Chapter 323: Knight Jamal
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 323: Knight Jamal
Enlightenment had struck like a bolt of lightning, but translating that realization into action was a task for the physical body.
As Encrid bolted upright to greet yet another "today," Krais, startled beside him, asked, "What is it? Did you have a nightmare? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
When Encrid merely stared blankly into space without a word, Krais continued to ramble. "They say sleep paralysis only happens when your body is weak. You just need some proper rest."
"Is that so?" Encrid replied indifferently, his mind already turning over his new realization.
Would it work? It felt like it would.
That sensation—a burgeoning sixth sense—sent a thrilling shiver through his entire body.
"Why does your condition seem to get worse by the day?" Krais muttered, shaking his head.
Encrid ignored him.
Over the next twelve days, he invested every waking moment into his training. He needed to perfectly engrave the single swordsmanship technique he had envisioned into his muscle memory within the confines of this repeating "today."
"...What is this?" Ragna, who was overseeing his progress, showed a rare flicker of surprise.
"Why do you ask?"
"When did you come up with something like this?"
"It just came to me suddenly."
"So it's talent, then," Ragna muttered to himself. He didn't seem particularly curious beyond that, accepting the anomaly for what it was.
Encrid continued to refine the technique, consulting with Ragna and engaging in light hand-blade sparring with Sinar. The elf's movements were extraordinary; her knack for reading an opponent's intentions was, for lack of a better word, beyond common sense.
When he asked her about it, she gave a simple answer: "It is an Elven Talent."
That, too, was a skill worth learning. In fact, Encrid realized he was already utilizing a fraction of that very talent. From that point on, only grueling training remained. That was what he did best.
He polished his swordsmanship with obsessive diligence. Simultaneously, he did not hesitate to "steal" the Elven Talent. In truth, calling it stealing was an exaggeration, as Sinar shared her knowledge without reservation.
"Since it reads emotions, if you twist the application slightly, you can achieve something akin to mind-reading. You simply have to project that intuition into combat."
Sinar was, surprisingly, one of the better teachers he had encountered. Compared to Rem, Ragna, Sachsen, or Audin, she was an angel. Calling her an archangel wouldn't be an overstatement. At least Audin attempted to explain things, even if his philosophy was that the body learned faster through pain—meaning he preferred physical beatings over verbal instruction. It wasn't exactly a pleasant educational experience.
Regardless, following Sinar's guidance, Encrid practiced relentlessly to engrave that talent into his own being.
The Shackles of Ill Omen proved useful once again. The Sense of Evasion was about facing one's own instincts head-on. Where did that instinct come from? It was born from the reality unfolding before his eyes—a warning delivered by the sum of everything brushing against his five senses. That was the essence of a sixth sense.
The Sense of Evasion was a defensive technique utilizing that sixth sense. But what about the elf's talent? He couldn't mimic a biological racial trait like reading emotions directly.
So, Encrid adapted.
First were the eyes. After learning the Isolation Technique from Audin, he had developed a keen eye for gauging an opponent's skill. To that, he added absolute concentration. He focused on the opponent before him, reducing them to a single point, while keeping his body—conditioned by the Isolation Technique—primed to explode into motion.
He stared at his opponent with Single-Point Focus.
On top of this, he honed his Sensory Technique over and over, sharpening its edge until it was razor-thin. See with the eyes, feel with the senses. This was the foundation for mimicking the Elven Talent.
"You... just now..."
When he demonstrated the trick in front of Sinar, she was visibly startled. Her expression remained stoic, but her pupils dilated ever so slightly—a detail impossible to notice without Single-Point Focus.
Even Encrid found it fascinating. The world revealed itself differently when he immersed himself deeper and more intensely than ever before. After learning how to expand his focus outward, he had now returned to his roots, learning how to delve even deeper into a single target.
"I was just copying you," Encrid said.
"If it could be done just by copying, we wouldn't call it a racial secret."
"Is that so?"
"When you greet the elf clan later, it would be wise to show them this talent."
"Greet them?"
