Chapter 311: Praise from the Ferryman
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 311: Praise from the Ferryman
The two men chanted in unison.
A torrent of water surged from the stream, rising before Encrid like a solid wall. He struck it lightly with his gladius; though the blade parted the flow, the gap filled instantly. It was like trying to cut the ocean itself.
The water wall was only five paces wide, but the assault didn't end there.
"Hear me, hear me... listen to my words."
As the other two mages finished their incantations, a rounded mass clutching a club made of pressurized water emerged from the barrier. Its head was smooth, its chest thick and powerful. It possessed appendages resembling hands, but its lower half was a writhing, churning current.
It was a water spirit—or perhaps a golem of living tide. Whichever it was, a fragment of the spell world had manifested in reality.
"Block him."
At the mage’s command, the two footless water ghosts surged forward, churning up foam. "Surged" was the only word for it; as they approached, their bodies rose and fell, crashing toward him like breaking waves.
Encrid thrust Spark forward. Since it was an elven blade, one might expect it to carry some enchantment. In truth, it did not. Spark was the pinnacle of elven metallurgy, not an object of sorcery.
The blade pierced the water. Unfazed, the spirit swung its liquid club without a moment's hesitation. Encrid yanked Spark back and leaped aside.
Crash!
The water club slammed into the earth, gouging a deep crater. Seeing the shattered ground, Encrid realized he couldn't dismiss the attack just because it was made of water.
With that single clash, he found his answer.
The casters.
Fighting the spells was a losing battle. He had to kill the mages.
But the enemy was coordinated. Two mages restricted his vision and movement with the water barrier, while the other two used spirits to harry him. Furthermore, realizing they couldn't easily kill him, they focused entirely on containment. Whenever he tried to break away, the spirits would swell and slosh toward him, impossible to ignore.
Not much time had passed, yet Encrid already found three swordsmen of the Hurier family closing in from behind.
"I didn't expect to see you again today," Encrid muttered.
He meant it. He had done almost the exact opposite of his actions yesterday, so why was the result so similar?
"Don't talk to him. He's a madman."
"What ridiculous tricks is he playing?"
"Do you know me? 'See you again'? I'm certain this is our first meeting."
All three swordsmen burned with an intensity that suggested a greeting—not with a kiss of lips, but with the cold kiss of steel meeting his vitals.
Encrid adjusted his grip. His arm muscles trembled. He hadn't rested properly since yesterday. No matter how well-trained his body was, the toll of overexertion remained.
This is exhausting.
There was a limit to how many times he could push his breathing to the absolute edge. His heart hammered wildly. Calming his ragged breath, he took stock of his surroundings: the water ghosts, the three Hurier swordsmen, and the encroaching crowd of soldiers.
Giving up was not an option. He would never let a single day pass easily.
And so, he fought.
He resisted with everything he had, eventually killing two mages and the three Hurier swordsmen.
"Yeah... this is more like it. Cough."
The last swordsman spoke as he died, coughing up a spray of crimson.
Encrid was in no better shape. Instead of a bolt or an arrow, a water arrow had punched a hole through his thigh. Had he not been wearing his inner armor, the projectile would have pierced his stomach. What made the spell even more insidious than a physical bolt was that once it struck, the water dissolved, leaving the wound to gush freely. A physical arrow would have plugged the hole; now, the blood loss was immense.
It had hit a vital spot.
Among the techniques of the Isolation Technique, there was a method to staunch bleeding by tightening the muscles. He did so, but the vessel itself had been torn. Muscle alone couldn't fix this.
The world began to spin. Yet, his concentration did not waver. He remained bold until the end. Because the Beast's Heart was beating, Encrid remained unshaken, adrenaline surging explosively through his veins.
"You're wearing something precious," the surviving mage noted.
Perhaps growing careless, the mage closed the distance. Encrid kicked off the ground with his good leg. It was a desperate charge executed with a limping step, blood spraying from his mangled thigh.
Encrid closed the gap before his blood even hit the ground. Having long since lost his sword, he smashed his fist into the mage's head.
Crack!
"Ack!"
The skull shattered, spilling brain matter and gore. No human could survive that—it was a punch delivered with the weight of his entire life. The opponent hadn't even been wearing a helmet.
As Encrid dragged one more mage to the grave with him, spearheads lunged at his back.
Thrust! Squelch!
Like white-hot iron, the blades tore through him, severing his spine and ripping through muscle, bone, and organ. The agony of surrendering one's flesh to cold steel was something he could never get used to.
But he could endure it.
"Die, you monster!"
"Die!"
"Just die already!"
The enemy soldiers channeled their sheer terror into their spears, thrusting deep. Madness flickered in their eyes. To Encrid, they looked like beasts driven to the edge of a cliff.
