Chapter 182
This type of sword was not originally a cursed sword.
Though called a specter, it wasn’t truly possessed by one.
It was more accurate to say it was part of a mental construct.
However, in the past, a certain genius magician used his spellcraft to bring an ingenious idea to life.
“Is there no way to pass down one’s skills to future generations?”
He pondered and experimented. His genius led him to realize this concept.
However, while his magical talent was extraordinary, his understanding of human nature was abysmal.
The spirit trapped in the sword existed solely for one purpose—to teach.
And in doing so, it caused every learner’s ears to bleed.
That was not a proper method of passing down knowledge.
After his failure, the magician devised a new way to transmit swordsmanship, the physical art of warriors and swordsmen.
“Swordsmanship must be passed down through generations.”
Thus, the Tutor Blade was created.
“Dolph, was it? He must have really despised his descendants.”
Ruagarne clicked her tongue, lightly smacking her cheek with it—a Frok’s expression of exasperation.
The Tutor Blade, while bordering on necromancy, did not drain blood, nor did it turn its wielder into a berserker.
What happens when you trap a human spirit within a sword?
The magician had no knowledge of humanity. He truly knew nothing.
He ground down a human’s soul, refining it into a single purpose.
Thus, the Tutor Blade contained a spirit with only one objective.
It didn’t matter if the student died repeatedly, or if their ears bled—it would continue teaching, relentlessly.
To master a single technique, one had to die dozens of times, climbing a mountain of death.
Only by surpassing the opponent with the same swordsmanship would the spirit within the Tutor Blade disappear.
So when they spoke of treasure, it likely referred to—
“Swordsmanship.”
Ruagarne blinked.
“If swordsmanship is all you gain, then fine. The body won’t die, but the mind will break. Instead of touching that sword, we should find another way to break the barrier.”
Ruagarne concluded.
Encrid glanced at the sword once before turning back to her.
“So, I have to die repeatedly to learn the swordsmanship?”
“Exactly. It’s insane. What human could endure that?”
Ruagarne smacked her cheek with her tongue again. Was that similar to how humans clicked their tongues?
“Ah, damn it. My mistake. I’m sorry.”
Krys bowed his head.
“Hah, this is crazy. We could survive at least two weeks with our remaining rations, but maybe we could dig upward or downward?”
Finn suggested, already thinking of alternatives.
Meanwhile, Esther had curled up and fallen asleep.
Even in this situation? Seriously?
Encrid looked at everyone, thinking to himself.
‘So, if I’m willing to endure dying, I can learn swordsmanship?’
“Hey… uh, that sounds broken as hell.”
It almost felt like one of those dreams where a ferryman suddenly appears and whispers cryptic nonsense.
To be honest, compared to being poisoned to death at a banquet surrounded by backstabbing nobles—
‘Isn’t this… easy?’
Encrid furrowed his brows.
Was this really all there was to it?
It seemed far too simple—when had the world ever worked like that?
No.
It couldn’t be this easy.
“What’s the chance it’s another trap?”
“Hmph, if it had a proper grip loop, maybe I could do something about it.”
Ruagarne held up her slick palm, emphasizing her difficulty in handling the sword.
Encrid reconsidered whether this was truly all there was before finally speaking.
“I’ll do it.”
“Dying repeatedly is not as easy as you think. Want me to show you what happens?”
Ruagarne snapped.
The human mind wears down easily. Sure, she knew Encrid was no ordinary man.
His skills grew rapidly, and he had glimpses of things that shouldn’t be possible.
But mortals—no matter how exceptional—experience death as absolute suffering.
Enduring it was beyond even the most hardened warriors.
“Even among priests devoted to the God of Endurance and Tribulation, nine out of ten failed.”
That was what the Tutor Blade was.
There were only a handful left across the entire continent.
And yet—one had ended up here.
To a collector, it would be a priceless antique worth mountains of gold.
‘And they turned it into a trap.’
The barrier wasn’t something just any magician could break.
Ruagarne wasn’t a mage, but she knew enough.
Just in case, she cracked her whip against the barrier—but it didn’t even leave a mark.
The situation was clear.
A deadlock.
“I’ll try again.”
Amidst all this, Krys grabbed the sword again.
“Still chasing me. Yeah, definitely a berserker.”
As easily as grabbing it, he dropped it again.
That was the essence of the Tutor Blade.
‘You can return the moment you let go.’
At any time, one could give up.
It was designed to be easy to quit. And because of that, the curse would never be broken.
To cross the threshold of death, one had to find pleasure in dying—a unique disposition few possessed.
Of course, Encrid wasn’t some kind of lunatic masochist.
But still—
‘This doesn’t seem that hard.’
It was an unavoidable thought.
He had done this before.
He briefly wondered if the ferryman would show up again, but—no.
That wasn’t happening.
“Damn it, I really thought this would be as simple as picking up a fairy tale on the roadside.”
Krys, who often became an idiot when Krong was involved, grumbled endlessly.
“Should we ration the food and hold out as long as possible? Maybe the barrier will weaken over time?”
Finn considered the practical approach.
“This was completely unexpected.”
Even Ruagarne seemed frustrated.
Scratch.
But Encrid was unfazed.
Without hesitation—he gripped the sword again.
“Enki!”
Ruagarne, uncharacteristically, raised her voice.
And then—it happened again.
Back to the swampy battlefield.
For the second time.
The moment Encrid felt the mire beneath his feet, he swung his sword.
