Chapter 463: Recalling and Connecting
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 463: Recalling and Connecting
They shared stories of Oara, a woman who had been like sunshine.
The funeral was over. None of the city's residents wailed aloud. They wept with composure, their tears falling in silence.
"Oa!"
Now, only the shouts for her remained.
"Honor Knight Oara!"
The cries of those left behind echoed through the streets.
Knight Oara’s will would be engraved upon the city forever. Just as every knight possessed an imprinted weapon, Oara had gained a city imprinted with her name.
The City of Oara—that was the new name of Thousand Bricks.
"Take some time to catch up. I'll head back first."
As Encrid and Krang fell into conversation, Luagarne stepped away to give them space.
After walking toward the city gates, Encrid clenched and unclenched his hands. His forearms were still stiff—so much so that simply holding and swinging a sword felt like a burden.
Checking his physical condition, Encrid suddenly asked, "Are you leaving right away?"
He could have rested for a day, but Krang hadn't even unpacked his bags, and the complexions of the guards following him had been growing darker for some time. They looked anxious.
He wasn't staying; he was planning to head back immediately. In other words, though he had come to mourn a fallen knight and comfort the people, he was an incredibly busy man.
"Check the carriage. There's nothing more troublesome than a broken wheel on the road," Krang said, turning to instruct his guard before answering Encrid. "I cast aside everything I was doing to come here. If I don't return immediately, someone might actually drop dead from overwork because of me."
It was half-joking, but it sounded entirely serious.
"Well then."
Krang had come like the wind and was leaving just as fast. As if he didn't even need a proper send-off, he simply started walking away.
Just as he was about to depart, Krang turned his head and asked, "Will you come back as a knight next time?"
Krang's eyes sparkled, catching the light. Even amidst the bright sunshine, they shone with clear intent. Those eyes were asking:
Can we meet at our respective heights?
Will you make it all the way up there?
Encrid looked straight into Krang's eyes.
"Do you truly believe I can rise without even donning a red cloak?"
Krang smiled. It was a question, but one built on a foundation of trust. A question that demanded an obvious answer. In his unwavering gaze, one could see a firm belief that Encrid would surely ascend.
"Do I need to answer?"
"No."
Krang burst into laughter and turned around. One of the guards approached before they departed.
"I am Squire Lug. Is Ropode doing well?"
"Probably."
Having repeated today so many times, the name Ropode felt faintly distant. He was a friend who had followed him all the way to the Border Guard after the civil war. Encrid recalled how Ropode used to constantly challenge Ragna. As long as he hadn't been killed by Ragna's blade, he would be alive and well.
"That fellow was wandering aimlessly for so long, but then he suddenly changed. He said it was all thanks to you, Sir Demon Slayer."
The title felt strange. He was being addressed as "Sir," and the nickname "Demon Slayer" seemed to have stuck. Though he wasn't part of an official order of knights, he had proven his skill, and the world had responded in kind.
Of course, Encrid merely thought of it as a rather unpleasant nickname.
"Could I receive your teachings in the future?" Squire Lug asked.
What showed in his eyes was a competitive spirit—the desire to cross swords with someone who had made a name for himself.
"Lug, if you want to quit being my guard and become Enki's squire, just say the word. You are free to go anytime," Krang interjected.
"No, Your Highness! I have no such intention whatsoever."
"I'd wager a year's budget that he's lying."
As Krang joked with a laugh, Lug offered a silent bow and turned away.
"Come to the Border Guard sometime," Encrid said to his retreating back.
Lug turned his head slightly to offer a nod of gratitude.
"Well, I'm really off now. I'm tired to death. They say he who wears the crown must bear its weight? That's a load of lies. They should have said he must bear the workload."
With those words, Krang departed in a flash.
Feeling the warm sunshine and the peaceful air, Encrid also began to walk. He had seen the exhaustion of Krang, who had rushed all the way here, but even after resting for a few days, Encrid's own body creaked just as much.
It was the price of facing Jerix.
Turning back, he walked with steady, heavy steps, observing the soldiers busy with the aftermath. The atmosphere was lively. They were moving materials to repair the shattered city gates. On one side, several people were lighting furnaces to bake molds and craft arrows.
