A flash of light flickered.
Encrid couldn’t understand what was happening.
He just felt a pain like a hot iron poker stabbing his throat.
He realized that the leather-padded armor was of no use.
He lost consciousness as he poured out the red, hot liquid coursing through his body.
He opens his eyes again.
It’s the start of another day.
It’s not a dream.
He had already experienced it numerous times.
He didn’t know why this was happening.It just happened.
Clang.
The sound announcing the morning.
The sentry bangs a pot with a ladle.
The same morning for the third time.
Only then did Encrid truly realize.
‘Again?’
Every day, whenever he died, the same day repeated.
My dream was to become a knight.
The teacher who taught Encrid how to use a sword had a rather good personality and never said anything harsh.
“You.”
The teacher, leaning against a sword held vertically with the scabbard still on, called out to Encrid.
“Go back to the village. If you don’t like farming, join the village militia. You’ll end up as the Militia Captain.”
If he had listened to those words from his experienced teacher back then, things might have been better.
But he didn’t.
The problem was a single sentence he heard when he was young.
“Enki, you’re a genius.”
He had a wooden sword fight with some older kids in the village and won easily.
He was 11 years old then, the first time he was called a genius.
He didn’t realize it at the time.
The other kids were just terrible at sword fighting.
At 15, Encrid fought and won against a village elder with wooden swords.
After that, he gained confidence in his skills.
In the small village where he was born, there was no one who knew how to wield a sword properly.
The only one who did was a third-rate mercenary.
He was a drifter who had lost a leg and ended up in the village.
He taught swordsmanship to the village kids.
Encrid was among them.
“You’re a genius.”
At fifteen, he heard the same words for the second time.
The first time was from an ignorant village elder, but this time it was from a mercenary who claimed to have lost his leg for a lady and given up his knighthood.
‘I’m a genius.’
He thought so.
He had a dream.
He decided to become a knight.
A knight serving a ruler who would unify a continent engulfed in war.
A knight who would put an end to the war.
Around this time, a minstrel’s song spread widely across the continent.
So widely that it even reached Encrid’s small village.
The content was simple, but the melody was captivating, and the final lyrics were stirring.
A knight to end this war!
A knight to paint the war in twilight!
We will call him the Knight of Twilight!
The Knight of the End!
The knight to end the war!
The knight to conclude the war.
The minstrel’s song ignited a fire in the hearts of the boys and girls.
‘I will become that knight.’
Encrid was no different.
At eighteen, believing there was no one in the village who could best him, he left.
He had no parents, no siblings.
He had a few friends, but there were few who remained close to Encrid, who had been obsessed with the sword since childhood.
In that gap, the boy grew up and left.
Thus, he began his life as a mercenary.
His skills weren’t bad. His attitude towards hard work was commendable.
But it only took two months for him to realize he wasn’t a genius.
He was beaten by a nameless, so-called third-rate mercenary.
“You’re not fully ripe yet.”
He heard such words.
He thought all he needed was a good teacher.
He saved money. He gave it his all. He fought bandits, risking half his life.
With the money he earned that way, he sought out a training school.
In the big cities, there were a few swordsmanship schools.
He learned swordmanship.
He wasn’t unlucky.
His teacher was honest and conscientious.
The teacher told Encrid to give up the sword.
“No. I won’t.”
Encrid didn’t give up.
“You’re really diligent. Very diligent.”
Everyone who saw Encrid said the same thing.
And they had to.
Because effort never betrays.
His palms split open, his arm muscles trembled.
He repeated it countless times.
In places where similar people gathered, it was fine.
Encrid was an exceptional hard worker.
As he saved money and wandered from one training school to another, he passed his twenties.
By the time he was over twenty-five, he had gained enough experience and skill to make a name for himself as a mercenary.
Though in small towns, you’d have to ask around a few times to hear, “Ah, that guy, he’s pretty good with a sword.”
Up to this point, he still had a glimmer of hope.
The hope that he would get better.
So, in the spring of his twenty-seventh year, Encrid realized his talent was insignificant.
An incident that happened in passing brought about this realization.
After just five exchanges, the sword in his hand flew away, and he was left with a hole in his abdomen. Encrid pressed his palm against the gaping wound and asked.
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
Twelve, he said. It was unbelievable.
This was what a real genius was.
