Chapter 785: Difference
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 785: Difference
A fierce lash of fire severed his ankle, followed by a strike that split his body in half, starting from the blackened shoulder where dark flames flickered.
“That was fun. See you again.”
Balrog offered his usual parting words. Though his "see you again" meant trapping Encrid within the labyrinth rather than simply repeating the day, the sentiment remained.
Even if their underlying meanings differed, they understood one another. Encrid nodded as he died. It was his answer to the promise of their next meeting. And so, it was time to face his nineteenth "today."
The fiery moon lost its luster and plummeted. The Ferryman, waiting aboard his boat, welcomed him.
"Heh... heh... heh..."
The Ferryman opened his mouth, letting out a raspy chuckle. His mouth was little more than a pitch-black void, completely devoid of a tongue. The laughter was short and dry, passing in an instant.
In the fleeting moments where the absolute darkness flickered, the Ferryman conveyed his thoughts through his Will.
“You are a prisoner of this ‘today’.”
“Does it pain you? You brought this upon yourself.”
“You will only struggle like this before fading away.”
“No flame burns forever.”
Creak. The ferryboat groaned as it rocked upon the river. The sound brushed past his ears like a phantom.
“You can never escape this place.”
The Ferryman appeared time and time again, and each time, he spoke of a predetermined future. Unlike before, Encrid could now read the intent woven into the Ferryman’s Will. It wasn't precise—it was pure intuition. He wondered if the sixth sense and instincts he had honed in reality were influencing him here, or if he had simply seen the creature so often that he had finally begun to perceive its nature.
The reason didn't particularly matter.
"Do you want me to overcome this?" Encrid asked.
Within the dark sockets of the Ferryman, dull gray orbs rolled. No, they were pupils of a color that defied simple definition.
They turned gold, then red, then blue. As they began to take on a green hue, all the colors bled together and condensed into a singular, bottomless black.
A monster's eyes were black, and the Ferryman's eyes were black. The difference was that while a monster's eyes seemed stained by darkness, the Ferryman's eyes appeared black because so many things were tangled, intertwined, and compressed within them.
“And can you?”
The Ferryman asked, and Encrid did not answer. Without even opening his mouth, the Ferryman conveyed his Will once more.
“There is a way to overcome today. If you wish to know, tell me then.”
Coercion, oppression, intimidation, restraint—there was not a shred of such intent.
A green light flickered in the two pupils set in the Ferryman's face, as if a forest were seeping into the void. It became a dark, heavy green. Compared to Sinar's vibrant light green eyes, the hue was incredibly dull, but the intent held within them was something Encrid had never seen from the Ferryman before.
It was a glimpse of pity, sympathy, and compassion.
Encrid's mind and will were always firm and upright. Even in moments like this, he knew how to steel his heart. If he didn't, he would have fallen for Sinar's jests long ago.
"…I was almost fooled," Encrid muttered, cleanly deflecting the Ferryman's intent.
The dull green in the Ferryman's eyes seemed ready to vanish instantly, but after a brief flicker, it remained heavy and steadfast.
“You truly are a madman.”
His tone was slightly different now. At first, the Ferryman had seemed like an inanimate object, and when he offered a way out, he had shown a fragment of compassion.
Perhaps because he had observed Sinar's emotional states so often, Encrid had noticed it unconsciously, but the fragment of emotion leaking from the Ferryman's words had been incredibly minute. Now, however, anger was clearly visible. To be precise, it was irritation and sheer absurdity.
He didn't know why he was remembering it now.
Back when he was scraping together Krona from any source he could find, there was a moment when he got lucky and made a fortune. It wasn't earned by selling his swordsmanship, but regardless, he had ended up with a pouch of gold coins.
At that time, Encrid had visited a fairly famous training center. The continent was teeming with monsters and demonic beasts; given the environment, it was only natural to learn how to handle a weapon from an early age.
That was why numerous training centers and academies were scattered throughout the cities. Encrid had taken his pouch of gold coins to find one of the most renowned teachers.
