Chapter 182: Some Madman is Chasing Me with a Sword (2)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 182: Some Madman is Chasing Me with a Sword (2)
Originally, weapons of this nature weren't classified as magic swords.
Though they were often called "evil spirits," they weren't actually possessed by malevolent ghosts. In truth, they were more akin to a fragment of a mindscape.
Long ago, a certain genius mage had been struck by a brilliant, if misguided, idea.
“Is there no way to pass down my abilities to my descendants for generations?”
He pondered and schemed, and his genius eventually bore fruit. However, while his magical talent was peerless, his understanding of the human psyche was abysmal.
The spirit trapped within the sword, bound to a single purpose, existed solely to teach. Because of this singular obsession, it caused blood to pour from the ears of anyone who tried to learn from it. It could hardly be called a proper transmission of knowledge; it was a mental assault.
After that initial failure, the mage refined his method to transmit the physical techniques of a swordsman or warrior.
“I will ensure my swordsmanship is passed down to my descendants for all time.”
The magic sword created through this obsession was Tutor.
"Did you say his name was Dolph? He must have truly hated his descendants," Luagarne said, clicking her tongue against her cheek—her way of expressing deep frustration.
The magic sword Tutor bordered on the realm of necromancy, yet it didn't thirst for blood or drive its wielder into a berserk rage. The problem lay in the mage's lack of empathy. He hadn't understood humans at all. He had ground up a human soul, stripped it of everything but its martial skill, and poured it into the blade.
Thus, only a soul with a single, absolute purpose remained within Tutor.
Whether the student died or coughed up blood, the spirit simply did its job. To learn even a single technique, one had to cross the threshold of death dozens of times. Only by surpassing the opponent using the exact same swordsmanship would the soul trapped in Tutor finally vanish.
The "treasure" spoken of here was likely...
"The swordsmanship itself," Luagarne said, winking. "All you need to do is acquire the technique. However, while your physical body won't die, your mind won't be able to endure the trauma of repeated death. So, rather than trying to challenge that sword, it would be better to find another way to breach the veil."
Encrid listened calmly, glanced at the sword once, and then turned his gaze back to her.
"So, I just have to overcome death and learn the swordsmanship?"
"Yes. But it’s absurd. What kind of human could possibly endure that?"
Luagarne’s tongue slapped her cheek again. It was the Frok equivalent of a human sighing in exasperation.
"Ah, damn it. This is my mistake. I'm sorry," Krais muttered, bowing his head in guilt.
"Sigh, this is driving me crazy. Our remaining rations should last us over a fortnight, but is there no way we can dig a tunnel up or down?" Finn asked. She was frustrated, but as a ranger, she immediately began scouting for alternative exits.
Meanwhile, Esther was fast asleep, lying face down on the ground.
Is she seriously sleepy even in this situation? Encrid wondered, looking around at his companions. So, all I have to do is risk 'death' to learn the swordsmanship?
"Hey, uh, that sounds like a scam."
For some reason, he felt like the Ferryman would appear in his dreams just to mutter those words.
To be honest, compared to being surrounded by a pack of gnolls and slowly dying of poison...
Isn't this easy?
Encrid furrowed his brow. It felt incredibly easy—suspiciously so. Since when had the world been this simple?
Surely, it wasn't. Just learn one swordsmanship style? There had to be a catch.
"What are the chances of there being another trap?"
"Tsk. If there were at least a loop or a ring attached to the veil, I might be able to do something about it," Luagarne said, showing her empty palms.
Encrid pondered for a moment longer, then spoke.
"I'll do it."
"Experiencing death multiple times is no small feat. Shall I show you what happens right now?" Luagarne snapped.
A human's mind wore down easily. She knew Encrid was a remarkable bastard who never backed down, a man whose skills would suddenly surge with glimpses of an absurd, unknown power. But for a mortal, death was the ultimate trauma, no matter how many times it occurred. Enduring that required a level of mental discipline that was practically inhuman.
"Even among the priests who serve the God of Patience and Hardship, nine out of ten failed."
Tutor was that kind of object. There were barely a few of them left on the entire continent, yet one was right here, serving as a key. To collectors, it was an antique worth a fortune in gold, but here...
To weave a trap into this...
It seemed the veil wouldn't open unless a mage capable of handling high-level spells intervened. Luagarne wasn't a master of magic, but she knew enough to realize her whip wouldn't leave a scratch on the barrier.
"Let me try once more."
Krais grabbed the sword again, but...
"He keeps chasing me. He's like a berserker!"
He let go of the hilt instantly. Grabbing and releasing was easy—that was the core mechanism of Tutor. You could give up whenever you wanted. But if you did, the curse bound to the sword would never be broken. To cross the hurdle of death, one needed a peculiar constitution—the kind of person who felt ecstasy every time they died.
Of course, Encrid was no such pervert.
But it doesn't seem that hard.
He couldn't help the thought. After everything he had been through, this felt manageable. He wondered if this would summon the Ferryman, but it didn't feel like that kind of situation.
"Damn it, I really thought this would be as simple as picking up a coin off the street," Krais lamented, his usual competence failing him whenever Krona was involved.
"Should we ration our food and hold out? Won't the veil thin out over time?" Finn asked, ever the realist.
"This is entirely unexpected," Luagarne added.
Scratch.