“Sorry, it was my first real fight.”
The kid said. A serf, neither noble nor commoner.
He had been holding a sword for just half a year.
“My hand was too heavy. Use this for the medical expenses.”
The kid’s teacher tossed a pouch of money.
It wasn’t a life-threatening injury.
His internal organs weren’t damaged, and the wound wasn’t that deep.
Still, he took the pouch.
From the age of eleven until now, for sixteen years, he had swung his sword until his palms bled.
But he lost to a twelve-year-old who had only trained for six months.
It would be a lie to say he wasn’t depressed.
However, he didn’t live with gloomy emotions.
There was no reason to live so darkly and dismally.
‘At least I didn’t lose any limbs.’
Encrid knew he wasn’t a genius, but that didn’t mean he had to give up.
So he continued his life as a swordsman.
After roughly ten years as a mercenary.
While he couldn’t become an outstanding knight or swordsman, he could become a seasoned soldier.
Encrid quit being a mercenary and received military training. This was the best choice he could make.
He couldn’t just start farming at this point.
A third-rate swordsman from a mercenary background, it was an apt description.
“Do you think the military is a joke? Do you think they accept just anyone?”
Someone mocked him.
“Hang in there.”
Someone patted him on the shoulder.
He gained recognition and fell behind at times.
Thus, at thirty, Encrid was with the 4th Platoon of the 4th Company, 4th Battalion, 4th Regiment, Cyprus Division, in the Kingdom of Naurillia.
He held the rank just below platoon leader, as the Decurion.
Clang, clang, clang.
The sentry clanged a piece of metal, waking up the entire barracks.
“…What a disturbingly chaotic dream.”
Encrid muttered as he woke up to the noise.
“What kind of dream did you have to say that?”
A subordinate, who had just woken up from his makeshift field bed made of layered canvas, shoved his feet into his boots and asked.
Though his attitude was nonchalant, he was more skilled than Encrid.
“My life.”
“Sounds ominous. Ugh, a bug.”
There was a bug in his boot. The subordinate took it off, shook it out, and put it back on.
After seeing the bug fall to the ground, he spat on it and crushed it with his foot.
The mixture of sticky bug guts and spit left a mark on the ground.
Encrid, seeing this, got up and prepared his gear.
He donned a breastplate with a throwing knife strapped near his heart, arm guards, and shin guards.
Underneath, he wore a padded inner armor made of layers of thick cloth.
Over that, he wore a leather armor made of several layers of leather, although it wasn’t particularly strong.
A well-sharpened blade could easily cut through it.
The arm guards reinforced with oiled wood were slightly better than what others had.
“I heard the previous Decurion had a similar dream before he died.”
Encrid muttered, recalling the vague rumor he had heard.
“Am I fated to die today?”
His subordinate laughed, and Encrid smacked him on the back of the head.
“Don’t talk about bad luck. I’m not dying today.”
He got up, poured water into a pot, and threw in a few pieces of jerky. He added some edible vegetables and started boiling it.
It was their breakfast.
“Is there a battle plan today?”
The subordinate next to him asked, and Encrid shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
He was just a low-ranking Decurion.
Above the fourDecurions, there was one platoon leader.
That platoon leader probably didn’t know either.
Encrid’s swordsmanship was mediocre, and he wasn’t a noble, so he remained a Decurion under the squad leader. But his battlefield experience was enough to surpass many company commanders.
Knowing this, the subordinates respected Encrid.
“So, what did you want to be when you were a kid?”
A subordinate approached and asked.
“A knight.”
“If I laugh, will you hit me?”
“I won’t hit you.”
“Pfft.”
“So, you’re laughing at me? You little punk.”
He kicked the subordinate in the butt.
The subordinate pretended to be hurt and said.
“Still, a knight, really?”
What is a knight?
A knight is someone who changes the course of a battlefield.
A monster who can face a thousand enemies alone.
A hero who slays hundreds of foes single-handedly.
Moreover, the unit they belonged to, the division, was named after a knight.
The Cyprus Division, meaning the army of Sir Cyprus.
And Encrid dreamed of becoming such a knight.
“Your dream is quite ambitious.”
“Dreams are supposed to be ambitious, you fool.”
Encrid said, casually gathering the dishes.
He was on dishwashing duty today.
While he wasn’t sure about other squads, Encrid’s squad shared all chores equally.
