Chapter 492: In the Blink of an Eye
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 492: In the Blink of an Eye
"Father, I shall avenge you."
The man, once the genius shaman of his tribe, made that solemn vow as he severed his own finger and cast a curse upon his own flesh. It was a preparation made for the sole purpose of killing one specific person.
Since ordinary methods would never suffice, he would resort to every trick and trap imaginable, relying even on sheer, desperate luck to achieve his goal.
The man steeled his resolve.
* * *
After passing the Demon Realm Silence and taking a detour further south, sparse grasslands began to appear. With the greenery came an equal abundance of monsters.
In the West, there were two sanctuaries of absolute taboo: the Demon Realm Silence and the River of Sand of No Return.
The grassland currently in sight was a wasteland left untouched thanks to its proximity to the Demon Realm Silence. Naturally, the swarming monsters posed no threat to the current party.
To them, this was still nothing short of a picnic.
Even if a ghoul that fought with the skill of a knight were to appear, they could slay it without losing a single limb. With Rem’s assistance, the current Encrid was more than capable of handling such a threat.
Gwoooar!
Whenever a ghoul reared its head—
"Hah!"
Dunchabel would spring forward to intercept it.
If they passed a spot where monsters had gathered in significant numbers, they would alter their course entirely to head straight into the fray.
"Let's warm up."
On those occasions, Encrid would step forward. Rem merely watched in silence.
He’s improved a lot.
There was no hesitation in Encrid's advancing steps, and no mercy in his descending sword.
A rushing ratman thrust a jagged stick it had scavenged. Without even looking, Encrid dodged the clumsy strike and slashed its neck with Aker, held firmly in one hand.
Slash!
The monster's tough flesh was severed in a single stroke, its head spinning through the air.
Behind the creature spraying black blood, another ratman collapsed, a hole pierced through its forehead.
It was a kill made by Spark, which Encrid had drawn before anyone even realized he had moved.
A faint afterimage lingered in front of the ratman with the pierced skull—a mirage cast by Encrid moving at high speed. He had already shifted elsewhere, his sword a blur of motion.
A relentless, exhilarating flurry of strikes followed.
A vertical slash, a thrust, and a kick. Every movement occurred within a single breath. He packed three distinct actions into a single tempo.
It was no easy feat, yet he executed it effortlessly now.
By the time the first decapitated ratman hit the ground, six more had already died. Suddenly, a serpent-like creature erupted from the earth.
Encrid had felt a tickling sensation beneath his feet for a while, and now a sand serpent burst forth.
The larger specimens were massive enough to reshape dunes in the deep desert, but a creature of that size would never appear in this region. Still, though small, it was as thick as an adult man's thigh. Its tail whipped through the ground, attempting to coil around Encrid's ankle.
Encrid leaped forward to evade the tail. Before his feet could even touch the ground, he balanced himself mid-air and plunged Spark deep into the flat earth.
The blade struck precisely where the sand serpent's head was hidden.
How did he pinpoint its weakness? Rem wondered.
Sand serpents fought with their heads buried; the head was their only true vulnerability. Encrid had located and pierced it in an instant.
Intuition? Most likely.
From a hunter's perspective, the sand serpent possessed a natural instinct to conceal its weakness, exposing only its tail to attack. It was a simple trick if you knew it, but incredibly difficult to counter if you didn't.
Yet Encrid had acted without a moment's hesitation, despite having no prior knowledge of the beast.
Though Rem loathed to admit it, it was the undeniable talent of that sly stray cat.
Rem's assessment was accurate. Encrid felt as though he could pinpoint his enemies' locations even with his eyes closed. His Sensory Technique, now far more acute than ever before, allowed him to perceive everything in his immediate surroundings.
Facing the giant, slaying the mage, and sparring with Rem—these experiences had changed him. He realized that even though he trained exactly as he always had, he felt different every single day. The rate of his growth had become tangibly clear.
My sword extends so smoothly.
To put it simply, his physical condition was always at its peak. Breathing came easily, his limbs moved with fluid grace, and the next movement flowed naturally the moment the previous one finished.
