Chapter 232: He Felt Like He Could Die of Joy
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 232: He Felt Like He Could Die of Joy
Choosing a path and deciding to walk it doesn't mean you're forbidden from looking anywhere but forward.
Had the great merchant Rengadis not once said?
“Keep your eyes wide open. Watch the ground and observe your surroundings. You never know where a krona dropped by some passerby might be lying.”
In truth, a man of his stature—a man truly worthy of being called a great merchant—was likely not the type to bend his back for a single copper coin.
However, the meaning behind his words was clear.
If a pouch of gold coins lay on the path you were traveling, it was only right to pick it up. If you were scheduled to camp out on your journey, it was only wise to gather dry branches along the way.
If you could hit two birds with one stone, shouldn't you throw it that way?
Encrid did exactly that.
Will.
Just because he had set his goal, he did not act foolishly or sluggishly. Nor did he become a racehorse running blindly toward a finish line.
In this repeating "today," what else was there to do before the Shepherd arrived in the evening?
Sparring, fighting, and contemplating.
Encrid narrowed his tasks down to these three.
He learned the basics of the Soft Sword Style from Ragna and trained repeatedly on his own. Later, he also learned more of the Valaf-style Martial Arts from Audin.
The reactions of the two were remarkably similar.
“Have you learned this somewhere before? Or have you been swinging your sword in secret behind my back?”
“When did you train your martial arts to this level? You make me proud, brother.”
Encrid gave each of them a vague nod.
Though he had trained while trapped in this loop, it was true that he had practiced alone, so it wasn't exactly a lie.
In truth, he didn't hear such praise often. Encrid placed far more weight on solitary training than on sparring.
Pondering alone, contemplating, swinging his sword, and pushing his body. When his mind refused to work, he drenched himself in sweat and pushed his physical limits using the Isolation Technique.
“Are you hoping to hear me tell you not to overdo it, brother?”
Had he pushed himself so hard that even Audin was worried? Encrid replied nonchalantly.
“Using my body helps my mind work better.”
“That's true. Blood has to circulate to the brain for a man to think, after all,” Sachsen muttered from beside them.
It was only a guess, but considering Sachsen's former profession—or perhaps his current side-hustle—he likely knew more about human anatomy than anyone else present.
“Yeah, that’s how it is.”
Encrid had realized this through his own body. If his mind stalled, he moved. If a problem arose that couldn't be solved by movement, he sat down and contemplated.
By the time the repeating day had cycled a hundred and eighty times...
Encrid had fully integrated the basics of the Soft Sword Style into his muscle memory, further polished his Valaf-style Martial Arts through Audin, and refined his management of the five senses through Sachsen.
Since it was time he had to spend anyway, he might as well organize and refine everything he possessed.
And that was not all.
Beyond his swordsmanship, martial arts, and senses, the things he had learned from his companions and subordinates also became sharper, more sensitive, and bolder.
Yet, even though his senses had grown keener, his concentration sharper, and his judgment more decisive...
Slash!
He still couldn't avoid the blade grazing his skin.
The blade that nicked the back of his hand whipped backward. The sword, flying and bending like a snake, was a fusion of the Swift Sword Style and the Illusion Sword Style.
Once it's drawn, blocking it is nearly impossible.
If he possessed the skill to overwhelm his opponent without being grazed even once while dodging and blocking, he would be able to win without a scratch.
To do that...
I would probably have to become a Knight right this instant.
The opponent before him was superior to that bastard, Swallow Blade.
What about a Half-Giant?
It would probably come down to who lands a fatal blow first.
What did it mean to gauge an opponent's skill? It meant that if Encrid had intended to kill his opponent, he could have done so several times already. He had not wasted a single day during the nearly two hundred repetitions. That was why this was possible.
However, avoiding even a single graze was still difficult. It felt like an entirely different level of mastery.
Was it truly impossible unless he became a Knight? If not, he would have to do nothing but defend all night long.
He had already tried that. But once midnight passed, the exact same day simply began anew.
First, no more pure defense.
Using his Sense of Evasion to dodge and block all day was meaningless.
Then, what should he do?
From then on, there was only real combat.
Encrid fought and fought again. If there was a period of conscious resistance after being cut, he made full use of every second before that moment.
It was a time to learn how to overcome this wall, to learn from his opponent, and to integrate what he had studied in isolation. He was neither bored nor impatient.
There was no reason to be.
He was completely absorbed in the thrill of learning something new every day. Even if resisting whatever was imbued in the sword felt meaningless, he ignored that fact.
He pursued the joy of it. Naturally, that brought Encrid many realizations.
All this time.
Was it because he had learned too many miscellaneous things? As he integrated each skill one by one into his body, Encrid could feel himself becoming sturdier than ever before.
Yet, he had no time to lose himself in that feeling or grow complacent. Even with the day repeating, every hour was busy. There was always work to be done.
