Chapter 394: Gloomy Dawn
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 394: Gloomy Dawn
There was nothing left for him to do at the royal palace, and Krang was bound to be busy.
It was time for Encrid to return as well.
Just before parting, he saw Matthew dragging his leg as he tried to follow Krang, only to be harshly chewed out and sent away for treatment.
"Wouldn't it be better to receive treatment here at the palace?"
The Marquis of Okto asked Encrid, who was preparing to leave after watching Matthew’s departure. The Marquis was a man who looked after others with meticulous care. He also possessed a keen eye; otherwise, he wouldn't have sided with Krang in the first place.
"I'm fine," Encrid declined.
A sprained right wrist would heal in no time—provided he ate well and rested. He didn't necessarily need to be inside the palace for that. Popping a creaking joint back into place was something he could handle himself, and Rem or Ragna knew enough to perform basic first aid. Above all, there was Esther.
“If my hands touch it, it will heal in no time.”
Hadn't she said so with absolute confidence? Those were the words she had spoken after examining Encrid's body the moment Count Molsen's avatar—or whatever it was—had perished.
“She said if you were the type to die from this much, you would have died long ago.”
She had added that with a somewhat satisfied expression. Encrid didn't know exactly what Esther meant, but he didn't bother to press her. It wasn't as if she would answer anyway, and he was thoroughly exhausted.
He wasn't about to collapse and die this second, but after crossing through several "todays," beating Aisia, and surviving the hands of the pulse-severing associate knight, he had then been forced to endure the war of words between Count Molsen and Krang.
It would be exhausting just to recount everything that had happened in between. To put it simply: he had beaten, killed, and run.
His legs weren't shaking, but he desperately wanted to eat, wash up, and rest. A foul stench wafted from his body—a pungent mixture of blood and sweat.
When he stepped outside, he found Rem, who had been off chasing some fool. He was standing right in front of the palace next to Odd-Eye. Rem was covered in blood from head to toe, looking as if he had bathed in it.
As Encrid scanned his friend's body, Rem spoke.
"Well, I beat some guys up, chased down a runner, and ended up like this."
There was a hint of dissatisfaction in his tone. Looking closely, Encrid noticed Rem's posture was slightly off. He had injured his ankle. He wasn't limping, but he was definitely hurt.
"The bastard had one last trick up his sleeve," Rem added without being asked. Even as he spoke, he didn't smile.
I guess he didn't find it satisfying, Encrid thought. It had looked like Rem was chasing someone he had a history with—the target had looked like a Westerner.
"Are you getting beaten up because you lack skill?" Ragna asked solemnly from behind. He sounded genuinely concerned, which, for Ragna, meant it was pure mockery.
Only then did Rem smile. Of course, it was far from a smile born of joy.
"Keep that up and you'll actually die."
"Huh? I can't hear you over the sound of someone who just got thrashed."
"Want me to split your earholes open with an axe?"
"Still can't hear you over the sound of that busted ankle."
"Fine, I guess I'll have to use this on you," Rem muttered, reaching into his shirt to pull something out.
Encrid stepped between them. "Enough."
It was their usual routine, but he couldn't help but think that both of them had gotten much better at bickering. Since when did those two become so silver-tongued?
At first, they had both been the type to let their fists do the talking. He recalled Ragna, who used to get lost while taking bites out of an apple, and Rem, who used to approach silently while sharpening his axe blade on a whetstone.
"Both of you have gotten much better with words," Encrid voiced his thoughts.
"...Look who's talking," Rem shot back.
Ragna also blinked a few times before speaking. "What are you even talking about?"
On the way back, Encrid mentioned that Ragna had indeed taken a shortcut, which genuinely surprised Rem. It was a paradigm shift. Since Ragna had declared a pathless area to be a "path" and sprinted straight toward the palace, it was technically a shortcut.
"Damn. You really have improved," Rem marveled.
Ragna raised his chin slightly. "Finding shortcuts has always been my specialty. I'm better at it than swordsmanship."
"Are you insane?"
And they started bickering again. After roughly breaking them up, they arrived at Andrew's house, where Dunchabel, Andrew, and the trainees were gathered. No one was dead.
"What was that about, running off so suddenly?" Dunchabel asked Ragna.
Consequently, they had to hear the story of the shortcut all over again. Was finding a path more rewarding than killing an associate knight of the order? To Encrid, it certainly seemed that way. Dunchabel was also more surprised by the fact that he had found a path than the combat itself.
Besides, Dunchabel had no interest in the happenings inside the palace. She merely nodded with deeply fatigued eyes.
Around then, Sachsen returned. He gave a brief nod to acknowledge his arrival and acted as he usually did—which meant he remained silent.
