Chapter 8: Snake, Wine, Flower, Knife
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 8: Snake, Wine, Flower, Knife
The desire to stop dying was merely a superficial reason.
As Encrid repeated "today" over and over, a different kind of fear began to take root.
It was the fear of settling. The fear that if he let this day pass, such an opportunity would never come again—the seductive, terrifying desire to simply stop right here.
That was what truly haunted him.
Is this what I really wanted?
To settle for today was to accept a life of stagnation. A life that could never move forward.
It is human nature to long for tomorrow. This was especially true for Encrid, a man who had dared to dream of a future despite his utter lack of talent.
There was also a cold, rational reason for his restlessness.
I’ve learned everything I can here.
Continuing to train in this loop would yield diminishing returns. It was time to move toward tomorrow.
What happens if I survive?
Would this "today" finally reach its end?
He had pondered this countless times, but the answer remained elusive. He had no idea what lay beyond survival.
If I can move forward...
Then he would. Hadn't he lived his entire life with that single-minded determination?
Above all, Encrid needed certainty. He needed to know if the strength he had forged in this endless loop was enough to cut a path to tomorrow. There was only one way to find out.
The mindset of a challenger was second nature to him.
Today would be a long day. He would have to expend every ounce of experience he had accumulated.
*
"How did you do that?"
"Luck."
"Do you really expect me to believe that was just luck?"
The moment they stepped out of the gambling tent, Krais asked the question, his eyes wider than usual. The dealer who had rolled the dice was still back there, utterly dazed. He hadn't made a scene or claimed foul play—after all, his own hand had rolled the dice—but the impossibility of the streak hung heavy in the air.
Encrid strolled away leisurely. He felt no guilt; he hadn't cheated in the traditional sense. Like some low-rent prophet, he had simply known exactly which numbers the dice would spit out.
"I'll buy you a beer in town later!" a soldier called out, patting Encrid on the shoulder as he passed. He had made a tidy sum following Encrid’s lead.
"It really was just luck. I have no talent for gambling," Encrid said, turning on his heel. Krais followed closely.
"If that’s 'no talent,' then everyone with actual talent must be buried six feet under."
"Sometimes the goddess of fortune just smiles on you."
"...If she smiles on you twice like that, your pockets won't just be full—they'll burst."
As they walked, Encrid handed over seventeen silver coins.
Clink.
Krais held out his pouch, the silver rattling as it dropped inside. He gave Encrid a look that said, 'Fine, keep your secrets,' before his large eyes began to roll with a new thought.
"I figured it out."
What? Encrid asked with a glance.
Krais grinned. "You're trying to hit on the new Company Commander arriving tomorrow, aren't you? Is that why you wanted the flowers? But wait, wouldn't roses or lisianthuses be better than White Horse Flowers?"
Even setting the gambling aside, the list of items Encrid had requested must have seemed bizarre.
"...Do you really think that would work?" Encrid asked flatly.
What on earth was inside this bastard's head? Rumors were rampant that the new commander was a woman, but the idea of winning over a high-ranking officer with a bouquet of wild flowers was absurd. It wouldn't even work on a country girl.
Perhaps if you had a face like Krais’s, it might stand a chance. No, even then, it wouldn't. At best, it would be a waste of effort; at worst, it would be insubordination leading to a swift execution.
"Well, you're not bad-looking yourself if you clean up, Squad Leader."
"Do you always pry this much when I ask for a favor?"
Encrid’s glare sent a clear message: If you want to get those things before lunch, you should be running.
Krais signaled his understanding and turned to leave. He would move quickly—he had to. Encrid had run this errand several times before, and his own schedule depended entirely on Krais’s speed.
Now was the time to rest.
Encrid ate his breakfast at a measured pace. It was the standard fare: soup made with crushed barley and wheat, hard bread, and dried meat. Meat was only served once every three days, and fortunately, today was that day. In this repeating loop, he never had to worry about missing out on the protein.
He crumbled the bread into the soup to soften it. The thickened broth had a decent texture, but it was bland until he tore the dried meat into shreds and mixed it in. Only then did the seasoning taste right.
Encrid chewed thoroughly. Food was fuel. Regardless of skill, a starving soldier could never match the combat capability of one who was well-fed. The warm broth settled in his stomach, and soon, his bowl was empty.
"Taste good? How does it feel to eat while exploiting your squad member's labor?" Rem approached, grumbling.
"Delicious."
"Well, at least you're not picky. I've never seen a picky eater live long in this trade. We've got one of those in our squad, don't we?"
"For someone like that, he seems to keep coming back alive just fine."
"His time will come soon," Rem muttered, picking up his bowl and walking away to wash it.
Satisfied, Encrid pulled out an oiled cloth. He wiped down his sword with practiced care, then finished it with a dry cloth. The blade wasn't made of legendary steel, nor was it the work of a master smith, but it was serviceable. The balance was true, and the edge was sharp enough to bite through thick gambesons or boiled leather.
Having finished his maintenance, he stepped out of the tent and spotted Krais approaching, clutching a bundle.
"Big-Eyes," Encrid called out.
"Here," Krais said, handing over the goods.
Inside the bundle were five throwing knives of average quality, a scrap of well-oiled leather, and a large needle.
"I barely managed to get the deerskin gloves," Krais added as Encrid inspected the knives.
It wasn't a pair, but a single glove for the left hand. Krais handed back one silver coin.
"I charged you two coins for the glove."
