Chapter 3: A Day
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 3: A Day
A day identical to yesterday.
‘A dream?’
It had been so vivid. Was it truly just a dream?
He was utterly dumbfounded, caught between the haze of a dream and the weight of reality.
He spent the day exactly as he had the one before, eventually facing the battlefield once more.
Another chaotic melee. Fighting in almost the exact same spot, he felt a reflexive sense of déjà vu, as if illusions were overlapping before his eyes.
‘Didn’t this happen yesterday, too?’
He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
Idle distractions. It had to be a dream. Had he been lucky enough to have a precognitive vision?
‘Is having a precognitive dream even considered lucky?’
He didn’t know. There was no way to tell.
Encrid was confused—especially when his oil-treated shield split clean in half.
“Shit, I almost died.”
It was even more surreal when Bell uttered those exact words.
“Bell, did your head split open? Have you lost your mind?”
Encrid spat out the words he reflexively remembered.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Bell scrambled to his feet. Encrid looked at him and realized: Bell is about to die.
Should he just stand by and watch?
He did. Because it felt so surreal, he let it happen.
A flash of light pulverized Bell’s head. An eyeball popped out, wet and heavy, striking Encrid’s chest once again.
“What are you doing, spacing out like that?”
Rem saved him, just like before.
“What?”
“Have you finally lost your mind?”
Rem twirled a finger near his ear. Encrid stared at the axe in the man's hand.
“Some bastard called the Hawk’s Chick or Hawk’s Claw or whatever is coming today. I have to go hunt him down, so pull yourself together. Sheesh, I can’t leave you alone for a second without worrying you’ll drop dead.”
“Worry about yourself.”
As Encrid spoke reflexively, Rem tilted his head but turned to leave anyway.
“I told you to focus. You never listen,” Rem muttered as he walked away.
Instead of a shield, Encrid picked up an axe that had rolled onto the ground with his left hand. He stood on the battlefield, sword in his right, axe in his left.
A lingering unease gnawed at him.
As he held his ground, an enemy soldier closed the distance. It happened in an instant. The man knew how to use his feet.
One of his sword instructors had once said: Seventy percent of swordsmanship is footwork.
As the blade entered his vision, Encrid faced the moment of death once more.
In that split second, his concentration flared. He saw a point. The point shrank, then rapidly expanded. Encrid watched it to the very end—even as that point became a blade and pierced his throat.
‘Ah.’
Neither a scream nor a groan escaped him; his windpipe had been severed. Only a wheezing hiss of escaping air leaked from the wound.
Horrific pain surged from his throat, radiating through his entire body. Clutching his neck, Encrid collapsed. As his blood gushed out in heavy, rhythmic spurts, the enemy soldier watched him for a moment before speaking.
“Mercy.”
The man drove the tip of his blade into Encrid’s head.
Darkness claimed him once more.
*
And then, Encrid heard it again.
Clang, clang, clang.
The sound of a ladle striking a pot.
“I’d like to ask why you’ve got that look in your eyes first thing in the morning.”
It was Rem, sitting next to him, speaking while pulling on his boots.
Another day. The exact same day.
‘A dream?’
“Did you have some dog-shit dream?”
“Right... it’s a dream, isn’t it?”
“Ah, shit, a bug.”
Rem shook a bug out of his boot, spat, and stomped on it.
It was the third time Encrid had seen this scene. He didn’t put on his boots or don his gear. He just sat there, dazed.
‘This is a dream?’
The day began again.
Bell died, and Rem saved him. Rem left to find the archer nicknamed after a hawk. The enemy soldier skilled with the sword blocked his path.
“What are you?” Encrid asked.
Without a word, the enemy thrust his sword. It was a strike so elegant it drew admiration every time he saw it.
Thump.
His heart pounded. His concentration kicked in. Encrid could see the tip of the sword more clearly than before. He twisted his body to dodge.
Screeech!
The result wasn't a total success. The thrust failed to pierce his throat, but it tore a large chunk out of the side of his neck. Searing pain spread from the nape of his neck. He collapsed again.
Blood gushed.
“Mercy.”
The blade plunged toward his head.
Clang, clang, clang!
“Argh!”
