Chapter 316: Anguish, Ignorance, Despair
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 316: Anguish, Ignorance, Despair
The pursuit of Encrid finally ground to a halt.
The commander at the vanguard stood speechless, staring into the distance. Seeing this, his adjutant spoke up from beside him.
"We lost him."
It was unavoidable. Even though they had thrown a capture rope as a last resort, Encrid had snapped it with sheer, brute strength and escaped. It was superhuman power.
And that wasn't all. As if he were a machine that never tired, he simply kept running—on and on. The madman hadn't stopped for a single breath. He never faltered.
Watching him, the soldiers didn't even dare to continue the chase. Their target never rested; he moved incessantly, running and walking until he vanished from sight.
Eventually, the commander stopped issuing orders, his feet grinding to a halt. The man named Encrid had completely shattered the trap Abnayor had painstakingly set.
Even the Gray Dog stopped. The commander of the Gray Dog stared blankly at the fading tracks of the bastard who had vanished. Not only had he escaped the encirclement, but he had also crossed back into enemy territory. Pursuing him further would only invite a counterattack.
It was over.
Abnayor, Abnayor.
The commander of the Gray Dog recalled the name of the man who had promised to take sole responsibility for everything. Had he not said it would be fine even if every single soldier died, so long as they caught that one man?
"Yes, you may call me a fool in the future! You may call me an idiot who sacrificed a thousand soldiers to catch a single elite!"
The speech Abnayor had passionately spat out echoed in his mind. If they had all died, would there at least have been an excuse? But not even half the forces had perished. Only a tiny fraction had fallen: a shaman, two mages, a few mercenaries, and two swordsmen of the Hurier family. The loss of regular soldiers was negligible.
The opponent had simply evaded them. He had carved out an absurd path of retreat—one that no one would believe if told.
The commander of the Gray Dog finally admitted it.
He cannot be caught.
All that remained was to report the failure. Abnayor had claimed he would catch him even if he had to sacrifice a thousand men and go down in history as a tragic, incompetent general. But now, Abnayor wouldn't even be granted the grace of being remembered as an incompetent general. Even that opportunity had been stripped from him.
*
Abnayor sat in silence, finally admitting to himself that something had happened to Galaf and the Associate Knight.
"They aren't coming."
At his words, spoken while gazing at the distant battlefield, his adjutant, Nilp, bowed his head.
Abnayor had staked everything on this. It was no different from a gamble against the Prince of Azpen, and the end of that gamble was drawing near.
"What about the ones who boasted they were experts in assassination?"
He had even employed those who fought without hesitation under the cover of darkness, but...
"We cannot reach them, sir. They have either fled, or..."
"They were taken out."
Fled? They couldn't flee. They were people whose entire clan would perish with a mere flick of Abnayor's finger. In other words, they had been eliminated.
By whom? It was simply absurd. He had been completely outplayed.
"Hahaha."
Abnayor laughed. If he didn't feel hollow, he wouldn't be human.
"Does the world hate me? Or has the Goddess of Fortune turned her back on me? If not, what did I miss? What did I miss?"
He muttered to himself, his calm tone acting as daggers he plunged into his own heart. Nilp kept his mouth shut, knowing he had no answers.
They were inside the command tent, alone. Abnayor sat on a chair beside the brazier and bowed his head. The hot flames singed a few strands of his hair.
Crackle.
Sparks burst from the brazier, flying outward. A spark landed on Abnayor's face, but he remained lost in thought, as if he didn't even feel the sting. He pondered the situation over and over. Should he curse everything because it made no sense, or should he accept it?
Accept what? That luck wasn't on his side? If it wasn't luck, how did the man escape? What happened to Galaf and the Associate Knight? They were the ones sent to intercept—the secondary measure to eliminate the enemy's elite. But that plan had been cut short before it could even begin.
They had been sent to kill just a few prominent figures and return. Had they been caught instead? But was that even possible? Aya, of all people? Galaf, the man who could grasp the river?
And what on earth happened to the assassination clan? They were supposed to pick off the enemy commanders, yet there had been no commotion in the enemy camp. They had vanished without a sound.
Did Naurilia send a knight?
"Nilp!" Abnayor barked the moment the thought occurred. "Is it a knight? The Red Cloak? Cypress?"
