Chapter 784: The Moon Harboring Fire
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 784: The Moon Harboring Fire
Two eyes drifted in the void of the pitch-black sky. There was simply no other way to describe it.
The Ferryman was not on a ferryboat; he was suspended in midair. He offered no invitation to Encrid, merely stepping forward with a silent, piercing stare. In the oppressive darkness, Encrid felt an overwhelming presence bearing down on him.
Above him, one of the Ferryman’s eyes swelled until it was the size of a moon. Looking down at the knight, the Ferryman spoke through telepathy:
"Eternal suffering, writhing in agony—that is the 'today' you have chosen. Even if you escape after being bound here for centuries, can you truly say the 'you' of that time will be the same as the 'you' of now? By then, you will have already become like 'me.' Even if you do not give up, even if you do not falter, even if you do not despair... it will still happen."
As the Ferryman spoke, flakes peeled away from his eyes like scattering dust or the flaking paint of an ancient ruin, pattering down like gray hail.
Unlike his usual tone, his words carried a vibration that rattled Encrid’s entire skeleton. More than a mere threat, the Ferryman’s words felt like a prophecy—a predetermined future.
Was it his turn to tremble like a frightened child?
Or should he beg for answers, for anything, instead of being cast back into the loop?
Pain, fear, and uncertainty.
All of them coalesced into a spear that pierced Encrid’s heart. The intangible blade tore through the beating muscle and was wrenched out, trailing thick, viscous blood. It felt as though the spearhead and Encrid were bound together as one by that crimson thread.
The gray hail dissolved in midair before it could even touch his head.
Maybe calling it snow instead of hail would be more fitting.
The hallucination shattered. He woke from the dream.
The heavy air, the afterimage of pain, and the sense of reality he had adapted to after countless repetitions—he processed it all in an instant.
Returning to the waking world, Encrid slowly raised his hand. He looked as if he might clutch his chest, but his hand continued upward to sweep back his hair. Then, the words flowed out effortlessly.
"Alright."
Encrid recognized that he had met his third "today," and he completely ignored the Ferryman’s warning.
Even though those words had been deliberately cast to etch themselves into his soul, he brushed them off with ease. In truth, this was something only Encrid could do. He was beyond merely brave; his audacity had grown so immense it practically crowded out his internal organs.
But this was only right. If his will could be broken by words alone, it would have shattered and crumbled long ago.
"Crazy bastard."
Beyond the fading hallucination, the Ferryman’s phantom appeared and muttered. This time, his voice lacked its previous weight, but that was none of Encrid’s concern.
Instead, he was far too busy calculating his next move.
"We have a guest?"
It was time to begin the day's work. The moment he heard his opponent's voice, Encrid’s entire body reacted. He was erasing the lingering traces of the previous "today" with the precision of his current movements.
Encrid feigned a stumble as if his legs had given out, then whipped the horn trumpet dagger forward. His right hand swept across his chest faster than ever before.
His cloak fluttered wildly from the sudden acceleration, and from within its folds, the horn trumpet dagger wailed.
Puuu—!
The throwing weapon that Sachsen so despised flew straight toward the opponent’s forehead. The man dodged in sheer panic, but the thrower was already kicking off the ground, charging the instant the dagger left his hand.
Keeping his center of gravity low, Encrid ran as if his soles were glued to the floor. It was a charge laced with Sachsen’s soundless steps. Encrid dashed forward, drawing his sword in a fluid thrust.
Shring!
By the time the sound of the blade scraping against the scabbard echoed, the tip of his sword was already a hair’s breadth from the opponent’s throat.
The man had drawn a concealed sleeve-blade to block the horn trumpet dagger, and his right hand was only halfway through drawing the shortsword at his waist.
Encrid did not give him the time to recover.
The shortsword swept upward in a desperate attempt to intercept Duskforge’s path, but it was too slow. The blade drove straight through his throat.
Cl-cl-clink, clang.
The shortsword, rising too late, ground against Duskforge in a shower of sparks before the chipped weapon clattered to the ground.
Squulch!
