Chapter 641: Meaning, Realization, Training
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 641: Meaning, Realization, Training
The Ferryman, stuttering and biting his tongue?
At first, Encrid wondered if it was some new kind of joke. Since Elven humor was non-existent, perhaps Ferryman-style jokes were a thing.
Of course, that wasn't the case.
His thoughts accelerated, racing toward a conclusion.
The opposite of the Walking Fire.
To cut down the Walking Fire spell, he had needed to pour every ounce of his strength into a single, decisive strike. Therefore, that could not be the answer here. In fact, it was a method he had already exhausted across the countless "todays" he had lived through so far.
Infusing his Will and slashing with all his might simply did not work.
‘Then, what about the opposite?’
Encrid’s intuition was sharper than it had ever been.
By repeating this day, he had learned, established, and internalized a vast wealth of knowledge within the realm of understanding. As a result, Encrid caught a glimpse of something beyond the scope of his current comprehension.
Just as one infers the meaning of a word by reading its context, the knowledge gained through repeated experience allowed him to look at a cause and deduce the effect. Because he could faintly see the conclusion through inference and deduction, he had said he saw a glimmer of light.
‘The Ferryman’s words are incomplete.’
It was even more cryptic because the entity only spoke using the first letters of words. Was he trying to tease him? Perhaps. A lingering anxiety remained in a corner of his mind, but if there was a method to try, it would be ridiculous not to.
He focused entirely on the present. The advice the Ferryman had thrown out was broad, so Encrid interpreted it in his own way.
‘Remember when you faced the Walking Fire.’
What followed was a review. He recalled the situation—not just the moment he acquired the technique, but the entire struggle. He dragged out, one by one, the "todays" he had repeated upon meeting the Walking Fire, his mindset back then, and his thought process at the time.
A mere graze meant death. Even a scratch meant death.
‘Then I just shouldn't get hit.’
There had been a fight where he endured, peeling away the flames layer by layer, like shedding skin.
‘Endurance.’
A memory suddenly surfaced. Someone had once specialized in this kind of fight: Liebart, the Chimera Knight serving Count Molsen. He was a man who made endurance his specialty. He was also a fellow who, despite taking the shortcut of modifying his own body, ultimately failed to reach his destination.
Fighting him had been helpful. Naturally, the memory of enduring against the Walking Fire also came to mind. The Library of Experience opened. He recalled what he had learned. Through review, he realized it through his body; he engraved the theory within his very soul.
The meaning.
‘A sword that blocks even the waves.’
The method of realization was blocking every incoming attack, and there were dozens of training methods to achieve it. Once the meaning, method of realization, and training methods were established, it could become a swordsmanship style of its own.
Now that he had realized it, it was time to execute. The preparation was complete.
Every single one of One-Killer’s attacks was fatal. Each slash went beyond a mere threat; it was bone-chilling. To block the sword of such an enemy, Encrid had to execute extraordinary parries not just dozens, but hundreds of times.
‘Choose the wrong answer, and I die.’
A thrilling tension, excitement, and ecstasy surged down his spine.
A new today began. As if it had been waiting, One-Killer swung his sword. The blades attached to his arms moved like separate entities, similar to the Valen-style Duet of mercenary swordsmanship.
Against the swords of differing tempos, Encrid raised only a single truesilver sword.
‘Calculation.’
He partitioned and perceived the incoming attacks, grasping them in chronological order. This was the realm of Insight. High-speed thought aided him in this.
His heart pounded, and blood coursed fiercely through his body. Along with it, Will—the intangible power—surged through him, lending strength to its master’s desire.
Clang!
He raised his truesilver sword and deflected a blade coming in at an angle. Without stopping, he continued to swing, connecting the trajectories. No, he had to connect them. Though he blocked a blade aiming for a gap, there was no time to breathe, let alone blink. He immediately pulled back his sword to guard his face.
A blade the length of a shortsword, protruding from the tip of One-Killer’s foot as he kicked, reached Encrid’s chin, only to be stopped by the truesilver blade.
Screeech!
Blade met blade, grinding against each other as they asserted dominance.
‘I see his intention.’
After the kick would come a chain—an unstoppable flurry of consecutive strikes. Encrid decided that an attack was necessary. He drew a Spark, robbing the bastard of his composure.
One-Killer’s compressed muscles allowed for an explosive rush, and he moved with similar speed even when retreating. This was possible because the shape of his legs changed as he fought. When pushed past a certain point, the bastard’s legs transformed into those of a beast.