When a ratman raised its claws to strike, dozens of lines of attack appeared before his mind's eye—blocking, slashing, dodging and thrusting, cleaving it before it could draw near, or simply kicking it away.
Encrid merely chose one of those paths and moved. The predicted outcome followed every time.
The sand serpent had been no different. The moment its tail emerged, he had a rough sense of where its body lay hidden. He had thrust as a test, and black blood erupted from the hole pierced by Spark.
He returned to the group after wiping out the pack. Only a few scattered drops of black blood stained his gear. He wasn't even out of breath. Anyone watching would have thought he had just gone for a light stroll.
"What's that splattered on you?"
"Huh? I don't know. Did something get on me?"
He looked so pristine that such a conversation didn't even seem out of place, despite him having just slain over ten monsters.
"Unbelievable," Rem muttered, letting out a dry chuckle.
He felt that once they returned, he would have to shove herbs down the Eldest Shaman's throat just to master his sorcery faster.
Dunchabel's gaze was strange. She looked at Encrid, seemingly lost in thought, which was uncharacteristic of her. Luagarne merely nodded.
"Because he enjoys it, he forgets his limits," she said, reaching her own conclusion.
Regardless, the party kept moving.
Aside from when they were fighting, they spent their time talking. Whenever Juol was engrossed in cooking, Ayul would share stories by his side.
"Sometimes, bands of hunters from the continent settle down in the northern parts of the West. Near the wasteland by the desert."
"I thought you couldn't come back out if you went in?" Encrid asked.
"That's why they only stay on the outskirts," Ayul explained.
"Greed breeds disaster. If you crawl too deep into the desert, you might end up coming back out as a skeleton soldier—though that place is quite far from here," Rem chimed in.
Juol, clearly familiar with the topic, spoke as he stir-fried barley, oats, and thinly sliced salted meat with oil in a large pot.
"Hunters come for the Jewel-tailed Lizards and Jewel-eared Foxes. Those creatures occasionally wander out to the desert outskirts, and the hunters wait to catch them."
These were animals Encrid had never heard of. Many peculiar creatures inhabited the West, and what Juol described was one of them—animals with literal gems attached to their bodies.
Lizards with gems on their tails, and foxes with gems on their ears. Since they fed on sand, they lived deep in the desert. They didn't die upon touching water, but they supposedly suffered from extreme hydrophobia. They were incredibly fierce, but if a hunt went south, one could usually drive them off simply by splashing water from a canteen.
If you succeeded in catching one, you gained a few precious gems. Even if you failed, your life was rarely in danger.
So, what was required?
"Knowing where to draw the line. Not venturing further inside for no reason, and waiting patiently," Juol said.
"You need luck on your side. Waiting doesn't guarantee you'll encounter them," Ayul added.
"Luck? Nonsense. Understanding their habits comes first," Rem countered.
Each had a slightly different take, but Encrid got the general idea. Only a clever, prepared hunter with patience could catch them. And that was where the element of luck came into play.
Then again, how many of those who came all the way to the West to hunt such beasts were actually skilled hunters? Criminals, fugitives, deserters, those chased by gambling debts—all sorts of desperate people threw themselves into the hunt. Naturally, fools would pop up from time to time.
Juol mentioned that in the past, an entire mercenary group had seemingly lost their minds, marching all the way down to the West to raid a tribe instead of hunting foxes.
Sizzle.
Juol tossed the pot. The perfectly cooked salted meat and grains leaped upward in a smooth arc before falling back inside. A savory, fragrant aroma wafted through the air.
Like a good listener, Encrid chimed in between Juol's movements.
"So, what happened to them? Smells incredible, by the way."
"You're in for a treat. It's a Western specialty: roasted barley. As for what happened? We beat them half to death, and they fled. The rest probably became monster feed somewhere."
Occasionally—very occasionally—decent folks would wait patiently, obtain the jewels, and return, but it was clearly no easy task. Besides, the jewels they obtained weren't enough to yield a life-changing fortune anyway.
