Chapter 181

Encrid swiftly turned his head. It was an instinctive reaction—his body moved based on his sense of evasion.

He immediately took in his surroundings, analyzing the situation.

‘Krys, stick, crate, sword?’

Encrid’s eyes caught sight of something murky seeping out from the sword embedded in the altar.

The grayish substance spread out, enveloping the surrounding space.

With a loud thud, Esther kicked off the ground, heading toward the exit—the path they had come from.

But just as she was about to escape, a gray barrier formed in front of her.

Thump!

The panther’s body bounced off the barrier and was sent flying backward. Encrid quickly reached out and caught her.

It was a movement as swift as the wind.

Encrid gently cradled the panther in his arms, scanning the surroundings while placing one hand on the grip of his sword.

The atmosphere suggested that something could jump out at any moment.

“Finn.”

At his call, Finn took position behind him.

Ruagarne secured Krys, pulling the dazed man—who was still holding his stick—backward. She, too, raised her guard.

Encrid didn’t even have the chance to check on Esther before his danger sense kicked in.

It was a unique ability that only someone who had died countless times like him could possess. And yet—

‘Huh?’

There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“…What is this?”

In that moment, he heard Krys mumbling.

Encrid turned his gaze in that direction.

“Kyah.”

Esther let out a sound, seemingly uninjured from colliding with the barrier.

After setting the panther down, Encrid approached Krys.

Krys had used his stick to pry open a crate.

Inside, instead of poison arrows, there was only dust and a small letter.

Krys unfolded it and muttered, ‘Was this already looted? Or is that bastard Dolph just insane?’

“Let me see.”

Encrid stepped closer and examined the letter.

“Only those who obtain the treasure may leave.”

“Came in through the back? Too bad, this is the only trap here.”

Fwoosh.

The sound of torches flickering filled the air as Encrid let out a low sigh.

It was almost as if he could hear the letter’s author cackling.

Dolph, that bastard, had a twisted sense of humor.

But more importantly—treasure? The crate was empty. What about the others?

As if reading his mind, Krys used his stick to open the remaining crates.

“Nothing.”

Those were empty too.

“So ‘coming in through the back’ was called ‘coming in through the rear’ in this era, huh? Damn it. What treasure?”

Krys clutched his head in frustration.

A single ancient phrase had plunged a cunning modern soldier into despair.

It was inevitable.

This was a trap laced with magic, and such methods were impossible to predict.

“Anyone would have fallen for this.”

Finn commented in agreement.

Encrid turned away from the exasperated man and looked toward the altar. A sword stood there, still firmly embedded.

Moments ago, it had been covered in moss and dust, but now, it looked different.

A faint, dark blue sheen flickered along the blade. Though the hilt remained rusted and the blade itself was blunt—

‘The color of the blade changed.’

Could it really have been maintained in a place like this? Who would maintain it? Did they plant a skeleton soldier here just to oil the blade?

It was obvious that the edge wasn’t sharp; the sword was old and worn. But for a blade to remain intact after such a long time—

That was rare.

Weapons, if not maintained, inevitably deteriorated. Most metal weapons suffered the same fate.

It was common for swords found in ancient dungeons to break with a single swing.

Time alone was enough to weaken their integrity.

For a mercenary, a weapon was their lifeline. The less confident one was in their skills, the more they relied on their weapon. Encrid had spent years taking meticulous care of his own.

So, he had an eye for swords.

And this one—though its edge was dull and its hilt was so aged it might crumble at a touch—

‘Its core is still intact.’

It was still a functional weapon. Of course, it needed maintenance, but—

This was the only thing that could be called a treasure here.

“How long ago do you think that bastard Dolph placed this here?” Encrid asked.

“At least fifty years ago.”

Krys answered in disbelief, shifting his gaze. With nothing else left, everyone’s eyes naturally landed on the sword.

A sword that had been embedded for fifty years and still remained in this condition?

If that wasn’t a treasure, then what was?

“This one’s mine.”

Krys’s frustration was short-lived. He sprang up, muttered a curse at that bastard Dolph, and stepped forward.

Honestly—

For someone with an innate talent for hiding and running away, he sure had an odd sense of responsibility when it came to dealing with his own messes.

Before anyone could stop him, Krys grabbed the sword.

And immediately let go.

“Ugh!”

