Chapter 495: Watering the Fruit of Experience
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 495: Watering the Fruit of Experience
"Let’s send up Grime."
Rem finally spoke on the fifteenth day since Encrid had vanished.
The moment the words left his mouth, Rem was already bracing himself to argue his case. Grime was the name of a legendary hero, but it was also the name of a specific sorcery: the Black Bird of Yearning. Legend said that after the hero died, he was reincarnated as a black bird to watch over the West.
Rem had decided they needed to take a desperate gamble.
What was yearning? It was to think of and pray for something with agonizing intensity. Would that desperation spark a miracle? Not exactly. Sending up the bird wouldn't locate Encrid instantly, but it would reveal if he was still alive and point them in his general direction.
The problem was the cost. Performing the ritual required a massive amount of their food supplies. They said both the hero Grime and the bird itself were insatiable gluttons. To call upon it, they had to offer a feast to the flames.
If we use it now, we’ll be facing a winter of starvation.
They would likely scrape by somehow, but a hard, impoverished life lay ahead of them. Still, what had to be done had to be done. Encrid was the hero who had saved the West; he deserved to be treated as such.
That was the way of the West.
As Rem prepared his rebuttal, the Chief nodded without a moment’s hesitation.
"Now, listen to me. This is—" Rem stopped mid-sentence, nearly biting his tongue. Why was he nodding so readily?
"Yes," the Chief said. "Let’s send it up."
Rem stood there, speechless.
"I will fetch the shamans," Ayul said, moving immediately. Juol, who had been standing in the corner of the tent, followed her out. Geomnarae and Hira nodded solemnly.
"Since the Eldest Shaman is bedridden, I will take the lead," Hira offered, stepping forward. She tossed aside her smoking pipe, a fierce determination burning in her eyes.
Rem’s talent for sorcery was outstanding, but only when it came to killing. His sorcerous disposition was simply too crude for a delicate ritual like this. To put it simply, his mana felt like someone asking for a favor in a tone that invited a fistfight. It was a temperament Rem couldn't change, no matter how hard he tried.
Thus, they needed another shaman, and Hira had volunteered. Even though performing this ritual meant she would be bedridden for at least a fortnight, she showed no hesitation.
"But if we summon Grime now, what will the tribe do later?" Rem asked, playing devil's advocate against his own suggestion.
"We will cross that bridge when we get to it. The Sky God will provide," the Chief replied. An unyielding conviction shone in his eyes.
But shouldn't a chief put the tribe first? Rem wondered. Is this descendant of the sacred bear really putting his entire people at risk just to save an outsider? No matter how loyal the Westerners are, isn't this a bit much?
Rem had fully intended to spend hours persuading them, but now he felt strangely conflicted.
Didn't they all oppose me in the past when I suggested sending up Grime?
Even during the Great Tribal War. Even when abnormal weather plagued the entire West. The Black Bird of Yearning was a "last resort" they had refused to touch. Had they found some revolutionary way to reduce the sacrifice while he was gone?
No, they hadn't.
A massive bonfire was lit. Sacrifices were piled high. Precious food, including the rare lucky fish, vanished into the flames as ritual offerings. Once the pyre was roaring, the shamans knelt and began the chant.
"It’s exactly the same," Rem muttered.
"What is?" the Chief asked from beside him, his expression calm.
"I’m asking if it’s really alright to summon the Black Bird of Yearning so recklessly."
The Chief bowed his head as smoke began to rise, pouring his own yearning into the ritual. He looked back at Rem.
"Since there is no other way, we must do what we can."
A life for a life.
It was a common saying in the West. A debt of gratitude had to be repaid in kind. The Chief acted accordingly, and so did every other Westerner.
In any case, this was what Rem had wanted. Yet, seeing these people—who used to reject the idea no matter what excuse he made—be even more proactive than him left him with a strange feeling. It only showed how deep of an impression Encrid had left on them.
They didn't just throw around empty titles like "Honorary Hero" or "Savior." The Westerners were risking their future to find him.
Billowing smoke and soaring flames rose toward the sky. The soot blanketed the heavens, coalescing instead of dispersing. No one dared draw near the bonfire; stepping into that smoke meant death. People would suffer seizures or collapse on the spot.
