บท 56: Chapter 221 - Having Endured the Time of Training
When Enkrid stood alone on the platform, he noticed something in the soldiers' eyes—something akin to resentment.
"If you run back, at least pretend to rest for a bit. Makes it easier on them, trust me," Rem advised.
Following his lead, the soldiers complied.
Did it motivate them to keep running? Who could say?
"Listen here, grinding people down is my specialty," Rem boasted.
Enkrid didn't argue; he simply let the man do his thing. And admittedly, Rem wasn't wrong—he had a knack for pushing people to their limits.
Otherwise, how could the soldiers' eyes carry such a haunted, almost fiendish look after only a week of training?
The soldiers, drenched from the unrelenting rain, ran into the parade ground. The downpour only heightened the eerie glow in their stares.
Rain poured steadily, a minor annoyance to Enkrid.
"Not bad," he thought, noticing the fire in their eyes. Their sheer determination as they ran made an impression on him.
It wasn't just about standing idle on the platform anymore.
Even before this routine, Enkrid had always been a training fanatic, his hands often bloodied from endless drills with his sword.
Now wasn't much different. If anything, it was harder for him to restrain his own urges. Memories of the Count Molsen spurred him, making him long to swing his sword.
Beyond personal training, Enkrid subjected his body to grueling regimens both on and off the platform.
"This is borderline absurd," muttered Krais, who had been quietly observing.
But this relentless intensity was what defined Enkrid. He was pleased by the fierceness in his soldiers' eyes and satisfied with his own progress.
"Time to wield your weapons," he finally commanded.
After a week of relentless running, the soldiers were now allowed to train with their arms.
No formations, no drills—none of that. Those weren't Enkrid's forte. Instead, his focus was on further developing their foundational abilities.
From afar, Marcus observed the training, his expression a mix of bemusement and pity.
"All I did was give him a title," Marcus remarked. "Why's he so dedicated?"
Beside him, his adjutant nodded.
"Indeed."
"Any deserters?"
The adjutant hesitated before replying, "It's... clear they'd like to, but…"
"Like to?" Marcus prompted.
"They don't seem to have the energy left for it," the adjutant finished.
It was true. Without the strength to flee, even escaping was impossible.
Such was the nature of Enkrid's training.
To Marcus, it was clear that Enkrid enjoyed the admiration and praise of others. Yet, above that, he was someone wholly committed to his goals.
Enkrid pursued his aspirations with single-minded determination, heedless of others' opinions.
"What must I do to become a knight?"
The answer was simple: hone one's swordsmanship.
And so, Enkrid did. Every day, without fail.
It was hard not to respect him for that.
But now, Marcus wondered, What is driving him so hard now?
Had he been waiting for the title of Training Company Commander all along?
Watching Enkrid, it seemed like he enjoyed both admiration and hostility in equal measure.
"Or does he simply take pleasure in tormenting others?"
The thought was not unwarranted.
Marcus sighed with relief at not having to join them down below.
***
Bell had a history with Enkrid.
The man had saved Bell's life, and since then, their paths had crossed multiple times.
For that reason, Bell thought:
"He'll go easy on them."
Surely Enkrid wouldn't expect others to endure the same brutal regimen he himself underwent.
He would keep it reasonable.
That belief crumbled within two days.
The tower of faith Bell had built in Enkrid came crashing down without a trace.
"Haah, hah… huff…"
Bell's breath was ragged, his lungs burning.
"If you fall behind, you'll get hit," came the cheerful voice of Rem from behind.
Rem, grinning from ear to ear, casually swung his axe through the air. Though he hadn't struck anyone yet, it was clear that getting caught would result in punishment worse than running.
"You'd better run, eh?"
Initially, the training had been limited to laps around the parade ground. Now, however, they were being chased uphill by the mad axeman.
Those who lagged behind quickly learned that getting hit was far worse than simply running harder.
"Want to kill me? Then do it! Sneak attack, ambush, whatever—bring it on!" Rem taunted, laughing uproariously.
Several soldiers twitched at his words, their shoulders trembling with restrained rage.
Bell wasn't one of them. He didn't have the energy.
After climbing several hills at full sprint, the parade ground loomed ahead.
"Pick up your weapons," Enkrid ordered.
The next stage was simple: repeat the basics.
"If you want a break, fight me and last five moves," Rem added, smirking devilishly.
"Once you've proven your skill, you can rest."
This offer enticed a few to challenge the golden-haired swordsman.
His name was Ragna.
