男朋友是军人做哭我

Awakening to his talents, he retraced the path his right hand had taken with his left, moving forward.

Even after all this, can he use his left hand as well as his right?

No.

Then, can he handle the full power of Mitch Hurrier’s dual-wielding with one hand on his sword?

“Not a chance.”

He’s experienced this countless times.

Moreover, Mitch Hurrier had no bad habits, despite whatever he had been up to. It’s hard to read his patterns.

Every time, his adaptive techniques smoothly emerged.

The basics still seemed to be Correct Sword Technique and Tangum style.

Encrid’s foundation was in the Middle Sword Technique. The disadvantage was still on his side, using a middle sword one-handed.

Although Mitch had lost his thumb, he could still grip the sword with both hands.

If things went south, he could endure the pain and swing his sword a few times.

‘No choice then.’

He’d love to cleanly behead him with his sword, but if that’s not possible, he’d have to show the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique, a dirty fight.

“Sorry, just a bit.”

“What nonsense is this?”

Encrid was sincere. He felt a bit sorry.

Mitch saw him as an obstacle in his path forward, as both a rival and an opponent.

He felt this enough from just a few words exchanged. He even remembered his name.

He even seemed glad to see him, as if he had been waiting.

What he sensed from Mitch was a fighting spirit wanting to confirm what he had built up with his sword.

So.

‘Really, I’m sorry.’

Encrid had already confirmed everything. Mitch’s skills, what he had accumulated, and his fighting spirit.

That’s why he realized the chance of winning lay in a dirty fight.

Should he spend another day honing his skills, breaking down his opponent with swordsmanship using his left hand?

Spending today, uncertain of how long it might take?

No, that wasn’t it.

Encrid felt there was no point in staying in the present.

To advance further, his left hand needed a new opportunity.

Mitch Hurrier was a good opponent, but…

‘I’ve extracted all I can from him.’

Though he couldn’t read Mitch’s patterns, he had memorized a few habits.

For instance,

“Still a strange guy.”

Whenever his left eyebrow moved, an attack would soon follow.

As soon as he finished speaking, Mitch charged at him with a swift kick.

As predicted, no, as certain.

Encrid kicked the ground with his toes as Mitch finished his sentence.

A pebble flew toward Mitch’s face.

Bang!

Mitch deflected the pebble with his sword, slightly staggering.

Still, he kept coming.

As expected, his reaction was sharp.

Encrid planted his sword in the ground, flicked his waist, and thrust forward with his left hand.

Whistle dagger.

“Pathetic!”

Mitch growled, twisting his sword several times. His eyes were sharp to the point of being frightening. The whistle dagger was also useless.

In no time, he was within sword range.

Encrid pulled out his sword and thrust it forward.

Mitch twisted his body and swung his sword. It was a quick diagonal slash, so fast that the blade seemed to bend.

Encrid, observing the trajectory, pulled his sword to the side.

Clang, crunch.

At the moment of impact, he felt the lack of strength and angled his blade away, targeting Mitch’s hand.

Mitch Hurrier was wielding his sword with both hands, while Encrid used only one.

As he began to give way, Encrid attempted to deflect with the Tangum style, and Mitch, sensing this, pressed in with force.

Encrid let go of his sword once more.

As he aimed to close the distance by exploiting the gap, there was a sound of feet kicking the ground, and Mitch’s body wavered before disappearing backward.

Mitch wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.

Encrid had anticipated this.

Mitch retreated and slashed downward with his sword.

Encrid kicked the sword he had dropped on the ground.

It was a calculated move.

Whack.

The grip hooked onto his instep, and the blade shot forward, targeting Mitch’s neck.

Normally, one learns not to let go of their sword. That’s a basic principle of swordsmanship.

Occasionally, those handling illusion swords might drop their swords and engage in this kind of combat.

To kick it?

That was an unconventional move.

“Hah!”

With a shout, Mitch caught the downward slash with one hand and slashed downward as if chopping.

He used the gauntlet on his other hand to block the tip of the sword Encrid had kicked.

Thud.

As he blocked, he twisted the tip of the sword to the side.

As expected of Mitch Hurrier. Although the back of his gauntlet was slightly dented, it didn’t appear to have suffered any major damage or impact.

Encrid wasn’t surprised, having already foreseen the entire sequence.

The real trap was yet to come.

The gap came from the lack of strength and speed in the downward slash. The two-handed slash had turned into a one-handed one.