He cried out the names of those notorious in Azpen, but it was meaningless. Nilp's most important duty was monitoring the interior of Naurilia. They could not have sent a knight.
"No, sir," Nilp whispered.
Abnayor closed his mouth. His mind explored every possibility, but no answer emerged. In truth, unless one knew that the bastard named Encrid was repeating the day, it was impossible to comprehend.
Sweeping his hair back from his forehead with both hands, Abnayor let out a long, heavy sigh.
"I've lost."
A clean defeat. Considering the possibilities, there were too many things the opponent could have done. Perhaps he had reached the level of a knight mid-battle. Or perhaps they hadn't realized he was knight-level from the very beginning. If so, it was only natural that something had happened to Galaf and the Associate Knight.
As for the assassination clan, perhaps an elf had intervened? He had heard there was an elven swordsman in the enemy army. Still, even for an elf, it shouldn't have been an easy task.
Encrid, Encrid, Encrid.
Abnayor chewed over the name three times. The man had slipped right through his fingers. He truly couldn't wrap his head around it. He wondered what kind of human could possibly do that. Perhaps he was truly born under a lucky star.
If not... A genius of pure instinct.
A commander who moved by instinct rather than intellect. He had heard of such things but believed they couldn't possibly exist. Intuition is the sum of experience; one cannot discuss military strategy through instinct alone. One might get lucky once or twice, but fundamentally, one must possess knowledge for intuition to develop. Only then does sense become a standard of judgment.
Yet the opponent was a late-blooming genius, not a veteran who had spent his entire life wandering battlefields. Even the most seasoned veteran could have been cornered and killed in that trap. Yet he had slipped away.
"But I cannot simply fold my hands just because it is incomprehensible," Abnayor muttered.
He had exhausted his tactical moves, but there was still one thing left—something he had obtained by risking his life.
"Will you use it?" Nilp asked.
Abnayor nodded. "Since I started this, I must see it to the end."
When borrowing mages from the Prince of Azpen and bringing along the Associate Knight, Abnayor had also brought an unexpected ally. However, using it was tantamount to admitting defeat. Upon returning to the Principality, he would face a storm of criticism. He wouldn't be able to maintain his status. He would be fortunate if he wasn't executed.
Even so, he could not let it end like this. Abnayor stepped outside.
I don't think I've ever lost this miserably before.
Not a single plan had come to fruition. His top priority had been to whittle down the enemy's main force. The first target was Encrid, and the second was the squad members under him.
To think Aya would fail.
Her eyes were special. In some ways, they were even more outstanding than Frok's talent-reading eye. Eyes imbued with 'Will' could discern an opponent's strength at a single glance. Thanks to that, she had earned the nickname 'Aya, Who Never Fights a Losing Battle.'
And that Aya was defeated? It was incomprehensible, but he had to force himself to understand it. He couldn't stop here. Associate Knight Aya was supposed to kill her target. Galaf was the trump card. Encrid was to be trapped and killed.
There had been a secondary objective as well—a strategy designed to allow Azpen to advance into Greenpearl once the elites were eliminated. Now, it was utterly useless.
Was what remained stubborn pride, or lingering regret? He could not tell. Abnayor grit his teeth.
*
"You call that a sprain?"
At Encrid's question, Ragna raised his forearm, which was wrapped in roughly torn cloth.
"It's a sprain."
He was going to insist on it, then. Audin had also claimed a broken bone was just a sprain, and now Ragna was doing the same despite an injury that was clearly severe. Without proper treatment, his arm would be useless.
Naturally, Encrid himself was in no better state.
"My whole body is sprained too, then," Encrid said, looking down at his battered frame.
Ragna didn't even laugh. Below them, Esther let out a low growl, grrr, as if dumbfounded by their stubbornness.
Encrid offered his lame joke and looked back. There was no sign of their pursuers. The gloomy weight that had hung over his head, the ominous sensation pricking his skin—it was all gone.
"Hey—aaah!"
A shout resembling a battle cry echoed from afar. It was a resonant female voice. Squinting, Encrid saw Dunchabel running toward them. She was covered in blood from head to toe, her white fur soaked a dark crimson.
She looks like a spotted cat, Encrid thought idly.
