Chapter 494: Luck Doesn't Flow in Only One Direction
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 494: Luck Doesn't Flow in Only One Direction
Rem crouched before the corpse. Its head was split wide open, and the stench of rot had already begun to set in. With a practiced hand, he used a dagger to slice open the chest.
The decaying flesh parted limply. As he rummaged through the cavity, the blade became coated in a viscous black film. Rigor mortis had already faded, making the task easy—though it wouldn't have mattered even if the body were stiff as a board.
Near the center of the chest, he found the heart. It was a gruesome sight, riddled with holes as if gnawed by worms. The blood within had thickened into a dark, hardened gel.
Well, look at this.
The Captain’s return was the priority, but assessing the situation was basic protocol. That was why Rem had bothered digging into the corpse.
Though no one present realized it, Rem’s understanding of sorcery had reached an entirely different level. Some of this growth came from his own innate talent, but much of it was forged through the insights he gained while killing the Immortal Madman and the shift in his perspective after meeting Encrid.
By examining the lingering traces of sorcery, he could piece together what the enemy had done.
It’s not a standard spirit art.
It was an unorthodox path—a secret art fueled by borrowing power from an external entity. After cycling through several possibilities, he reached a conclusion.
They got lucky.
Rem had arrived at the same realization as Geomnarae. The scales of fate had tipped slightly in the enemy's favor. However, Rem had discovered something more: the specific nature of this unorthodox path.
The Demon Realm Holy Land Cult—the cultists—worshiped demons as gods. Just as priests channeled the power of their deities, these cultists did the same with the masters of the Demon Realm.
Does that even count as divinity?
If Audin heard that thought, he would have hit the roof, screaming about blasphemy and throwing a fit of rage.
Regardless, the combination of an Apostle’s teachings, the technique of borrowing demonic power, and the presence of a genius shaman had created a perfect storm.
They worshiped a demon as a god to complete the ritual?
He understood the principle now and could see the flow of events. Throwing a tantrum wouldn't change the outcome. There must have been more sacrifices at the intended destination.
It’s not the Demon Realm.
Rem nodded, muttering to himself. "He wouldn't have been sent that far."
"There’s no way he’s dead," Luagarne chimed in from beside him.
It was a statement of fact. At most, the destination was likely a fifteen-day journey away. Since they needed a secondary sacrifice at the exit point, they couldn't have simply tossed him into the Demon Realm. The "Silence" of the Demon Realm was called such because it was a void; it wasn't a place just anyone could enter.
Whether it was spatial teleportation or some other secret art, they couldn't fling a person to a location they had never been to. Therefore, it wasn't the Demon Realm. Above all, the Silence reacts when disturbed. The lack of a reaction was proof enough.
With a ritual of this scale, the sacrifices must all be dead.
The worst-case scenario was that he was somewhere beyond the River of Sand. If not, he would eventually find his way back by navigating the stars of the western plains.
That was Rem’s judgment.
That night, the twin moons rose, illuminating the western lands while the stars revealed themselves in brilliant splendor.
"Aren't you worried?" Luagarne asked, watching Rem.
After finishing his investigation, Rem had cleaned his hands and sat by the fire. He was currently focused on roasting wind rabbit meat over the embers. A single mistake would burn the lean meat and ruin the taste; precision was everything.
Rem stared into the flames. "If he were the type of guy to die from something like this, he would’ve kicked the bucket a long time ago."
It was true. Luagarne had been momentarily shaken by Encrid’s disappearance, but she had regained her composure. Dunchabel was the same. The moment Rem suggested the Captain would find his own way back, the beastman had simply nodded in silent agreement.
Rem acknowledged the worst-case scenario in the back of his mind, but he refused to believe their Captain would fall to a mere stroke of bad luck. This event had only succeeded because luck had favored a plan that should have failed a thousand times out of a thousand.
Dying from a fluke? Ridiculous. Encrid was a man who had crossed the threshold of death more times than anyone could count.
But what if he did die?
Rem shook the intrusive thought away. I went through all the trouble of tracking the sorcery just for that?
He decided to wait with a calm mind. Anxiety wouldn't change the reality.
"Everyone, just go about your business. He won't appear just because we’re looking for him. As long as he isn't in the deep desert, he’ll find his way back."
"What if he is beyond the River of Sand?" the Chief asked.
