Chapter 184

If one could endure a pseudo-death, something akin to dying yet far easier than actual death—if they could just do that, then…

There existed a living textbook. One that demonstrated each movement in precise detail right before his eyes.

That was what made this worthwhile. Regardless of whether it was a cursed sword or an specter, to Encrid, at least, this was something good.

“Think about why the left foot moves outward at that moment.”

There was even a teacher meticulously analyzing the textbook.

Thus, it was only natural.

Encrid absorbed swordsmanship like a soaked cotton ball absorbing water. No—he carved it into his body first, understanding it only afterward.

He mastered Perception of Evasion through practice.

‘Does understanding even matter?’

If he couldn’t grasp it mentally, he would just let his body roll. Repeating the actions engraved them into his muscles—understanding could come later.

“You are, in every sense, insane.”

Ruagarne commented in awe. Encrid barely acknowledged it.

He was too absorbed in swordsmanship.

In truth, he was enjoying himself immensely.

What was the reason he had sought out Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship in the first place?

A thirst that had risen from within.

He had wanted real techniques, real swordsmanship—a foundation to push him forward.

“Start with the basics!”

Every teacher, every instructor—every single one who had swallowed his Krona had said the same thing.

It wasn’t that he disliked it. It wasn’t even that he thought it was bad.

It was just—

‘It’s fun.’

Like any person, he simply wanted to see what came next.

And so, Encrid continued gripping his sword, laughing.

A smile.

A bright, radiant smile—pure, untainted joy.

“To be honest, I’m starting to find you terrifying.”

Ruagarne admitted.

“I agree. It’s giving me chills.”

Finn agreed, while Krys remained unexpectedly indifferent.

“He’s always been like that. Though, yeah, this time is particularly extreme.”

Krys had seen Encrid’s madness countless times before.

Frankly, he was relieved that at least he was smiling.

Wouldn’t it be worse if he silently swung his sword until his hands were torn apart?

Holding a cursed sword, experiencing pseudo-death—Krys couldn’t even imagine doing such a thing.

‘But our squad leader could probably handle it.’

That was the thought that crossed his mind.

It was a balance of instinct and intuition.

Krys had grasped the essence of it.

As long as there was the thrill of growth, Encrid could transform the pain of death into effort.

He was enthralled—by the sword, by himself, by swordsmanship.

A sword was a tool designed to kill people.

Swordsmanship was a method to kill an opponent.

“Footwork, hips, posture—everything leads to the next movement. Think.”

Ruagarne’s words supplemented his understanding.

Encrid repeatedly thought, then swung his sword.

To obtain the ultimate textbook, he relentlessly gripped the cursed sword.

There were times he let go the moment he died, only to immediately grip it again.

After doing so hundreds of times—

The specter hesitated.

Did he see that correctly?

Was he imagining it?

The being that once charged at him relentlessly had not swung its sword immediately.

For Encrid, that was the last thing he wanted.

“Don’t do that. Let’s both do our best in our roles.”

If the spirit’s role was to torment the wielder, then it should fulfill its duty properly.

Hesitation was the last thing Encrid wanted to see.

As he genuinely wished for this, the specter resumed its purpose.

They clashed. They fought.

He trained. He learned.

He memorized. He absorbed.

He reflected. He repeated.

And then, he gripped the sword once more.

It was a cycle.

Once he knew how to properly control his body, if he could materialize what he visualized—

Then the only thing left was understanding the movements.

Thus, after memorizing entire techniques, he listened to Ruagarne’s explanations.

It had become easy.

If the creator of this cursed sword and the one who imbued it with an specter had witnessed this, they would have been furious.

But wasn’t that how the world worked?

Things never went exactly as planned.

“Good work.”

The specter’s chest was slashed open, its neck severed.

Between the mass of iron, a faint blue light flickered—as if trying to say something.

Encrid silently watched it.

Soon, the spirit spoke.

“Thank you.”

What was there to be thankful for?

The spirit began telling its story.

It was a long tale.

“Keep it short.”

Encrid didn’t want to hear it.

The spirit hesitated.

The blue light dimmed.

Forced to condense its story, the spirit summarized:

“I was captured unjustly. My swordsmanship was never completed—it was only half-finished. My lifelong wish was to find the missing half.”

For a mere swordsman to become an specter, it required sorcery.

But even before that, there had to be a deep, lingering obsession.

And that obsession was similar to Encrid’s.

One had dreamed of knighthood.

‘I lost my family’s swordsmanship.’

The other had wanted to restore lost sword techniques.

If nothing else, their desperation was alike.

Encrid nodded.

If the opportunity arose, he would do it.

But he had his own dream to chase.

He couldn’t shoulder another’s dream as well.

In its final moments, the blue light flickered, faded, and a faint human silhouette appeared.