She ran as if flying. Behind her, the rest of their allies appeared. It seemed Krais had been unable to hold back any longer and had sent the army.
"Fiancé, is this what happens the moment I take my eyes off you?"
Sinar arrived right behind Dunchabel. Even though she was lightly bouncing off the ground as she ran, her speed was incredible. She approached and spoke, and only then did the reality sink in for Encrid.
Tomorrow.
Today was finally drawing to a close. The low-hanging sun cast long shadows beneath the knoll. It was the hour when the light fades, vanishing beyond the west. The orange-hued sunset spoke of a today that was finally different from yesterday.
Encrid savored that light. He had survived, struggled desperately, and was now fully prepared to face tomorrow.
"Let's go back," Encrid said.
No one knew exactly what he had endured. They couldn't know the details. However, the soldiers of the battalion had seen Encrid fight. They knew he had plunged into the enemy ranks alone, swinging his sword like a madman. What was an ancient memory to the regressor was, to them, an event from a mere day ago.
Waaaaah!
A roar tore through the air—a hymn for the hero who had pierced the heart of the enemy and returned alive.
"Pain is!"
"Death!"
Their slogan accompanied the roar. Encrid felt it all drifting away. The sounds grew distant. He wondered why, only to realize his body was tilting sideways.
Someone supported him. Uncharacteristically, Ragna offered his shoulder.
"You idiot," Encrid muttered to him.
With the sunset behind them, the two wounded men leaned on each other. Ragna was in no condition to walk normally either; it was a miracle he had made it this far.
Grrr.
Below them, Esther shook her head, seemingly calling them foolish humans.
"Come here."
Dunchabel stepped forward. She was just as exhausted, having faced far too many skilled swordsmen in enemy territory, but she wasn't at her breaking point yet. She simply hoisted Encrid onto her back. The soft texture of the beastman's fur enveloped him.
"Wow, you're really soft," Encrid said in his hazy state.
"Did you take some weird drug while fighting?" Dunchabel grumbled.
Encrid looked back once more. The enemy visible beyond the distant knoll dared not approach.
"I could have carried him, you know," Sinar muttered from the side, but Dunchabel ignored her.
Ragna, who had stumbled while trying to support Encrid, fainted right then and there. A few nearby soldiers quickly caught him. The fact that he had walked this far was absurd; there was hardly a spot on his body left unscathed.
The cheers quickly died down as the soldiers saw the state of their leaders.
"Make way!"
"Get them inside!"
"Medic!"
The commanders stepped forward to direct the chaos. Encrid and Ragna were brought straight into the camp. Esther, trotting close behind, looked at Encrid's condition and shook her head. He looked as though he had crossed the line of death dozens of times. On the surface, Ragna appeared more heavily wounded, but in reality, Encrid was in worse shape. Several of his bones were cracked or dislocated. He had pushed himself far beyond his limits.
Once the sun set, they received treatment, accompanied by the "nursing" of Garret, whose eyes shone with curiosity.
"Your mouth isn't hurt. I bet you have plenty of interesting stories to tell," Garret prodded.
Sinar gripped her Naidel and spoke coldly. "It seems you need to learn how to respect a wounded man who led us to victory."
She looked ready to strike him. Garret was quick to take the hint.
"Nuart, did I make a mistake?"
Nuart, his adjutant, replied immediately. "Yes. If you stay any longer, my superior might change."
"Why would it change?"
"Because you'll be dead."
"Let's go, then."
Wrapped tightly in bandages, Encrid watched the two of them bicker.
"Tell me next time, then," Garret called out as he finally left.
"Focus on your treatment," Sinar said, remaining by his side.
"Aren't you leaving? I'm sleepy."
"Go to sleep. I want to watch you for a bit."
Encrid still couldn't get used to elven humor. He slowly drifted off. His memory of the return was fragmented; he had pushed his body too hard. He had been fed a bit of porridge and lay down with ointments and herbs slathered over his wounds. A fever began to rise.
And here I thought I was second to none when it came to resilience.
Encrid fell asleep. He closed his eyes, but he saw the Black River. He saw the Ferryman.
"First is anguish, second is ignorance, third is despair."
Encrid could not understand the words. Today, the Ferryman carried himself with even more gravity than usual, and Encrid was so exhausted that he couldn't even move his lips to ask what it meant.