Chapter 626: Where Should I Wrap It? After I’ve Nicely Killed You.
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 626: Where Should I Wrap It? After I’ve Nicely Killed You.
The core of Valen-style Mercenary Swordsmanship involved dropping to one knee without drawing the blade, maintaining an intense gaze while feigning total relaxation.
The most critical elements were the gaze and the positioning of the hands. One was taught never to grip the hilt, letting the hands hang loose and idle.
When Encrid first learned this, he had marveled at the sheer persistence of the style’s creator. He thought it took true dedication to craft a technique so focused on deceiving an opponent.
But now, his perspective had shifted.
From its very inception, the Valen-style Mercenary Sword was a discipline rooted in Will.
‘If your Will is strong enough, you can do more than just deceive. You can crush them.’
It was, in a sense, an evolved form of Intimidation. Encrid had interpreted this in his own way, naming his version the Feint Slash.
Strictly speaking, it was better to use a technique as it came, without the need for labels. Encrid knew this well; Rem had taught him as much, and he had realized it through his own experiences.
However, acting with perfect naturalness was still a distant peak. He found it easier to define his techniques and give shape to his mindscape by naming them. One cannot walk before standing; no one can run while sitting down. First, he had to stand.
In this context, "standing" meant defining the technique and giving it a name.
‘Sinar’s Energy Blade helped.’
Vital energy was a blade forged from formless power. Having experienced it countless times, he had naturally arrived at this realization. In a way, this was another of Sinar’s gifts.
The form was similar to the Orthodox Swordsmanship technique, Aker’s Spiderweb, but the density was on an entirely different level. To achieve it, he had to pour a massive amount of Will into the strike.
Encrid’s left foot pressed into the earth. Momentum surged as if he were about to charge. His hanging right hand swayed twice, a loose, rhythmic motion.
He drew upon his Will, forging a blade instead of his usual Iron Wall. Soon, an invisible, non-existent feint blade—one that wouldn't leave so much as a scratch upon physical contact—descended toward Pel.
"Fuck!"
Pel reflexively drew Idol Slayer and swung. It was a weapon they had explicitly agreed not to use during sparring. His blade sliced through nothing but empty air.
*
"What the hell was that?"
Just standing face-to-face and locking eyes for a moment had sent cold sweat pouring down Pel’s forehead and spine.
He had clearly seen Encrid rush forward to split his skull. What’s more, Encrid’s body and blade had seemed to swell, growing several times their actual size in an instant.
He had swung his sword out of pure survival instinct, but...
‘Nothing happened.’
Pel wasn't the only one who had reacted. Had Encrid actually swung, the strike would have been savage beyond belief—a blow so massive it would have swept bystanders into its wake.
Naturally, Luagarne, who had been watching nearby, had also reacted. Before she even realized it, she had drawn her whip and sword, dropping into a defensive stance.
"Valen-style Mercenary Sword, a reinterpretation of striking without a blade: Feint Slash," Encrid explained calmly, simplifying the complex process into a single sentence.
"No, I mean, what is that?"
Pel was uncharacteristically rattled. Moments ago, he had experienced something akin to death, even if it was an illusion. It hadn't actually happened, yet his mind insisted his head had been split open. He had even felt a phantom sensation of pain.
It was impossible to remain composed.
"Calm down," Encrid said, looking at him.
He started by maintaining his own composure first. If the mind wavers, the body follows. This sparring session was meant to teach Pel, after all. Of course, Encrid also intended to sharpen his own proficiency with the technique and see what he could learn from Pel in return.
Was it about poking at gaps? Or spotting weaknesses? Regardless, he was in the process of defining and understanding Pel’s unique talent. Nothing ever yielded just a single benefit.
"What?"
"Watch calmly. It’s not like you actually died."
To Pel’s ears, Encrid sounded like a man who had died a thousand times over.
"It felt like I died and came back to life!" Pel barked, veins bulging on his forehead.
At those words, Encrid realized that the countless deaths he had experienced during his regressions had been infused into the technique. It was only natural for one’s life experiences to melt into their swordsmanship.
‘Has it become a strike that projects death onto the opponent?’
Having died in so many different ways, it wasn't difficult to engrave those memories into his Will and project them outward.
