Chapter 325: Gratitude
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 325: Gratitude
Encrid didn't collapse until Krais was finally out of sight.
His strength spent, his legs could no longer support him. He hit the dirt rear-first with a heavy thud, a dull shock vibrating up through his spine.
‘This feels harder than being surrounded by a thousand soldiers.’
In terms of pure physical strain, the days he had spent desperately struggling against a mob were technically worse. That was only natural; after all, he had only swung his sword a single time just now.
Yet, the fatigue accumulated in that brief instant was overwhelming. Dizziness washed over him, his mouth went bone-dry, and a profound sense of exhaustion settled into his marrow. It felt as though every ounce of power had been siphoned from his muscles—a sensation entirely separate from the throbbing pain in his dislocated shoulder.
He compared this moment to his previous "todays." Relative to the time spent, the difference was absurd.
The Ferryman hadn't been singing his endless refrain of "despair, despair" for nothing. He had prattled on so much at times that Encrid had wondered if the man was actually composing poetry.
But he had withstood it. No—to be precise, he had seized control of the situation and forced his way through. He had inverted the very concept of "withstanding." By striking first, he had bypassed the need to endure that "single strike."
In the end, his dislocated shoulder and trembling body were the proof of his triumph. He had survived.
‘Luck.’
Luck had played its part, but what mattered more was his deliberation and his effort.
Encrid tried to lie back, but a hand stopped him.
"Watch out for the brazier," Sinar said.
It was her hand that caught him. If he lay back now, the burns on his back would only worsen. Her palm gently cradled the back of his head. Though his hair wasn't entirely burnt, the singed ends crumbled at her touch, falling to the ground like graphite powder.
"How unusual," Sinar remarked, her eyes fixed on the spot where the knight had vanished.
"Yes, it is," Encrid replied, staring in the same direction.
"Monstrous," Ragna muttered to himself.
Hearing those words from Ragna, of all people, made the knight’s strength feel truly unrealistic. For even the Ragna to call it monstrous...
By witnessing Encrid withstand the knight’s sword, Ragna had confirmed his own path once more. The road ahead of him was clearer than ever. His task was simple: maintain his current drive.
Fortunately, he didn't even need to try.
"Next time..."
...because Encrid was already muttering those words.
To look forward to a "next time" and speak of glory against a knight’s sword—seeing this, Ragna felt a fierce urge not to be left behind. It was almost amusing. He let out a short laugh.
"What's there to laugh about after getting thrashed?" the captain remarked pointlessly.
"Then why are you laughing, Captain?" Ragna retorted.
Encrid was indeed smiling. As if he felt no pain at all, he grinned despite his singed back and broken state.
"If you want to laugh, then laugh! Hahaha!" Dunchabel added from the side.
No one replied to her.
*
Knight Jamal departed under Krais’s guidance. No one stood in their way.
"Orders from Captain Encrid! Out of the way! Don't block us! Clear the path!"
Krais barked orders, clearing the road ahead. Within the camp, the name "Encrid" was currently like a masterwork sword that could cut through anything. Who would dare oppose him? Even Battalion Commander Garret could do nothing about it, meaning Encrid essentially wielded power built on the absolute respect of the soldiers.
Even so, Jamal noticed a few soldiers along the way whose eyes gleamed with fierce hostility. His nonchalant stride clearly rubbed them the wrong way. Hot-tempered soldiers were the same everywhere.
"Move it," Krais barked again, deliberately glaring the dissenters down.
Knight Jamal paid no heed to his surroundings. Why should he? The soldiers here were of a level he could easily slaughter if they dared to attack. Though he wouldn't initiate a fight—it would be dishonorable—he was more than ready to ruthlessly cut down anyone who challenged him.
Fortunately, no one lunged. Jamal asked out of pure curiosity, "Does he always pull crazy stunts like that?"
There was no need to specify who "he" was. Krais understood instantly.
No matter how much Jamal thought about it, it seemed as though that fellow, Encrid, had recognized him and attacked anyway. Given that Encrid had asked for his affiliation, he probably didn't know Jamal’s exact identity, but he must have gauged his skill.
