Chapter 319: Encrid's Dream Manifested as the Grim Reaper
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 319: Encrid's Dream Manifested as the Grim Reaper
Encrid’s eyes instinctively scanned his opponent.
Feet planted moderately apart, hands hanging loose, messy brown hair, and eyes devoid of any distinct personality—the man wore a shabby outfit that belonged to neither friend nor foe.
Several questions surfaced at once.
First: How had this man infiltrated so deep?
Second: How strong was he?
Third: What was he sorry for?
"I have my reasons. So, let's end this quietly."
The man spoke as he drew his sword.
Clang.
It was a crude shortsword.
The moment the blade left its scabbard, a single glance told the whole story. The edge was chipped, and the leather wrapped around the hilt had unraveled, dangling in a single, frayed strand. The steel was dull and mottled with rust.
The absurd thing was that Encrid hadn't even noticed the weapon until the man drew it.
As the man settled into his stance, an ominous dread welled up inside Encrid. It was incomparable to the pressure exerted by the Gnoll Leader or Associate Knight Aisia. If those had been indirect pressures, this was... how should he put it?
It felt like an inescapable fate—a certainty that no matter what he did, he could never block that blade.
Why?
Through his relentless training, Encrid's senses had become sharper than ever before. His Sense of Evasion had suddenly leaped past a certain threshold, granting him a flash of premonition—this chilling dread. It was an unexpected stroke of luck, but right now, it was a useless skill.
Because of it, Encrid's body froze. The chains of dread bound his arms and legs.
"Listen, fiancé."
Sinar, sensing the shift, spoke up. What more had her elven sensitivity perceived?
"We need to dodge."
The moment Sinar spoke, the man vanished.
A long afterimage lingered in Encrid's vision. His gaze shifted reflexively. The man, who had turned into a blurred, drawn-out line, was suddenly right in front of Sinar. Even with his eyes wide open, the man's movements seemed to skip frames.
He was that fast.
Even with Encrid's highly trained dynamic visual acuity, this was the absolute limit of what he could perceive.
Clang!
Splat!
The sounds hit first. Then, the scene unfolded.
Sinar had somehow managed to take a stance. Encrid saw the chipped shortsword, which had struck sparks against Naidel, slice across Sinar's chest down to her abdomen.
Elven blood sprayed into the air.
Though Naidel had blocked the initial path, the man had pushed through the defense, carving through her body with the very tip of his blade. It was a perfect harmony of strength, speed, and technique.
The moment Encrid saw it, he knew. This was what a perfected strike looked like.
"If you're lucky, it won't come to that. But even if you are lucky enough to survive, I won't strike twice. I know this is a dishonorable deed. So, I ask for your understanding."
The man spoke in a low murmur, letting his shortsword hang. Yet, his voice pierced clearly through the air. It was impossible to know what he meant by "once" or what "luck" he referred to. His talk of honor was even more incomprehensible.
However, one thing was certain.
Sinar collapsed.
Clutching her chest, she slid to the ground. She tried to support herself by planting the tip of Naidel into the dirt, but the blade scraped uselessly against the earth, and Sinar fell headfirst.
There was a dull thud.
"I don't feel good about this either. Truly," the brown-haired man said, turning around.
Encrid stared straight at him. Even if that man held nothing but a single rusty knife, the scene that had just unfolded would have repeated itself. It had to be so.
The answers to his countless questions converged into one.
The man before him was an existence far beyond an Associate Knight. He was someone who, the moment you laid eyes on him, made you feel the weight of an inescapable doom.
In other words, he was a Knight.
A monster who could slay a thousand men alone.
A nightmare of the battlefield.
A disaster born of human hands.
A strategic weapon that could shift the tides of war.
Encrid's dream had manifested as the Grim Reaper.
"What the fuck..." a panicked Krais muttered from behind.
"Move."
Ragna stepped forward, pulling Krais back by the scruff of his neck. He wasn't even holding a sword. Instead of a blade, he held a spoon.
