Chapter 83: Heat
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 83: Heat
As the Ferryman of the Black River had once said, Encrid’s daily life was a relentless cycle of repeating the same day over and over.
His world was filled with nothing but training.
"Control. Control. Control it."
His sparring sessions with Rem focused entirely on gaining absolute mastery over his body and his sword.
Occasionally, a spine-chilling killing intent would wash over him—a trick played by Sachsen’s gaze, watching him from some hidden vantage point. Sachsen had a knack for making a person’s skin crawl and their spirit wither just by looking at them.
Even a momentary lapse in concentration felt like it would lead to certain death.
Sachsen wasn't actually attacking, but the sheer pressure he exerted with a single look was maddening. Part of the training involved locating Sachsen every time he projected that killing intent. Encrid tried to sharpen his hearing and expand his five senses to find him, but he failed every single time.
The concept of the Gate of the Sixth Sense simply wouldn't click.
"It doesn't come easily," Sachsen remarked.
Despite the lack of progress, Sachsen stubbornly repeated the exercise.
Under the grueling weight of the training, Encrid began to lose weight. Yet, no matter how exhausted he became, he never asked to stop.
"Cut it out, you sneaky wildcat. You're incredibly annoying."
"Did a mere barbarian actually feel my killing intent? I must have lacked delicacy," Sachsen retorted.
"You let it slip on purpose, yet you talk so big. My axe... where is my axe? My a-a-a-xe to split this wildcat's skull..."
Seeing Encrid wasting away, Rem would often interject on his behalf, which inevitably led to bickering. Whenever that happened, Encrid would have to stop Rem, who would be humming a tune while searching for his weapon.
"I'm doing this because I want to," Encrid would say.
"Bullshit. I'm telling you to take it easy. Take it easy!"
For someone who preached about taking it easy, Rem made sure Encrid never went a day without fresh bruises covering his body. It was the natural result of being battered by Rem’s fists and axe. Rem didn't know the meaning of "easy" either.
Encrid wondered if Rem was one to talk, but he never told him to stop.
If he hadn't tempered his body with the Isolation Technique, he probably wouldn't have lasted this long.
Audin, on the other hand, asked at every opportunity, "You can rest if it's too hard, Brother."
The man was clearly a priest of the devil, not of God.
"Rest if it's hard." "You can stop." He constantly muttered these temptations, but to Encrid, they were the whispers of a demon.
"Should I?"
If Encrid ever entertained the thought, Audin would rush him instantly.
"Then we must train your mental strength as well. Mental strength stems from physical power. This is a secret, but I'll only tell you, Brother: mental strength actually comes from muscles."
A single joke meant not only an increase in the weights he had to lift that day, but also that the Isolation Technique training and wrestling sessions became significantly more violent. The crazy priest had a hobby of tormenting people while masquerading as a devil.
Yet, Encrid didn't resent it.
Sometimes, when he felt so exhausted that he truly wanted to collapse, Audin’s devilish whispers served to snap his mind back into focus.
"I'd like to rest a bit today," Encrid would say purposefully, knowing exactly how Audin would react.
Audin would respond with a broad, predatory smile. "It seems you found the current regimen manageable, then."
Knowing it was a provocation, Audin would prepare an even more hellish training routine and shove it down Encrid’s throat.
It was grueling. Beyond grueling. No one in their right mind would call it easy.
However, the fruits of his labor were accumulating in his body more steadily than ever before. Although he still couldn't block Rem’s axe when it moved like a beam of light, he could now parry two out of three whip-like, curving strikes without losing his balance.
During his spars with Ragna, his ability to read moves improved. Where he had once been preoccupied with looking an inch ahead, he could now weave several feints together to manipulate his opponent’s reactions.
Ragna and Rem were completely different opponents, but both were vital to his growth.
The only thing that remained a total wall was Sachsen’s killing intent.
The Gate of the Sixth Sense.
How many times had he felt those goosebumps erupt across his skin? The thought of having to endure that gaze, that murderous pressure, at any given moment sent a shiver down his spine. It was horrifying—almost as much as dying and repeating the day.
He had encountered assassins twice so far. Both times had forced a regression, but he had never felt this level of killing intent from them. Was it because a well-trained assassin showed no intent at all?
Encrid recalled those encounters. The first was in the medical tent.
I heard a sound rather than felt killing intent. Was that guy just an amateur?
The second time, against the half-elf who threw the whistling daggers, he had been forced to strain his eyes, watching for the slightest twitch of a fingertip. Neither instance had involved a "sixth sense."