"How did your task go?" Encrid asked.
"It ended well." At least he answered because it was Encrid asking.
"Are you curious about the shortcut to the palace?" Ragna chimed in, but Sachsen ignored him.
With the help of a servant and a maid, Encrid washed up, set his right wrist bone, and applied a splint. When he finished and stepped out, Esther approached in her human form and took hold of his wrist. He felt a considerable heat radiating from her touch.
"Bear with it," she said.
Encrid did as he was told. As he endured the heat, exhaustion finally washed over him. They said nothing was more important than proper rest. Eating well and resting well was the essence of the Regenerative Body—the royal road to rapid physical recovery.
Encrid shared a room with Rem. He fell asleep without saying much, instinctively knowing he would sleep so deeply that he wouldn't even dream.
So, he was slightly taken aback when the dream, the Ferryman, the Black River, and the ferryboat appeared immediately.
"Sit," the Ferryman said.
The ferryboat was several times wider than before. Could this thing actually change like this? The table and chairs looked as if they had been carved from solid wood, seamlessly connected to the floor of the boat. It looked as though they had sprouted directly from the planks. It was fascinating, but that was all—a small marvel of so this is possible too.
The boat still rocked, the Ferryman was still there, and the Black River remained the same. Though the size of the ferryboat had changed, it didn't feel like a monumental difference. Rather, it was the Ferryman's attitude that had shifted.
There was no tea, but the table signified a place for conversation. The Ferryman sat down first on the opposite side. Encrid took a few steps across the widened deck and sat in a chair. It was hard. Even upon second thought, it could not be called comfortable.
"It is said that Giants are born with monstrous strength, Froks with the power of regeneration, Beastmen with superb voluntary physical control, Dwarves with dexterity and stamina, and Dragonkin with an exceptional combat sense and words forged from will."
To an ordinary person, most of this would be difficult to comprehend, but Encrid understood almost all of it. There was a time when he had agonized over talent, pushed forward through sheer effort, and done everything he could. Back when he thought he needed theory, he had dug into various subjects. It hadn't been of much use then, but that was why he knew these things.
The Giant's strength. The Frok's regeneration. The Beastman's control. The Dwarf's stamina. The Dragonkin's Word of Power.
"Then, what do humans have?" the Ferryman asked at the end of his explanation.
Encrid knew the answer. "They say it is potential and possibility."
"Correct."
A violet light emanated from the Ferryman's black eyes. The gentle glow illuminated the table and their surroundings in place of a lamp. No—before he knew it, a lamp was sitting on the table.
"Humans can go anywhere," the Ferryman continued. "And because of that, they do not know their place."
Their eyes met. The Ferryman once again recognized Encrid's growth. A bastard who previously couldn't even properly hear his words was now looking him in the eye. They were having a conversation.
"This is, therefore, my gift, my advice, and words born of my whim."
When Encrid remained silent, the Ferryman continued. He raised his right hand and spread his palm, blocking Encrid's vision. That action alone created the illusion of a massive wall rising before him. In reality, it was just a palm with skin like grey gravel, but the sensation was entirely different.
Then, the Ferryman's voice echoed in overlapping layers, and dozens of words began to pierce into Encrid one by one.
"It is impossible."
"You cannot escape."
"Where can you go if you leave this place?"
"To believe you can always move forward as you do now is arrogance."
"That is the arrogance of potential and possibility."
"Humans are arrogant. Give up. This is my consideration. Greater pain will find you."
"The walls will grow higher."
"You only need to stop here."
Along with the Ferryman's words, Encrid saw a vision. In it, he saw himself writhing in agony. Unable to find direction, he wandered alone, lost. He repeated the suffering within it for a lifetime. There was no end to "today."
A "today" with no people and not even the slightest change. That "today" repeated infinitely. To not fall into despair within such a loop was beyond the realm of humanity.
The moment he saw it, goosebumps broke out all over his body. Fear surged. The terror filling his chest was enough to consume a man.
He saw another vision. In it, Encrid lost everyone, every single time. Everyone around him died. He couldn't stop it. They were out of reach. Something beyond human power killed everything around him, yet he could do nothing. Having lost his arms and legs, he could only watch.
The vision continued. A massive fireball fell from above. The fallen fireball incinerated everything in its path—his body, his will, the earth, the air. Yet, he did not burn to death instantly. Within the flames, Encrid suffocated.
Just looking at it, he knew. That kind of pain was not something one could endure through sheer patience. These were all things that could not be resolved with a sword.
"Stop here. No matter what kind of 'today' it is, you will live in satisfaction."