Pondering, contemplating, and pushing his body. To any onlooker, he was undoubtedly a madman.
“What is it? What drives you to move like this?” even the Ferryman asked.
Even though the day repeated, why couldn't he let a single one just pass by?
It wasn't that he couldn't; he chose not to.
Encrid was enjoying himself. Compared to the pitch-black darkness where he couldn't see an inch ahead while struggling toward a faded dream...
...the present, where he knew light existed beyond the blocked path and the obstructing wall, brought him greater ecstasy than ever before.
Even if misery and pain followed, Encrid felt the joy of growth. He had never thought himself stagnant, but facing an opportunity to move forward was always a source of rapture.
That pleasure was what drove him.
It was after he had wounded his wrist once again. The moment a scratch appeared on the back of Encrid's hand, the Shepherd furrowed his brow. His face showed that this was a situation he desperately wanted to avoid.
Encrid wiped the back of his hand with his other palm. As he wiped away the droplets of blood, fresh blood oozed slowly from the wound, which was about the size of two finger joints.
By now, he had grown accustomed to the screams that felt like a Banshee shrieking in his ear, and the monstrous roars of a Ghoul howling into its own stomach.
It wasn't that it didn't hurt, but he could at least prevent himself from showing it.
His tone was perfectly calm.
“Does that sword have a name?”
“……Huh? Are you alright?”
The Shepherd was genuinely surprised. Having seen this reaction dozens of times, Encrid ignored his opponent's shock.
“The sword's name.”
He simply repeated the question. The Shepherd pursed his lips before replying.
“It is called the Idol Slayer.”
It was a sword worthy of a name. Of course, it was a name he was hearing for the first time. He still had no idea about the sword's power or the mechanism of death caused by whatever was imbued within it.
He had asked before, but it was difficult to get a straight answer. Since this was their "first" meeting from the Shepherd's perspective, the man couldn't give a proper answer even if he wanted to.
Even if I heard it, it would have been useless.
"Will" was something that could not be explained, taught, or passed down. Among those who sought it, what was called "Baptism" was little more than superstition. Baptism did not guarantee the realization of Will.
“If a talented human is placed in a life-or-death crisis, wouldn't they realize it? If they are cut by a blade forged from willpower, wouldn't they be able to grasp that feeling?”
Baptism was a method born from such a question. So hearing about it was useless. Whatever that sword was, it was said that if one possessed Will, they would not die.
That sword was something forged from Will. Therefore, he would not ask; he would simply throw himself into the fray. He decided to realize it through the struggle itself.
“Can... can you deflect it? Do you know how to block it?” the Shepherd asked.
Encrid shook his head. It was a question he usually heard whenever his survival time against the sword increased.
Once again, the day reset.
Afterward, Encrid performed a few tricks. For example... instead of blocking and dodging the sword all day, he focused on preventing the opponent from even drawing the blade in the first place.
Thud! Tap, thud.
He struck upward beneath the chin with his palm. As the Shepherd dodged, Encrid turned his rising hand horizontally and swung the edge of his palm toward the man's nape.
The Shepherd blocked that as well by tucking his chin. He had a talent for martial arts too.
While playing such tricks with his hands, Encrid stepped on his opponent's foot before the man even realized it. With his foot pinned, the Shepherd's hands became tangled.
Though he had talent in martial arts, it was not his specialty. This man was a swordsman.
When the opponent reached for his hilt, Encrid grabbed the grip right along with him. It was an achievement made by entering close quarters—closer even than the striking range of a dagger.
Valaf-style Martial Arts: Pommel Press.
It was one of the secret techniques designed to prevent an opponent from drawing their weapon. It was a technique he had practiced and fully integrated into his body during this loop.
“……I lost.”
The Shepherd, filled with competitive spirit, had tried to draw his sword, but even that had failed. He had attempted it even though he knew drawing his sword was a dangerous move. Yet, his opponent had cut off the very source of his momentum. It was only natural to admit defeat.
“No, let's try again.”
Instead, Encrid backed away. Once he had retreated to sword's length, he drew his own blade.
Shring.
“It is sharp and keen. Be careful.”
Since Encrid warned him that his weapon was no ordinary blade, the Shepherd bit his lip and drew his own sword.
Ting!
Drawing his sword in a single motion and pointing it forward, he spoke.
“Even a graze means death. Think of it as being coated in a deadly poison.”
The two moons wove the shadows of the two men together. Due to the strange angle, the Shepherd's shadow appeared larger than Encrid's.
How kind of you. Telling me not to get grazed even once.
It was a kindness from his opponent that Encrid had experienced repeatedly. He nodded.
Taking it as a signal to attack, the Shepherd took his stance. It was a stance more cautious than ever before. He had no choice; his opponent had just bound his sword using only fists and feet.
Then, steel bared its tongue.
Clang!
As the blades clashed, sparks flew.
Even though he had seen every aspect of his opponent's style—his swordplay, his footwork habits—Encrid felt it was brand new every single time they clashed.