Before he knew it, the bitter cold of winter began to wane. It wasn't warm yet, but the weather was softening. When the snow turned to rain, it would signal the start of a new year—though the cold would linger for a while longer in this region.
Thinking of assassins naturally led his thoughts elsewhere.
They said they were persistent, but have they given up?
The Grey Dog, the special unit Azpen boasted of, were relentless bastards. He had experienced that firsthand.
Sending an assassin just to take out a single soldier.
He kept his guard up, but there was no sign of an ambush. Honestly, he wondered if he could even react if someone targeted him right now; he was too busy being tormented by Rem, Ragna, Audin, and Sachsen.
I'll manage somehow.
Now was not the time to worry about the Grey Dog.
This is a gift to my future self.
The time he poured into his body today, the agony of the training, was an investment. His future self would one day look back at today’s pain as ecstasy.
*
Mitch Hurier blew away the winter chill in the center of the sparring ground.
Steam rose from his body as he moved, his sword a blur. Mitch had forgotten the cold entirely. He envisioned only the blade, himself, and his opponent.
He swung and swung again.
As soon as he had recovered from his injuries, Mitch Hurier had become a man possessed. He wielded a training sword with a weighted blade, much heavier than a standard issue.
The sword traced several lines in the air before snapping to a halt, its tip angled upward as if to pierce the heavens. Then, veins bulging in his forearms, Mitch brought the blade down.
Whoosh—!
It was a strike that would have given any veteran warrior goosebumps. The sword drew a perfect vertical line, tracing a path perpendicular to the ground without the slightest wobble. To deliver such a strike after swinging a heavy sword for hours was astonishing.
Mitch Hurier had become a tree that grew by feeding on the soil of defeat.
He shouldn't die like that.
He had heard that while he was bedridden, an assassin had been sent after the bastard who beat him. The news had infuriated him.
But the assassination had failed. That pleased Mitch.
You must die by my hand. And on the battlefield, at that.
Ever since his defeat by the soldier named Encrid, surpassing him had become Mitch Hurier’s reason for living.
"It is good to see, yet also painful to watch."
His father had sternly rebuked him. A madman obsessed with the sword was hardly the heir the clan head desired. But what did that matter? Compared to sending assassins under the name of the Grey Dog for the sake of "family honor," Mitch felt his path was far healthier.
Mitch smiled, anticipating the day he would meet the man who had stabbed him. It wasn't a vain delusion. Azpen was gathering a massive army, fueled by the sting of their previous defeat.
See you on the battlefield.
The opponent's face remained vivid in his memory. He would never forget it. It was the first time he had ever lost like that. Because of Encrid, Mitch had become a training addict who never left the sparring ground.
Originally, the clan had planned to send more assassins, but the Grey Dog unit commander, seeing Mitch's state, had called them off.
"If you meet him again, can you take him?"
"I will meet him. And I will kill him."
Hearing Mitch's answer, the commander dropped the matter. They would not send anyone else after that soldier.
*
"I take back what I said about you changing. I think this is more accurate," Rem said after their sparring session ended. "You've hit a plateau."
The foul-mouthed barbarian rarely spoke such blunt truths to Encrid.
"Is it a habit of yours to stop just when it seems your skills are finally improving?"
Encrid didn't argue. He understood why Rem was frustrated. It was the classic teacher’s dilemma: just as they start showing passion, the student’s growth stalls.
And it wasn't just Rem.
"It's strangely impossible for you to apply the techniques," Ragna added, her voice sharp. "Even though you mastered the basics so quickly. Usually, when someone improves that fast, we call it talent. But with you, Squad Leader, it feels like you're just dragging yourself forward by sheer will."
Audin agreed. "Brother, only training can make your body move as you think. It comes with repetition. Well, normally that's the case, but... hmm, you are a bit slow, Brother Squad Leader."
They were all saying the same thing: Encrid was running in place.
Sachsen remained silent. Encrid hadn't even grasped a clue about the Gate of the Sixth Sense yet.
It was the morning training session. The standing army lived for training; they weren't professional soldiers for nothing.
Rem, who had been engrossed in his own routine in the center of the corridor, suddenly stopped.
"Let's call it a day."
"Sure."
Rem left Encrid behind and walked into the barracks. He hadn't given up—far from it. He simply realized that simple sparring wasn't what Encrid needed anymore.
"Real combat."
