Chapter 310: What Did Abnayor Do?
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 310: What Did Abnayor Do?
Abnayor marched at a measured pace, but his advance was anything but leisurely.
In truth, he was incredibly busy.
He was like a swan—serene and graceful above the surface, but paddling with frantic intensity beneath the water. From weaving sorcery to physical preparations, there was an immense amount of groundwork to lay. It was a labor more intensive than constructing a fortress halfway up a mountain.
That was the craft Abnayor had perfected.
"Nilp, go ahead and stack the stones here. Erect a wall."
As he pointed to the map, his subordinate nodded. "That is a brutal schedule, sir."
"Move your feet instead of flapping your gums."
He sent his most loyal commander ahead. Nilp was meticulous; he would handle the task well on his own.
Afterward, Abnayor deployed a portion of his forces disguised as scouts, though they functioned more like combat engineers. They built walls between the hillocks—the very walls Encrid had encountered.
While maintaining the main army's pace, he detached and dispatched other units as well. Piling stones to build walls, digging the earth, and laying traps could not be accomplished in a short window of time.
There is no need to do this on a massive scale, he reasoned.
After all, the trap was only meant to capture a small number of elites. At most three; at least one or two. He proceeded by calculating every variable and predicting every possible scenario.
And that was exactly what Abnayor excelled at.
Abnayor had been called a prodigy since childhood. But what lay at the foundation of that brilliance? Those who knew him best cited his greatest strength as his boldness—a daring nature that caught people off guard.
"I think you're a bit crazy. You only propose tactics that are daring but impossible to execute."
This was during his lessons in strategy and tactics under his master. The fellow disciple studying alongside him had been right; Abnayor's strategies were bold, and their feasibility was low.
But what if they could be executed?
This was where Abnayor's second strength shone: he was meticulous.
Even when hunting a single rabbit, he would prepare a second and third trap. He would obtain what he wanted, even if it meant investing excessive resources. He always got his prey.
"Isn't this actually a loss? All we get from a rabbit is a bit of hide and meat, yet you've spent far more than what you'll gain."
His companion had chided him again, seeing only the immediate picture. Abnayor thought differently.
"I've simply made a habit of being thorough."
He brushed it off lightly, but he wasn't looking at just one rabbit.
The traps laid in the hunting ground can be reused. As long as I herd the rabbits this way.
From the next hunt onward, catching rabbits would be twice as easy. Therefore, it was not a waste. If one only looked at a rabbit or two, it might seem so, but his preparations could catch even a deer. As long as he maintained them diligently, he would bag plenty of decent prey before summer arrived.
Combining meticulousness with a convincing structure—that was the process of crafting Abnayor's strategy.
Of course, he couldn't say all of this out loud.
His so-called companion was a noble, a member of the clan serving House Ekins, who stood beside the royal family. If Hurier was the body of Azpen, Ekins was its head.
Abnayor was of common birth. He was quick-witted and excellent at reading the room.
Things may be like this now, but situations can change at any moment.
He also possessed ambition. He had been clever since childhood and knew how to seize what he wanted. He was a man who had obtained everything he set his sights on; rarely did he fail to achieve his goals. It was only natural for him to be brimming with confidence.
It was for this very reason that he had become the disciple of a master who, though mediocre in skill, was a noble with a gentle disposition. That, too, was the result of meticulous calculation combined with boldness.
He had intentionally drawn the ire of a band of vagrants and staged a fight with them right in his master's path. None of it was a coincidence, but his master believed it to be fate.
"Follow me. A better life than this awaits you."
"Yes, Master."
It was a calculated encounter.
Abnayor continued to walk his path after that. His desire had been singular since childhood.
"Why must Azpen content itself with being a mere principality?"
A wealthy, powerful nation with greater national strength—it could become that. Though it was a principality, it possessed its own order of knights and knight-level forces. Even if the neighboring country of Naurilia was an issue.
Azpen's only enemy is Naurilia, but Naurilia's enemy is not just Azpen.
It was a desire to prove his own capability. Blended into this was the wish of his master, who had truly cherished and loved him since childhood. Abnayor, being human, was not immune to affection.
"I love this country, my son."