As Encrid wrenched the sword from the neck bone, a pitch-black hole was left behind, from which black mist writhed and surged. Having overcome his first opponent, he pressed forward without a pause.
Chink, ting.
Sheathing Duskforge once more, Encrid cracked his neck from side to side and looked ahead.
As he walked, he noted the peculiar nature of the darkness within the passage. Despite the torch stands, the light only illuminated specific pockets. It seemed as if there were distinct, individual domains that even light could not penetrate. Observation was a habit—one learned from Sachsen and perfected through Luagarne.
Encrid memorized everything he saw, heard, and felt. For now, he didn't know if these details held meaning, but he knew this place was hostile. It was hostile because it was unknown, and because it was the creation of his enemy.
Would knowledge help? Perhaps.
Just as Sachsen had sensed, Encrid had already realized that this place was fundamentally similar to a Demon Realm.
Regardless, the fact that he had to fight and keep fighting remained unchanged. Encrid did what he had to do. He advanced through the passage and faced his next opponent.
"Hello, Donapa."
This time, he pronounced the name perfectly.
"Do you know me?"
For the current Encrid, dealing with an off-guard enemy was trivial.
Hearing his own name threw the opponent off balance. Encrid closed the distance in that split second, swinging his sword. The sky-blue light of Duskforge drew a chilling trajectory—a diagonal slash that extended into a long, continuous line. This time, he blended the techniques of Vortex with Oara’s Linking Sword.
Screeech!
Steam rose from the soles of his specially crafted boots, the friction of his high-speed movement scorching the floor.
Thud!
He delivered a single, sweeping slash that carved through the chest, the neck, the head of the ghost horse, and even the severed head held at the rider's flank. The opponent tried to counter with a massive axe, but failed.
It was only natural. This was an opponent he had defeated without much trouble even on his first attempt; this was now the third time. Encrid saw the weaknesses and gouged into them mercilessly.
Leave no openings. Create a speed and trajectory the opponent cannot hope to block.
The method for dealing with the first guard or the degenerated Dullahan, Donapa, was the same. He swung his sword, momentarily incorporating the speed variations of Will he had learned from Zaun.
Explosion of Lines.
Duskforge didn't even clash with the axe. The opponent, realizing he couldn't block the strike, didn't even try. The moment he judged the sword unavoidable, he targeted the wielder instead of the blade.
Whoosh.
The axe, swung in a final death throe, slammed vertically into the spot where Encrid had just been standing.
Thoom!
Since Encrid had already dashed past, the swing struck empty air. The strike was so powerful that the ground split wide open along the path of the blade, even as the Dullahan slipped from his ghost horse.
If I had blocked that head-on, the weight would have been troublesome.
Even in death, the power behind that strike was formidable. And that was without the creature properly gathering its strength.
In any case, that was the third opponent down. He walked through the darkness toward the light of the next torch stands. The passage was a single, linear path. At its end lay the Balrog.
Was this a path leading to death?
"Indeed," the Ferryman’s phantom agreed. It was merely an illusion, as the entity could not manifest its true self here to speak.
As Encrid advanced and faced the opponent wielding the single-edged sword, the man tilted his head.
"What is this now?"
Without a word, Encrid pounced. The battle was decided in an instant. The tactic remained the same: leave no openings and exploit every superior advantage in skill and timing.
"You cheap bastard," the man spat, his upper and lower halves already separated.
Having received that high praise, Encrid met Oara once again.
"Ah, yes, you've come."
Even as Oara spoke, Encrid’s mind was churning, drawing dozens of lines and forming geometric circles.
Can I overwhelm the opponent through pure calculation?
After two battles, he felt he had found a flaw in the Balrog, and he intended to test it.
"...It's been a while, so I'd like to chat a bit, you know," Oara said.
"Ah, yes," Encrid replied indifferently. He was lost in his own thoughts, running simulations.
"Hey, you... just be careful."
It wasn't that Encrid was being cold. He had told her everything he knew, including Roman’s story. He simply couldn't find the room to laugh with her as she reminisced.
"Yes. Let's talk after I beat down the Balrog."
