to speak, never showing a disruption in his breathing.
It was a strategy that contradicted his nickname of a 'Fiend', instead showing nothing but stability.
Yet, it was still threatening.
Lierbart's shield and armor seemed like an impenetrable steel wall.
That was clearly his intention.
More importantly, he kept speaking, constantly attempting to unsettle his opponent's psyche. He searched for weaknesses, ready to exploit them, with both words and his sword.
"Every time you take the wrong path, you lose your talent and the strength to continue. That's why talent alone doesn't make a Knight. So, tell me, how far do you think you can go with just that fine talent and luck?"
Especially notable was how much he talked.
He had quickly understood the initial taunt and countered it skillfully. This man, too, wielded words as a weapon.
"A Knight? It's a dream that drifts further away. Like a picture of grapes—visible but unreachable. Like a star in the sky, no matter how much you desire it, you can't grasp it. You've stepped into a hopeless dream. Fairy tales don't happen in the real world."
He used his words as both spear and sword.
Instead of responding, Encrid repeated his previous attack.
He thrust with Ember. His opponent reacted to the sudden acceleration, and the shield blocked it again.
The Crushing Sword was also stopped. Even if a mountain fell on him, Lierbart was the type of man who could endure it.
The Trapping Sword yielded the same result. Lierbart didn't falter. He refused to engage in the tactical battle, cutting it off midway. He shoved his shield forward to forcefully block the path of Encrid's sword while continuing his speech.
"If you walk barefoot on a thorny path, your feet will fester, burst, and rot. You'll lose your feet. You could avoid that path, so why do it?"
Lierbart was persistent. He continued speaking, even without getting an answer. Encrid finally responded to his relentlessness.
"You're obnoxiously loud."
The truth was, Encrid wasn't shaken by his opponent's words, so he could afford to respond.
"Loud, you say? Take a look at yourself. If these words sting, it means deep down you already accept them."
"You're practically slapping the face of a sage with those words."
Encrid took two steps back, adjusted his stance, and repositioned himself.
He put his left foot forward and his right foot back, adopting the most basic stance. He raised the tip of his sword toward the sky as if to pierce it.
"What if the path you've chosen is wrong? I've said it repeatedly—what will you do if your talent fades and you lose your way?"
His false concern was perfectly delivered.
"I'll just start again."
Lierbart blinked.
Hadn't he been saying all along that this wasn't possible?
The exchange continued in a similar fashion.
Thorns, lost talent, a mistaken dream of Knighthood.
"I said, I'll just start again."
It's often said that a fight between attack and defense is like a battle between spear and shield.
If their swords had been that until now, this was a battle of their words.
The roles had simply reversed.
With the sword, Encrid was on the offensive, while Lierbart defended.
In conversation, Lierbart attacked while Encrid defended. Encrid consistently, calmly repeated similar answers.
"I'll just do it again."
"I'll do it again if I have to."
"Losing your way is just part of life."
"I don't need shortcuts."
"I'll just start again."
There was something here stronger than Lierbart's armor and shield.
It was the will to persevere, a force that naturally arose from a firm resolve.
Encrid's 'start again' wasn't about repeating 'today'.
Even without that, he would continue forward.
Because, even without certainty, he had lived through today, tomorrow, and every day in this way.
When he swung his sword until his palms bled, did he ever truly believe this path was right, that it was the correct one?
There was no such certainty.
He just repeated and walked, step after step, every day.
In that way, there was a dream touched by the dawn, a lingering trace of it.
If there had been three more days, he would have surpassed the stagnant level of a Junior-Knight.
The days he repeated while crossing Asia were also a doorway to a new world.
Afterward, there was a month's time.
Encrid, from his stance poised to strike the heavens, swung his sword.
He captured and pressed down.
He blended the Trapping Sword with the Crushing Sword, a feat performed with the sword in his right hand.
The Fluid Sword Technique was difficult to execute. His opponent wasn't attacking but focused entirely on enduring and blocking.
So he hammered down. With everything he had.
His left hand, accustomed to speed, struck with momentary acceleration.
It was a skill that required splitting his thoughts to act simultaneously.
With strain on his right arm's muscles, he brought the sword down.
Clang!
Before the echo of steel faded, he thrust with Ember.
Thud!
The thrust aimed at his opponent's shoulder failed, as Ember met the shield. Silver, too, failed to break through or cut.
But that was fine.
Because he could do it again.
Encrid repeated the motion. The strategy of a long fight meant Lierbart was confident in his endurance.
But Encrid was the same.
He held his breath, inviting his opponent into a world of no breathing, and repeated the attack.
Strike, thrust, strike, thrust, strike, thrust.
Lierbart blocked and endured, blocked and endured, over and over again.
Before they knew it, their swordplay had become a battle of endurance.
Naturally, the words stopped.
In the midst of the battlefield, clang! thud!—only the sound of steel echoed.
The horn calls and drums ceased, leaving only the sound of clashing metal to represent all the noise of the battlefield.