Chapter 461: From the Beginning, I Never Dreamed of Just Being a Knight
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 461: From the Beginning, I Never Dreamed of Just Being a Knight
In all the 'todays' he had lived through, Encrid had never once been able to send Oara away unscathed.
The conditions were simply too demanding.
He had to kill the ghoul before Oara could intervene. Meanwhile, Roman had to take down the spider monster that fought using its eight legs like blades. At the same time, Encrid had to block the ghoul’s final, desperate blow. He couldn't keep repeating a 'today' where Dunchabel or Rem died.
Oara killing the owlbear had been an outlier in his calculations, but...
It’s not a bad outcome, he concluded.
At that moment, the words of the Ferryman drifted into his mind unbidden.
“Do you know what they call someone who willingly walks such a grueling path?”
“A saint?”
“They call him an idiot.”
The Ferryman had criticized Encrid relentlessly, his words sharp and biting. But it hadn't bothered Encrid in the slightest. He was all too familiar with ridicule and scorn. How many tongues had mocked and sneered at him when he first declared his intent to become a knight?
None of that mattered. The sense of helplessness—the loss felt when failing to protect what he cherished because he lacked the strength to do so—was far more significant.
He had once seen a man fighting a monster to protect his family. He had witnessed that man’s death. He had also seen the family the man died for. When he saw a mercenary bastard smirking at the sight of the man's sole surviving daughter, Encrid had lost his mind.
“Stop that crazy bastard!”
“Hey, hey! You son of a bitch!”
“Argh, my ear!”
Encrid had bitten off the mercenary’s ear and driven a dagger into the back of his neck.
“You... whew, never mind. Just cool your head.”
The mercenary captain had let him off easy. Instead of execution, he was locked in a cell. That was the captain’s mercy; if left alone, the dead man’s comrades would have stabbed Encrid to death.
He spent half a year in that cell. With nothing to do, he simply trained his body. Most of the guards ignored him, but one eventually asked a question. It was the old chief guard, a man in his fifties.
“Why did you do it?”
“I didn't like his smile.”
“Are you insane?”
When the chief guard finally released him, his parting words lingered in Encrid’s mind for a long time.
“If you lack power, you will ultimately be unable to do what you want to do.”
Leaving the prison, Encrid stroked his rough, overgrown beard and replied, “I know that all too well.”
His dream was to be a knight. He wanted to live protecting what he wished to protect, and so he had set his sights on that title.
“Hahaha!”
Oara burst into laughter again and again.
Grrrrr!
The Fragment of Balrog growled like a beast. Though he couldn't keep a precise count, dozens of attacks had already been exchanged between the two.
Oara’s 'Laughter' slashed the Balrog’s forearm and pierced a hole through its stomach, but that wasn't enough to kill it. Even with its gut perforated, the creature moved with even greater violence. Black smoke billowed from the wound, and it began to half-heal on its own, the bleeding stopping without any treatment.
Even as its vitals were pierced, the monster swung the red rod in its hand—a weapon that functioned like a sword—dozens of times. It was a true monster. The lines traced by the rod occasionally blanketed Oara like a net of death.
Instead of retreating, Oara drew 'Laughter' back and slashed upward. With a single strike, the net tore and scattered. White light erupted, and a wave of pressure swept through the surroundings.
Boom! Rumble!
The ground vibrated with an explosive roar as the Balrog stomped the earth with crushing force. Oara brandished her sword. Something shimmered along the swaying blade. To Encrid’s eyes, the steel suddenly seemed to multiply into dozens.
Through her imprinted weapon, her formless Will became a tangible force, sweeping across the battlefield. The Balrog responded in kind.
The red rod and the white blade clashed. At times, the two weapons acted like whips; at others, they became beams of light. Just when they seemed to bend, they would snap straight and halt, forming flat surfaces like walls of steel.
At least, that was how it appeared to Encrid. In reality, the two were simply swinging their swords.
Crash!
With an explosive boom, the Fragment of Balrog and Oara crossed paths one last time. It was a fight no one could interfere with. Intervening would only have been a hindrance. This was a battle of knights.
“Master!” Roman shouted.
Encrid watched in silence. The battle between the Fragment of Balrog and Oara did not last much longer. Having caught a glimpse of the domain of omnipotence, Encrid could roughly read the direction of the fight.
Oara would win. But it was a fight where the Balrog could not truly be said to have lost, either.
Rem, who had been blown back earlier, turned pale. He coughed up a torrent of blood, his ribs likely having punctured his internal organs. Of course, he wasn't the type to die from that alone. He limped over and stood beside them, watching the end of the duel.
