Chapter 321: The Ferryman Finally Laughed
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 321: The Ferryman Finally Laughed
"Well."
"Well."
Just a single word, yet it was enough.
Naturally, silence fell over the group.
It was freezing. It was winter, so the cold was to be expected, but the atmosphere inside the tent had turned even chillier. The fire in the brazier flared up with a sudden whoosh.
Just then, a gust of wind swept in through the entrance—a biting, winter gale. To an ordinary person, the chill would have felt like a dagger plunged straight into the heart. But there were no ordinary people here, Encrid included.
"Even I could say that much," Krais chimed in quietly.
He wasn't wrong. Naturally, Encrid wasn't flustered. Since when had Ragna ever been a man of many words? Even that bastard Rem, who always forced things at his own pace, was a mediocre teacher at best. There was no reason to be unsettled.
"Explain it."
"If lightning strikes, how do you block it?"
For Ragna, this was his best effort at an explanation. To everyone else, of course, it was the worst possible way to describe it.
But did that matter? Not a chance. Encrid, as always, was an excellent listener and a dedicated disciple. He knew how to listen properly—or rather, he was the type of listener who would pry and extort information if the other person couldn't articulate it well.
"You can't," Encrid answered.
"You can," Ragna countered.
"So, how? And don't just say 'well' again."
It would have been nice if Ragna had gotten used to explaining things by now, but that was asking too much. Ragna was terrible with directions, bad with words, a picky eater, and possessed a temperament that could hardly be called pleasant. He didn't care about his reputation and was entirely self-centered. Some days, he found even the act of speaking to be a chore.
Described like that, he sounded like a mess, but when it came to wielding a sword, Ragna was the best. Truly, the best of the best.
"You read the signs first, then you strike it down."
Ragna gave his best explanation. For him, this truly was the limit of his teaching ability. It was a realm of pure instinct and raw talent.
Encrid was persistent. He threw out countless questions and absorbed every answer. Ragna answered to the best of his ability. It didn't perfectly form into a mindscape yet, nor did anything specific come to mind. However, this wasn't the end.
If I can delay death... I will be able to make fuller use of today.
If he put Ragna forward for that purpose, he might be able to watch Ragna parry the Knight's sword. Of course, Encrid would not do that. Making full use of today and hiding behind Ragna while knowing he couldn't withstand the blow were two entirely different matters.
That was a line that must not be crossed. It was a line drawn in his heart ever since he first began repeating this day. To some, that became a conviction; to others, it took root under the name of honor.
Honor.
Before the envoy who spoke of honor arrived, Encrid had to do everything he could. Amidst the questions and answers, he visualized his mindscape and pondered. And that wasn't all.
"Sinar."
The elf, too, was fully capable of receiving that strike. She had reacted to it before. How was she able to do that?
"Do you know how to block lightning?"
"You just avoid it before it falls," she replied.
"What if you can't avoid it?"
"You could always use something as a lightning rod."
She spoke lightly, tapping her Naidel. Beneath her half-joking words lay a hint of pedantic wisdom—something accompanied by deep realization.
"The Naidel is easy to draw, good for slashing, and excellent for parrying and blocking."
"What if you had to block a Knight's sword?"
It was an abrupt question, but no one found it strange. Encrid had always been this way. He was obsessed with the sword, struggling desperately to grasp an unattainable dream. That was what made him who he was today. It was something everyone acknowledged.
Thus, they were used to him spouting such nonsense. Even Krais merely looked on as if it were just another ordinary day. Dunchabel waited with a face that practically begged him to ask her next.
"Before the opponent takes a step, before they even lay a hand on their sword, I will draw mine."
As Sinar spoke, she felt as if she were being pulled into Encrid's magnetic field. What was with this man? He had been intense before, but now he had become an even greater blaze. To her eyes, it almost looked as if a fire spirit dwelt within him.
No, not a fire spirit.
It was a vortex of emotions—yearning, passion, and sheer ecstasy. These intense emotions pierced the sensitive heart of the elf. If Frok saw talent, elves felt emotion. It was a racial trait.