“And let’s never meet again.”

The spirit was done.

It was exhausted.

It never wanted to see Encrid again.

And it was completely sincere.

Of course, there was no chance they would meet again.

One would disperse, disappearing far away.

The other would remain in this world.

For the former spirit, that was a relief.

“Truly, let’s never meet again.”

It repeated, just to be sure.

Encrid tilted his head.

Wasn’t it the spirit that had tormented him?

Why was it the one saying that?

“My family name is—”

The final words did not reach him.

The spirit’s presence scattered.

Everything around him collapsed.

Beyond the crumbling world, he saw familiar faces.

As he escaped the realm of the mind, the spirit within the sword vanished.

—

“We won.”

Ruagarne’s voice echoed.

Reality.

Encrid nodded.

“Was it dangerous?”

Ruagarne asked again.

Encrid shook his head.

It hadn’t been dangerous.

Once inside, all that remained was swordsmanship.

It was a battle of skill, not of power.

Victory was determined by the blade alone.

Encrid had gripped his sword well over a hundred times, but he hadn’t bothered to count.

By the time he finished, a full day and night had passed.

The gray barrier silently vanished.

As it disappeared, Esther lifted her head and glared at Encrid.

It was unmistakable—she was glaring.

She was shocked.

How?

Expelling an specter using divine power or spells was one thing.

But purging it purely through physical effort—that was an entirely different matter.

‘Even an exceptional magician would struggle to do that.’

Though she was now a panther, Esther had once possessed a spellcasting world, a witch and sorceress in her past life.

From her perspective, what Encrid had done was beyond comprehension.

Which made it all the more astonishing.

‘How is that even possible?’

The reality was simple: through sheer, relentless swordplay, the spirit had been purified—and through sharing its final wish, it had freed itself.

But there was no way for her to know that.

Still in disbelief, Esther blinked repeatedly.

Encrid noticed.

“What? You hungry?”

He waved a hand dismissively.

Esther snorted in irritation and flopped back down, deciding to brush it off as a coincidence.

Even if she tried to figure it out, she wouldn’t find an answer.

Encrid, meanwhile, found himself impressed by Esther.

For a panther, her expressiveness was remarkably vivid.

It made her interesting to observe.

Even now, when he had asked if she was hungry, her gaze shifted into something akin to disdain.

Encrid chuckled softly and sat down.

His legs weren’t trembling, but after an entire day of nonstop swordplay, coupled with mental exhaustion from pseudo-death, fatigue had built up.

To say he wasn’t tired would be a lie.

Still—

‘Krys was right after all.’

Hadn’t he compared it to picking up a fallen coin?

That was exactly how it felt to Encrid.

Except, instead of a copper, what he had picked up was gold.

He had learned a new swordsmanship technique.

How far had that advanced him?

It was difficult to gauge.

It all depended on what he used as a standard.

However, rather than arrogance, he now had a bit of self-assurance.

‘Naurilia’s soldier ranking system is meaningless.’

In the end, Rem was what he needed.

Perhaps it was time to test his axe and leave a couple of scars on his cheek.

A refreshing goal.

“Let’s rest and leave in the morning.”

Encrid said.

It seemed reasonable.

The gray barrier was gone, meaning there was no danger.

No insects, either, making this a perfect resting spot—cool but not damp.

And so, the group decided to stay the night.

—

In his sleep, Encrid dreamed.

The specter appeared once more.

“Let’s fight again.”

It said.

Encrid nodded.

Once again, he won easily.

If a battle began with an understanding of movements, and the opponent only repeated learned techniques, then there was no reason to lose.

Moreover, he had gained additional insight.

Moving the left foot outward was to prepare for a thrust after a downward slash to the crown.

Tilting the wrist at just the right moment allowed for an unpredictable strike, making it harder for the opponent to react.

Fundamentals linked to fundamentals, creating a flow—that was swordsmanship.

As he reaffirmed these thoughts, his dream shattered—

And a ferryman suddenly appeared in the void.

He said nothing.

Expressed no intent.

Yet, he looked resentful.

‘Are you… using my curse elsewhere?’

That’s what his expression seemed to say.

Encrid simply raised his right hand to his waist in a gesture of silent apology.

Then, he woke up.

Back in the cave.

A meaningless dream.

“You sure sleep soundly.”

Upon waking, Ruagarne commented.

“You didn’t sleep?”

“I did.”

She stared at him for a moment before asking—

“You really intend to become a knight, don’t you?”

There was no need for words.

Encrid nodded.

“Good.”

Ruagarne’s tone was neutral.

“But does it have to be in this country?”

Her next words carried a deeper meaning, but there was no room to press further.

Ruagarne turned away, signaling she had no intention of continuing the conversation.