“She won,” Dunchabel said. Having barely survived, she spoke while slumped on the ground.
A long line was drawn across the Balrog’s neck. It was a black line, not a red one. The strike severed the monster’s head from its body.
Was it a heartbreaking parting? Or a satisfying separation? Encrid didn't know, nor did he care about the feelings of a monster.
Oara turned around. Her face still wore a smile.
“People die eventually anyway,” she said, her expression bright.
Encrid knew that Oara did not have long to live. He also knew that no matter what he did, he could not save someone who was already at death's door. Repeating 'today' didn't mean he was all-powerful. Even in a 'today' altered by the curse, there were things that would absolutely never change.
“Whew, that was good.”
As she spoke, the red rod the Balrog had held was impaled through Oara’s chest. It was a sword resembling a skewer.
Hadn't Luagarne said the Balrog wielded a flaming sword and whip? She had explained that because this fragment was only half-complete, this was all it had—a non-flaming sword resembling a red rod.
“Roman, take care of the city,” the knight said, the rod still buried in her chest. “I’m sorry I couldn't make it to Rowena’s wedding.”
The master of the city built of a thousand bricks continued to speak.
“The Demon Realm is finished here now. You just need to kill whatever is left. No new monsters will appear.”
The hero, worrying about tomorrow until her final breath, spoke to them. If not for Oara, this city would not exist. If not for her, this place would have already been swallowed by the Demon Realm.
“Thank you, Encrid.”
She acknowledged what Encrid had done as well.
“Ah, that was fun.”
Those were her last words.
If there is a beginning, there is an end. Just as taking flight means one must eventually return to the earth, living is a path walked toward death. However, what one chose to do on that path was entirely up to them.
There was no need for regrets looking back at untaken paths. Such things held no meaning. No matter what choice was made, only the effort to make it right enriched and beautified life.
Encrid sheathed Aker and stood straight. He placed his hand on his right hip—a promise to keep his weapon under control. It was the beginning of a gesture to show respect to the person before him. Then, he bowed his head. It was the only thing he could do to honor her hard work.
It was a salute.
“Oa.”
Encrid uttered the chant named after her and watched the final moments of the knight who died smiling.
*
The two associate knights cleaned up the situation, and Aisia dragged her exhausted body to handle the aftermath. Anyone can die on the battlefield. Knights are not immortal. Everyone there knew this.
“The Master was already dying.”
A short-haired blonde soldier approached and spoke those words while lighting a torch. Few people wept. There was too much work to be done to clean up the battlefield. Every citizen of the city stepped forward to help.
Roman gathered Oara’s body into his arms. She was placed in the house where she had lived. There was no coffin yet. It felt as though she might burst out at any moment tomorrow, shouting, “Surprise, you bastards!”
Of course, that would not happen. Knight Oara was dead.
Encrid washed the blood from his body. Outside, the noise was constant as units moved about for night patrol. He returned to his quarters, washed up, lay down, and closed his eyes. He fell into a deep sleep instantly. In his dream, the Ferryman appeared.
“Do you wish to turn back today? But there are things that absolutely never change. Just as the roll of a die cannot be altered. In a place where a god has dwelled, curses hold no power.”
The Ferryman mixed in incomprehensible words. There were several terms Encrid could not understand, and he could only roughly guess their meaning.
What on earth is 'a place where a god has dwelled' anyway?
“If you had stayed in today, you would never have had to witness that death for the rest of your life.”
The Ferryman’s tone was tempting, but it didn't allure him. From the beginning, there was only one thing he wanted to protect: a satisfied Oara, a smiling Oara. Seeing a knight fight properly was secondary.
Encrid had seen her satisfied. He had seen her smile. Because he had seen the hero die smiling in the end, he did not suffer. What he had wanted to protect was her smile—not a life miserably prolonged by abandoning duty and running away.
Encrid fell back into a deep sleep. The Ferryman’s figure faded, and the sound of the waves drifted away.
Soon, he dreamed again. This time, it was a real dream—a collection of idle thoughts reconstructed from his memories.
“Hey, how do you like my city?”
Standing on the castle wall, Oara, draped in a red cloak, asked the question. Before he knew it, Encrid was standing beside her. He didn't have a cloak. If it's a dream, they could have at least given me a cloak. My back feels empty.
“Well? How is it?”
“It’s good. Good to look at, and good to live in.”
“Then do you want to stay?”
There was nothing to ponder, so he shook his head.
“So your plan to become a knight remains unchanged?”
Perhaps because it was a dream, the conversation flowed erratically. But Oara had always been like this—throwing out impulsive questions that were as sharp as a blade piercing the core.