To live on the Continent, one had to dull this trait and learn to ignore what needed to be ignored. Just as Frok had to grow accustomed to the word 'heart', an elf had to know how to smoothly ride out the waves of emotion. In that regard, Sinar was an elf who had adapted exceptionally well to the Continent.
And yet.
It is so hot.
Encrid did not raise his voice. He did not act in a rush. He didn't even flail his limbs. He had only said a few words while warming up. He had merely approached and spoken. Yet that heat warmed Sinar. It stirred her elven blood.
That was what made Sinar serious. Her answer came without a trace of humor or joking—not that she usually smiled anyway.
"A Knight's sword is a calamity. How do you intend to block something called a calamity?"
Throwing a question back at him was precisely the answer he needed right now. If an earthquake occurred, could it be stopped by human strength? What about a raging tornado? A flood? A typhoon? Heavy rain? A drought?
These were natural disasters. A Knight was said to be a man-made calamity. Since humans were the conquerors with the largest population on the Continent among dragonkin, elves, giants, dwarves, and beastmen, Knights were sometimes nicknamed 'man-made calamities.'
But a more intuitive expression would simply be 'calamity.'
Naturally, there were also elven Knights. Did beastmen call a similar concept a 'hero'? There were also cases among human tribes where similar existences were called by different terms instead of 'Knight.' The terminology didn't matter.
Sinar recalled the past, looked at the present, and envisioned the future.
The way to go further.
Sinar Kirhais had seen her limits when she gave up on something in the past. She had lost the path to go further. However, it was precisely because she had given up on it that she was able to make it this far. It was a paradox.
Did the fish that got away simply look bigger? Or was it because she realized she needed that lost fish to stand by this man's side?
Perhaps.
How would she feel if she saw the man before her die to a Knight's sword? By chance, the elf's sensitivity and brilliance accurately predicted what was to come.
It certainly wouldn't be pleasant.
If so, she would likely regret it. She would think of the fish that got away.
Useless thoughts.
Sinar remained calm on the outside but shook her head inwardly. It was truly a useless distraction.
Encrid fell into thought upon hearing Sinar's question. Ragna had spoken of lightning. Sinar had likely tailored her words to match that. The elf had at least shown some consideration in her explanation. Hearing both of their words, something resembling a conclusion came to mind.
How do I block lightning?
Finding that answer came first.
"Aren't you going to ask me?"
As he was lost in thought, Dunchabel approached and asked.
"What?"
"You know, the Knight, the sword, that stuff."
"Go to sleep."
Dunchabel was still lacking. There was no need to ask her just in case. Besides, she was a beastman who would speak her mind even without being asked.
"You just block it with a clang!"
Right, of course. Encrid patted Dunchabel on the shoulder.
"That was very helpful."
His tone was completely devoid of emotion.
"Really?"
"Yes."
He nodded half-heartedly and sent her back to her cot, prompting Krais to watch in admiration.
"In my opinion, Boss, if you ever joined a salon, you'd be the top employee."
Encrid had no desire to become the best at seducing noblewomen. From then until evening, he rested, ate, pondered, swung his hand like a sword through the empty air, checked his equipment, and told everyone they had worked hard.
It was his mental preparation. Today, there was no nonsense about 'demonic charm' or anything of the sort. It was due to Encrid's attitude and gaze, which carried a strange, commanding force. Though she didn't say it aloud, that gaze and attitude had been continuously striking Sinar's heart. Of course, she controlled her emotions well so that her heart wouldn't beat too wildly.
And then, the Knight appeared.
"Just once. Block it just once. That is the bare minimum required to preserve my honor."
Why did that fellow always say things no one asked him to? Encrid gripped his sword and held his breath.
How would he block lightning? First, shouldn't they clash swords? That would be the start.
The flowing sword, the first sword style Encrid had created: the Snake Sword. Just because it was lightning, did that mean it couldn't be deflected?
"...Your attitude is as if you were waiting for me. Strange," the Knight said.