What she had said wasn’t a question—it was advice.

Understanding this, Encrid didn’t press further.

‘This country…’

As a child, he hadn’t understood what a country even was.

As he grew older, he realized that knighthood bound by oaths of loyalty was different from what he had dreamed of.

So, was there another path?

For now, it wasn’t something to dwell on.

‘When the time comes, I’ll make my decision then.’

As long as he followed his convictions and walked the right path, that was all that mattered.

It was how he had always lived—whether one called it conviction or stubbornness.

“Let’s get going.”

Just as Encrid said that—

“Oh!”

Krys suddenly exclaimed.

“There’s a hidden box under this chest!”

He looked up, meeting Encrid’s gaze.

Dolph—whoever he was—was clearly a man who enjoyed toying with people.

First, he emptied the chest, distracted them with a letter, then trapped them in a dungeon with a cursed sword, only to leave treasure behind for the sharp-eyed.

“Ancient gold coins!”

A rare find.

Modern currency had long since standardized into Imperial coinage.

Imperial copper, silver, and gold coins were the basis of Krona.

That standard had been in place for over a century.

Naturally, when people referred to gold, it meant Imperial gold coins.

But these coins were older—from a time between history and legend.

They weren’t something one could simply name their price on, but if sold to the right collector, they could be worth ten times their weight in gold.

And there were over ten of them.

Each coin was as large as a palm, hardly small.

The pouch felt substantial.

“Split them.”

Encrid said.

Krys grimaced but ultimately nodded.

Even Ruagarne, who initially refused, was given her share.

“We’re taking this too, right?”

Krys asked as if it were obvious.

He was referring to the sword embedded in the ground.

Before he could even finish speaking, Encrid was already standing before it.

The madman wielding a sword had been freed—departing for another world, beyond this reality.

Now, what remained?

“That thing looks expensive.”

Krys muttered.

Encrid grasped the sword with one hand and pulled it out in one swift motion.

It was a feat of immense strength, almost superhuman.

Perhaps it was the repeated use of Heart of Monstrous Strength, but his power had noticeably increased compared to before.

The sword, once unearthed, was filthy—yet its spirit still remained intact.

With just a proper sharpening, the blade could be restored.

As he swung it a few times, he found that its balance was decent.

However, the hilt and pommel would require significant repair.

“A strength worthy of honorary Frok status.”

Ruagarne complimented him in Frok’s typical manner of speech.

“You’re going to sell that—wait, no, you’re not selling it, are you?”

Krys asked.

“I’m not selling it.”

With two of his swords already ruined, the timing was perfect.

—

With that, Encrid and his group packed their belongings and finally began their journey back.

Still, monsters and beasts remained scarce.

Perhaps it was the aftereffects of a major colony collapse, but even the usual bandits were nowhere to be found.

Finn, demonstrating remarkable recovery, occasionally challenged Encrid to spar during their travels.

Since they couldn’t engage in a full fight, they only practiced slow-paced combat movements—a battle of foresight and positioning.

However, after learning proper swordsmanship, Encrid had grown twice as seasoned.

Finn never managed to win.

And then, Ruagarne departed.

“Well, I’m off.”

“See you again.”

A simple farewell.

Krys gave a small wave, while Finn gave a half-hearted nod.

Esther barely acknowledged the departure.

Ruagarne, unbothered, simply turned away.

Watching Frok’s solitary silhouette fade into the distance, Encrid quickly dismissed any lingering sentiment and turned around.

“Gone just like that, huh?”

“Honestly, the weird part was sticking around this long.”

Krys expressed his thoughts succinctly.

“It’s that charm of yours.”

“Don’t start.”

The most irritating nickname.

Something about “charm” or “magnetism”, that kind of nonsense.

“That charm.”

Krys repeated, grinning slyly.

Encrid didn’t let it slide.

“This is an Aile Carraz-style wrist lock—you should learn it.”

With that, he twisted Krys’s wrist in a practiced motion.

“GAH!”

Krys’s scream echoed through the summer sky.

And with that, the group returned to the Border Guards without incident.

Thus, Encrid and his companions made their way back to the city.

—

Meanwhile—

The higher-ups who had dispatched a priest from the Cult of the Demon Realm, also known as the Sanctum of the Demon Sanctuary, received startling news.

“You failed?”

It was a bishop, the one overseeing the district.

He was the direct superior of the dispatched priest.

With thick golden eyebrows and an unmistakably handsome face, he was a man who easily belonged among the ranks of the strikingly attractive.

His pristine white robes, adorned with golden embroidery, only enhanced his noble appearance.

His face was frozen in disbelief as he repeated the words.

“Did a knight order intervene?”

That wasn’t the case.

“What? A squad captain? A panther?”

Upon hearing the culprits, his bewilderment only grew.