That was likely why he had suddenly unleashed a strike infused with Will. A downward slash laced with Intimidation—Jamal had been forced to parry it. It felt as though he had been forced to truly swing his sword for the first time in ages.
It was a novel experience. Abnayor would find it absurd if he knew, but some things simply couldn't be helped. That train of thought had led to his question: was that man always so insane?
‘If things had gone even slightly awry...’
Encrid would have died. In other words, he had swung his sword with his own life on the line. Honor aside, it was a strike that had squeezed through the narrowest of openings. The path Encrid had forced his way through was like a corridor lined with blades. If his judgment had been a fraction of a second slower, or if his direction had been off by a hair...
‘He would be a corpse.’
Yet, had there been any hesitation in his opponent’s sword? How could a man swinging a blade at the risk of his own life show absolutely no attachment to it?
He had called it the Crushing Sword. For just a single moment, Encrid’s sword had lived up to its name. It had crushed. It had forced Jamal to react.
Seeing that, how could he possibly view his opponent as sane? Even a knight was human, bound by fear and instinct. But Encrid seemed like someone who had completely broken out of that mold.
Indeed, a knight’s eye was exceptionally keen. A single clash of blades had revealed everything he needed to see.
Krais chose his words carefully before replying. "You have a sharp eye. Yes, he is a madman."
Internally, Krais marveled at the nature of knights. Their intuition was truly remarkable—to recognize the captain’s madness at a single glance.
"I see."
The knight departed. Jamal had nothing more to ask. Though it was grim news, it was time for him to deliver his message and return to his post.
Would this incident prompt Naurilia to commit to a full-scale war? Since a knight had drawn his sword, the repercussions would be massive.
*
Garret rushed into the ruined tent belatedly. Showing up only after safety was guaranteed, his survival instincts were easily on par with Krais’s.
"What on earth happened?"
Even so, his face was pale with shock. Encrid explained the situation, and Garret immediately chose not to make the matter public. There was nothing to gain from letting the rank-and-file know a knight had come and gone. Should they tell the soldiers, who believed they had just won the battle, that a knight might soon arrive to slice their heads off? Even if they assured them the knight wouldn't return, the emotional fallout would be disastrous.
Besides, the people gathered here seemed to have already cast aside any such worries. Furthermore, Garret had another reason to keep quiet.
"I must report this to the high command first," Garret said.
Krais, who had just returned from seeing the knight off, narrowed his eyes. "You could just sweep this under the rug, couldn't you?"
"That is not for us to decide."
Krais furrowed his brow. The political stench of the situation was overwhelming. Would this trigger something else? Undoubtedly.
‘Political leverage.’
Azpen was the one who had broken the vow first. While not a formal non-aggression pact, hadn't they been warned not to cross the line for the time being? They had ignored that, crossed the border, and lost. And on top of that, they had sent a knight?
This could not be swept aside. Naurilia would likely gain immense political leverage from this. In exchange for covering up the knight’s intervention, they would demand a guarantee that there would be no immediate war.
It was painfully obvious to Krais. Of course, it wasn't really his business, but that didn't mean he was entirely unaffected. A foul stench was a foul stench, but shouldn't he skim off whatever benefits he could in the meantime?
‘From the Border Guard’s perspective...’
...this would be incredibly advantageous. And if he could get a piece of that pie, he would benefit too. His mind automatically began calculating how to turn this into krona.
"Phew. Well, get treated first," Garret said, clapping his hands to gather everyone’s attention. He stepped outside to bark orders, and soon a group of soldiers arrived to clean up the trashed tent.
Two medics arrived to set Encrid’s dislocated shoulder. Despite the excruciating pain of the bone popping back into place, Encrid remained perfectly calm. At the sickening crack of the bone snapping into its socket, Dunchabel winced. Just hearing it made her skin crawl.
"...Doesn't that hurt?" one of the medics asked, unable to help himself. He had heard of a rare condition where people were born unable to feel pain; he wondered if Encrid had it.
"No, it hurts."
"But you didn't even groan once."
"Groaning doesn't make it hurt any less."
It wasn't wrong, but humans didn't usually work that way. When in pain, groans slipped out naturally.