"Even then," Rem answered without hesitation, "he’ll find his way back."
If asked how, Rem wouldn't have an answer. He just knew. Encrid would return, just as he always had. It was a groundless belief, but to them, it was absolute trust.
He would become a knight. He would protect everything he promised. And...
...and he still has to face my descent weapon.
Three days passed since Rem examined the corpse. Encrid had not returned, and no trace of him was found.
*
Meditation, thought, and contemplation.
Engrossed in these, the sun set before he knew it. Encrid had intended to gauge his direction by watching the sun's descent, but the plan failed utterly.
What was wrong with the sky here?
The sun was setting, yet it offered no sense of direction. There was no sunset glow, either. The light simply bled away, replaced by the deep blue of twilight before plunging into a pitch-black night.
In the desert, the heat was immediately replaced by a bone-chilling cold. The temperature plummeted the moment the sun vanished. Encrid felt as though he might freeze to death if he stayed still.
He had to find a path.
Encrid looked up. The night sky was a sea of pure white, crowded with an impossible number of stars.
What is this?
The westerners called this place the River of Sand of No Return. It lived up to its name. It was a land devoid of landmarks.
"Should I call these the sky-blocking stars?" Encrid muttered into the void.
If clouds that blocked the sun were "sun-blocking clouds," then this must be a "sky-blocking Mirinae." He recalled Jiba telling him that in the western tongue, the river of stars in the sky was called Mirinae—a colorful ribbon of light that occasionally graced the desert sky.
During the day, the heat threatened to roast him alive; at night, the cold sought to turn him to ice. Just as the thought of freezing crossed his mind, a gentle warmth welled up from his chest.
It was an immediate, soothing heat. Encrid reached into his shirt and pulled out the source: the dagger given to him by the short-haired blonde squire.
"It's a dagger that holds warmth," Hira had told him.
The heat radiating from the blade formed a thin, protective barrier around his body, warding off the worst of the chill. Encrid had found warmth. The gift had served its purpose.
Now, he needed direction.
He took stock of his gear: Aker, Gladius, and Spark—his primary weapons. Six throwing knives on his chest, a hidden dagger at his ankle, and his spider-shell armor.
He had the "Lucky Fish" preserved food he’d packed on a whim. The bracelet from Jiba’s mother. The composite bow from the Oara artisan. The warming dagger. The returning dagger. And finally, the "Dagger of Calamity"—a blunt ward against evil.
Since the Ferryman had already "digested" all his curses, the ward was useless. None of these items could help him find his way.
Encrid faced a choice: move or stay put. The answer was obvious. If standing still changed nothing, then Encrid would move.
Step, step.
He began to walk. The downpour of starlight provided enough vision to see the endless dunes. He walked for an entire day. Thanks to the warming dagger, the cold was no longer a threat.
As the sun began to rise, he tore his undergarments and wrapped them around his head. Without protection, the sun would blister his skin within hours.
Walking during the day is impossible.
He decided to walk only at night, conserving his breath and strength. Was there another way? Perhaps. He could channel his Will into his legs and sprint at superhuman speeds. But if he failed to find the exit, he would be stranded and exhausted.
Conserving energy was the only logical path.
As he walked, stray thoughts surfaced. A normal person would die without water in three days, but Encrid was not normal. His endurance was monstrous. He moved with calculated steps, preserving every drop of moisture in his body.
Ten days passed.
A small change occurred. He spotted a mound of sand that felt... wrong. As he approached, something sharp whistled through the air.
Whoosh!
Encrid drew Aker and parried the projectile.
Clang!
It was a tail. A giant scorpion-like monster erupted from the sand. At this point, Encrid was almost glad to see another living thing, even a predator.
He saw the lines of attack instantly. He could charge, evade, or counter. But every movement cost stamina.
Encrid flicked his left hand. The returning dagger flew with a sharp twang, piercing the scorpion’s head.
Thud!
The carapace shattered, spraying black, clumpy ichor. The creature’s blood had solidified, likely an adaptation to the desert heat. It wasn't something he could drink. Seeing it only intensified his thirst.
I’m so thirsty.
His skin felt like parchment. He reached out, and the dagger flew back to his hand. He felt the phantom tug of a string at his fingertips; the harder he "pulled," the faster it returned.