At Rem's murmur, Esther raised her head. The eyes of the other squad members swept over him. Soon, Ragna, Audin, Rem, and Sachsen reached a consensus for the first time since the squad’s formation.
When Encrid entered shortly after, Sachsen grabbed his arm.
"Take a request."
"Huh?"
"It's time for real combat," Rem added. "I'd like to throw you onto a proper battlefield to see if you survive, but we can't do that right now."
They were all in agreement. Encrid was surprised by their sudden unity. Seeing even the lazy Ragna take the initiative was fascinating.
"Meow."
Esther brushed against his feet. Encrid picked up the panther.
"Actually, I was thinking the same thing."
He didn't mean he would throw his life away just to trigger a regression. However, Encrid had always tempered his sword in the fires of real combat. It was only natural to want to test his progress.
Those blessed with talent could easily leap over a plateau. But since he had no such talent, he had to learn by rolling in the dirt and blood.
If I'm blocked...
He would struggle. He would dance. He would grasp at straws as he always had. That was the only way he knew how to live.
"Go out and find a request tomorrow morning. A Demonic Beast subjugation would be best."
"I think there is one available."
Encrid had already looked into it.
"You already had something in mind," Sachsen noted.
Encrid nodded, scratching Esther’s head. "Yeah."
Sachsen had told him countless times: to open the Gate of the Sixth Sense, one had to glimpse the realm of instinct.
"Is it possible to perceive something with an invisible sense? Yes. But it's not truly 'invisible.' When a beast hunts or flees, where do you think that split-second intuition comes from? How do herbivores avoid predators they can't see?"
That was Sachsen’s definition of the sixth sense. Human senses weren't limited to the basic five. Balance, position, movement, temperature—the body was a symphony of senses. If one fought repeatedly with every sense honed like a blade, they would eventually learn to read killing intent and react through pure instinct.
"Anyone at the level of a Knight can do it. Actual Knights receive this exact training."
Encrid felt a rare touch of consideration in Sachsen’s words. It was his own way of giving encouragement.
I understand.
It was a Knight’s training. He couldn't give up.
Since beasts were the best teachers of instinct, he planned to hunt Demonic Beasts. Their killing intent would be rawer and more primal than Sachsen’s.
Of course, things didn't go exactly as planned.
*
"A request? Then take care of this first. We're incredibly short-handed."
The next morning, as Encrid was searching for a subjugation mission, the squad leader of a neighboring platoon barged in. It was a request from a local shoemaker who heard strange noises under his shop every night. He suspected an undead monster was nesting beneath the floorboards.
"If there were such a thing inside the territory, it would have caused an uproar by now," Encrid said.
"I know, I know. But a request is a request, and it counts toward our achievements. Just deal with it quickly. Please, help me out. I did some sewing for you in the past, remember?"
It was the same squad leader who had helped him with his uniform after his first regression—the one who loved his liquor. Encrid sighed and nodded. He figured he would just ease the shoemaker’s anxiety and head out to the real mission. What kind of monster would be under a shoe shop, anyway?
As he packed his gear, Sachsen watched him. "Aren't you going to the subjugation?"
"Yeah, right after this."
He could head straight to the beast hunt once this was finished. He felt like he was on the verge of grasping something—how to use his sword, his senses, and his heart.
He arrived at the shoemaker’s house.
"Look here! I finally tore up the floorboards, and there was this!"
The shoemaker was frantic. Encrid was genuinely surprised; a hole had been dug beneath the house, revealing an artificial cave.
"Wait here. I'll go take a look first."
Encrid listened intently, but heard nothing. He stepped into the hole.
It wasn't pitch black. Light filtered down from the opening, illuminating a sloping path. As he descended, he felt as if he were entering a dungeon created by a mage or a monster.
He hadn't gone far. The light from the shop was still visible behind him when he encountered a six-way fork.
"What kind of madman built this?" he muttered. It was clearly man-made.
Encrid chose the first tunnel on the left. There was no sign of life. He walked deeper.
Step. Step.
Aside from the sound of air whistling through the tunnel, there was nothing.
However...
Hum—
A tiny vibration shivered through the air.
Suddenly, a blinding light exploded right before his eyes.
BOOM!
A roar deafened him. It felt as if red-hot iron skewers had been driven into his lungs, shredding his internal organs.
His memory cut off instantly.
Morning dawned once again.
Encrid sat up, the phantom pain still echoing in his chest. He knew exactly what had happened.
I died.
The last sensation lingering in his nerves was heat. A searing, all-consuming heat.
How he had died was something he would have to find out.