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I think you’ll make it. Anyway, thank you so much. Wow, it was really close at the end.”
“Was it?”
“You didn't get a proper look, did you? Come here, I’ll show you how I did it.”
In the dream, Oara reenacted the movements she used to fight the Balrog. Encrid stood in the Balrog’s position, then in Oara’s shoes, committing each movement to memory.
“I knew that if I slashed upward like this, the bastard would try to trip me.”
“Was it a prediction?”
“An intention.”
Countless battles of wits were woven into that brief exchange—so many that he wondered how she could calculate such things while using her Will at full power.
“Right now, you’re overlaying your intentions, aren't you? But once you get used to it, you can just use it freely. Will, that is.”
Oara generously taught him everything. They talked for a long time. Because it was a dream, time was meaningless, but it felt like a day, or perhaps a month.
“Goodbye.”
With a cheerful farewell, Oara planted a quick kiss on Encrid’s cheek. When Encrid asked what that was for with his eyes, the hero in his dream replied, “A thank-you.”
There seemed to be no other meaning behind it. It was friendship, or just as she said, an expression of gratitude. Oara was Oara, even in his dreams.
Oara faded away, but in her place, an afterimage of the Balrog appeared. He saw the dead monster casting a chain around Oara’s neck.
Why? Was it because it was a dream?
For a dream, it left an incredibly unpleasant aftertaste.
Encrid woke up at dawn. When he went outside, he saw Roman.
“Are you awake?” Roman asked. His complexion was dull, and fatigue was etched into his face.
“It looks like you didn't sleep,” Encrid noted.
“I slept,” came the flat reply.
Yet, though he had slept, his expression was deeply troubled. Roman, who had fought the spider swordsman, had suffered a deep laceration on his forearm; his arm was wrapped tightly in bandages.
“It was brief, but the Master appeared in my dream. She told me not to do anything foolish.”
Relaxing his expression, Roman shared his dream. It was a very different kind of dream from the one Encrid had experienced.
“Is it a manifestation of the subconscious left behind by her Will?”
The remark came from Luagarne, who was just emerging from the quarters. Since Encrid had woken up, it was only natural for her to follow.
“The Balrog takes the souls of those it kills. It is said to sculpt them with the fires of hell like works of art and keep them in its collection.”
“And?” Encrid prompted, urging her to finish.
“This is why the Balrog scatters its fragments. Its nickname is the Soul Collector. In the Great Demon Realm, it is also called the Knight Hunter. It is a monster that enjoys collecting individuals who fight beyond the limits of their species.”
It ignored worthless souls, watching over those with great potential and waiting for them to grow. Sometimes, it even nurtured them. When it saw someone with a body strengthened like that, possessing peak skills, the Balrog pounced like a starving dog. It was a creature that acted refined on the outside but lived drunk on its own desires.
Such a monster existed—a being with genuine intelligence. On the continent, such beings were called Majin.
“Then, does that mean the Master’s soul is currently with the Balrog?” Roman asked, a fire flickering in his eyes.
“Probably.”
No sooner had Luagarne answered than Encrid spoke.
“Ah, I see.”
A phrase that would normally hold no special meaning resonated with a heavy weight. Coming from Encrid, those simple words did not sound simple at all. It was a statement a hundred times more impactful than a mere threat of vengeance.
There was likely nothing they could do right now. Even if they went to the Great Demon Realm, the Balrog would be a difficult monster to even encounter. But once he rose above the rank of knight... and even after becoming a knight, if he kept moving forward...
“I’ll be first,” Roman said, understanding Encrid’s intent.
“I will become a knight. And I will kill the Balrog.”
Encrid added one more goal to his dream. The requiem for the hero would be played then. Instead of the song of support he had never gotten to sing, or the dance he had never gotten to perform, he would offer the death of the Balrog.
He would make it so.
Looking into his eyes—where blue flames burned quietly, never to be extinguished—Luagarne spoke.
“It is dangerous.”
When Encrid didn't reply, she continued. “You wouldn't listen even if I tried to stop you. But it will be difficult if you are just a knight. Don't forget that.”
From the beginning, he had never dreamed of just being a knight.
The knight in the song was a knight who bore the epithet 'End of War.' And the meaning behind those words signified a martial power that would put an end to all conflicts.
It had been so from the very beginning. His dream was not to simply become a knight, but to become a knight who could do whatever he set his mind to.
He had caught a glimpse of a fraction of omnipotence. Encrid knew that his dream was now within his reach. All that remained was the process of closing his hand around it.
Of course, that path would not be easy. It never had been.
But he would neither fear nor stop. Just as he had always done.