Clack.
He caught the blade, realizing he had underestimated how useful this weapon was. He adjusted his gear. The bow on his back was cumbersome, but he didn't discard it. He had used it as a pole to fashion a makeshift canopy from the scorpion’s hide to hide from the sun during the day.
Twelve days without water.
His urine turned black and foul—a clear sign of severe dehydration. His skin lost its elasticity; when pressed, the indentation remained. His armor felt like lead, but he kept it on to buffer the daytime heat.
The thirst was a physical weight squeezing his heart. His lips were cracked and bleeding. His skin began to peel away in long strips. His body screamed in agony.
I’m like a shedding snake, Encrid thought, his head spinning.
"To be left all alone. To shudder in the agony of true solitude—this is the 'today' you have chosen."
The Ferryman’s voice drifted from the void. There was no river, no boat, no lamp—only the voice. Encrid didn't have the energy to respond. He simply opened his eyes and kept walking.
Time became a blur of dizziness and misery. He was wandering aimlessly through a land with no exits. He might wander forever, dying and restarting. He knew this was the Ferryman’s goal.
Whether squire or knight, a human was still flesh and blood. Hunger and thirst were universal. Yet, Encrid did not touch his preserved food. It was salted fish; eating it would be a death sentence for his parched throat.
His patience was absolute. He saw no mirages, for his iron will refused to allow illusions to cloud his sight.
He walked until he reached a limit he didn't know he had.
It’s so hot.
The sun felt like a physical blade splitting his skull. He lost consciousness.
And so, "today" began to repeat.
He died while walking. He didn't even collapse; he died on his feet, a testament to his unyielding will. Encrid himself didn't fully perceive the transition.
Is it the same today?
The endless sand made it impossible to tell if time was moving forward or if he was trapped in a loop. He died of exhaustion again and again. The Ferryman appeared periodically, sometimes cackling, sometimes offering mock pity.
"Give up. It will be easier that way."
Eventually, the Ferryman stopped appearing. Then came the hallucinations.
"Hey... try pouring a bit more Will in..."
The voice was distorted, hard to understand. In his haze, Encrid moved by pure intuition.
Today, this way.
Searching for a path was meaningless in a place where no paths existed. He vaguely recalled stories of legendary pathfinders who could navigate any desert.
On some days, he was swallowed by sandstorms. On others, he simply withered away.
Then, he saw it: a massive, churning barrier. The River of Sand. It was a vast, stretching bog of quicksand. To enter was to vanish.
Encrid died there while searching for a crossing.
In the next "today," he changed direction. He used the shadow of his scorpion-hide canopy to estimate his heading. He found a cliff—a terrain he couldn't hope to scale in his condition. He died there, gasping for breath on one knee.
He wandered through countless "todays." He lost count of his deaths. Simply being alive was a torment. The thirst should have broken his mind. The Ferryman stayed silent, leaving Encrid to die in total isolation.
But he never stopped walking.
When his muscles failed, he used his Will.
Legs, move.
Body, endure.
When he channeled Will into his very toes, he could force one more step.
It was only after he learned to push past that final, impossible limit that something changed.
One day, he saw a faint shadow. A skeletal monster, clacking its bones. Beside it was a jewel-eared fox—a creature with a shining stone on its ear.
Clack!
The skeleton moved. Encrid’s face was a mask of death—hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, shriveled lips. Yet, his hand moved to his sword. It was a reflex carved into his soul.
The Ferryman watched. He knew that for Encrid, this was the thirtieth "today."
Only thirty.
Because Encrid remained unbroken, the isolation was just another obstacle. Because his mind had not shattered, thirty repetitions were enough. That sheer, concentrated willpower finally summoned a spark of luck.
"You are lucky," the Ferryman’s voice whispered.
Luck does not flow in only one direction. The bracelet from Jiba’s mother had kept the desert insects at bay. And now, the bonds of the past became an arrow to save the present.
Twang! Thud!
An arrow shattered the skeleton’s skull. Luck had turned its head.
"Captain?"
The voice sounded familiar. Encrid’s vision spun. The Will he had been desperately holding onto finally snapped. Strength drained from his limbs, and the world tilted. He recognized this sensation from a hundred deaths—the process of losing consciousness.
If the voice was a hallucination, "today" would start again. If not...
The world went dark.