Encrid sat up with a scream. The pain was still vivid. He frantically stroked his neck.
“A nightmare? Did a witch take your virginity or something?” Rem cracked a nonsense joke.
“There’s a bug in your boot,” Encrid said, covering half his face with his hand.
The pain of dying was one thing, but the sheer impossibility of the situation was another.
“What? How did you know that?”
Rem dumped the bug from his boot, spat, and stomped on it.
“Just because.”
“Are you a prophet?”
“No.”
Encrid waved his hand dismissively. He finished preparing as usual but stopped just as they were about to head out.
“Rem.”
“What is it?”
“My head hurts too much. Get your own food. If anyone looks for me, tell them I’m sick in the barracks.”
“Well, if you just want to slack off...” Rem chuckled. He was a man quick to laugh.
If this wasn’t a dream—if time was repeating every time he died—could it be true? Was such a thing even possible?
Encrid needed time to organize his thoughts. He went back inside the barracks, stripped off his gear, and sat down. He thought and thought.
‘The cause?’
Something suddenly crossed his mind. He fumbled through his shirt, but it wasn’t there. The necklace he had received from the slash-and-burn village chief was gone.
‘Because of that?’
A yearning? A wish? A blessing?
No, could this really be called a blessing when it was just a day repeating itself? Moreover, though Encrid had heard rumors of blessing-type artifacts, he had never heard of a case like this.
‘Rather than a blessing, isn’t it closer to a curse?’
Encrid stroked his neck. It hurt. Every time he died, it hurt like hell. His head felt like it would explode from the tangled mess of thoughts.
When he skipped lunch, Rem came in carrying some food.
“What’s got into you? Do you really just want to slack off?” His tone suggested he didn’t actually believe it; Encrid was known as a tireless worker.
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Encrid nodded.
“That’s unusual. Well, rest up then. They say there’s a battle late in the afternoon, so get some sleep. I’ll make up a good excuse for you.”
Rem left.
Time passed, but his thoughts wouldn't settle. This wasn't something that could be solved by logic alone.
Aaaah!
Battle cries echoed. The ground shook. The slaughter had begun.
Encrid had no intention of going out. If he went out, he would die to that thrust. He tried to hide away.
But he couldn't hide forever. As a mere expendable piece on the board, he couldn't ignore the war just because his soul ached.
“Everyone, gear up and get out there! It’s battle time!” a guard shouted, patrolling the barracks.
Encrid donned his gear and stepped out.
He fought again. He stayed much further back than the day before. He held his ground without seeing Bell or Rem, but the front lines suddenly surged. The enemy’s movements were unusual; his allies were being pushed back.
Before he knew it, Encrid found himself on the front line. And there, he met that man again.
Was it coincidence, or fate? He didn’t know. But it was certain that no matter where he went on the battlefield, he would either die or meet this swordsman.
Therefore, it was time to worry about how, not why. It wasn’t about figuring out why they met, but how to survive the encounter.
The thrust came. The blade flew toward him.
‘What was the name of that technique?’
Rem had once tried to teach him a technique, telling him to focus. He had said that if Encrid could master just this, he wouldn't die so easily. He had said that even if one were trapped in a monster’s den, they had to calmly catch their breath.
What Encrid was trying to do now was something Rem had called a "Heart."
The name brushed past his mind, almost within reach. The skill flared to life. Looking at the blade, Encrid realized he was holding his breath.
Thump.
His heart pounded wildly. He saw the timing. He saw the angle of the blade plunging toward his neck.
He threw his body to the side. He rolled unsightly across the dirt, but he survived.
His joy was short-lived.
Thwack!
An impact struck the back of his head, followed by excruciating pain. His mind went blank. He didn’t even realize he had collapsed. Another enemy soldier had bashed his helmet with an axe from behind.
Through hazy eyes, he looked up.
“Mercy.”
The thrusting bastard plunged his blade down once more.
Thud.
Clang, clang, clang!
He opened his eyes again. The repeating day.
‘Don’t think about it.’
Don’t think about whether the necklace was a blessing or a curse. Don’t think about the logic of the world.
There were only two things to focus on now: surviving the battlefield, and doing whatever it took to achieve that.
“There’s a bug in your boot.”