He seemed startled.

Everyone turned their eyes to him in silence. Krys swallowed before speaking.

“No, but… some madman started chasing me with a sword the moment I grabbed it.”

What?

He had merely touched the hilt, yet some lunatic was already after him?

“Let me try.”

Finn stepped up. Courageous yet sometimes reckless—the definition of a ranger.

Rangers, brave yet sometimes foolhardy, always walked ahead.

Before anyone could stop her, Finn grabbed the sword—only to instantly let go.

“It’s real.”

Encrid’s gaze lingered on the sword’s grip.

“A cursed sword?”

Ruagarne muttered, glaring at the weapon. She flicked her fingers in the air before puffing her cheeks.

“A cursed sword, my ass.”

She stepped forward and placed her hand on the hilt.

Slide.

Slip.

“…Huh.”

Encrid exhaled softly.

Ruagarne tried again.

Slip.

Her hand couldn’t grasp the grip—it simply slid right off.

“Huh? I saw something for a moment.”

Frok’s skin had a naturally slick texture. That’s why they usually fashioned loops to hold their weapons.

For her, the sword’s grip was too smooth and slippery.

It didn’t even have a proper pommel at the end.

“So this is the only treasure?”

Krys muttered, glancing warily at the sword. It seemed inevitable—they had to pull it out.

“Can we trust Dolph’s words?” Encrid asked. If they deemed it a treasure and pulled it out, only for it to be a trap designed to kill them all, there would be no way out.

“Well… we kind of have to trust him, don’t we? That bastard he may be, but Dolph lived his whole life by a strict code of honor. He never told a lie. His word is pretty credible.”

A man like that, if he were to lie, the consequences would be fatal—but for now, they had no choice but to trust it.

With that thought, Encrid shook his head internally and stepped toward the sword.

Slide, slide.

Ruagarne was still attempting to grasp the sword a few more times.

“I can see it—it’s a man wielding a sword.”

Her eyes were half-open, as if concentrating.

“A cursed sword, really.”

Krys clicked his tongue, fidgeting with his fingers. They had to pull the sword out, but the moment they grabbed it, some lunatic with a sword started chasing them. Even if it was brief, it was an encounter he never wanted to have again. Just thinking about it sent a cold sweat down his back.

Ruagarne gave up trying to grasp the sword, flicking her hand as she spoke.

“It’s a cursed sword—more precisely, a sword possessed by a specter.”

A specter?

Encrid had wandered across the continent for a long time, yet he had only encountered a specter once.

A creature known as a wraith, a malevolent spirit that thrived on human fear and despair.

He had taken a request to deal with one but had been unable to interfere.

It was a village where everyone had already died and turned into spirits.

It had been horrifying.

There was nothing that a group of mercenaries armed with steel could do. They needed a priest—one who could wield divine power.

‘How much did that cost back then?’

Encrid had paid for it out of his own pocket. A job was a job, and he intended to see it through.

The absurd part was that the one who had made the request had been a ghost.

A lingering human soul that hadn’t turned into a specter—an echo of a person who couldn’t stop crying and pleading.

A young girl’s wish had been so desperate that she had disguised herself as a city beggar to issue the request.

As promised, Encrid had eliminated the specters in that village.

‘It did cost me my entire fortune, though.’

Summoning a priest capable of exorcising a specter with divine power required a massive sum of Krong.

Which meant one thing: specters were not something ordinary mercenaries could deal with.

As Encrid was lost in his thoughts, Krys muttered.

“Ah, so if I had kept holding onto it…”

Ruagarne immediately responded.

“Then it would have split your skull open.”

A chilling remark. Krys reflexively rubbed his arm. Meanwhile, Encrid casually raised his hand.

Pull the sword. Take it. Then leave. A simple premise. More than anything, he was curious.

Encrid grasped the sword’s grip.

Even without blinking, he knew his surroundings had changed.

The density of the air was different.

He was standing on swampy mud.

The kind that pulled at his feet.

And from above—something fell. A sword. A blade descending vertically.

His body reacted on instinct. Reflexively, he drew the sword and swung.

A vertical blade met a horizontal strike.

Clang!

At the moment of impact, he used sheer strength to push his opponent back.

With a heavy clang, the floating sword retreated into the mist.

Taking advantage of the recoil, Encrid stepped back, but the muddy ground made movement sluggish.