The man who had ultimately taken him in as a son. A man who knew nothing of politics but loved his country. A man who gave his love even while knowing he had been deceived.
That was his master, and his father.
His enterprising ambition and the influence of his master—Abnayor balanced the two perfectly, forging them into his weapon.
I will prove myself on this land.
And in doing so, he would carry on a part of his master and father's dream.
Therefore, you must die.
No one in Azpen had observed Encrid as closely as Abnayor. He had dissected the man to the point of obsession. As a result, he concluded that Encrid and his unit would pose a massive threat to Azpen, and consequently, to his own dream.
A future knight.
Or perhaps even more.
Though his methods differed from Krais's, the conclusion of his prediction was largely the same. He placed an incredibly high value on Encrid's future potential.
Krais's vision included bringing Encrid into the salon he was establishing, but the core assessment was identical. Becoming a knight... strictly in terms of feasibility, Abnayor could cite several more logical reasons than Krais could.
Of course, he couldn't say that to the royal family. They would dismiss it as absurd nonsense.
But what if, by some one-in-a-million chance, a knight was born on the frontiers of Naurilia? What if a knight suddenly appeared right on the border with Azpen?
A single knight represented a shift in national military power. The emergence of an enemy knight was an undeniable disaster.
It can never be allowed to happen.
Therefore, he would kill him.
Abnayor conceived a formation called the Triangle Seal.
Three hillocks and artificial structures.
To win a war, one must make the terrain their ally. Abnayor did exactly that. He mobilized artificial force to bend the terrain to his will, claiming both the earth and the sky as powerful allies.
And he infused sorcery into the mix, shrouding the sky so they could not discern their direction.
It was easier than the Mist of Massacre. Thanks to that, he didn't need to employ many sorcerers—though even this alone was enough to exhaust them. It was only manageable because it only needed to be maintained for a single day, at the exact moment required. Otherwise, he wouldn't have even dreamed of using sorcery.
In short, Abnayor used calculations to herd his opponent inside, and then temporarily blinded them with sorcery. He was certain he could trap them.
And indeed, it had worked.
Putting the prey inside a natural prison and pouring in over a thousand soldiers—was this an efficient battle?
As if!
Not in the slightest. But it guaranteed the death of that single target. It ensured the prey would never escape.
Using twenty traps and five hunters to catch a single rabbit. What if that rabbit was destined to turn into a crazed monster running wild with a blade in its mouth?
Would that be a waste, or not?
Abnayor believed it was not.
He immediately dispatched over a dozen messengers without pause, commanding the flagbearers.
"Move the white flagpoles!"
Each rider carrying a flag was a tool to convey his orders. This was the method he chose because to make the prison absolute, not even the sound of drums could be allowed to leak.
With this, the Triangle Seal formation was complete.
One corner of the triangle was formed by the artificially constructed wall. The second held sorcery and magic. And the third was occupied by a thousand soldiers.
Even a knight would not easily escape this.
This was the very trap Abnayor had prepared.
*
The Ferryman asked.
Atop the river in the darkness, a purple lamp swayed. Amidst the flickering purple light, a shadow tilted, bent, and straightened.
"Was it not enjoyable?"
The Ferryman asked again. Now, his face was faintly visible.
Even as he looked at that face, Encrid did not open his mouth. The Ferryman waited for an answer.
There was none. Time passed. Though it was time unfelt in this mindscape, the Ferryman knew their meeting would soon come to an end.
A moment later, within the Ferryman's sight, Encrid's body began to crumble like grains of sand. A return from the inner world to the outer world.
The repetition of today.
The Ferryman watched Encrid dispersing like fine grains. As he departed, the Ferryman opened his mouth.
"Ah."
It was strange. It was as if he had only just noticed him.
Was his silence not because he had nothing to say, but because he was ignoring him?
Something stirred deep within the Ferryman, but he buried it. For he was no longer the same self who had once called Encrid a bastard.
"I will ask you again next time."
Only the Ferryman's words remained where Encrid had vanished.
*
Encrid had no time to answer.
Up until the moment of his death, or even as he died, he never accepted or resigned himself to dying on any given day. Yet, reflexively, he still crammed everything that happened around him into his mind.