If Krais heard this, would he immediately organize a company of hunters and march in?
Probably not. Krais hated leaving things to chance. If he were to hunt the jeweled beasts, he would first study their habits, find a foolproof method, and then move while minimizing the element of luck as much as possible.
What about Encrid himself? He wouldn't hunt them. He could earn Krona in other ways. It was merely a story to pass the time.
Sizzle.
Steam rose from the pot. The Western specialty, roasted barley, was ready.
It was a dish made of wild barley, oats, and various dried vegetables. Seasoned with finely chopped salted meat, its flavor was beyond words. Taking a large spoonful, the barley grains bounced and rolled between his teeth. As he chewed, a rich, savory flavor burst in his mouth, the herbal aroma and saltiness blending in perfect harmony.
Encrid unconsciously gave a thumbs-up.
"High praise indeed," Juol said, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.
The party made their way back to the tribe, clearing out monsters along the way.
"You have returned," the Chief greeted them.
After returning and resuming their daily routine, Rem approached Encrid two days later.
"I'm heading out. Don't cause any trouble while I'm gone."
"Of all the things... to hear that from you," Encrid replied.
"It'll be interesting when I get back," Rem spoke with a grin and turned away.
What was sorcery? Encrid didn't know exactly. But one thing was certain: though Ragna had reached the realm of a knight first, Rem would soon attain a similar level of strength.
"I heard you could die if things go wrong," Encrid called out.
The greater the talent, the higher the probability of death. He had heard that was the nature of sorcery from Ayul. When Encrid called out to Rem's retreating back, Rem merely turned his head and asked:
"Do I look like the type to die?"
"No."
The answer came instantly.
At that response, Rem cackled and departed. Encrid let out a chuckle and resumed his tasks—swinging his sword, moving his body, and occasionally sparring.
"Don't you ever get tired of this?" one of the twins asked from the side.
The other twin was currently knocked unconscious. Since the two usually took turns speaking to complete a single sentence, Encrid had wondered if one being unconscious meant only half the words would come out, but that didn't seem to be the case.
At the twin's question, Encrid asked back: "Tired of what?"
"The training."
"Why would I get tired of this?"
He was a man beyond comprehension. The twin fell silent.
Encrid let the twin's question slide, savoring his anticipation. Just as he had learned something from Ragna, he would surely learn something from Rem as well. That thought made Encrid's heart race.
Ayul came by later and mentioned that it would take about a fortnight for Rem to emerge. Encrid didn't think that was such a long time.
In the meantime, the fleeing members of the Fortune-teller Tribe were captured. During the chaos, a young shaman rescued a pitiful cripple from his tribe. They said he was a man whom the cannibals had kept around as livestock.
His face was heavily pockmarked, all the fingers on his left hand except the thumb had been severed, and his speech was slurred. He didn't possess any outstanding talent for sorcery, but his devotion to caring for the sick was remarkable.
Perhaps because his own body was broken, he seemed to understand the pain of others deeply. Thus, by tending to those still afflicted by the Purple Majin's Curse, the cripple came to share a tent with Encrid. Since he always crawled on the ground, his presence was heralded by a peculiar sound.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
It was the sound of him pulling himself along the floor with his arms.
It was the fifth day since Rem had departed for the Sacred Ground. Encrid had woken up at dawn and was practicing the Isolation Technique. He had opened his eyes earlier than usual. Since it was so early, neither Luagarne nor Dunchabel was awake, leaving him alone.
As Encrid moved his body, he was lost in thought.
If curses are useless against me, does that mean my body is immune to sorcery?
Did that mean he could let his guard down when facing a shaman? Surely not. Yet, the knowledge that curses did not work on him created a slight opening in Encrid's vigilance.
"Curses don't work on you, do they?" the cripple spoke.
Though he hadn't paid close attention before, Encrid noticed that the man's manner of speaking had changed. The slurred speech was gone.