His resolve was sky-high. Once again, Oara’s shadow shifted, and the Balrog manifested. Its pupils, swirling with trails of flame, locked onto Encrid with a hint of curiosity.
“Have we met before?”
Encrid paused. Was it sensing a discrepancy in the loop?
No, it was nothing like that.
It was a fact he would only learn after five more "todays" had passed, but the Balrog had spoken because of the look in Encrid’s eyes.
Within that calm, steady gaze lay a resolve as sharp as a honed blade.
Mortals who could remain composed in its presence were exceedingly rare. To meet two such mortals in such a short span of time was rarer still.
"Two" meant that, besides Encrid, it had recently encountered someone similar.
The Balrog had lived so long that counting days was meaningless. In an existence where numbers held no weight, such a mortal was a novel source of amusement. And that amusement stirred the demon's heart.
After charging forward like a runaway chariot, skipping past three opponents, and speaking with Oara just like any other "today"—
“Behold.”
It was the eighteenth "today." To Encrid, this was incredibly sudden.
Flutter.
The Balrog spread its wings and pointed to three crystals embedded in its chest. They were three glossy black stones set against its dark red skin.
"Hmm?"
Encrid tilted his head, and the Balrog found the reaction intriguing.
“These are my core. If you break all three simultaneously, you win.”
Should he ask why it was revealing its weakness? He didn't have the luxury of curiosity.
"Ah."
He simply nodded.
The corners of the Balrog’s mouth curled. Whether it was a demon of authority or not, it possessed a physical form—hands, feet, and a face capable of expression. It was capable of smiling.
“Intriguing.”
With genuine sincerity, it introduced its weapons: Salamander and Urt.
The whip, resembling a red snake, and the blade of black flame flared with massive blazes as if offering a greeting.
Fwoosh!
The Balrog spread its wings wide. Was this excitement? Perhaps. It wasn't much different from Frok puffing out his cheeks. Encrid’s broad-mindedness allowed him to accept even a demon’s wing-flapping with equanimity.
As Encrid wondered if he should return the greeting, his cloak reacted first.
Flutter!
The cloak he had received from the elf unfurled on its own, expanding to match the scale of the Balrog’s wings as it billowed behind him.
Hummmmm.
Simultaneously, Duskforge vibrated in its scabbard, letting out a resonant cry.
Though the cloak and sword seemed to act on their own, it was Encrid’s will that moved them. He gripped the hilt. The sensation of the sword and his arm becoming one brought a surge of confidence.
It felt as though he could accomplish anything. A sense of omnipotence filled him. However, he remained wary. This was an opponent he could not defeat if he allowed himself to get drunk on that feeling.
If he lost control of his emotions, his head would be incinerated by the black flame sword. He knew this from several past failures.
Shriiiing.
He drew the sword. The sky-blue light of Duskforge shone brilliantly, pushing back the darkness of the passage.
Behind the blade, his blue eyes blazed with determination before quickly dimming into a steady glow.
The fire had not gone out. Like embers that burn the longest, the blue flames within his calm gaze remained. To the Balrog, Encrid’s eyes looked like two blue moons pushing back the Red Moon.
They were moons harboring fire.
Encrid started each "today" with slight variations, counting the repetitions.
Eighteen times.
This meant he had practiced the method he discovered on his third "today" more than ten times.
Normally, it might have required hundreds of loops. For the Encrid of the past, even that wouldn't have been enough. He wouldn't have been able to think this way; his body wouldn't have kept up. But the current him was different.
Shall we begin?
Thud. He kicked off the ground, sending a pebble flying.
The goal remained: do whatever it takes to win.
He connected hundreds of mental lines between the demon and himself. The lines of attack tangled, crossing into each other’s domains.
Countless futures, just an inch ahead, overworked Encrid’s brain. His insight was pushed to its absolute limit. The Balrog swung its sword in a trajectory that matched his predictions perfectly. The blade of black flames fell vertically.
It was a strike that seemed to bypass the laws of motion, appearing instantly. He blocked it with Duskforge, striking it aside.
Clang!
He parried the sword and engaged once more.
And then, Encrid died yet again.