At first glance, he seemed approachable, even mild-mannered. But in practice…
WHAM! CRACK!
The wooden sword moved so fast it was barely visible. If it had been a real blade—no, even a blunt iron sword—there was no doubt about it.
"I'd be dead."
Ragna glanced indifferently at the unconscious soldier sprawled on the ground.
"Weaklings," he remarked coldly.
Weak?
No, dammit. It wasn't that they were weak; it was that he was absurdly strong.
Bell clenched his teeth, words of protest rising in his throat but swallowed them down.
"If you're pissed, come at me. Please, I'm begging you," said the grinning mad axeman, taunting the group.
Bell's excitement drained instantly. He understood the unspoken message: attack him and you'll die.
The training was straightforward yet brutal.
Sprint at full speed all morning, eat lunch, then spend the entire afternoon swinging your weapon with all your might.
Repeating this simple schedule daily was what made it hell.
"Is he a devil?" someone muttered before falling asleep.
Bell silently agreed. Devil bastard.
But as much as he hated them, it was hard to complain. After all, Enkrid himself trained harder, longer, and rougher than the entire group combined.
"Come watch the sparring, brothers," Rem would announce with glee, as Enkrid squared off against a burly, devout soldier.
"Here comes the mad axeman," someone else would mutter as Rem entered a match.
Enkrid fought Ragna, Jaxen, and others in succession.
While he gave his all, he rarely emerged victorious.
Audin, in particular, made an impression. With a quick kick to Enkrid's ankle, followed by a spinning strike delivered with startling speed for his size, Audin sent Enkrid flying.
Enkrid crashed into a pile of training weapons at the edge of the muddy parade ground.
Thud!
Head-first into the muck, he landed with a sickening splatter.
For a moment, everyone froze, wondering if this was it for him.
"Rest when you're dead," Rem barked, snapping the soldiers out of their daze.
Nearby, Jaxen nudged Bell in the ribs with his elbow, silently telling him to keep moving.
Though their arms moved automatically, their eyes were glued to the fallen Enkrid.
And then, like a demon risen from the pits of hell, Enkrid stood once more.
Blood trickled down his cracked skull, and mud dripped from his battered frame.
All eyes focused on the sludge clinging to his arms as it dripped to the ground.
Is he okay?
That question hovered unspoken among the soldiers.
"Hmm, hurts a bit," he muttered, brushing off the concern.
He's insane, Bell thought. A madman devoted to the sword.
A sword lunatic.
Bell suppressed the words threatening to escape his lips.
"Company Commander, it's getting harder to keep my guard loose, especially with how recklessly you're fighting," Ragna commented dryly after a particularly harsh bout.
Scenes like this became routine.
At first, they shocked Bell and the others. Then they became disturbing. After a month, they adapted.
By late summer, as autumn approached, the grueling cycle of relentless training—with only a half-day of rest every ten days—was suddenly interrupted.
"Reports say the number of beasts in the area has increased," said the Battalion Commander. "They've spotted fanged horse-beasts. We'll be organizing an extermination operation."
The Second Company Commander led the charge.
"Hah, does that mean no training today?" asked Lieutenant Vengeance, a fierce gleam in his eye and a palpable intensity radiating from him.
In just two months, he had transformed.
"We'll be fighting all day. Wouldn't you agree?" Bell replied, his tone equally sharp.
Bell had changed, too. Anything less, and he might have deserted already. Dying during training would have been the ultimate mockery.
"Let's start by taking down those rabid beasts," Vengeance said, brandishing his longbow.
With his increased strength, he'd earned a new bow—larger, sturdier, and stronger than his last. The same was true for the archers under his command, all now equipped with superior gear.
Marcus hadn't spared any expense on their armaments, which was one thing Bell appreciated.
Entrusting training to a mad commander, however, had been a different story.
"There!"
A three-man scouting team reported a group of beasts approaching.
While most beastly transformations occurred in carnivores, herbivorous beasts occasionally became threats, too.
And the most troublesome of them all? Horses.
Fanged horses, capable of turning their sheer speed and mass into weapons, were terrifying adversaries.
"Over ten of them!"
At the scout's report, the Second Company Commander barked, "Archers, ready!"
Vengeance responded instantly, leading his unit to take position. He was a commander who led by example.
"Fire!"
With the command, Vengeance pulled back his bowstring. The sinew string creaked, his bow groaning under the strain.
Gone were the days when their muscles screamed in protest.
After all, they had spent the past two months training alongside a demon far worse than any fanged horse.
