Chapter 508: There Was No Wavering in That Voice
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 508: There Was No Wavering in That Voice
"Meat."
"How much would you like?"
"A lot."
Encrid devoured enough food for twenty people right then and there, all by himself. He had always been a big eater, but this was excessive by any standard. He focused entirely on high-calorie fare: beans, meat, and thick, heavy sauces.
A few soldiers watching him eat widened their eyes in surprise.
Is eating like that also a form of training?
I think so.
Should we try it too?
"Don't do anything stupid," said Bell, now a commander, as he lightly smacked the back of a subordinate's head. If they tried to copy Encrid, they would end up in an early grave. Bell knew that much.
When had he first realized it? Was it when Encrid saved the Vengeance Platoon Leader? He had known Encrid was no ordinary man even before then, but that was the moment he truly began to find him remarkable.
Saving someone on the battlefield could be chalked up to circumstance, but rescuing a comrade from a burning barracks at the risk of one's own life? Especially a comrade who openly disliked him?
That was something Bell could never bring himself to do.
Regardless of the stir he caused, Encrid ate his dinner with the same singular focus the following day, and the day after that. It was a monstrous amount of food.
Sitting beside him, Rem gave him a look of pure bewilderment.
"Did you decide to swap your stomach for an ogre’s or a giant’s?"
Ogres were monsters infamous for their cannibalism and gluttony, while giants were simply known for their massive consumption. Both possessed frames that required such fuel to sustain themselves, but Encrid did not.
It was only natural for Rem to be baffled.
"I just wanted a hearty meal."
"Are you going somewhere?"
"No."
What is it this time? Rem eyed him suspiciously but eventually let it go. If the man wanted to eat, who was he to stop him?
Encrid continued this routine for four more days. He ate well, relieved himself well, and slept well. Every morning and evening, he meticulously washed every nook and cranny of his body.
"You don't have a fever," Sinar murmured at one point, placing her hand on his forehead.
She was concerned because he had stopped sparring entirely. Suddenly, he was just eating, drinking, sleeping, and performing only light training. Of course, to an ordinary soldier, that "light training" still looked like a grueling routine they could barely survive. But compared to his usual madness, it seemed almost relaxed.
Encrid ate, drank, rested, and washed as if preparing for a sacred ritual. He looked like a man preparing for a monumental battle all on his own.
As he spent a week in this manner, a wind blew through the camp, sweeping away the lingering heat. It was an autumn breeze.
Encrid sat on a tree stump, waiting for evening. As the wind brushed past him, he recalled his time in the West—specifically, sorcery, a cornerstone of Western culture.
'Sorcery is built upon prayer.'
He didn't intend to perform a literal sorcerous ritual. However, purifying one's body and mind before a great task could only help. It was simply his way of steeling his resolve.
Many eyes were fixed on Encrid.
Rem thought the bastard had finally lost his mind for good, but he was also curious. It certainly felt like Encrid was about to do something; the very atmosphere suggested it. Outwardly, Rem merely hummed as he sharpened his axe with a top-grade whetstone he had acquired. Though the stone was more expensive than most Valerian steel, Rem used it without a second thought.
Ragna felt a sense of solemnity watching him. On the surface, Encrid seemed to be enjoying a peaceful daily routine, but he also looked like a man preparing for a solitary sword dance. It wouldn't have been surprising if he suddenly drew his blade and lunged.
Audin was in silent prayer.
'My Lord Father, please bestow your blessing upon what my little captain brother is about to do.'
He didn't know what it was, but it was clear Encrid was on the verge of something. Audin’s heart was full of support, yet a sliver of anxiety crept in. He didn't know why, but it felt as if his Lord Father was whispering that his "little brother" was about to do something reckless.
Audin continued his prayer.
'Lord Father, that brother has always been this way.'
There had never been a single moment on Encrid's path that wasn't reckless. If the God of War were to descend, He might well have snapped, "I answered your prayer and gave you a revelation, so why are you throwing a fit?"
Of course, no god descended, so Audin simply continued his prayer of blessing.
'Please help him.'
The anxiety faded. His Father would help. Audin offered a prayer of consecration.
Sachsen stood with his arms crossed, a dagger in his right hand and a book in his left. To an onlooker, it was a natural posture that gave no hint he was armed. The dagger was the weapon he had held during his very first mission. It wasn't imbued with grand magic, but holding it brought him peace of mind. Though he hadn't actually used it back then—having finished the job with a single high kick—it remained a meaningful memento.
'Death.'
Having witnessed and dealt countless deaths, Sachsen's sixth sense warned him that what Encrid was doing was dangerous. It was something that could lead to the end.
'Why?'
It was a valid question. On the surface, everything seemed fine—just a normal routine by Encrid's standards. Yet, the fact that it evoked such an ominous feeling meant Encrid was definitely up to something.
So, Sachsen watched. Even though he had duties elsewhere, he kept his eyes on the man. Eating, drinking, sleeping, washing, and resting.
What was the strangest part? All of it. He ate more, drank more, and slept more than usual. He seemed to do all of it as if he were fighting for his life. That was how it looked to Sachsen.
Sinar was currently the closest to Encrid. She sat on a chair opposite him, just three or four paces away, observing his face with her usual, statue-like expression.
"Fiancé, make it a quick trip."
During her own vital energy amplification—specifically, when communing with the forest spirits—Sinar had gone on a journey. A journey deep into herself. It was a path with a low survival rate, but one she had conquered. She spoke those words because Encrid looked as though he were preparing for just such a journey.
If he asked what she meant, she could easily brush it off as her usual teasing.