As a Decurion, his role was mainly to receive and relay orders.
Usually, the one who used the spear or sword best took on this role.
In this respect, Encrid was a bit special.
His combat prowess was weaker than that of the other squad members.
But he could unite those who had been practically expelled from other squads.
Other units referred to Encrid’s squad as the 444 Squad.
The troublemaker squad of the 4th Platoon in the 4th Company.
Encrid was the leader of such a squad.
“I’ll help you.”
“Then shut your mouth and follow me.”
“Will do.”
The subordinate chuckled.
He was an oddball, and Encrid wondered how he ended up here.
Though unique, Encrid wasn’t particularly curious about his subordinate’s personal history.
So he never asked.
The squad members liked Encrid’s attitude.
He didn’t ask about the past, and he didn’t scrutinize the present.
He didn’t demand anything special either.
Perhaps this was why all the squad members followed him.
As they clattered and washed the dishes, the subordinate splashed around in the stream and asked,
“Why did you want to become a knight?”
He had followed to help but was now just splashing water.
Would he laugh if Encrid said it was because of a minstrel’s song?
After a brief moment of thought, Encrid answered,
“I wanted to be good with a sword, and if I was going to do it, I thought becoming a knight would be nice.”
“You’ve got a boyish spirit.”
The subordinate chuckled again.
“I told you to shut up.”
“So, that’s why you practiced with your sword morning and night?”
“Because effort never betrays.”
His palms were covered in calluses from countless swings.
“And even now?”
“Do you still want to become a knight?”
Could that even happen? Encrid knew better than anyone that it was unlikely.
But he didn’t give up.
He simply endured silently and kept moving forward.
Encrid was aware of reality.
His dreams had fallen silent, and the silent Encrid had become just another soldier living meal to meal.
“Once you’re done, let’s go.”
“Alright.”
It was a perfunctory conversation.
They rose and returned to the barracks.
Whether there would be ongoing conflicts with neighboring kingdoms or raids by the recent bandit groups targeting supplies, they didn’t know.
What they would do was uncertain.
‘The air feels heavy.’
The air on the battlefield always did.
But today, it felt heavier than usual.
The wait was long.
There wasn’t much to do. Considering swinging his sword, he ended up dozing off.
There were days when he didn’t feel like doing anything at all.
‘It’s not as easy as it used to be.’
He had put in relentless effort.
And this was the result.
A squad leader of third-rate mercenaries.
As the sun crossed two fists above the western horizon, the sergeant shouted,
“All members of Squad Four, assemble.”
There was a skirmish.
The members of the company gathered, taking up a crucial position in the army.
Encrid’s squad was no different.
A chilling tension gripped their bodies.
Encrid briefly grasped the amulet talisman he had acquired during his mercenary days before tucking it away inside his clothes.
‘Was this supposed to save my life?’
It might sound like nonsense, but soldiers heading into battle often easily believed in superstitions.
However, if asked whether Encrid believed in this talisman himself, he would likely respond with uncertainty.
He had merely seen the old woman who handed it to him and heard her earnest tone, which had touched his heart.
‘Just have to make the best of a bad situation.’
After risking his life in battle, all he had received as a reward was this talisman.
Half of it was luck that he survived; if he had made a misstep, it would have been his own life on the line.
Even in the perilous task of clearing out dangerous monsters.
Living in a small village meant there was no money to spare.
He had simply happened to pass by when someone grabbed his sleeve, pleading for him to deal with the monster, promising a meager reward.
‘It’s ridiculous.’
Pity risking your life—it’s madness.
But Encrid didn’t regret that day.
Because that’s what a knight does.
Dreams may have been silenced and torn apart by reality, but traces remained.
He had wanted to become a knight.
He had wanted to become a hero of war.
But now he was just an ordinary soldier.
“Aaaaah!”
A battle cry erupted.
Encrid, caught up in the moment, raised his voice, veins bulging in his neck.
From up ahead, the wave of the army surged forward.
The setting sun, setting ablaze the sky with its long shadows.
Breaking through that fiery glow, both armies clashed.
Encrid charged ahead as well.
“Protect your lives as you fight!”
His ever-smiling subordinate shouted and rushed forward first.
Soon, swords and spears from both sides began to mingle blood and flesh.
Today’s battle was a pitched struggle.
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