Having heard that the shells of the spider monsters made excellent shields, some were dismantling the carcasses to craft gear. They worked with hoods pulled up over their noses to block out the foul stench. Everyone looked busy, moving with diligence.
A funeral was a funeral, but life went on. This kind of vitality was what truly suited this city.
"Oa!"
Their spirited shouts were as energetic as ever. Soldiers carried logs on their shoulders, walking back and forth.
So, the name of this city was Oara now? Since the knight's name had been passed directly to the city?
The City of Oara—it was a pleasant name.
On his way back, drowsiness kept washing over him. His muscles ached, his abdominals felt tight, and the area around his shoulder blades was stiff. It felt like a satisfying muscle soreness, yet also like something that might tear if he moved the wrong way.
"Rest when you need to rest," Luagarne said, waiting for him at the lodging.
Encrid nodded. She was right. Now was the time to recover. It was time to close his eyes and sleep.
Even so, he had to say what needed to be said.
"Dunchabel, if you don't go wash up right now, I'll make you bathe in blood."
He had sent her out on scout duty to help, but after killing a few monsters, she hadn't washed at all. The stench of spider carcasses wafted heavily through the lodging.
Dunchabel had a better recovery rate than he did. Apparently, she had inhaled some kind of toxic miasma, and it had somehow been good for her body—an explanation he couldn't comprehend even after hearing the details.
"Do I smell?" Dunchabel asked, feigning innocence.
"How is it that you're the only one who can't smell yourself?" Rem, who was lying down and recuperating nearby, grumbled.
But Dunchabel remained defiant. "Is that any of your business?"
For some reason, she had become even more fearless than before. At the final moment, she had even thrown her body on the line to shield Encrid. Because he had already known the outcome, he had stopped her, but otherwise, Dunchabel might have died.
It was nothing new. This was a battlefield; anyone could die.
Grit.
Rem grinned, grinding his molars. "Do you think just because my body is in this state, I can't kill a single one of you?"
...Even if it wasn't a battlefield, having a furious barbarian as a companion meant you could easily end up dead.
"I'm going to wash. Going right now." Dunchabel quickly relearned fear and bolted outside.
Rem, gripping an axe handle with a half-shattered blade, spoke. "It seems she suffers from a disease that can only be cured by a good thrashing."
And you seem to suffer from a disease where you just thrash people first, Encrid thought. Sensing his thoughts, Rem said, "Feels like you're cursing me in your head."
"I wanted to ask what's in the West. Let's hear it while we have the chance."
In any case, both of them needed to recuperate. Their bodies were creaking from the battle with the monsters. Rem's injuries bordered on severe. Though he lay there running his mouth as if he were perfectly fine, anyone else would have been wailing in pain.
"There's the low sky, interesting clouds, and on the flip side, the high sky, and the River of Sand of No Return. What, do you want to hear some old tales?"
"If they're interesting."
"I have a few I heard when I was a kid."
Encrid deftly steered the conversation, and Rem began to share several old tales passed down in the West. They were legends related to mythology. Among them were the origins of the Dusk and a few archaic words.
Encrid wondered if they spoke a different language in the West, but that wasn't the case.
"Ever since the Language War, the entire continent has used the same tongue, hasn't it?"
The Language War was a conflict instigated by the Empire—a story from the era when the Empire was still divided into three kingdoms.
Rem spun his tales surprisingly well, and Encrid listened intently. For instance, he explained that in the West, the term "pocket-spy" was a grave insult. This was because they deeply despised the act of stealing in secret rather than taking something through an honorable duel.
"What is a pocket-spy?"
"A thief."
"Taking it through an honorable duel might be fine, but isn't that just robbery?" Luagarne asked.
Rem shook his head. "It's a bit different. Robbery is just taking by force. This is more like a wager."
Encrid listened quietly. Soon, Dunchabel returned from washing up. She joined them, and the conversation blossomed. The stories of the West were fascinating in many ways.
"We don't ride horses over there. We have something else. In the desert, they have as much stamina as camels, and though they aren't as fast as horses on flat ground, they run incredibly well on almost any terrain. We call them Velopters."
There were also stories of creatures Encrid had heard of but never seen.
*
The Ferryman watched the squire conversing.
"You look happy," the Ferryman murmured.
Because he truly did look that way. Some walls encountered while repeating today left scars even after they were overcome. Those wounds would linger for a long time, slowly eating away at a person. It was the moment of facing someone who could not be saved, no matter what one did.