Encrid gave a thorough explanation before engaging in sparring again.
"Again?" Pel grumbled, but he took his stance once more.
It was a rare, fascinating experience—a new evolution of Intimidation. Even if the sensation of dying was profoundly unpleasant, he couldn't turn away from the lesson.
Encrid "killed" Pel twice more after that.
Even though Pel understood the mechanics, he couldn't find a way to block it. Amusingly, it was Luagarne who found a counter first. She shifted her mindset: as long as her heart wasn't split, she wouldn't die. By being willing to sacrifice an arm or a leg to the phantom blade, she managed to escape the crushing pressure.
‘This won’t work easily on Frok.’
After spending the second evening like that, Encrid fell asleep. The Ferryman appeared in his dreams, staring silently before uttering a single sentence.
"I saw it."
"What did you see?"
"Your future."
Encrid wasn't trying to be a comedian, but a dry joke slipped out reflexively. "Is it a boy? Or a girl?"
"Have you even thought of having children? Do you truly intend to take a wife and bear a child someday?"
"No. You said you saw my future, so I was just joking."
Since Sinar wasn't around, he found himself making elf-style jokes. It only made him realize how much he needed to see her again.
"You truly are a fellow who does not crumble easily. I shall show you."
The Ferryman raised his hand—the one not holding the lamp.
‘He seems a bit different from the Ferryman I met before.’
That was the impression Encrid got. The Ferryman showed his palm. A pitch-black hole within his gray skin suddenly expanded, rapidly enveloping Encrid’s entire body until nothing remained but absolute darkness.
In that void, the Ferryman’s voice echoed. Or rather, the intent of his Will was transmitted directly.
"Inside a dark cave, you shall encounter an unavoidable wall."
Encrid focused his vision. There was indeed something beyond the darkness. As he watched, a faint shape materialized. He strained to see what stood before him.
There was no face and no scent, but Encrid could guess the opponent’s identity just by their silhouette. It was a form far too familiar to ignore.
"That shall be your wall," the Ferryman said. It sounded like a curse.
"I see."
A curse’s power usually depended on the recipient’s reaction, but Encrid remained unnervingly calm. He should have been shaken, but he wasn't. While the intended effect was to disturb his heart, Encrid merely analyzed the vision.
Judging by the build, it was a woman with a familiar silhouette. There was no need to ponder. It was Sinar—the goal he was searching for.
Encrid had conversed with the Ferryman countless times. He knew the entity rarely explained anything out of kindness. Because of that, Encrid had become adept at finding clues in the briefest of exchanges.
‘Not "she," but "that."’
The Ferryman hadn't said she would be the wall. He said that would be the wall. A being like the Ferryman wouldn't make a mistake with a pronoun.
In other words, Sinar herself was not the wall.
Encrid woke from the dream immediately.
The Ferryman, having sent Encrid back to the waking world, sank into his own thoughts.
"Who made him like that? I cast a curse upon him, yet he shows no fear. Why is he so skilled at finding the loopholes in my words?"
The Ferryman, having read a portion of Encrid’s thoughts, muttered to himself. It was deeply irritating that the human had picked up on the distinction between "that" and "she."
All the Ferrymen who had met Encrid until now fell silent. Those who had gleefully tormented and pushed him in the past were the very ones who had shaped the current Encrid.
"They’ve turned him into a slick snake," the Ferryman lamented.
*
Encrid didn't care about "walls" or cryptic dreams. If he let himself be bothered by the Ferryman’s nonsense, he wouldn't be able to function. Besides, did knowing a wall existed change anything? No. He had no intention of turning back.
On the third day, they continued their trek south. As they passed through a small forest and a cluster of stones, a thunderous snoring echoed from ahead.
"Looks like some crazy bastard is sleeping in the middle of the road," Pel remarked.
Luagarne tilted her head in confusion. Regardless of who was sleeping, Encrid kept walking.
As they drew closer, they saw a creature leaning against a massive boulder. Its size defied perspective. It was a member of the race known as the red-blooded demonic beasts—a Giant.
As Encrid approached, the snoring creature’s nose twitched. It slowly opened its eyes, revealing deep blue irises. Oil practically dripped from its tangled hair; judging by the matting, it hadn't been near water for at least a fortnight.