As the tribesmen retreated, the soot took shape as fifty shamans screamed the final invocation.
Cawwwwwww!
The black smoke gathered, forming massive wings and a sharp beak. It was a magnificent, terrifying sight. The dark soot manifested as a bird that spanned the horizon. Though it was made of cloud and ash, its presence was unmistakably alive.
The bird soared through the sky for a brief moment before vanishing. That was enough.
"He’s alive!" Hira cried out.
That was only the first day. The Black Bird of Yearning flew for a total of three days, and the tribe burned through every scrap of food they possessed.
"Over there!" Hira pointed in a direction just as she collapsed from exhaustion.
Rem turned his gaze. It wasn't the River of Sand of No Return, but a spot slightly to the east of it.
What kind of luck does it take to survive the heart of the desert?
Rem’s mind instantly calculated the possibilities. He knew the desert; while he couldn't traverse it at will, he knew the back paths and how to skirt the River of Sand. Some minority tribes even made their living on the fringes. But surviving the deep desert was a different story. For an ordinary person, it was a death sentence nine times out of ten.
What if I were in that situation? Rem thought. I would have picked a direction and stubbornly forced my way through. Exhaustion? I’d just break through the limit before I collapsed.
Then what about the Captain? He certainly wouldn't have sat quietly and waited for death. He would have walked until he forgot how to rest. Even if a slight misstep in direction led him deeper into the hellscape, he would have kept moving.
Is the Goddess of Fortune your ex-wife or something?
To emerge where Hira pointed was a feat possible only if luck wasn't just on his side, but practically glued to his soul. Judging by the direction, he had already escaped the heart of the waste.
"Well, there goes one legend I could have forged," Rem muttered.
Ayul frowned beside him. "What nonsense are you spouting?"
"Nothing. I’m going to greet him."
Rem set off. Even if Encrid had escaped, he would be on the verge of death from thirst. Over a hundred Westerners followed behind him.
"There are too many of you," Rem grumbled.
"We’re worried too," one warrior said.
"As his future wife, I can't be left behind," Ayul added flatly.
"If there is sorcerous lingering, I can help," another shaman offered.
Jiba’s mother, Jiba himself, and even warriors who only knew how to swing a club—every single one of them followed.
"Charming, indeed," Luagarne murmured.
They had once called Encrid the "Charming Squad Leader" because everyone who met him seemed to be captivated. Here was a crowd full of the captivated. It was the custom of the West never to forget those who fought for them. The man who had saved them from extinction was in danger; they couldn't just stand by.
"Whatever. Do what you want," Rem said, picking up the pace.
*
"It was isolation," the Ferryman said.
Encrid blinked. He instinctively knew this was a dream, but the environment had shifted. It felt as though the dream reflected the Ferryman’s desire to torment him.
His surroundings were filled not with black river water, but with sand. It was the River of Sand he had seen as he felt himself dying. Sand was everywhere, and atop it, a ferryboat swayed, rustling as it shed grains like water.
Was he supposed to suffer so much that the mere sight of sand would throw him into a panic? Encrid felt nothing of the sort.
A violet lamp cast its light over the dunes, and the Ferryman holding it spoke again. "You walked remarkably well."
The Ferryman is rather solemn today, Encrid thought. Has his ego fractured because he’s lived too long? Or is he just eccentric?
Rustle.
The ferryboat swayed as the sand shifted beneath it. Only then did Encrid realize he was sitting on a stone chair with a high backrest. The Ferryman was seated similarly. They sat facing each other across a stone table.
Cracked gray skin and violet eyes stared directly at Encrid. The Ferryman had asked about his walking. Of course he walked well. Why wouldn't he?
"Even though you had nothing to protect," the Ferryman added.
"I did," Encrid interrupted.
The violet eyes narrowed. The Ferryman’s gaze felt deeper and more intense than before, but Encrid did not look away. In the past, looking at the Ferryman had made him dizzy, but now he was unfazed.
Am I getting used to this, too?
"By not stopping, I protected myself," Encrid said.