"You're amazing in so many ways, Captain."
Encrid lacked the energy to ask why the medic was calling him "Captain."
Though he hadn't groaned or screamed, Encrid suffered from a high fever for the next two days. During that time, the Azpen forces retreated. Encrid heard the news in his sleep. It seemed he had truly pushed his body to its absolute limit this time.
Not that it was a bad thing.
While burning with fever, he briefly met the Ferryman.
"Do not be arrogant," the Ferryman said.
Encrid felt a bit wronged. He hadn't said a word; he had merely been sitting on the boat, idly watching the black river. He had only thought, if just for a moment, that the pitch-black river was actually quite a sight to behold. He had even mused that if one considered this a landscape, it might look different depending on one’s state of mind.
"Arrogant," the Ferryman repeated.
There was no further conversation. There was nothing much to say anyway.
"The wall will block you forevermore."
The Ferryman spoke for the third time. Encrid nodded. As it always had been, so it would continue to be. He had been told it was a curse.
However, Encrid did not feel it was a curse. To him, it was an opportunity. An opportunity that allowed him to bridge the gap between those with talent and those without. An opportunity that had brought him to where he was today. An opportunity that had enabled him to withstand a knight’s sword.
He didn't know why, but suddenly feeling the urge, Encrid spoke.
"My thanks."
As always, the words were spoken with absolute sincerity. The Ferryman was unlike ordinary people; he did not falter at the sudden remark.
That was the end of it. He woke from the dream.
When he opened his eyes after the fever broke, he saw Dunchabel dozing off in front of him.
Why is she doing this again?
He felt something resting on his forehead—a wet towel. It was pleasantly cool. It seemed she had been changing it the entire time.
"Hey, go lie down and sleep."
"Ah, I just dozed off for a second."
Dunchabel opened her eyes, wiping away her drool. Blinking a few times, the beastman yawned widely and scratched her cheek. Then, shyly—though she didn't look shy at all, Encrid merely guessed this was what passed for shyness among beastmen—she spoke in a voice softer than usual.
"It felt like taking care of my sick younger sibling when I was little."
"I'm pretty sure I'm older than you."
"Also, um... I'm going to get stronger. Strong enough to run through any bastard like that who shows up. So don't die."
For a brief moment, Dunchabel had glimpsed Encrid’s death. Her beastman survival instincts had screamed at her: If you fight him, you die.
Yet Encrid had fought. He had lunged at an opponent who evoked nothing but death at a single glance. Dunchabel looked back at her failure to step forward in that moment, and a sense of shame washed over her.
‘I haven't changed at all.’
That was the worst part. Hadn't she stayed here to live differently from the days when she lived by a bandit’s blade? But she didn't want to die either. At the fork between those two paths, she had been unable to walk either.
Then, what should she do?
‘I'll just get incredibly strong.’
That was her conclusion. Wallowing in depression belonged in the past; it was time to move forward. Wasn't that what she had learned from watching her crazy captain?
"You make sure you don't die either," Encrid said reflexively.
After he had been struck down, Dunchabel had lunged at the knight’s sword again and again, her face contorted. Anyone could see she had attacked while anticipating her own death. Yet she had still attacked. What had driven her to do so?
"Don't push yourself too—"
"I'm definitely getting stronger. Snort. So, if you ever need a woman’s warmth, just say the word. I'll lie down with you."
Before Encrid could even finish his sentence, Dunchabel let her tongue wag. He wondered if she had learned how to speak her mind from Rem; she was growing to resemble him in that aspect.
"Esther is enough."
The panther was already nestled in Encrid’s arms. Eyes resembling a blue lake stared at Dunchabel. Dunchabel looked back at Esther with her golden eyes and huffed.
"You can't keep him all to yourself."
What is she even talking about?
"Grrr."
Esther let out something akin to a snort. It sounded suspiciously like she was telling Dunchabel to try and take him if she could.
Dunchabel left it at that and backed away. After sleeping a bit more and waking up, Encrid heard a commotion outside the camp.
Since Azpen had retreated, it was a victory. Which meant the party was about to begin.