Aker hung at Encrid's waist, and he was clad in his armor. He was fully armed. There was no particular reason for it; he had simply chosen to train in his gear today. It was because of a thought that had struck him this morning: Comfort is a compromise. Steady training and repetition are the only strengths that carry one into tomorrow.
Having concluded that this included inspecting and maintaining his gear, he had simply suited up. He even had the bow he had received as a gift—which he hadn't yet properly used—strapped to his belt, simply because carrying it was better than leaving it behind.
That was a stroke of misfortune for his opponent. It would have been troublesome even unarmed, but here he was, fully armored.
Encrid saw dozens of lines of attack. He also knew that the opponent's physical disability was genuine. Moreover, the man was well within his sword's reach. It was a distance where, if he so willed, he could cut the man down in less than a single breath.
"To think curses wouldn't work on you. You are my natural enemy," the man spoke again.
Meeting his gaze, Encrid felt a flicker of recognition. Though it had been a fleeting encounter, the impression left by the bastard who had swung the final dagger after the Apostle's death was incredibly strong.
It was him.
Who had they said he was from the Fortune-teller Tribe? Ah, the one said to possess the greatest talent since Rem. Geomnarae had called it a great tragedy, and Hira had described him as the Fortune-teller Tribe's greatest misfortune.
A genius shaman, a Westerner who was more of a boy than a young man, who might have been even more talented than Rem.
His hair was greasy, his eyes were crusty, and one of his front teeth was missing. Had he lost his legs because of the dagger Encrid had thrown? Or had he cut them off himself since he couldn't use them anyway? It certainly looked that way.
He was in a wretched state.
The man laughed. Instead of joy, a certain madness flickered in his eyes—a madness steeped in pure hatred. It was as if someone had poured boiling water into his sockets. Bubbling, the steam of hatred rose from his gaze.
His voice carried the same tone, laden with a gut-wrenching, agonizing pain.
"Did you think I would have no options left if my curses didn't work?" he continued, letting out a choked, fake laugh to mask his agony. "This is a secret art I forged by throwing away my future, my soul, my everything."
Why did Encrid suddenly recall being struck by the Elf Assassin back when he was with the Border Guard? That dagger, which had slipped through a crack in his defense even though he hadn't let his guard down—this felt similar.
"I sacrifice my past, my present, and my future."
The bastard spoke, reaching out his hand. A thread-like substance emerged from his fingertips and touched Encrid's body. There was no threat or killing intent, so he could have ignored it, but Encrid swung his sword reflexively.
Just as he had calculated, his sword extended in less than a single breath, splitting the opponent's head.
Split!
With his hand still outstretched, the man's skull split vertically. Just as blood, brain matter, and pieces of bone began to spill, Encrid's vision plunged into darkness.
Even so, he resisted closing his eyes. His surroundings began to spin violently. The world, the sky, and the earth flipped upside down. A floating sensation washed over him. Aside from being sent flying by a heavy blow, he had never experienced anything like this.
At the end of that weightlessness, light exploded before his eyes, forcing him to blink.
The first thing he felt was a scorching heat. It was a searing sun that threatened to roast his flesh, entirely different from the sunlight of the City of Oara or the gentle warmth of the West.
When he opened his eyes, the world was yellow. The sky was high, and there was nothing but sand around him. The only unusual sight was three desiccated corpses kneeling in three directions around him. He didn't even need to look to know they were dead; there was no vitality left in them.
Encrid's greatest strength was his ability to assess situations quickly. As he pondered the situation, he wondered: How did this happen?
At least one thing was certain. He had learned yet another lesson from this.
Never let your guard down, not even for a single moment. They said that even if you wore iron plate armor, a sharp dagger could still find a gap. It seemed his current situation was exactly that.
He looked around. There was nothing to see but sand. Rippling sand, dune-like sand, sand shimmering with heat haze. Only one name came to mind.
The River of Sand of No Return.
It was his enemy's final resort. Not a curse, but a secret art—something the genius shaman had achieved by throwing away his own life and sacrificing the lives of his companions.
Since curses didn't work, he had sent Encrid to the desert. Looking at his surroundings, that seemed to be exactly what had happened.