He remained calm. He died without a scream, without even a groan. To be honest, he simply lacked the strength to exhale one last breath.
That was how he died. Though the agony of death never became familiar...
Whew.
With a single deep breath, he pushed aside the pain of the day that had passed. There was no dream. The Ferryman did not appear.
He simply began his third "today."
On this third attempt, he bolted down a completely different path. And yet...
"Why is there a cliff here?"
He hadn't even climbed far up the hill, yet a sheer drop greeted him. Would he survive if he jumped? At best, he’d be a cripple—and even that would require the Goddess of Fortune to actively woo him. Falling meant death.
"That place shall be your grave."
Behind him stood the three Hurier swordsmen, a mercenary who knew his business, and a shaman he had never seen before.
I took a different direction today, too.
Encrid scratched his chin with his left hand; his right arm was already useless.
This is strange.
How did it always end the same way?
He fought while reflexively searching for an answer. The end of his third "today" came by sorcery. Encrid was struck by a technique called Invisible Force. An intangible power slammed into him, battering his body.
Of course, this was only after he had thrown his gladius straight into the shaman’s skull. He had already killed the mercenary, Scent, and the three Hurier swordsmen. He had taken down everyone he needed to before receiving that final blow.
"Fall!" the shaman had screamed, right before the gladius embedded itself in his forehead like a gruesome ornament.
Encrid fell. He experienced firsthand the horror of falling to one's death. First, the air was knocked out of him, followed by an impact that shattered his entire being. Yet, because death did not come swiftly, he had to endure an exquisite, lingering agony.
The fourth today, the fifth today passed...
On the ninth today, he died again. This time, a Hurier swordsman dropped his weapon and clung to Encrid with suicidal strength. A split-second opening appeared, and a mercenary slashed a poisoned dagger across his neck. He had exhausted too much strength wiping out the heavy infantry. His body stiffened. There was nothing he could do. There was a limit to how long he could hold out on his Sense of Evasion alone. No human could withstand such overwhelming numbers.
Twenty-five "todays" passed.
The manner of his deaths differed, but the essence was the same. No matter where he went, it was an inescapable labyrinth. A maze. A prison. The sky was his ceiling, the wind his iron bars, and the enemy commanders, without exception, demanded his head.
Around that time, he realized something. It was an extension of what he had learned in his previous loops. Why did saving the child always yield the same result, no matter how he acted?
Someone was watching and activating a scroll.
It was the same now. Someone was manipulating the forces from the outside to ensure his death. That was why, no matter which path he took, the outcome remained unchanged.
Then, how do I overcome this? I know this is a wall, but how do I scale it?
On the thirty-fourth today, the Ferryman asked once more.
"You should be able to answer today. Tell me, is it fun?"
He finally had the composure to answer. Encrid spoke honestly.
"A little."
He paused, his mind racing, before continuing.
"Actually, a lot."
It was a mental state the Ferryman could never hope to comprehend. Encrid smiled. It was his nature. Humans normally despair when faced with pitch-black darkness and an unseen future. But Encrid had always been different. Even in the deepest darkness, he found joy in the act of moving forward. He knew he could build something new upon change.
Though he had figured out nothing yet, it changed nothing. He welcomed the unknown with joy.
"You are truly a madman."
Encrid received praise from the Ferryman.
*
Long ago, the continent's greatest military strategist said that one must consider five factors before going to war.
First, are the minds of the king and his people as one?
Second, have the seasons—the cold and the heat—been taken into account?
Third, has the terrain been thoroughly understood?
Fourth, does the commander possess the appropriate ability?
Fifth, are the military organization, chain of command, and supply lines solid?
In short: politics, timing, terrain, leadership, and system.
What Abnayor focused on were the third, fourth, and fifth. Since the battle began in the cold and from a disadvantageous position, the second factor was already lost. The first was a matter for the king.
As for the terrain, Abnayor had reshaped it. In some places, they dug trenches; in others, they laid nets.
Regarding the fourth factor—the commander—he had pulled many strings.
"Do you intend to bury the name of the Gray Dog here? If not, do what needs to be done."
Appropriate provocation, followed by the promise of future rewards. Even if the Gray Dog company collapsed here, it would be reborn. The current commander had resolved to bear the sacrifice out of patriotism and loyalty. Abnayor exploited that.
The fifth factor, the organizational system, was what Abnayor cared about most. He used criminals and those with families back in the homeland, giving them an opportunity to change their lives through this single battle. Desire and threat—these two weapons held the military structure together.
Encrid did not know exactly what Abnayor had done. He didn't even know the man's name. However, he was certain of one thing: he felt as though he were standing on a cliff, surrounded on all sides.