With a thud, thud, he kicked at the ground to create space.

Whoooosh.

A gust of wind swept past as the floating sword hovered in place, mist swirling behind it before dissipating.

Beyond the vanishing mist, his opponent came into view.

A knight clad in full plate armor and a helmet.

Inside the helmet—two burning blue flames in place of eyes.

‘What the hell is this?’

There was no breathing. No sound. No sense of anticipation before an attack. Nothing a living being should have.

And yet—the sword moved.

Tadang, tadang. A series of calculated strikes.

Encrid quickly realized that something felt off about his body.

‘Heart of Monstrous Strength isn’t working.’

Something had been lost. His reaction speed was roughly the same, but his body felt stiff.

More importantly, his opponent’s swordplay was disturbingly precise—structured, methodical, anticipating moves several steps ahead.

When Encrid tried to strike instinctively, his opponent redirected the attack as if it had been expected, immediately following up.

This time—a thrust.

Hup.

He inhaled sharply and pulled his body backward. He had to retreat. If he could just shift his focus back outward, he could escape.

Instinctively, he sensed a way out.

The problem was—the enemy was too close.

‘I’ll be cut down before I make it.’

It was inevitable.

Regardless of his physical abilities, the enemy seemed to anticipate his every move.

And the result—

Thud.

A gauntleted fist slammed into his abdomen.

But Encrid wasn’t just going to take it. Whoosh. He swung his sword with all his might, aiming for the enemy’s shoulder.

He had aimed for the neck, but the blow was blocked by the pauldron.

‘It saw through that.’

His next attack barely missed, but the following elbow strike connected hard with his cheekbone.

Crack.

When one experiences their neck twisting unnaturally multiple times, they eventually learn something.

At this level—he was going to die.

“Guh—”

Encrid let out a choked sound. And that was it.

He expected death.

But when he opened his eyes—he was back.

Had he escaped from an illusionary realm? Or a specter’s playground?

“Boss?”

Krys’s wide eyes were staring at him.

Finn, Ruagarne, and even Esther were there, watching.

“You okay?”

“How much time has passed?”

His throat felt parched. Encrid rubbed at his neck as he spoke.

The pain was still vivid. His throat felt uncomfortably cold, but at least it wasn’t twisted the wrong way.

All that remained was the sensation of pain and the moment of death.

“From our perspective, not even a minute.”

Encrid furrowed his brows. A rare occurrence. He had died, yet he hadn’t.

Somehow, inside that world, the fight had felt like barehanded combat.

Like he had been stripped of everything and forced to duel with just a sword.

For Encrid, it was no different from fighting with his arms and legs tied.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

At Krys’s concerned question, Encrid nodded and stared at the sword.

It hadn’t been drawn. It remained unchanged—like an aloof noblewoman. Except there was nothing inside but a hunk of metal.

“Did you lose?”

Ruagarne asked from the side.

“My neck was snapped.”

“Inside there?”

Nod.

At his confirmation, Ruagarne fell into thought.

A specter couldn’t be fought with brute force, but at the same time, it hadn’t been able to truly harm Encrid.

Just like during that old request.

So was this the same situation?

It didn’t seem like it.

It felt real. Even knowing it was an illusion, it was just like actually dying.

Having died countless times, Encrid was, in a way, an expert in death. And he knew—that was real.

Meanwhile, Ruagarne was examining the gray barrier. She traced its surface with her fingers, tapping and testing its texture.

On the other side, Esther was lazily dragging her claws across it.

“What does that panther even know?”

Finn muttered, bewildered by the sight.

‘Probably something.’

Encrid was well aware that the Lake Panther beside him was no ordinary creature.

Regardless, everyone was too busy analyzing the situation.

The answer finally came from Ruagarne. After tapping the barrier, inspecting the sword, and repeatedly attempting to grip it—despite its slippery surface—she finally spoke.

“It’s only a theory, but…”

“What is it?”

Encrid asked.

Her tone was heavy—or at least, as much as one could tell from a Frok’s voice, since reading their emotions was notoriously difficult.

Arms crossed, she continued, sounding strangely convincing.

“You have to die at least dozens of times. Only then will you be able to see something close to a ‘treasure.’”

For Encrid, that was an easy task.

But Ruagarne had no way of knowing that.