At first, that teacher had also advised him in a gentle tone to quit living by the sword. Encrid had let the teacher's words go in one ear and out the other, obsessing only over techniques.
"It's best to quit. Even though I act as a teacher here, on a continental scale, I'm not even strong enough to be considered a city-level powerhouse. I barely get by on my talent for teaching."
Though she spoke humbly, she was a woman who had once belonged to the escort unit of the Rengadis merchant guild. Her skills were the real deal. Encrid had wanted to learn that real deal.
"So, what do I need to do next?" Encrid’s questions never strayed far from that core.
At some point, the eyebrows of the woman who had been speaking so gently began to twitch.
"I said it's best to quit." Her speech grew shorter. "You only listen to what you want to hear, Sir Encrid. What a remarkably convenient set of ears you have."
A bit of criticism mixed in, and then…
"Do you not understand the words 'give up'?" she snapped in irritation.
He just happened to remember that moment. It felt as though she overlapped with the Ferryman now.
Looking at him with pity before turning angry—that image briefly knocked on the door of his past memories. Encrid let the sentiment drift away and merely shrugged. It was his response to the Ferryman calling him a madman.
Encrid's gesture could mean, Did you only just realize that? or it could be a question of, What does it matter? Either way, it was an expression that he wouldn't pay the slightest attention to the other's words.
“Fine. I suppose playing around in this prison called ‘today’ isn't a bad way to spend your time either.”
With those words, the dark green eyes blurred and receded. Encrid felt his body float into the air. Without him even blinking, his surroundings distorted. As he crossed the darkness, the process of opening his eyes while already having them open came to an end.
It was today once more.
The lingering aftereffects of pain faded as he conversed with the Ferryman. Because of their exchange, Encrid now lacked time to think. He had been so caught up in responding to the Ferryman's unexpected behavior that his combat review had been delayed.
The tactic he believed would succeed, even if not perfectly, had been shattered.
It wasn't that my calculations were off.
Encrid had found the best line of attack in every calculation, whereas Balrog had not. Therefore, he was the one ahead in terms of insight.
"We have a guest."
Just then, his opponent spoke to him. Encrid initially thought of cutting him down in a single blow, but believing the man wasn't a major threat anyway, he stared at him indifferently.
"Hold on a second. Let me think."
"…What?"
He couldn't care less about his opponent's bewilderment.
"If you come any closer, I'll cut you down. So wait."
Intimidation—he unleashed a manifested, formless pressure. He had fought the Demon of Struggle, a being avoided even in the Demon Realm, a whopping eighteen times. Moreover, that demon, Balrog, had tried to crush Encrid with his own Intimidation in every single fight. Only after enduring that pressure could the actual clash of swords begin.
It was a test of sorts set by Balrog. And Encrid had overcome it every single time.
In the process, the Rejection writhing and reacting within him had gradually changed. The first Will control method he had learned existed in the realm of the subconscious, but that alone made it difficult to easily shake off Balrog's Intimidation.
If the process of going from a Squire to a Knight is about using Will unconsciously…
…then becoming a Knight again meant consciously training his Will. This was one of the theories he was gradually establishing under the name of the Will control method. In this manner, he repeatedly shook off Intimidation consciously.
The form of Balrog's Intimidation was a chain of blazing fire. From the moment they faced each other, the heat felt as if it would sear his flesh, and the slightest lapse in concentration made him feel like he would be crushed to death by the pressure. Encrid would shake off those chains and unleash his own Intimidation, which was what he was doing now.
The form of his Intimidation was a wall—an incredibly thick wall whose depth could not be measured. It was a fortress wall that blocked out most pressures, a barrier that could not be breached by a mere iron skewer in hand.
Ignoring Encrid's words, his opponent took a step forward, only to freeze. The fact that he didn't visibly shudder was proof enough of his courage and skill.
However, he could not draw any closer. Facing the wall Encrid had erected, he saw the shadow of Balrog, recalling the truth that resisting the fear engraved upon one's soul was nothing short of the destiny of any intelligent being. For he would have to do so if he wished to avoid yielding and bowing his head.