Was this coercion? Or was it, as he said, advice, a whim, and a gift? He didn't know. But even if it were a gift, it wouldn't make a difference. A person who knew how to refuse a gift if it was something he didn't want—that was the kind of man Encrid was.
"If I get lost, I will search until I find the way," Encrid finally spoke. Starting with those first words, he continued. "If I have no limbs, I will bite down on the sword's grip. If I cannot avoid it, I will cleave through it."
Disasters cannot be avoided. If so, he would become the disaster himself. Encrid declared that he would move forward, even if it meant doing that. The present was more important than some unknown threat. He would not grow frightened in advance, kneel, and hesitate. Just as he had done until now, he would do so again.
The Ferryman said no more. He merely watched. Suddenly, the chair vanished.
Encrid fell flat on his backside with a thud. In reality, he would have reflexively tensed his muscles to brace himself, but that didn't work here. The table and chairs disappeared, and the Ferryman had already pulled his hood down, hiding his face once more.
Holding the lamp in one hand, he spoke. "To dare sit at the same table... you overstep."
"It's not like I was the one who asked to sit..." Encrid muttered. He had a right to feel a bit wronged by this.
"Go."
The Ferryman spoke, and Encrid opened his eyes once more.
It was reality. He wished he could just forget such a dream, but it wasn't that simple. The visions remained etched in his mind as if branded there. A "today" he could do nothing about.
Therefore, it was about the present. Repeating a "today" where he could settle down would indeed be the best way to ensure his safety.
"...Did you have a good dream?"
For some reason, Rem would occasionally ask about his dreams in the morning. At times like this, it felt as though the bastard possessed some sort of innate instinct—a barbarian's intuition.
"Yeah," Encrid replied, sitting up in bed. As he lowered his head and caught his breath, Rem spoke again.
"You were dripping with cold sweat. Talking in your sleep, too."
"What did I say?"
"You said if you were going to do that, you wouldn't have picked up a sword in the first place."
It was his true feelings. It seemed they had slipped out of his mouth unconsciously. A safe and protected life?
"If I wanted that, I wouldn't have picked up a sword," Encrid muttered. A drop of sweat from his forehead dripped onto his thigh. Those were words meant for the Ferryman, and a resolve spoken to himself.
"No, Captain, you would have picked up a sword no matter what," Rem said.
He was right about that, too.
Encrid got up. It was dawn, before the sun rose.
"In our lands, we call this time Utkiora."
"What does it mean?"
"It means the moment right before a newly hatched chick takes flight."
"What?"
"Some call it the Gloomy Dawn."
Dawn, the dark morning, the single moment before sunrise.
"It is only natural that the sun rises once the gloomy dawn passes," Rem murmured, as if reciting poetry.
Encrid liked the word. Gloomy Dawn. The darkness before the sun rises. Was it not the perfect name for a time so well-suited for training?
It was time to move his body. Krang would take care of his own business; Encrid intended to do his own work as well. Which meant, of course, conditioning and training.
As he was training as usual, word arrived that Count Molsen had falsely claimed the title of king.
"In one month, at the Nauril Plains."
It was mid-morning. The one who delivered the news was Aisia. A bruise still lingered near the bridge of her nose. Seeing this, Rem stopped mid-yawn and spoke.
"Where did you go to get beat up like that? Who did it? Tell me. I'll pay them back. I'll grind their face in half."
Of course, it was a joke. He didn't mean a word of it, and it was half-teasing.
"Him," Aisia caught the joke and pointed her finger at Encrid. Encrid had not yet mentioned the incident where she had blocked his path.
"The Captain?" Rem’s gaze shifted to Encrid. Was Encrid's skill really enough to beat Aisia up like that? No way.
"Pick up your axe. I'll give you a chance to avenge the lady," Encrid said.
"Who's a lady?" Aisia interjected, but Rem knew how to play along.
"Sure thing. Smashing the face of a guy with a crippled wrist is child's play. Are your ribs fully healed yet?"
They weren't fully healed.
He had thought about it yesterday too, but Rem's bickering skills had truly improved. It was a massive leap forward. And through a brief spar, Rem was also surprised anew.
"Again?"
It was a sight he had seen often. Rapid progress, a sword that changed in a single day—could it be called talent? No, it was as if he were a man who lived in a different flow of time altogether. It was a sword like a sculpture, carved and refined piece by piece. A sword like a tower, built up layer by layer.
"Are you sure you aren't living a different day all by yourself?"
Sometimes, Encrid found Rem's instincts astonishing. From his dream early this morning up until now.
"Bingo," Encrid gave a casual reply. It wasn't as if Rem would believe him anyway.