A foul stench wafted from the creature. Bone fragments and scraps of hide were scattered around its feet.
"Belch."
The Giant let out a massive burp, sending a wave of putrid breath toward Encrid. Even while sitting, the creature was taller than Encrid.
Encrid’s gaze drifted upward. As their eyes met, the Giant spoke in a flat, humorless tone.
"Your eyes are blue."
The booming voice acted like a shockwave, vibrating through the air. Pel furrowed his brow. Encrid wasn't the only one who could smell breath worse than sheep droppings.
"Yours are blue too," Encrid replied, his tone just as dry.
"Yeah, I know. Heave-ho."
The Giant pushed himself off the boulder. The heavy rumble of the rock sliding backward testified to the creature’s immense weight and strength.
It was said that Giants didn't float; they were so dense they sank like stones. While Frok feared damage to his heart, Giants loathed water. They were fine with drinking or washing, but large bodies of standing water—lakes rather than streams—made them inexplicably uncomfortable, as if their very bones were itching.
Since there was no water nearby, the Giant seemed perfectly at ease. Showing a row of blackened teeth, he spoke again.
"What’s your name?"
"Why do you want to know?" Pel cut in.
The Giant glanced at Pel. "You wait. You’re after him." He raised a massive finger and pointed at Encrid.
"After him for what?"
"I’m going to kill him," the Giant said simply. "Then I’ll kill you."
"Kill who?" Luagarne asked.
The Giant smiled. "You’re Encrid, right?"
Encrid remained casual. "I didn't expect to meet a guest on the road. Do we know each other? Or did someone introduce us? Perhaps a recommendation from someone in a black hood holding a lamp?"
The Giant chuckled, ignoring the question. "Hey, you should’ve known when to stop acting up."
"Doesn't seem like a recommendation from anyone I know," Encrid continued, matching the Giant’s dismissive attitude. "Then how did you know I’d come this way? I’m curious about that."
"If you act up like you have, you end up meeting assassins. And if you’re really unlucky, you meet this esteemed elder."
In short, both were simply saying whatever they wanted. Then, Encrid asked, "Are you old?"
"Very."
"How old?"
"Over a hundred."
"Only?"
"You human brat..."
"A woman I know is over four hundred," Encrid countered.
The conversation was going nowhere—just two beings spouting nonsense. Yet, it strangely grated on the Giant’s nerves.
Is this bastard fearless, or does he have the strength to back it up? Is he relying on Frok? Frok isn't even a threat. Why am I even thinking about this?
The conversation, the prey’s attitude, the tone—everything was annoying. The Giant was thoroughly provoked.
"You won't die easily. I’m going to chew you up and eat you alive."
"I’ll kill you gently," Encrid replied. "Where should I wrap and send that head of yours?"
"Graaaah!"
The Giant roared at the sky. It was a monstrous shriek designed to freeze the blood of the weak. It was a technique manifested through Will, similar to the howling of certain monsters.
Encrid naturally activated his Will of Rejection to deflect the pressure.
Pel sighed and took a step back, while Luagarne retreated two steps. Then, both leaped further away to create distance. They knew from that single roar: this Giant was Knight-class.
Encrid knew it too. His sixth sense had flared the moment he saw the Giant’s posture. Gripping the hilt of his Truesilver sword, he stared back.
"Say that again," the Giant growled.
"Wrapped. Where. Nicely. Killed," Encrid repeated, teasing the Giant as if he were Rem.
The Giant hated that Encrid hadn't flinched at his roar, and he hated the insolent tone even more.
"I am Hatun, the Giant Apostle of the Demon Realm Holy Land Cult!"
Hatun reached out. He was insidious; he had hidden his weapon behind the boulder. What he pulled out was shaped like a whip, but it was a massive iron chain far too heavy for any normal human to wield.
Whoosh!
Tearing through the air, the steel whip smashed down where Encrid had been standing.
Boom!
Dirt and stone fragments erupted. The force was so immense that stones embedded in the ground were uprooted and sent flying like cannonballs.
Clang!
Pel deflected a flying boulder with his sword. It was incredibly heavy. The rock fell to the ground with a dull thud as the battle began.