Encrid did not reply. His concentration flared, shattering the shackles of ill omen. After that, he focused his concentration into a single point, merely watching his opponent. It was to catch the very beginning of the sword that would rush in without any preparatory movement.
"Indeed," Sinar muttered from behind.
"Were you a prophet?" Krais was also dumbfounded. "Telling us to keep our hands on our swords?"
Ragna was no different. And was Esther not surprised? Dunchabel froze upon seeing the opponent.
"What on earth is that?"
To a beastman, what else could it be but a monster that triggered their survival instincts?
Whoosh.
The sword flew toward him. First, clashing with it. How to block lightning would come after.
Swish.
Encrid saw an illusion. He saw a sword bending in front of him. The sword seemed to waver, piercing past his own sword before clashing against his blade. It was so bizarre that he wondered if he had even seen it correctly.
And then, his heart split.
* * *
The Ferryman watched from within the mindscape, and he watched the reality beyond it as well. The present, too, could not escape the Ferryman's gaze.
He was watching the cursed one die. For that was his sole amusement and pleasure. However, the target of this curse was truly peculiar.
He's smiling?
He smiled as he died. He smiled despite the pain. He smiled even as agony coursed through his entire body. He smiled even though he was trapped in what seemed like a dark cave.
Encrid was simply delighted to have seen something new, but to the Ferryman, this was neither familiar nor ordinary. The Ferryman watched continuously. Within the repeating today, Encrid died and died again.
He smiled as he died, agonized as he died, thought as he died, and pondered as he died. What kind of pleasure could there be in such repetition?
None. The Ferryman knew this. He knew it all too well. He knew better than anyone why the repetition of today was a curse.
"That guy is a lunatic," the Ferryman muttered to himself.
"Despair... cannot become despair?" the Ferryman asked himself. "Agony, ignorance, and even despair cannot stain his will."
And so, he observed the dying Encrid. He gazed at him. He watched him. Dying, and dying again.
"Are you still enjoying yourself?" he occasionally asked when he confronted him.
"Hmm? What did you say?"
Encrid wouldn't even listen properly. He was devoting his entire heart and soul to the present situation. Seeing nothing and hearing nothing, he focused solely on one thing.
And, furthermore, he enjoyed it.
The Ferryman recalled a maxim of the Continent he had heard a very long time ago. It was a memory from before he had even become a Ferryman. Having been stripped of the gift of oblivion, recalling memories of the past was easy.
He who knows is not equal to he who loves, and he who loves is not equal to he who enjoys.
To know means to have grasped it. To have grasped it means one comes to believe what they know is the absolute truth. Therefore, it is a path that leads to stagnation rather than effort. Stopping and being satisfied with the present.
To love something becomes the power that drives one to make an effort. Because they love it, they put effort into it. Thus, it is progress, not stagnation. However, they make an effort because they expect a reward. They make an effort because they are thinking of what comes next. Loving is a driving force—the strength of the heart that compels effort.
To enjoy is to lose oneself. It is forgetting oneself, forgetting the situation, and immersing oneself in the moment. Like forgetting time itself during a game played for the first time in childhood.
If one could still do so even after growing old... if only one could, they would immerse themselves in a state of self-forgetfulness, without even the awareness that they are focusing.
But could such a human truly exist?
No. He had never seen one before. Normally, they wear down. They erode. Their heart fades. Their efforts blur. They grow weary. They grow sick of it. They are soaked in fatigue. They collapse from exhaustion. They are consumed by ruin.
Everyone was like that.
Yet, in the Ferryman's eyes, there was one who was not. Without a doubt, this was the first time he had seen such a crazy bastard.
Thus, he repeated and repeated today. Repetition could not become a shackle or a prison for him. The bars could not confine the man named Encrid.
Even so, the Ferryman's eyes did not grow dim. He watched. Today's shackles were sturdy. They were heavy. They would not break.
Then, what should he do? Encrid had provided the answer.
Shackles? Can't I just run with them on?
In fact, he didn't even seem to realize he was wearing shackles.
"Ha."
The Ferryman finally laughed.