As soon as Encrid kicked the sword, he rushed forward again.

In terms of timing, he had dropped the sword, kicked it, and immediately ran again.

Mitch had stepped back, slashed downward, and blocked the flying sword with the back of his hand.

Thud.

Mitch’s sword struck Encrid’s right shoulder.

He allowed the hit.

At the same time, he extended his left hand forward. Encrid had the advantage in grip strength.

As he tried to grab Mitch’s neck, Mitch tilted his head back.

No, he bent his waist back, creating space.

Encrid silently thanked Torres.

There was no better training for developing the sense in his left hand, which had allowed him to target his opponent in this move.

He twisted his wrist, moving the muscle under his wrist, and a dagger popped out. The dagger that emerged from his wrist was caught in Encrid’s hand.

In that instant, Encrid looked into Mitch’s eyes.

His pupils had widened noticeably, and his gaze was unsteady.

Encrid slashed at those eyes with the dagger.

Swish!

The sound of metal slicing through flesh.

“Ugh!”

A groan, muffled by pain, escaped.

“Hmm.”

A similar groan slipped from Encrid’s lips as well.

It was understandable.

The dagger in Encrid’s hand had slashed Mitch Hurrier’s eye.

To be precise, it had struck from his cheek to his forehead above the eyebrow.

Even as he lost his eye, Mitch Hurrier kicked Encrid in the stomach and pulled his sword inward.

The sword, which had struck Encrid’s shoulder, sliced through the leather armor he wore underneath, leaving a wound on his shoulder.

It was hot yet chilling.

The sensation of metal cutting through his shoulder.

His right wrist was already a mess, and now his shoulder was cut too.

‘This isn’t good.’

With that thought, Encrid threw the dagger.

Ping—

Even after losing an eye, Mitch attempted to fend off the dagger with his sword.

But the dagger embedded itself in his forearm.

With one eye gone, his depth perception would be compromised for a while.

That meant it was an opportunity.

The Valen Mercenary Sword Technique’s dirty fight.

It’s about fighting close, using everything you have, even if it means biting.

Encrid did just that.

He threw the sword again and charged.

Although he had been kicked in the stomach earlier and had a cut on his shoulder,his heart was pounding, pumping blood through his body.

This was a time for boldness, not calmness.

Encrid charged boldly.

“Arrgh!”

Mitch let out a sound that was a cross between a scream and a shout as he swung his sword.

“I see it.”

Which meant he could dodge it.

Just like when he saved Leona. Just like dodging a flying dagger.

He activated the Focus Point.

Using intuition, he predicted the trajectory of the blade.

He moved inward.

Thud.

The calculation was correct, as he got hit by the fist gripping the sword instead of the blade. He had his chin tucked and his forehead forward.

So the impact wasn’t severe.

“If you’re going to get hit, get hit well. If you do, the next opportunity will be yours.”

Those were Audin’s words. The method he learned from Audin about how to take a hit was always useful.

At that moment, the distance between them closed.

“Yeah, come on. Just what I wanted!”

Mitch also dropped his sword and grabbed Encrid’s shoulder with his hands.

The wound tore, sending waves of pain, but it was much better than dying.

More importantly, the injury was not as severe as Encrid had thought.

The leather armor he wore underneath had been cut, but it had done its job.

Their hands tangled together.

The two men, panting, started rolling on the gravelly ground.

Meanwhile, Mitch, seemingly filled with anger, spoke.

“Filthy bastard, did you think you could win by wrestling?”

“Yeah.”

Encrid thought he could win.

After a few exchanges, he knew.

After learning the Valaf-Style martial arts and training with Finn from the Ail Caraz Style, he realized this.

This type of skill requires immense talent and a tremendous investment of time.

It was a technique you had to train so intensely that it appeared in your dreams.

Encrid was confident.

As long as they were grappling, the odds were in his favor.

He didn’t mind the dirty fight for this reason.

Crack.

Encrid attempted to twist Mitch’s arm, then bit down on his ear.

“Aargh!”

Mitch screamed.

Encrid seized Mitch’s ankle, pulling his foot under his side, pressing down with his hand, and twisting his leg like a pretzel with both legs. He then pressed down on the top of the foot, applying pressure.

Though the description is lengthy, the action happened in an instant.

Snap. Crack!

A horrifying sound, likely accompanied by excruciating pain.

This kind of pain was known only to those who had experienced it.