Now, it was time to see if it had all been worth it.
***
The arrows flew, one embedding itself into the skull of a charging horse-beast.
The crisp sound of the arrow cutting through the air was followed by a satisfying thud as it struck its mark, the beast's head exploding on impact. The monstrous horse tumbled and rolled to the ground.
Vengeance felt an odd sensation wash over him—a new awareness of control over his muscles, each fiber responding to his will. His grueling training had not only enhanced his strength and stamina but also granted him a clarity of focus he'd never known before.
"One more shot."
Even as the next wave of beasts charged, he could assess the situation calmly.
"Fire!"
As he drew his bow, the head of another horse-beast seemed to fill his vision, every detail vivid and clear.
Releasing the string, he watched his arrow streak toward its target.
Thwack!
The volley from his unit was perfectly synchronized. Within moments, over ten beasts lay dead, their bodies riddled with arrows.
The air was filled with the shrieks of the dying beasts.
"We've got more incoming!"
There was no time for celebration as another wave—this one a dozen strong—descended upon them, closing the distance too fast for another volley of arrows.
"Engage!"
The Second Company Commander's order rang out, and the clash between man and beast began.
Two months wasn't enough to turn ordinary soldiers into masters, but the rigorous training had undeniably changed them.
Bell felt it too—his body was lighter, stronger. Compared to Enkrid, the horse-beasts felt manageable.
"Kill them!"
"Take them down!"
"Slice them to bits!"
Battle cries erupted as soldiers pierced beastly heads and hacked at their toughened muscles. Spears thrust forward, and glaives—loot from past victories—whirled through the air.
The Second Company Commander himself wielded a glaive with unparalleled strength, its blade severing a charging horse's foreleg with a clean strike.
Splat!
Violet blood sprayed from the wound. The distinct colors of beast blood—black for monsters, and blue or purple for beasts—painted the battlefield.
Despite the ferocity of the fight, it was over quickly.
One soldier, drenched in beast blood, muttered incredulously, "Why were they so easy?"
It was a sincere question. There had been no real sense of danger.
A piercing whistle split the air as a griffin dove into the fray.
The beast, more dangerous than its lesser kin, was an upper-tier monster in its own right.
But it was alone.
Vengeance' archers peppered its wings with arrows, crippling its ability to fly. The rest of the company swarmed the grounded beast, cutting it down with practiced precision.
After the skirmish, the soldiers exchanged knowing glances. There was no denying it—they had grown stronger.
The Border Guard Regulars had always been seasoned warriors, but now they stood on a new level.
***
As they returned to camp, Enkrid greeted them with his usual deadpan intensity.
"We haven't run today, have we?"
It wasn't a question; it was a command.
Bell, who had been reflecting on how far he'd come, finally snapped. "You've got to be kidding me, you bastard!"
His outburst came unbidden, a natural reaction to the absurdity of Enkrid's expectations.
"Sounds like a sparring request to me," Rem chimed in, adhering to his own twisted rule: complaints equaled challenges.
"Been a while, Bell," Enkrid said with a nod.
There was no way to back down now. Pleas for leniency wouldn't work. If he was going to fight, it would have to be with everything he had.
Later that day, as dusk approached, Krais came to Enkrid with unexpected news.
"We have our first visitor," he announced.
Although Enkrid never grew tired of training, the idea of someone seeking him out brought a spark of excitement.
"Quite the heavyweight, too," Krais added as they headed toward the marketplace.
The guest awaited at Vanessa's Pumpkin Inn. As Krais had promised, spreading rumors had worked—those who heard them didn't need invitations. They came on their own.
At the inn's sparring yard stood a man with a face marked by two prominent scars. One ran across the bridge of his nose, while the other cut deep into his cheek. His presence radiated menace.
The weapon in his hands matched his aura: a spiked morningstar, its wicked spikes and sheer weight oozing lethality.
"I'm Ivarn," the man introduced himself, his deep voice steady and firm.
"Mercenary Ivarn," Krais added from behind. "A city-class powerhouse with the nickname 'Constraining Ivarn.'"
"My nickname sounds flashier," Enkrid remarked dryly, earning a shrug from Krais.
"Flashy names attract attention, just like flowers attract bees and butterflies."
Indeed, the moniker "Soldier Who Ended the War" was the kind of title that made people seek him out—a calculated move on Enkrid's part.
As he approached the scarred mercenary, Ivarn spoke first.
"Let's see what you've got."
Enkrid nodded. The challenge was accepted.
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