Even so, Encrid remained unbothered. He woke up, opened his eyes, and repeated the day.
This time, he charged straight into what he assumed was the center, only to be greeted by the mercenary, Scent.
I think this is the first time we've met without me being injured first.
"You aren't going anywhere," Scent growled.
"Anywhere?"
"Nowhere."
Scent grit his teeth and took a stance. Behind him, Encrid spotted the bastard who had slashed his neck with the poisoned dagger in a previous loop. He still didn't know that man's name.
Not a single way to escape today crossed his mind. The future was opaque. The signposts that had been visible until now grew hazy once more.
But...
"Are you laughing?"
Scent raised an eyebrow. Could anyone who laughed in a situation like this be sane? Scent doubted it. He's completely out of his mind.
Encrid felt lost, yet he was enjoying himself. Though he couldn't see ahead, he didn't feel suffocated. Whatever blocked his path, he would break through. And where would that lead him? Because he would not give up, because he would not retreat, and because he would move forward even if he had to patch together his tattered dreams...
Encrid laughed.
He had gained much. Had he not already experienced countless "todays"? With accumulated experience, he could joyfully embrace even an uncertain future.
"Kill him!"
Behind Scent and the mercenaries, archers swarmed forward. Having faced Scent several times already, Encrid knew three exchanges of blades would be enough. If he threw his gladius, it would take fewer than two.
Should I throw it?
No, he had to sustain a long battle. Letting go of one's weapon in a one-versus-many fight was usually a death sentence. However, since they had clashed right from the start, he still held a steel sword that gleamed with a blue light.
This one is worth throwing.
It was a sword that usually broke after a few swings anyway. Fortunately, Encrid had two more. Stepping forward with his left foot, he drew the sword with his right hand and hurled it.
The motion was fluid, perfected over several loops. He hadn't been slacking. Encrid had polished what he possessed, mastering the art of throwing a longsword with the same precision as a throwing knife.
Clang!
Startled by the whistling blade, Scent hastily deflected it. Encrid stomped on the ground and activated Moment's Will.
This was the second proof of his progress—the second "Will" he had acquired while learning the fastest sword, the ultimate strike. He ran, overlaying his will onto the moment. His surroundings blurred. His thigh muscles swelled as if to burst from the acceleration. His blood surged like a wild horse in full gallop.
Encrid thrust Spark forward. The strike, propelled by the sheer momentum, pierced Scent's throat.
He began this today by killing Scent.
"Peekaboo."
He mocked the dying man, though Scent likely didn't hear it. It was more than enough to terrify the mercenary standing behind him.
"You crazy bastard!"
The mercenary spat curses, a reflex of his trade. Encrid thrust with his gladius; the moment the opponent deflected it, he thrust with Spark. By using Moment's Will twice, he easily dispatched the two mercenaries.
Afterward, he encountered the heavy infantry and the three Hurier swordsmen. Among the crossbowmen and archers, a few elves were visible. They were incredibly skilled, targeting the exact moment his movements ended or his breathing faltered.
Naturally, this wasn't his first time experiencing it.
Encrid held out. Longer than the first time, and longer with each repetition. Over the course of fifty "todays"...
Encrid completely mastered Moment's Will. He refined his swordsmanship once more. He also created a second sword form to follow the Snake Sword.
Should I call it the Stab Sword?
His naming sense was still abysmal. Calling it the "Stab Sword" just because it ended with a quick stab was pathetic. As he repeated his combat reviews, he changed the name.
Lightning Flash.
Lightning blade, flashing blade... yes, this is much better.
Lightning Step... He pondered the names. A plausible name had a way of lending more power to a technique. The Snake Sword and the Lightning Flash. The Snake Sword and the Lightning Blade, or the Lightning Thrust. Neither was bad.
Along with his swordsmanship, he learned a great deal from the continuous slaughter. Dying from a barrage of poisoned arrows while trapped in a pit improved his footwork. Dying tangled in nets taught him the technique to slice through loose netting in a single stroke.
Though it wouldn't compare to the Will of Severing.
Now, he could perform a Steel Slash even while in motion. The Heavy Sword Style was a style that emphasized destructive power by adding raw strength; he absorbed and mastered its principles as well.
Today repeats. Today continues.
It went on and on. Throughout one hundred and five "todays," Encrid trained. He re-evaluated every technique. His movements became cleaner, stronger, more lethal.
Yet, he still could not escape the trap Abnayor had laid.
And so, on the two hundred and fifty-fifth today...
The Ferryman spoke words he had never expected to hear. In his previous loops, the Ferryman had told him to give up. On this today, he said something entirely different.