"You should show your face at least once before we have a child."
The elven world was structured like a clan society. He had heard they practiced communal child-rearing, meaning the village itself served as parents and family.
"Won't a human-elf half-breed be unhappy?"
"It's fine. We can just wrap them in love."
Encrid, who had tried to deflect with a joke only to be countered by her sincerity, let out an involuntary laugh.
"You laugh easily," Sinar noted, watching him. Her tone suggested she found his smile pleasant.
Encrid brushed the comment off. It was time to focus.
The elven secret, in the end, allowed one to never miss an opponent's breathing, muscle twitches, or the slightest shift in weight. Even a knight was human. Since they were not gods, there would always be a tiny opening—a thread-like gap in their defense.
Encrid intended to gouge into that gap.
There's no hope of my body fully recovering.
Then he would make do with what he had. He decided to compensate for his physical deficiencies with raw, overwhelming power. That meant tapping into the Heart of Monstrous Strength. It would provide the driving force to push his broken body past its limits. He couldn't afford to worry about the backlash or his bones shattering. If he feared the consequences, he would never escape this "today."
Once his preparations were complete, a sudden realization dawned on him. There was no longer any need to drag this day out.
Was this confidence? Arrogance? Or perhaps a delusion? He didn't know. He wouldn't know until he tried. Therefore, he could only move forward.
Encrid cycled through the repeating day one last time until he finally greeted the morning. It was time. The day he would finally turn "today" into "yesterday."
As Encrid sat up and wiped his face, Krais asked, "What is it? Do you feel unwell?"
"I'm moderately unwell."
"What on earth does 'moderately unwell' mean?"
"It means it hurts, but I can still move."
"Ah, right." Krais tilted his head, looking at his captain. Encrid’s eyes looked somewhat unhinged. Did he take some kind of drug? No, surely not.
"I am going to tomorrow," Encrid muttered.
A firm resolve burned within him. Krais, sensing the strange atmosphere, spoke up nervously. "Ah, is there really no priest around? Your head hurts, doesn't it? You did fall headfirst off a cliff while we were escaping, after all."
"If you fall headfirst off a cliff, you die," Sinar pointed out flatly.
Encrid remained silent. He shifted his weight, testing his limbs, then lay back down. It was bizarre behavior.
Throughout the day, Krais’s confusion only grew. The captain, who claimed he was well enough to move, didn't get out of bed. He issued verbal orders but didn't lift a finger.
"What is going on, seriously?" Krais grumbled.
Encrid was eating porridge fed to him by Sinar. Dunchabel had tried to help, but lacking the elf's delicacy, Sinar had taken over.
"I am resting," Encrid said when Krais questioned him again.
"I'm saying that to my eyes, it looks like you're resting desperately. Have you set a date for your death or something? We've survived, and all that's left is to win, so why are you acting like this? You're making me anxious."
Krais's intuition for sensing omens was tingling. Encrid was not the type of man to put this much effort into resting unless something catastrophic was coming.
"I am training on how to rest diligently," Encrid replied.
It was a perfectly timed, casual remark that left Krais speechless.
"He definitely hit his head. Or the drugs kicked in," Krais concluded.
Until the sun began to set, Encrid rested "desperately," as Krais put it. It was a meticulous process to bring his battered body as close to peak condition as possible.
"Is the sun setting?"
"Huh?"
"Go out and check."
"Yes, it's about that time."
Encrid finally stood up just after dusk. He began to warm up, checking the flexibility of his joints and tensing every muscle fiber. He adjusted his sword belt and checked his armaments.
Along with the physical preparation, he composed his mind, erecting a single, metaphorical blade within his heart. The others watched him, bewildered. He had never been "normal," but today he seemed exceptionally peculiar.
"Captain, are you really sick?" Krais asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.
Encrid replied with total sincerity. "No. But I plan to be."
Even if he succeeded, he didn't expect to walk away unscathed.
Riiip.
Before Krais could respond, the tent fabric was torn open. A plainly dressed man with brown hair and an ordinary face stepped inside.