This is a 'today' tailored specifically for this madman, the Ferryman had thought.
But he had been wrong this time as well.
"When does a person die?" the Ferryman muttered.
When their life ends? Then when does a knight die?
It is when the sword called conviction breaks. It is when they fail to protect what they wished to protect.
The knight named Oara had fulfilled her duty, kept her vow, and died with a smile. That mad squire had let go of the past, of the things that could not be undone. Instead, he moved forward to ensure that the choices he had already made would become the best ones.
That attitude stirred a certain memory within the Ferryman. He let the rising memory scatter and drift away into the river. It was not something he wished to dredge up. It was also something already forgotten long ago.
"To look back on the path not taken and wallow in regret leaves nothing but remorse," the Ferryman murmured as if reciting poetry. His words drifted out with a melodic rhythm.
The Ferryman continued to watch the subject bound by the curse. Then, he saw the fellow who had already dusted himself off and stood up. He realized anew: this was a man who shook off a dead yesterday to live for tomorrow.
Viewed from within a frozen today, that man was dazzling. That was why he could not tear his eyes away. For those who dwell in darkness naturally crave the light.
And that was why he wanted to seat him in the darkness. Is it not only natural to want to keep something that shines close by?
Amidst the swaying waves and the violet lamp, the Ferryman on the boat quietly gazed at the cursed man. He was a human who did what no one else he had ever seen could do.
This stirred a certain inspiration within the Ferryman—a change born from witnessing his unwavering attitude all this time.
What, then, was left?
There was still much left. Even if he tripped on just one of them and failed to scale the wall, it would be the end. That was why this was a curse.
As he watched, the Ferryman let out a sharp breath. "Hah."
Look at him go. Just when his body seemed to have barely recovered, he was already moving like that?
The fellow was swinging his sword. He was sweating profusely as he swung, and it certainly did not look normal.
"A madman. Truly a madman," the Ferryman muttered repeatedly.
Moreover, seeing him now made one thing naturally clear. This mad squire had not let a single thing from those who died before him simply slip away.
He was recalling and connecting everything he had received from the dead.
*
After resting for two more days, his body had mostly recovered. The sharp pain that used to shoot through his wrists at the mere movement of his fingers had vanished completely.
Was it called the Regenerative Body?
Once again, he had reason to be grateful to Audin, since his body had mended so quickly. He stood up, gathered his gear, and stepped out of the lodging.
"You held back for a long time." Luagarne was already outside. She basked in the sunlight, her pale cheeks exposed to the warmth.
Today was humid. It was the kind of weather Frok particularly liked.
"Yeah," Encrid replied, reflecting on what had been drifting through his mind.
There was much to think about. His mind was filled with what Knight Oara had left behind. It wasn't just her smile.
Oara and the Fragment of Balrog. Every single movement from their battle remained etched in his memory. Defeating the Balrog would come later. For only by repeating each day could he welcome tomorrow.
Knowing this all too well, Encrid did what he had to do now.
He pondered the movements Oara had shown him. He studied what she had taught him in his dreams. He also researched the movements of the Balrog that he had barely managed to glimpse. It was a battle on the level of knights, not squires. There was far more he hadn't seen than what he had.
Even so, there was a mountain of things to ponder and learn, one by one. Luagarne helped him with that.
Let's take it slow, one step at a time.
As Encrid steeled his mind and began to move, Luagarne smiled. "I suppose you don't even need advice not to rush."
This man was rewarding to teach, even if he was incredibly slow to learn. Frok's words from earlier described an attitude toward life that Encrid had already mastered.
Every journey begins with a single step.
He studied what he could not understand, and for what he did understand, he slowly but endlessly repeated and practiced until it became his own.
"Accumulate experience, and make it yours through training once more," Luagarne said. It was what he was already doing.
Recalling and pondering. This was part of the legacy Oara had left behind.
In the battle between Oara and the monster, the two had suspended themselves in midair, and her sword had emitted actual light—not as a metaphor, but literally. Oara had executed thoroughly simple movements in succession, but the Fragment of Balrog had not. It twisted its body and assumed bizarre postures.
Then how had Oara's sword been able to counter all of that?
Encrid began to recall and connect it all.