Encrid remained nonchalant. Without a word, he calmly gripped the sword again.
"Enki!" Luagarne shouted, her voice rising in alarm, but it was too late.
He was already back in the muddy field.
*
It was his second time.
The moment Encrid’s boots hit the mud, he perceived his surroundings and immediately swung his blade.
Clang!
He struck horizontally, parrying his opponent's strike. The opponent's sword retreated, then curved in a wicked arc to thrust at his flank. Encrid reacted instantly, slashing downward.
Clink.
The blades clashed with a crisp ring. A sudden wind blew through the mental world, clearing the thick fog.
A figure emerged: an iron-headed knight with eyes of blue flame, clad in partial plate armor.
Heart of Monstrous Strength.
It didn't beat.
Not being able to use my skills feels like cheating.
But it didn't matter. He recognized this place for what it was—a mental world, the spirit's domain. He had experienced this once before. Only once, yet how many times had he rolled through the dirt in the real world, repeating his days at the cost of his life?
Thanks to that experience, once was enough. When it came to grasping a situation, he only needed one look.
"Ah, ah."
His voice worked. He opened his mouth to test it, and the sound was clear.
"Can you speak, by any chance?"
The sword answered instead of words.
Thud!
Kicking up the squelching mud, the armored figure lunged.
Whoosh!
A heavy downward slash fell from above. It was a perfect combination of speed and power, the trajectory deceptively tricky. Encrid blocked it in the exact same manner as before.
Block and push. The opponent thrust at his flank. Encrid responded in kind.
Just as they were about to repeat the sequence like a rehearsed play, the opponent's blade suddenly surged upward. It was a strike planned from the very beginning—a rising blow aimed at his chin.
Encrid bent his left knee and twisted his waist.
Shhhk!
The blade grazed his chin, sliced up his right cheek, and brushed past his forehead. Using the opening created by the dodge, Encrid’s sword slashed across the opponent's waist.
Clang.
He blocked even that?
As they traded blows, Encrid became absorbed in the rhythm. He swung, parried, and countered. He tried to open the Gate of the Sixth Sense to read his opponent's intent, but it failed to trigger.
The price of that failure was paid in blood.
The iron blade pierced Encrid's chest. He was stabbed in the very spot that would have horrified Luagarne, and then... he woke up.
"Phew."
A dull pain spread from his heart throughout his body. He had died again.
It was his second death within the sword. His physical body was perfectly fine, though his heart was pounding and the phantom pain was vivid.
So this is what makes it hard to endure?
Honestly, it was pretty manageable. It felt much better than actually dying.
"Were you stabbed there?" Luagarne asked, hovering beside him.
Encrid nodded and stood up. After catching his breath, he felt fine. He could move; it wasn't as if the injury had followed him back.
If you grip it, you experience the pain of death. The moment is brief, and the goal is to steal and learn the swordsmanship.
Somehow, this felt incredibly familiar.
"Foolish. The very attempt is madness. Unless you want to lose your mind..."
Had Luagarne always nagged this much? Encrid recalled the very first day he had regressed. That thrust from back then—hadn't it now become second nature to him?
Encrid looked at Luagarne, who was fully engrossed in her lecture. Inside the magic sword Tutor lived a spirit with extraordinary skill.
"Is this how you do it?"
Encrid calmly ignored the nagging. Instead, he swung his sword, mimicking the form he had just seen. He executed the movements he had observed from his opponent, training and refining the motion in the air.
Luagarne stopped talking and stared at him, her eyes wide. Her lips parted as she voiced her inner thoughts.
"Did you hit your head? Have you already suffered mental damage?"
He hadn't. Encrid didn't bother shaking his head; he simply continued to swing his sword, muttering to himself. The trajectory felt as if it were on the verge of clicking.
"No, was it like this?"
In Luagarne's eyes, Encrid was slow—painfully slow. He was sluggish and clumsy, a man who clearly lacked natural talent for physical movement or swordsmanship.
I am personally teaching him, yet he only improves this much?
Luagarne considered herself a scholar, but she wasn't the type to only dig into books. She researched swordsmanship deeply; her insights had influenced the great families of the central continent. She was a Frok recognized for her wisdom and her outstanding talent for teaching.
And yet, Encrid's progress was glacial.
Of course, there were moments she couldn't comprehend—moments when he faced an absurd crisis and completely transformed in an instant. Without warning or preparation, his skills would suddenly leap forward. Even for a long-lived Frok, he was the first human she had ever seen like this. An incomprehensible, baffling man.
"Can you take a look at this for me? Since we're trapped here anyway."
At his casual request, Luagarne spoke her mind again.
"I really think you've damaged your brain."
"Kyaaa."
The panther lying nearby nodded in agreement.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Krais asked, concerned.
"What is it? You haven't been possessed, have you?" Finn added, her voice laced with anxiety.
Encrid calmly swung his sword again. It wasn't perfect; in fact, it was clumsy. But in Luagarne's eyes, the intention behind the sword was visible. If an opponent were in front of him, he would drive them to the left, followed by a thrust. Encrid was moving with that exact purpose.
His footwork was a mess, and his balance was off, but he was manifesting the form.
Just as Luagarne was about to critique him...
"I think I just need to see it one more time," Encrid said.
He reached out and gripped the sword again.
"He's a crazy bastard," Luagarne marveled. "A complete and utter crazy bastard."