"I am sorry." It was the exact same routine as every other loop.
"Just once. That is the minimum duty I will uphold." The man uttered the same words. He didn't seek understanding; he was merely speaking to satisfy his own conscience.
The moment Encrid had been waiting for had arrived. He took the first step, drawing the enemy's focus entirely onto himself.
It was time to show the fruits of his labor.
*
"Sir Jamal, I beg of you."
"Do you realize this will tarnish my honor?"
Abnayor was at a loss for words.
"And do you know why this shouldn't be done? No, there's no way you don't. You know, yet you ask it of me anyway, is that it?" Jamal asked. His words were heavy, sharp, and biting.
Abnayor clenched his teeth. Even if he was crushed by the weight of those words, he had no choice. "I beg of you."
"With this, you have no more favors to ask of me."
"I know."
Jamal did not frown or curse. There was no point. The deal was struck. However, that did not mean he was pleased.
"Just once. I will swing my sword exactly once and return. You must understand that is the extent of my cooperation."
"Yes, I understand," Abnayor bowed his head.
Knights were beings bound by honor, guarding their status through oaths and vows. This wasn't just a moral obligation; it was a practical necessity.
If Will was the source of a knight's power, how did one grow it? One needed shackles to bolster resolve. Restrictions, vows, and oaths were the central axis of a knight's strength.
Furthermore, they clung to honor. The title of "knight" became meaningless if honor was abandoned. Could an oath be kept by one who had forgotten their honor? Honor was the foundation of the Will they had cultivated.
One of those core principles was: A knight faces a knight. Jamal was about to violate this.
Of course, war often necessitated exceptions. In the chaos of battle, knights would plunge into the ranks of ordinary soldiers. But those were tactical necessities. There were beliefs that preceded the rules of engagement—realms of loyalty and chivalry. To strike down an unprepared opponent who was not a knight was distasteful.
I wouldn't be able to complain even if they called me an assassin, Jamal thought bitterly.
That was why he intended to end it with a single strike. He would gauge the exact level of power required to ensure the target could not block it, then strike. It was a way to soothe his own mind, which was bound by his vows.
At least one forced promise will be cleared.
He took comfort in the fact that this was for the sake of Azpen.
Jamal slipped through a gap in the enemy's wooden palisade. Evading ordinary sentries was trivial for a man of his caliber. He spread his Will to locate his target, then utilized Assimilation.
Assimilation allowed his presence to blend into the environment. While it wouldn't fool a fellow knight and would break if he made a violent movement, it was incredibly effective for infiltration.
Since he couldn't use his own signature weapon for such a dishonorable task, Jamal found an empty tent and swiped a shortsword. It was a poorly maintained, dull thing. Holding it, he surveyed the camp.
Finding the target was easy.
Just once. Only once.
He would swing with absolute sincerity. The opponent would not be able to block it. Jamal knew this with certainty.
Riiip. He tore through the tent and stepped inside.
His gaze swept the room and landed on one man. It was a face that was hard to forget—despite the beard and messy hair, the man’s features were strikingly handsome, possessing a radiance that stood in stark contrast to Jamal’s own ordinary appearance.
"I am sorry," Jamal said.
His target, Encrid, showed no surprise. He didn't say a word. Instead, he shifted his feet. It wasn't a stealthy move, nor an overt charge, but it was... bothersome. An unmistakable intent to kill flickered in the young man's eyes.
Jamal didn't dwell on it. He would fulfill his contract. He had given the opponent a chance to escape by announcing himself. He had sworn in his heart that if even one person managed to block his strike, he would turn back. That was his knightly compromise.
Jamal decided to pierce the heart of the radiant man before him. He would leave the face intact as a final courtesy to the man's comrades.
His mind stirred, and his resolve surged. As his Will rose, his body moved in perfect synchronization.
The unmaintained shortsword left the knight's hand.
Clink!
The sound of the blade being drawn was unrefined and grating, but Jamal didn't care. It wouldn't matter.
Or so he thought.