He improves as he fights.
It was talent. Something Encrid himself lacked. Recognizing this did not make him jealous; he was simply pleased by his opponent's growth. In this repeating today, his opponent was new every single day.
And because of that, winning without being grazed by that sword was impossible. Enduring through the night and winning were two entirely different matters. He had no intention of getting stabbed on purpose, but he also had no intention of spending the day merely holding out.
It was the same this time.
Nick.
A light wound, and the screaming began. Soon after, his heart stopped, and his mind burned white. It felt as if someone were poking his brain with a red-hot poker.
Extreme pain. A horrific agony. And so, Encrid died.
He died. He died. And he died again.
He died over three hundred times.
Death after death, a continuous cycle of expiration. Every time, he used Valaf-style Martial Arts to prevent the sword from being drawn. As he did so, his proficiency in the technique naturally reached new heights.
Of course, all of that was merely secondary.
I can't grasp it.
In the invisible darkness, Encrid became a lost wanderer. He could see a light far off, but he could not grasp it, nor could he draw near.
But did that change anything? Since nothing changed just because the path was invisible, Encrid walked silently. He crawled. Because he could still move forward even while struggling, that alone made him a practitioner. A wanderer.
“Foolish bastard.”
Those were the Ferryman's words. Whenever he popped up, his words were always the same.
Foolish bastard.
Dull bastard.
Ignorant bastard.
Did he not even consider that the listener might be hurt? Of course, Encrid didn't feel hurt at all.
Thus, he walked through this dull autumn day. He picked up the fallen leaves along the path he walked.
One day, as he walked with the gathered leaves cradled in his arms, a light grazed his hand.
Die.
A voice echoed through the screams. Encrid reacted reflexively to those words. No, it was the cry he had always uttered from the bottom of his heart, with absolute sincerity.
Though he appeared calm on the outside, Encrid was struggling and thrashing within. Because that struggle was always directed toward one thing, it ultimately culminated in a single wish.
I refuse.
He refused. He didn't want to die. He would not die. No matter what that blade did, he would not die.
It was a statement of absolute resolve.
He died this time as well. But it was a different kind of death than before. Though the pain was the same...
“Huh? I thought you said you didn't have it?”
He held out for a while—for a very long while.
How should he describe this? Humans do not have tails. If a tail suddenly grew, it would be difficult to use it right away. To use it, practice would be required.
On a path where only pitch darkness had descended, he finally realized what he had to do. In a way, it was the realm of sensation; in another, it was something intentional.
What was willpower? What was "Will"?
As I desire.
If what the sword spoke of when it cut him was death—if what the sword forced upon him was death—then there was only one thing for Encrid to do.
The four hundred and eighty-fifth "today."
When he had overwhelmed his opponent with both sword and fist, yet failed to block the blade grazing his shoulder.
Encrid felt the intent commanding him to die. It was a one-sided offensive, a pressure imbued within the steel. An intangible force that squeezed his heart and burned his brain.
Because he felt it so clearly, he could also reject it. When he couldn't feel it, he had to die without knowing why. But now that he could feel it...
Just as one would swat away an approaching hand to make their intentions clear, he could show his intent in the same way.
“I refuse.”
He spoke the words aloud, manifesting his will.
It was something he had not known before realizing it. Something he could never have anticipated before willpower—Will—was converted into an intangible force.
“Ah.”
The Shepherd's mouth fell open in shock.
Encrid repelled the "will of death" entering from the wound sliced across his shoulder. He had merely been cut, and he had merely muttered to himself. No intangible pressure exploded with a roar, no light shone down, and no magical phenomenon occurred.
Even so...
Because he had stripped away the intangible coercion and intent that anyone who had touched the power of Will would feel...
The Shepherd knew. And Encrid knew as well.
Now, the Shepherd's sword could no longer be fatal to Encrid. It could not harm him. Aside from its utility as a sharp edge, the willpower possessed by that sword could not kill him.
Encrid recognized what he had repelled. It was someone's entire lifetime, their life, and their deep-seated grudge. In other words, someone had implanted Will into that sword.
And he had just shattered it.
“……Did you just realize it now?” the Shepherd asked, his voice trembling.
“Yeah.”
Encrid did not deny it. He even felt a slight urge to speak the truth—that it wasn't just "now," but that there had been over four hundred "todays." Of course, he couldn't say that.
“I lost.”
The Shepherd let his arms hang limp. The tip of the sword in his hand touched the ground. His expression was hollow, yet he also looked somewhat relieved.
Encrid knew that today was over.
The two moons still shone down on them. Among the long-stretched shadows, Encrid's appeared larger. It was a change in the shadows caused by the movement of the moons.
Encrid murmured to himself.
So this is Will.
This wasn't all of it. It was likely only a tiny fraction. He could only manage a mere "rejection."
And yet.
“This is driving me crazy.”
He felt like he could die of joy.