But was now the time to yield? He had bowed and scraped countless times before Balrog, but not now. He began to fight against Encrid's Intimidation.
Having bought himself some time, Encrid reviewed the fight.
It wasn't important to repeatedly review the process of the fight itself. Instead, he delved deep. Rather than reviewing it over and over, he thoroughly dissected everything—the sequence of movements, his psychological state, and every detail of that single battle.
Yet, this felt like a lingering attachment. In truth, there wasn't even much to dissect.
The reality was simple and clear. Encrid caught the threads of his stray thoughts and organized them with clarity.
I was ahead in the number of possibilities.
Counting the possibilities, assessing them, and striking. The entire process resembled a system established by someone who had dealt with numbers all their life. There was no waste. The blade moving along the designated lines was elegant, the movements were precise, and the swordsmanship infused with such principles looked almost beautiful.
The blade, catching the light from moment to moment, seemed capable of splitting one of the crystals at any second.
I couldn't possibly be any further ahead than that.
The one that had mostly played along with Encrid's calculations was the flame whip called Salamander. That whip enjoyed the battle of wits as if boasting of its own sentience. Following that, Balrog swung his wings, fists, feet, and sword, moving as he pleased within the predicted picture.
At that moment, Encrid mixed in the Sword of Chance. It was a process of binding the demon, who had strayed from his calculations, back into his spiderweb. Yet, he had failed to stop Balrog even when the demon moved within the scope of his calculations.
It was different.
Balrog's swordplay was different. It was fast, heavy, and intense enough to escape his calculations and expectations in an instant.
“Behold.”
In the midst of the battle, Balrog had conveyed his thoughts through telepathy.
Encrid's eyes had naturally drawn to Balrog's right hand. It was a magic sword named Urt, a blade blazing with black flames. The flames of that magic sword erupted repeatedly as if spitting fire. Knowing already that it was a flame that would never extinguish once ignited, Encrid had evaded every single attack.
Though his bangs were singed and he had to unstrap and throw away the cloth gauntlet on his left hand, he had endured somehow. Reviewing the process of that fight would take quite a while.
It's unnecessary.
There was no point in placing meaning on the process. The outcome of the battle had not been decided by calculations.
Instead of erupting into flames, Balrog's Urt sank inward. Then, it took shape over the dark red blade.
A blade.
Instead of burning and blazing, it had been sculpted into the form of a blade. That sword could not be blocked. It was something beyond the reach of calculations.
That was what was different.
And there, Encrid saw something.
The difference.
He had seen that difference not only in Balrog but in others as well. Ragna's blade, Audin's holy armor, Rem's axe, Sachsen's thrust—it was the same difference he had felt from them.
What is different? What was different?
Having achieved a part of his past dream, he recalled those who had brought him to where he was today. He did so repeatedly, like a madman. He searched his memories, reviewing and dissecting what they had shown him back then, one by one.
"Hwah!"
His opponent had just managed to overcome Encrid's Intimidation. He drew swords from his sleeves, holding one in each hand.
"Where did a bastard like you roll in from?!" he shouted, feigning a charge before throwing two daggers.
It was clever. The technique of throwing daggers while holding swords in both hands was so impressive it was almost fascinating.
Clang! Clang!
In his right hand was Duskforge, and in his left was Penna.
Encrid faced his opponent with a sword in each hand. The fight did not last long. He subdued him before the opponent could display his specialty. Over ten repetitions had made the opponent's weaknesses appear even larger. His strengths blurred, while his weaknesses became crystal clear.
He moved forward once more. His thoughts had not yet reached a conclusion. The review was still underway.
Encrid faced yet another today, and died once more.
The dark red sword of condensed flames did not cut through everything. The blade of Will that Encrid manifested could block it.
But…
…he was overpowered. In the end, he was sliced apart.
What is different?
Twenty, thirty, forty, over fifty "todays" passed by.
Amidst days of pain and suffering, Encrid possessed the freedom of time, allowing him to conduct countless reviews.