BANG!
Encrid struck horizontally, pushing against his opponent’s blade.
The enemy’s sword seemed to retreat, only to twist mid-motion and lunge at his flank.
Encrid reacted instantly, slashing downward to intercept.
Clang.
The blades met, ringing with a crisp metallic sound.
Whoooosh.
A gust of wind blew from somewhere, pushing away the mist.
And there it was—a blue-flamed gaze within a metal-plated helm, its body clad in partial plate armor.
‘Heart of Monstrous Strength…’
It wasn’t working.
‘That’s kind of unfair, but whatever.’
It didn’t matter.
This was a mental construct, a specter’s domain—something along those lines.
He had been through this kind of thing before.
Sure, it had only been once, but how many times had he relived the same day, paying with his life just to push forward?
Because of that experience, once was enough for him.
For instance, if it was about grasping a situation, one time was all he needed.
That was why, even though this was unfamiliar, Encrid remained composed.
“Ah.”
His voice carried.
He had opened his mouth to test it, and sound came out just fine.
“Can you talk?”
The answer came in steel, not words.
Thud!
The armored swordsman kicked off the muddy ground and charged.
Whoosh.
A heavy downward slash—powerful, swift, and with a tricky trajectory.
Encrid met it with the same response.
He blocked and pushed back. The enemy reacted in the exact same way, countering with a thrust to his side.
Encrid parried the same way again.
It was like a choreographed performance—an endless repetition of mirrored movements.
And just when it seemed they would continue like that, the enemy’s blade suddenly surged upward.
No, not suddenly—this was a scripted maneuver.
A vertical slash, rising from below, aimed to pierce his chin.
Encrid bent his left knee, twisting his waist.
The blade narrowly missed, grazing his cheek and forehead.
Using the opening, Encrid counterattacked, slashing at the enemy’s waist.
Tang!
‘Even that got blocked?’
As the exchange continued, Encrid found himself entirely immersed in the fight.
He kept swinging, deflecting, and retaliating.
He tried opening the Gate of the Sixth Sense, attempting to read the enemy’s intentions—but failed.
And the price for failure—
Thrust.
A blade pierced his chest.
If Ruagarne were the one stabbed there, she’d be screaming.
And just like that—he woke up.
“Huuh.”
A dull pain spread from his heart to the rest of his body.
Dead again.
The second death.
But his body was fine. His heart pounded, the pain lingered, but he wasn’t actually dead.
So this was why it was considered unbearable?
…Actually, wasn’t this fine?
Compared to actually dying, this was way better.
“Got stabbed there?”
Ruagarne’s voice—she was right beside him. Encrid nodded as he stood.
After taking a few deep breaths, he felt completely fine. He could still move just fine—no severe injuries.
‘Grip the sword, experience death, and steal its swordsmanship.’
Why did this feel so familiar?
“Foolish. Even attempting this is foolish—unless you have a death wish…”
Ruagarne kept scolding him.
Since when had she been this naggy?
Encrid thought back to the first loop of the day.
That thrust—it had already become a part of him.
And there was Ruagarne, deep in her rant.
And that sword—the Tutor Blade, with a spirit trapped within it, wielding masterful swordsmanship.
“This is how you’re supposed to do it, right?”
Ignoring her complaints, Encrid swung his sword.
He replicated what he had observed from his opponent.
His intent was clear—training.
Ruagarne, mid-scolding, abruptly stopped talking.
She stared at him, her expression unreadable.
And then, she muttered out loud what she had been thinking.
“Did you hit your head? Were you already concussed?”
He wasn’t.
Encrid didn’t even shake his head or bother replying. He simply kept swinging, murmuring under his breath.
Something was forming in his mind—a vague trajectory.
“Wait… was it like this?”
To Ruagarne, Encrid had always been slow. Painfully slow. Sluggish.
His movements, his handling of a sword—everything about him lacked talent.
‘I’ve been personally teaching him, and this is all he’s improved?’
Ruagarne considered herself a scholar.
Not the type to sit in a library, but one who studied swordsmanship.
She had influenced the greatest sword schools of the Central Continent, shaping their techniques.
She wasn’t just an old Frok—she was one of the foremost minds in the field.
And among her talents, her ability to teach was unparalleled.
Yet even with her guidance, Encrid’s growth was painfully slow.
Of course, there were moments of confusion.
Whenever he faced an impossible crisis, he would suddenly change overnight.
No preparation, no buildup, no signs.
He just flipped a switch and became stronger.
Even for Ruagarne, he was an anomaly.
Incomprehensible. Unfathomable.
“Can’t you just watch and correct me? We’re stuck here anyway.”
His tone was casual.
Ruagarne let out a long sigh and muttered again.
“You definitely hit your head.”
“Kyah.”
Even Esther, who had been lying down nearby, nodded in agreement.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
Krys asked.
“Wait, you’re not possessed, are you?”
Finn voiced her concerns.
Encrid remained unfazed.
He kept swinging.
It wasn’t perfect. It was clumsy.
But Ruagarne saw what he was attempting.
If an opponent stood before him, he would drive them to the left before following up with a thrust.
Encrid moved accordingly.
His footwork and a few other details were still off—but he was constructing the form.
Just as Ruagarne was about to say something, Encrid spoke first.
“I should go again.”
And without hesitation, he grabbed the sword once more.
“That crazy bastard. Completely insane.”
Ruagarne was genuinely impressed.