"What is this?" Dunchabel growled.
She had already completed her beast transformation.
The man let the shortsword in his hand hang low. Then, he moved toward his next target. There was no sound of feet kicking off the ground, no whistle of tearing air. He simply moved and slashed. It was a simple motion, yet even tracking it with his eyes was overwhelming.
Next was Dunchabel.
She drew her scimitar before the opponent could even reach her. If the man hadn't moved, Dunchabel would have struck first.
Clang.
Crack!
Thud!
Three distinct sounds overlapped. At least, that was how it sounded to Encrid's ears.
The result came into view. He hadn't been able to read the trajectory of the shortsword; it was faster than before, and the man's back had blocked his view. Instead, he saw Dunchabel.
Her scimitar had been snapped in half. The broken shard of the blade spun away, tearing through the tent as it flew. And the shortsword in the man's hand ruthlessly pierced Dunchabel's heart.
"Damn it... I should've used a better sword," Dunchabel muttered, dropping to one knee. She clutched her split chest, but blood gushed out in torrents between her fingers.
It was a fatal wound.
"Come on!"
Behind her was Ragna. He charged forward without a sword. Even if he had one, it would have been futile; his arm had not yet fully healed.
The opponent was merciless. Without a word, he swung. A silent slash descended toward Ragna's head.
Ragna did not act foolishly. Twisting his body in an instant, he thrust his uninjured hand forward.
Grab!
That hand was effortlessly caught by the opponent. In that hand, Ragna still held the spoon.
The brown-haired man gripped Ragna's wrist with one hand and raised the sword in his other.
"You were the most decent one."
As he spoke, the man brought his sword down. Ragna resisted until the very end, trying to twist aside and shoulder-tackle the man, but the sword was faster.
Slash!
The opponent's sword took Ragna's arm. Severed, Ragna rolled to the side as crimson blood sprayed everywhere. With his arm gone, he would bleed to death in minutes.
"Yes, I won't strike twice," the man said to Ragna.
Encrid finally understood the man's words. No second strike. It meant he would only swing his sword once, and once only, per person.
"If it is blocked, I will withdraw. That is the minimum mercy I will grant you. That is my conscience, and perhaps a small measure of honor."
As he spoke, his sword moved again. It was a slash aimed at Esther, who had stealthily crept up behind him. The strike was like a bolt of lightning crashing down, yet it also looked like a stream of rain flowing toward its destination.
Thud!
Esther's forepaw was severed. Not only was her limb cut off, but her chest was also sliced open.
Screeech!
The pain-filled cry of the Lake Panther rang in Encrid's ears. It struck his heart.
"Run... Go..." Ragna wheezed from the ground. He tried to stand but slipped in the pool of blood, his face slamming into the dirt with a wet thud. Ragna's face was instantly masked in gore.
"Damn it..."
Then, a small, trembling back blocked the space in front of Encrid.
With the chains of dread still binding his entire body, Encrid couldn't move an inch. It was as if the Goddess of Destiny—the other face of the Goddess of Fortune—was whispering that this was fate. That he could not escape. That this was the end.
"I knew something like this would happen eventually. But still, Boss... I'm paying back what I owe before I go."
Krais stood in front of him.
Encrid couldn't lift his hand. He couldn't even open his mouth. He only recalled the moment he had once stood in front of Krais.
Big-Eyes, run.
Why had he done that back then? It wasn't something his head had ordered him to do.
"Go. I'll hold him back," Big-Eyes whispered.
He must have known his words were meaningless. The opponent knew it, too. He showed no emotion. He didn't even sigh. He simply raised his sword.
Whoosh.
The sword cast multiple shadows in the flickering light of the wind-blown brazier. One of those shadows became reality and pierced Big-Eyes's heart.
Gasp.
With a final rattle, Krais collapsed, bleeding out. Tears of blood streamed from his eyes.
Encrid watched it all. On the outside, he looked completely stoic.