It was a habit. A habit for combat reviews, a preparation for tomorrow.
There was more than just one or two things that had occurred. The sheer volume of information entering his head—things naturally memorized, remembered, and needed—was staggering.
He sifted and sorted through them. Even so, it was a lot.
Too much.
As he gathered the surrounding information, a natural question crept in.
Did they really deploy this kind of force just to catch me?
He didn't know. Did the reason matter right now? This was a moment to accept what had happened and carve a path forward, not a time to ponder.
After tossing aside the distracting question, Encrid retraced the events in reverse order.
As he retraced his memories, he heard a rustling sound. It was only natural, as he sensed the presence the moment he opened his eyes.
A repetition of the same event.
The time for combat review was far too short. For as soon as he regained consciousness, it was time to fight.
But this was not a crisis.
It's thin.
Encrid did not perceive this as a wall. If he spent just one more day struggling desperately, he would be able to roughly grasp everything happening around him.
Two days at most, and his calculations would be complete. This was a "today" he could overcome.
He had avoided danger countless times before. It was the same when he fought Letsha of the Rose Vine, the werewolf, and Azpen's elite forces. It was the same when he plunged into the gnoll pack, and it was the same when he first faced the Stabbing Freak.
Some things changed, but others remained constant.
The grand trajectory is the same.
Therefore, now that he knew the enemy's movements from a single experience...
Do I even need a second "today"?
Thus, it was not a wall. Compared to his past regressions, this would be laughably easy.
Encrid took a step forward.
What if I run in a completely different direction from yesterday?
At least one spot must be empty.
Surely they wouldn't have deployed a battalion-level force just to catch him.
To state the conclusion first: his opponent had done exactly that.
A similar struggle repeated itself. A repetition of yesterday.
"My name is Cent."
Encrid was slightly surprised. He had run in a completely different direction from yesterday, yet the same man blocked his path.
Why?
This was a repeating today. It was true that things wouldn't change unless he altered them drastically.
His aching arm, his broken sword, and the gladius he held instead. The fight wasn't long, but because this man, Cent, blocked him, his path became tangled.
By parrying and striking back with the Snake Sword—the first technique of his self-created swordsmanship—he severed his opponent's fingers.
Clang!
Thanks to the blade striking the hilt, blood and fingers flew into the air.
An opening appeared. The moment he perceived the opening, his body moved instinctively. Even if he didn't use Will, the skills he had forged while clashing blades with Lycanos hadn't gone anywhere.
It was not a mere sense of evasion, but an intentional reflex.
"Gah!"
He thrust the tip of Spark into the throat of the man swallowing his scream. Striking the fingers with the gladius and then thrusting Spark was practically a single motion. It was that swift and natural.
Thrust! Shlick!
As he plunged the sword in and yanked it out, a single stream of blood spurted from Cent's neck.
"Gurgle..."
His opponent, his vocal cords punctured, clutched his throat. Blood poured from his severed fingers. He fell headfirst to the ground.
"Let's not meet again," Encrid spoke as he lifted Cent's corpse.
Lifting the corpse with his left hand to use as a shield, crossbow bolts flew in and thudded into the mercenary's body.
Thud-thud-thud!
They just keep coming.
There really were a lot of them. He truly had no idea why there were so many.
Afterward came the flying arrows and crossbow bolts, spears, heavy infantry, the bastards of the Hurier family, and mercenaries who knew how to fight. It was the same onslaught as yesterday.
Barely holding on, he dashed in one direction, only for other bastards to block his path.
"He's a persistent one."
"Be careful."
There were four men. They wore poorly fitted gambesons tailored for the cold; to Encrid's eyes, they looked like mediocre combatants.
His visual assessment was correct. Their weapon handling was mediocre, but they wielded something else instead.
Spells.
They were the opponents who blocked him while he was fleeing along the stream.
Encrid regretted not bringing his Whistle Dagger.
No, even if I had brought everything...
He would have used them all up by now.
Wherever he dodged, there was an enemy ambush; wherever he headed, enemy soldiers blocked his path. It was as if ghosts were playing a prank on him.
This was the result of his flight.
"Drive him in and trap him!"