By human standards, the joints looked as if they were bent backward, but in reality, they weren't. Anyone who understood the structure of an animal’s leg would know it wasn't a reverse joint, but merely an optical illusion. What humanoid races perceive as the knee of a beast's leg actually corresponds to the heel. A beast's leg is not reverse-jointed; it is standing properly.
It was an evolution designed to escape predators. For a human, it was like standing only on one's toes—a posture ready to spring forward at any moment. Once his legs transformed, the bastard’s strength more than doubled.
Boom! Boom!
The rocky ground exploded, leaving craters behind. Through them, orange light rushed in, drawing countless lines. The bastard, who had retreated, rushed forward twice as fast. As he swung both arms, his opponent was treated to a spectacular, terrifying sight.
It looked as if a shower of meteors was falling from the sky. The orange streaks of light did not just move from top to bottom; they flew in straight lines, curves, and parallel to the ground.
‘Did they say that if the Downpour of the Sword of the Four Seasons evolves, it becomes a meteor shower?’
It was similar to the Downpour sword Sinar had shown him, yet faster and fiercer. Blocking each and every one was incredibly difficult.
Encrid had to break his limits. So, he did. His body, refined through training, and his mind, heated like a blade forged in fire, shattered his boundaries and forged ahead. He had no choice; if he failed, he would be stabbed, slashed, and killed.
His eyes caught the changes in speed. It was dynamic visual acuity that surpassed human boundaries. His Will boiled over. First, it lent strength to his muscles. Then, protecting his internal organs, it swirled through his body and headed toward his brain.
Will assisted all his senses, allowing him to display an extraordinary ability far beyond the ordinary. This was why such acrobatic feats were possible.
One-Killer’s body transformed in succession. First his legs, then his arms. His arms elongated like those of a mollusk. Bone-free arms consisting only of firm muscle bent unnaturally, adding speed to the blades. Encrid saw that too, dodging, blocking, and striking back.
Blood dripped from the hand gripping his truesilver sword. Even though he wore cloth gauntlets, they did not absorb all the impact. New wounds formed over the calluses that had hardened after being torn and healed countless times.
‘It’s tough.’
But since he had no intention of giving up, he blocked the blades again and again. He lost track of time. At some point, his eyeballs felt hot, as if someone were dripping molten wax onto them.
Naturally, making countless split-second judgments led to mistakes. Blind spots were born from accumulated fatigue and repeated calculations. A blade extended by One-Killer grazed his cheek with a sharp shhhk. The elongated forearm left behind an orange afterimage.
Slash!
Encrid slashed the bastard’s arms in exchange for the scratch on his cheek, but...
‘A graze means death.’
That premise remained unchanged. It was a failure. Pain tore through his entire body, as if blades had been inserted into his very veins. When he was young, an ill-tempered old woman had frightened him, saying that if you were accidentally pricked by a needle, it would travel through your blood vessels and kill you. It felt exactly like that.
Crack!
As he faltered, the blade rising from One-Killer’s foot pierced Encrid’s head. Pain surged through him like lightning.
‘It hurts.’
Once the pain began and darkness fell, it was death. Today was over.
“Will that be the answer?”
On the undulating black river, the Ferryman holding a violet lamp asked indifferently. Encrid did not answer.
‘The opposite of the Walking Fire.’
He felt a sense of discrepancy between the Ferryman who had given the advice and the Ferryman standing before him now. A discrepancy that made them seem like entirely different people.
“I don't know either.”
“Ridiculous.”
The Ferryman spoke without a trace of laughter. Today began once more. A beginning identical to yesterday, and to all the "todays" that had passed. Using passion as his blade and willpower as his shield, he raised his sword.
“Today will be more interesting than yesterday.”
Encrid spoke words that no one else could understand.
“What are you talking about?” Sinar asked, but he couldn't answer. One-Killer had reacted to the murderous intent Encrid emitted and lunged headlong at him.
Clang!
The blades harmonized. The fight had begun anew. He calculated the variables and derived a rational answer. Encrid felt his own growth in just a single day.
He had thought that if the bastard’s limbs didn't transform, they would be evenly matched, and if they did, he would be overwhelmed...
‘But I can keep up.’
So, he did. Gritting his teeth, he continued the fight, enduring and enduring. The physical toll manifested quickly. First, tears of blood flowed as his overheated Will ruptured the capillaries in his eyes. Next was a nosebleed. As the variables to calculate increased, his brain had to spin even faster.
His brain heated up, and blood gushed from his nose. He felt his lungs shrinking and his muscles burning. In an instant, his entire body was dyed with bright red bruises.
“Dammit,” Luagarne cursed upon seeing him.
Clang!