The Big-Eyes bastard really did love money. Encrid could have argued for a better price, but time was more valuable than a single silver coin.
The White Horse Flowers Krais had brought were withered and dry.
"You said you weren't going to propose anyway, right? I couldn't find any fresh ones."
A total swindler. Encrid simply nodded. He hadn't expected fresh flowers in the middle of a war zone.
"But I got you twelve instead of ten."
At least he was a swindler with a conscience.
"And here." Krais held out a small pouch containing alum. He had likely planned to hide it if the deal went poorly, only to "miraculously" find it later to save face. It was a transparent trick, but Encrid didn't care. He had everything he needed.
"Good work."
"But seriously, what are you going to do with all this?" Krais asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.
"I'm thinking of doing some sewing and making some liquor."
Krais tilted his head, confused. Sewing? Liquor?
"Well, whatever."
Krais didn't press further. Encrid tucked the knives into his belt, tossed the rest of the items into his tent, and set off with long strides. His destination was already decided.
As he reached the outskirts of the camp, a sentry called out to him.
"Hey! Wait, isn't that the 444th Squad Leader? If you're looking to relieve yourself, don't go over there."
"Why not?"
"Some guy pissing over there yesterday got bitten by a snake. It’s venomous. Won't kill you, but he’s been scratching himself like a madman all day."
"It's urgent. I'll be quick."
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
The soldier let him pass, figuring that unless Encrid was incredibly unlucky, he’d be fine.
Encrid walked a short distance and surveyed the area. This was the designated latrine zone—a place of foul-smelling pits and large trees littered with dry leaves. Avoiding the stench, Encrid began to sprinkle the alum.
He found a patch of clear ground, squatted down, and picked up a fallen branch. Using a throwing knife like a saw, he carefully shaved and split the tip until it resembled a two-pronged fork. To any observer, he looked like he was merely idling, but his focus was absolute.
He didn't have to wait long. Snakes hated alum, and as the powder settled, the rustling of dry leaves signaled their retreat.
Snake hunting was a skill Encrid had picked up long ago. A good venomous snake could fetch a decent price. He remembered a jovial drunkard back in his home territory who had laughed when Encrid asked what the snakes were for.
"You've never had snake wine? If you haven't, don't even talk to me!"
Rustle.
A brown body with an angular head slithered through the leaves. Encrid pinned its neck with the split branch in a single, fluid motion—a strike infused with the precision of a spear thrust. The snake had no chance to dodge. He struck the head with the butt of his knife, knocking it unconscious.
That’s one.
He repeated the process, scattering more alum until no more snakes appeared. By the time the sun reached its zenith, he had caught five.
One by one, he gripped the snakes by their snouts and pressed them against a leather-lined canteen. Startled awake, the snakes milked their venom glands, the poison dripping steadily into the container. Once finished, he stuffed the snakes into a thick leather pouch.
"You have constipation or something? I was about to come check if you'd been bitten," the sentry said as Encrid returned.
"Thanks to you, it was a smooth release."
Encrid offered a casual reply and kept moving.
*
In the barracks directly behind Encrid’s, there was a squad leader whose mother had been a seamstress. Having inherited her knack for handiwork, the man was a master with a needle, though he had enlisted because he couldn't make a living off sewing alone.
He also happened to love alcohol more than life itself.
Encrid tossed the bundle of leather in front of the hungover man.
"What do you want?" the Sewing Squad Leader grumbled. His complexion was sallow, but his hands remained steady.
Encrid had done this before. He knew that threatening to report the man’s drinking would only result in a sloppy job. A trade was better.
"Use this to make me guards for my hands, knees, and elbows."
"Why should I?" The man frowned. They rarely spoke, and the request was out of the blue.
"You've got some hidden liquor, don't you?"
The man’s eyebrows twitched. He looked like an angry wild boar, a stark contrast to the delicate skill he possessed.
"If you brew liquor with this, the taste will be legendary."
Encrid set down the pouch of squirming snakes.
"Snakes," the man muttered without looking inside.
"Have you ever had snake wine?"
The squad leader nodded slowly.
"Then you know the taste is unforgettable."
Encrid had never tried it, but he trusted the word of that jovial drunkard. The squad leader’s eyes were now fixed on the pouch.
"I'll give you the snakes. Just make the guards for me."
"How did you even know I could sew?"
"I heard the Company Commander mention it."
A lie—the man had told Encrid himself during a drunken stupor in a previous loop.
"Damn blabbermouth," the man grumbled, but he reached for his needle. It was a fair trade.
"I'll leave it to you, then."
"Shit, fine. I'll get it done."
Encrid returned to his tent, gathered his remaining items, and headed toward the secluded spot where he usually sparred with Rem. No one bothered him. Being in the 444th Squad—the camp’s collection of outcasts—had its perks.
Behind a small hill, Encrid donned the deerskin glove and began grinding the White Horse Flowers with a stone. He worked until the white petals became a dark, murky green paste, then mixed in the snake venom.
On its own, this snake’s venom caused only severe itching. But when combined with White Horse Flowers, it became a potent paralytic. During his seventy-seventh "today," Encrid had been struck by this very mixture. He remembered the enemy soldier cackling over his paralyzed body, boasting about the recipe.
Encrid coated his throwing knives with the sticky green liquid. The blades glinted in the sun, reflecting a dull, poisonous hue.
Preparations are complete.
Clang! Clang!
"All platoons, assemble!"
A thunderous shout echoed through the barracks. Encrid knew that sound well. It was the call to arms. The battle was about to begin.