Encrid looked at Sinar and smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and his lips curved upward. Sinar realized she had rarely seen him smile like this. It was a gentle, reassuring expression.
"I'm not going anywhere," Encrid replied.
The sun was beginning to set.
Before the first rays of dusk touched the ground, Esther, the Black Flower, approached. Though "witch" was a more fitting title for her, she didn't care about nicknames. She knew exactly what she had to do and where to focus her concentration.
Among those things was watching Encrid. It wasn't a duty; it was a desire. And for Esther, desire took precedence over obligation.
She stared blankly at Encrid's smiling face. Black hair and blue eyes—colors similar to her own.
"What are you waiting for?" she asked.
Setting aside whatever preparation he was making, Esther could see he was waiting for something specific.
"The sunset," Encrid answered.
"Why?"
"I wanted to see it."
I see. Esther nodded.
Snort.
From behind Esther, Odd-Eye approached. Encrid reached out and stroked the beast's mane. Odd-Eye lowered his head to meet his touch, circled Encrid once, and then stood still by his side.
Standing nearby, Teresa felt a sudden surge of inspiration and began to sing. It was a hymn she had recently begun to learn. Her voice was both husky and clear—a contradiction that delivered a resonance vibrating deep within the heart. She effortlessly conjured a magic with her voice that usually required an entire orchestra.
Luagarne watched without blinking, suppressing even the urge to fidget. Ropode swallowed hard, taking in the heavy atmosphere. Pel felt a sense of defeat regarding the entire situation, wondering why he was even there.
Everyone watched Encrid.
As the sun dipped below the western horizon, the world was dyed in shades of deep orange, from the cloudless sky down to the earth. The light of the sunset touched Encrid's face. He drew a long, even breath, and then began to exhale.
Something was about to happen. Everyone felt it.
After a brief moment, Rem's hand, which had been grinding his axe with a steady shhh-shhh, froze. The precious whetstone fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
"What...?"
As Rem spoke, Ragna stood up abruptly. Audin's pupils dilated, and before anyone realized it, Sachsen was standing at Encrid's side.
Encrid had been taking very slow, long breaths. Sachsen placed a hand beneath Encrid's nose. He had sensed something shift inside Encrid's body a moment ago, but he hadn't predicted this would be the result.
"He's dead," Sachsen said.
It was an absurd death. Sudden. Without warning.
And with that, the day ended.
*
Just before it happened, after finishing his preparations, Encrid had waited for the sunset. It was his favorite time of day.
As the sun tilted westward, turning the world orange, Encrid yielded his body to the wind and sat on his stump. To one side, Rem sharpened his axe, Sachsen read, and Ragna sat with a vacant gaze. Sinar watched him, Odd-Eye stood beside him, and Esther sat casually on the ground like a peasant resting by the road.
Audin offered prayers, and Teresa sang.
"Lord, Lord, my Father does not retreat from battle and aids in judgment; Lord, Lord, my Father does not tolerate injustice and aids in judgment."
Listening to Teresa's voice, Encrid drew out his Will and sent it to his toes.
Rem, Ragna, Sinar, and Sachsen had all advanced to the level of a knight. It was only natural that questions would follow. How was it so easy for them? Was it talent? Environment?
Encrid had asked them for their methods.
Rem said that as he awakened to sorcery, he simply knew his constitution was different. His explanation was incomprehensible to a normal man.
"It just popped into my head, so I tried it, and it worked," Ragna had said.
Sinar had spoken of her internal journey to understand vital energy and spirits—a dissociation of the mind where one had to maintain their sense of self.
And Audin? He claimed he wasn't a knight, but Encrid saw the truth now. Audin’s "vessel" was already complete. He was hiding his strength.
"I merely followed the revelation bestowed upon me by my Father," Audin had said.
Incomprehensible words. These were the answers Encrid had reflected upon.
How did Oara do it? He didn't know, and she was gone. The Mercenary King? The Knight of Azpen? They all had their own methods, and for most, talent was the engine.
It just happens. That was the reality for the gifted. You had to be born with it. You had to be born on the path to walk it.
That was talent.
Encrid had no talent. He was not cut out to be a knight. He knew this better than anyone.
So, would he give up? Would he stop here, consumed by despair? Would he be satisfied with a dream roughly patched together from torn pieces?
'I know.'
He knew he lacked talent. He had known since his first sword teacher, a limping mercenary, had told him the harsh truth. He had perhaps turned away from that truth because it was too painful to face.
But he had never believed the path to becoming a knight would be easy. A dead end had always been right in front of him. If a wall meant he should stop, he would have quit years ago.
But Encrid did not stop. His life had instilled a singular resolve within him.
'If there is no talent, is there really no other way?'
He had seen side paths. The Chimera Knight was one. Sorcery was another. But he refused the shortcuts. He sought a different way.
The method he devised was simple. How could he keep the door open? How could he make the state of Will dwelling throughout his entire body permanent?
If it wouldn't happen naturally, he would force it.
And so, he did. From his toes upward, he drew out his Will piece by piece and commanded it to stay. Everything he had learned—from his very first thrust to the knight’s strike—aided him now.
Those memories flashed through his mind. Grounded in that experience, he spread his Will until it saturated his entire frame.
The Will shaking his body reached a crescendo, and then an unseen, palpable energy seized his heart and forced it to a halt.
It was a quiet death. A death without much pain.
Yet, it was also a death caused by the wall called talent.
That death spoke to Encrid.
"It is a wall of your own making, but it is a wall you cannot cross."
When he opened his eyes, he saw the Ferryman, who repeated the words of death.
"Is that so?"
Encrid replied, just as he did on any other day. There was no wavering in his voice.