Even if it didn’t break, the area was agonizingly painful.

He had crushed the back of the ankle by pressing down on it while it was pinned against his ribcage.

Then he moved to the other leg.

Twist.

Wrapping both legs around the opponent’s, he clasped the foot in his arms and twisted his body like a whirlwind.

Crack, snap.

This time, Mitch’s knee joint twisted in the opposite direction, causing it to break.

“Arrgh!”

A terrible, harrowing scream erupted.

Mitch, drooling and bloodshot-eyes, somehow managed to draw a dagger and thrust it at Encrid’s neck.

Encrid twisted his body to avoid it, and the dagger plunged into his forearm before being pulled out.

Encrid released Mitch’s leg and rolled back.

That was the end of it.

Mitch was already incapacitated.

“Whew.”

Encrid exhaled deeply. He wasn’t in perfect condition either, joint locks like that also take a toll on one’s own body.

Moreover, his arm was stabbed, and the cut on his shoulder wasn’t insignificant.

Half of his clothing had become soaked at some point.

It was all his blood.

Still, Encrid’s condition was much better than Mitch’s.

“Krais, my sword.”

Though not a combatant, Krais, who had been nearby, quickly brought Encrid’s sword to him.

As he took it in his left hand, blood gushed from his forearm.

The wound there was deeper than he had thought.

“Damn, I thought I was going to die,Captain.”

Encrid had no energy to respond to Krais’s remark.

Holding his sword, Encrid approached.

Though his arm and shoulder were injured, his legs were fine.

“Platoon Leader!”

Then a few enemy soldiers, who had ambushed them, reacted. They charged upon seeing Mitch Hurrier fall.

It was too late.

None of the enemy soldiers believed their Platoon Leader, Mitch Hurrier, could lose.

He was a genius, a naturally gifted man.

A genius who didn’t need to try.

After experiencing something on the battlefield, the man, once known by that nickname, had been swinging his sword day and night since his return.

He was not someone who should die like this.

He was a star that had just begun to shine.

It wasn’t even a clash of swords, but instead, a dagger was thrown, and both of Mitch’s legs were shattered.

What was this? This was not the fight their Platoon leader wanted.

Fight with swords.

Settle it fairly, sword against sword, in a duel!

This was the sentiment of most of Mitch’s men.

“This… this isn’t what we wanted.”

Mitch felt the same.

Locking eyes with Encrid, who held his sword vertically to the ground, Mitch spoke.

“You, you.”

“This is a battlefield.”

Encrid said, stabbing his sword.

Thud.

The blade pierced through the back of Mitch’s neck and emerged through the front, clinking as it cut through some pebbles.

Mitch Hurrier, with eyes wide open, gurgled blood and collapsed to the ground.

The blade was lodged as an ornament in his neck.

Soon, his head slumped to the side.

“Kill him!”

A few enraged enemy soldiers charged at Encrid.

“Idiots.”

Encrid cursed them. He had thought about this numerous times today.

Was their own commander so foolish that he couldn’t anticipate such an ambush?

No.

In fact, this was what they had been waiting for.

Perhaps the enemy knew this too.

After all, the battlefield is a place of deception and strategy.

Thus, the goal was simply to buy time.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

None of the enemy soldiers were at Mitch’s level.

The sword in Encrid’s left hand slipped out of Mitch’s neck and danced like a butterfly, parrying and blocking the incoming spears.

His swordsmanship was delicate, a mix of Middle Sword Technique, Tangum style, and rapid strikes.

“Regroup! Wipe them out!”

A voice from behind, possibly Vengeance, rang out.

The enemy, though elite, couldn’t overcome their numerical disadvantage.

Especially with the addition of archers, there was no contest.

“Shoot.”

About forty crossbowmen, clearly a platoon-sized unit, began turning the remaining enemy soldiers into pincushions.

Someone had rallied the archers and brought them here.

With that, the battle was essentially over.

Encrid knew this well from his own experiences.

It was impossible to block and dodge all the arrows fired by assembled archers.

Encrid sat down, feeling utterly exhausted.

‘Damn, that was tough.’

Yet there was something left—his left hand.

This thought made Encrid smile with a sense of satisfaction.

He had survived the dirty fight.

He had lived through today and was moving toward a new path.

It felt like someone had haphazardly stitched together a torn and worn-out dream, and Encrid felt that way.

It was in the midst of the battlefield, where a spring breeze was blowing through.

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