“Huh? Are you a prophet?”
“What was that thing? The thing you tried to teach me before.”
Rem blinked. “The Beast’s Heart?”
Right. That was the name.
The Beast’s Heart.
How could a mere human keep his eyes wide open on a battlefield where spears, swords, and axes flew? If you harbor the Beast’s Heart, you can.
Rem’s words came back to him.
“Teach me again.”
“Huh?” Rem looked dumbfounded.
Encrid understood the reaction. Once, Encrid had struggled desperately to learn, and Rem, charmed by his passion, had struggled just as hard to teach him. In the end, Encrid had gained nothing, and Rem had taught nothing.
They said not closing one’s eyes in the split second of impact was the foundation. But keeping one’s eyes open until the very brink of death was not something that could be done with ordinary courage.
In Encrid’s eyes, Rem’s skills were better than most first-rate mercenaries. The core of the training was to watch Rem's axe until it was halfway through his neck, and then dodge.
“Let’s do it. The training.”
Passion blazed in Encrid’s eyes. A spark had been lit in his chest.
‘Is there any need to argue whether this is a blessing or a curse?’
He had no talent. He knew that. And time was fair to everyone; therefore, a dullard could never defeat a genius.
But what if time wasn’t fair?
Even if it was a curse, it was fine. This was a lifeline. A way to move forward.
“Alright. You’ve been looking as drained as a dog that lost its bone lately, but seeing you so full of energy today pumps me up too,” Rem said, standing up. “Right after breakfast.”
“Sure.”
They ate and washed the dishes. They shared silly talk about Encrid's dream of becoming a knight, and Rem laughed at it. After that, it was time for the lesson.
“Did you forget the training method?”
“Not at all.”
It had been so memorable that Encrid had suffered nightmares because of it. Nightmares of that damn axe slicing his neck.
“Let’s get to it.”
The point of the training was simple: when the axe was about to slice his neck, keep his eyes wide open and dodge. If Rem made a mistake, Encrid would die.
Originally, he couldn't do it because he was terrified of that mistake. But now, the situation was different.
‘Even if I die, it’s just clang, clang, clang again anyway.’
He was absolutely fearless. He awakened the concentration he had felt during his first death—the Beast’s Heart.
Encrid’s heart began to beat. The rhythm, which had been pounding in panic, grew calm. A beast is not easily startled. The slowed heartbeat brought composure.
Composure was the core of the Beast’s Heart.
A calm mind allowed him to track the trajectory of the axe blade. As for physical training, he had been doing it without rest for years. Once he saw the trajectory, dodging wasn't difficult.
The axe blade sliced through the air. Encrid pulled his right foot back and leaned away. The axe swept past his eyes.
“...Did you practice behind my back?” Rem asked.
“A little.”
“Good. Very good. But your timing just now was a bit too fast. You have to dodge at the very last second.”
It was training to thicken the hide of his heart. Rem swung the axe again. Encrid waited until the very moment the steel was about to bite into his skin before dodging.
“Ha! Even in my tribe, there were only a few who could pull this off. Impressive.”
The morning training ended. Rem patted Encrid on the shoulder.
“Well done. At this rate, you should be able to handle the clumsy ones in real combat.”
“What if they’re beyond clumsy?”
“What are you trying to ask?”
“What happens if I face someone like that?”
“Are you asking because you don’t know?” Rem stared at him, questioning his sanity. “You run.”
Yes, run. Clashing with an opponent stronger than oneself on the battlefield was madness. Because he was quick-witted and knew his place, Encrid had survived until now.
But now...
“Wouldn’t it be even better to practice against someone who isn't clumsy?”
“If you train like that, even a hundred lives wouldn’t be enough,” Rem chuckled.
Listening to that laughter, Encrid thought: It feels like I just got hundreds of lives.
Whether it was a blessing or a curse, he didn't care.
‘If I can use it, I’ll use every bit of it.’
Encrid had lived that way until now, and he intended to continue. He would face that thrust again. That was his plan. After all, wasn't that enemy soldier the perfect training partner?
The pain of death was horrific, but the payoff was just as great. For the first time in over a decade, Encrid felt the joy of growth—a sense of fulfillment incomparable to anything else.