It was exactly as he said. He hadn't attached any grand philosophy to his walking, but as he moved, the thought had taken root. Isolation and solitude didn't really matter.
So, what meaning did the walking hold?
To live uncomfortably rather than die comfortably. He had arrived at his own answer. It wasn't a grand revelation; it was just his nature. If he had wanted to give a casual answer, he could have just said, "I walked because I walked."
Every step he took to escape the sand was a step taken to protect his own existence.
Encrid spoke, and after a brief silence, the Ferryman murmured, "...A path that also protects oneself."
To Encrid, those words sounded as if they were coming from a great distance. As the Ferryman’s voice drifted, the sand turned back into black water, and the ferryboat dispersed like smoke.
Encrid felt a sensation of floating. Rising higher and higher, a light came into view. Water droplets seeped through the light. A sharp pain flared in his throat, as if someone were scraping it with a rusted plow.
He closed his eyes against the glare, and the moment he opened them again, he was awake.
"Are you awake?"
A face appeared before him. Encrid felt a burning fire in his throat, but he forced the words out.
"Still... a dream?"
His voice was a raspy crawl. Was this another trick? Had the Ferryman just changed the scenery again? Reality had not yet registered on his skin.
"I was surprised too, Captain," the other person said.
The name of a hunter who had once served under him flashed through Encrid’s mind. Enri. A plain hunter, the fellow who had discharged from the military to settle down with a florist widow. It was a name etched in his memory; some recollections were too vivid to forget.
"Why... are you here?"
Speaking even a few syllables was more exhausting than swinging a sword for three days. The desert’s heat and freezing nights had eaten his stamina, and dehydration had hollowed him out. Even for a knight, entering the Western desert unprepared was suicide.
In Enri’s understanding, the desert was where even legends went to die. Yet, a man had emerged from that hellscape half-dead, and that man was Encrid.
"If I were to explain why I’m here, it would fill two books."
Encrid nodded and immediately blacked out.
Enri watched his captain, fetched some water, and tidied the room. This was a village built around an oasis adjacent to the desert. Since monsters were rare in this part of the West, the walls were low. It was a gathering place for criminals, hunters, and outcasts.
Enri was here for one reason: krona.
After being dumped by the florist widow, Enri had worked as a guard for a merchant guild. He was a decent archer—cautious and trustworthy—which earned him a good reputation. Over time, he had developed an eye for trade routes.
He had heard the rumors of the West—that finding just a few gems could change a man's fortune forever. Stories were always exaggerated, but he realized that while he might not become a king, hunting Western specialties could provide the capital to start a business.
So, he had invested all his savings into a velopter and made his way here. He had confidence. While most people relied on luck, Enri studied the habits of the beasts. If things went well, a new life could begin. Establishing a trading guild had become his dream.
He had been wandering the borders of the desert when he found Encrid. It was an area where skeleton monsters frequently appeared—the remains of fools who died searching for treasure.
Encrid had emerged from among them. At first, Enri thought he was a monster. His eyes were hollow and his skin was like a withered mummy's. Yet, his eyes shone—clear and blue.
"What a bizarre turn of events," Enri muttered.
Enri had abandoned his pursuit of a rare jewel-eared fox without hesitation to save him. The moment he saw those eyes, he recognized him. Though his gear was different and his aura had changed, Enri knew his Captain.
In life, there are people you can never forget. He had once owed his life to this man. He had no regrets.
Encrid opened his eyes again two days later. Around that time, Rem and the Westerners entered the oasis village.
"I thought you were dead," Rem said by way of greeting.
Encrid, his throat partially recovered, replied, "I almost was."
In reality, he had died countless times in his mind, but to the others, he looked like a man blessed by the heavens.
"Oh, Honorary Lucky Hero," the Chief said.
Encrid brushed off the strange nickname. He merely chewed over the realizations he had gained while walking alone. He had been isolated, and the Ferryman had told him to walk in solitude, but even then, he had trained out of habit.
As he regained his senses, he realized that along with the knight’s strike, a certain enlightenment had found him.
What path would he take to become a knight? He could see it now, clearer than ever before. His wandering in the desert had not been a waste. It had been the act of watering the fruit of experience.