The brown-haired man turned to face Encrid. The two flames rising over his seemingly calm face were striking. Encrid's eyes burned with a fire incomparable to the brazier.
The Knight saw this.
"Sigh... Just once."
The man let out a displeased sigh. He didn't like this situation at all. Knights existed through honor. For such a Knight to conduct a surprise attack... it was shameful.
But in truth, none of that mattered. The deed was done. Everyone was dead.
Only then did Encrid manage to open his mouth.
"I never thought I'd say this myself..."
He looked at Sinar, Ragna, Dunchabel, Esther, and Krais.
Sinar, collapsed on the ground. Ragna, thrashing about with one arm missing. Dunchabel, her heart split open. Esther, growling fiercely despite her mangled body. Krais, who had blocked his path, now with a hole in his chest.
The only ones barely clinging to life were Ragna and Esther. Sinar was dead. Dunchabel was dead. Krais was dead.
And Ragna? He kept telling Encrid to run. He told him to go, even if a futile end awaited him. Even if the man didn't swing his sword again, Ragna would die of blood loss. Even if he survived, he had lost his sword arm.
Yet, he kept repeating it like a parrot, telling Encrid to run.
It was ridiculous. It was utterly, laughably ridiculous.
Encrid looked at the Knight. Then, he finished his sentence.
"I need to die."
If he died, today would repeat. He needed that "today."
The man indifferently aimed his sword.
"I am sorry."
The emotionless words followed. Encrid tried to gauge the opponent's strength, but he couldn't see it. It was dark. It felt like walking down a pitch-black path without a single torch.
Thrust.
The blade flew forward and pierced his heart. Instead of dodging, he chose to accept it. To repeat today—this would be the first time he had let go of his life from the very beginning.
He had no choice.
Encrid realized anew. Sinar, who always cracked jokes. Dunchabel, who constantly spouted nonsense. Ragna, the lazybones. Krais, who was obsessed with Krona. The panther and the mage with terrible sleeping habits.
I won't let them die.
Watching them die right before his eyes was a truly terrible feeling.
Encrid accepted death. The sword of the Knight, who had come as the Grim Reaper, split his heart and withdrew.
"I'll... kill you..."
He heard Ragna's voice, still holding on. The voice gradually grew distant. Encrid endured the pain and held out. He didn't let out even a single groan.
"Yes, you live. You've earned it. Make sure to stop the bleeding."
The man kept his word. He turned around and walked away.
The fallen Encrid closed his eyes. Death consumed him.
Splash.
Naturally, the Black River came into view. Upon the flowing river, the Ferryman holding a violet lamp spoke.
"I told you it was despair."
Silence settled over the river. Instead of agreeing, Encrid asked, "What about agony and ignorance?"
One couldn't read the Ferryman's mood just by looking. What state was he in today? Fortunately, the Ferryman answered readily. As his faintly visible lips parted, the meaning reached Encrid.
"First is agony: Must you do what you do not have to do?"
Was it a trial given by the Ferryman, or a fate created by the situation? Encrid didn't know. However, he hadn't saved the child because it was necessary. Why should he agonize over doing what his heart commanded? It wasn't worth agonizing over.
In other words, it wasn't agony. At least, not to him.
"Second is ignorance."
Encrid had failed to perceive the wall. Because he didn't know, it was ignorance. On the day called ignorance, he had the Ferryman's help. He didn't know why the Ferryman had helped him. But even without that help, Encrid would have eventually figured it out and overcome it.
Thus, ignorance was also something he would have eventually understood, and during that time, Encrid would have walked silently forward. The wall of ignorance was also meaningless.
"Third is despair."
Those words carried the meaning that he could not overcome it. The Ferryman's intention was clear.
Withstand the Knight's sword.
It was the most vicious "today" of all the days he had experienced so far. Moreover, he had to watch those he called his companions die. To say it had no effect on him would be a lie.
"Savor the despair."
The Ferryman spoke without a trace of a smile, just like any other today.