Pel, seeing Encrid’s state, drew the Idol Slayer and prepared to fight.
‘I feel like I’ve held out as long as I can.’
Yet One-Killer didn't seem tired. He didn't even look like he could tire. If they executed ordinary slashes, knights were capable of cutting down a thousand men a day. Right now, with Will circulating through his entire body, Encrid was essentially cutting down far more than that. Moreover, he was grinding down his body within a condensed span of time.
It was no wonder his nose bled like a river bursting through a dam.
‘This is bad.’
Encrid judged that there was an error in his training method. Finishing hundreds of calculations simultaneously through high-speed thought was his only way to block a sword that changed every moment, but...
‘There is a clear limit to thought acceleration.’
Then, what should he do? Was a wall blocking his path once again?
No. Even though he looked like he might die of blood loss, Encrid planted his truesilver sword into the ground and held his position. In his sight, he saw One-Killer pulling back.
‘This bastard.’
He had thought the bastard only targeted him because he was the greatest threat.
‘Should I assume his tactical thinking is no less than mine?’
It seemed so. The bastard targeted him because he was a threat, but he was also calculating tactical efficiency. The moment he judged that Encrid’s combat capability had dropped, he took a step toward his next target. He fought in an extremely efficient and rational manner.
‘Because if he can kill me, the rest won't even be able to lift a finger.’
But if he targeted Luagarne or Pel, they would fight together. Even if they did, the outcome wouldn't change, yet the bastard didn't waste the effort. He was taking every slight advantage. Just as Encrid had done, the bastard did the same.
Demons are rational. Indeed, they are.
“It's not over yet,” Encrid spoke. Instead of responding, One-Killer pointed his sword at his next opponent: Bran, the Woodgard.
“I knew it would turn out like this.”
Sinar stood up. Creak. As she rose from the stone chair, vein-like growths fell pattering beneath it. Blood flowed from Sinar’s back. That wasn't just a regular chair.
Encrid saw his dying companions, and he saw the Elves fighting together. He witnessed Sinar standing up to resist, yet unable to fight as she once had.
And then, he died. As he lunged, gritting his teeth to overcome the pain of his ruptured muscles, One-Killer pierced a hole through his heart in a single breath.
Just like that, he died.
After a darkness where not even the Ferryman appeared, he woke up trembling, the memory of the pain still lingering.
“If high-speed thought doesn't work...”
Regardless of the pain, his mind was working perfectly. Theory, imagination, training, and experience merged, opening a new path.
Wave-Blocking Swordsmanship.
The meaning: A sword that blocks even the waves.
The method of realization: Blocking attacks.
The training method: Training one's thoughts.
How can thoughts be trained? Until now, there were two methods Encrid knew. One was thinking at high speed. The other was what he had learned upon coming to the Elven City.
‘Divide them.’
Thought Partitioning.
The enemy used both hands separately. He fought by partitioning his thoughts. He utilized his entire body. The branches of his thoughts surely weren't divided into just two. Since the bastard had absorbed the fighting style of Elven knights...
‘His innate combat instincts, with his combat thoughts replaced by those of an Elf.’
The bastard was a lethal weapon that killed with a mere graze. He had taken form to match that, and his thoughts had developed in the same manner.
Did they say that demons are the enemies of knights? He was a bastard who suited those words perfectly.
“I just have to divide them.”
Encrid’s eyes gleamed. Instead of learning despair from failure, the seeker of new paths took a step forward.
Encrid continued to repeat the day. He died and died again.
Five hundred and sixty-six "todays" passed. At some point, the Ferryman stopped appearing. Even when he did occasionally show up, his attitude was like that of a third-rate actor reciting set lines.
“Give up. You are trapped in today.”
“Do you need someone to hate? You need only hate yourself.”
In the today he repeated now, Encrid spoke to Sinar once more and received the same answer. Coincidentally, it was the same thing she had said on the very first today. Such occurrences were rare in these repeated cycles, for the future is variable. But since life is always changing, perhaps coincidence sometimes becomes a miracle.
“Then, Enki, will you save me?” Sinar asked.
“Yes, I will,” Encrid replied.
Hadn't he said that was the very reason he came all this way? His heart remained unshaken even after more than five hundred deaths. Though the blade of his will had clashed countless times, it still gleamed with a sharp, cold edge.
What he had to do was clear. High-speed thought, followed by Thought Partitioning. There was no certainty, but Encrid merely challenged it, as he always did.
One-Killer stepped forward. Looking at him, Encrid muttered to himself.
‘I’ve seen you so much I’m starting to grow fond of you, you bastard.’