Chapter 229
“If you get hit one more time, you really might die, you know. Still want to go?”
It wasn’t quite bedtime, but the sun had set and darkness was falling when Rem scratched at his toes and asked.
His attitude was as half-hearted as ever.
Encrid was cleaning his sword and checking his gear before washing up.
Beside him, Krys was wiping his dagger with flaxseed oil.
His touch wasn’t especially careful, but it was practiced and skillful.
He was the big-eyed multitasker.
Encrid answered casually.
“I won’t die.”
Technically, even if he did, he’d just come back to life.
He’d nearly died facing the half-blood giant.
He’d danced on the edge with Swallow Blade, too.
Even the sword of Edin Molsen’s escort was no joke. It was a real sword match—naturally, it wasn’t unusual to end up stabbed somewhere if things went sideways.
To the average person, it might look like he was desperate for death.
These spars could lead to death if you let your guard down. Normally, someone should probably try to stop him, but their captain was a truly crazy guy who enjoyed things like this.
But even so, was it really right to keep facing that ‘[pressure]’?
If you couldn’t peel it off and overcome it now, it was the same as throwing yourself off a cliff with nothing but a feather, or jumping onto a blade-sharp rock.
“It’s no different than rushing a fully armored cavalryman with nothing but a quill pen.”
Ragna chimed in, hair still damp from a recent wash, now in casual clothes.
It meant there was no point in it.
Would Audin and Jaxson’s opinions be any different?
Both said much the same as they went about their own business.
“It’s fine.”
But Encrid thought differently. Was it because he saw a way? Because he had a method to win?
No, that wasn’t it.
He just knew—whatever appeared before him, if he backed down, he wouldn’t be able to move forward again.
The [Heart of the Beast], single-minded focus, the [Blade of Perception], the [Isolation Technique]—they’d all granted him talent. But that hadn’t made Encrid a genius.
So did it change anything?
No. He could learn, he could master things, and there was much to gain. So why avoid it?
Ragna felt something stir, seeing Encrid refuse to give up.
‘[Will].’
He couldn’t wield it perfectly, but he could handle it.
But using a technique like [Pressure] was a different matter.
Even if you could use it, controlling it at will was something else entirely.
You couldn’t train or practice for it in advance.
A sharp sensation pierced near his heart.
And it was a craving he’d never felt before. Something like thirst, what others might call a drive to improve.
‘Higher.’
Ragna quietly sank into himself.
* * *
It was rest time. It was also evening—one of the nights when Esther was in human form.
Now, she spent at least a night or two each month as a human.
Esther’s eyes turned to Encrid. Or rather, she’d been watching him for some time—it was just that Encrid only now looked at her.
Her eyes were captivating—a blue lake, or perhaps a bright blue moon.
Staring with those eyes, Esther spoke.
“You’re dull.”
Encrid was used to hearing that. In some ways, he could be quick-witted and sharp, but when it came to swords and his own dreams, he was stubborn to the point of dullness.
He knew this well, so it didn’t feel like an insult.
“Can you only become human once a month?”
Encrid asked, and Esther replied that she didn’t care.
In truth, she could become human as often as she wanted during the month, but it was still more comfortable to remain a panther.
She just had a lot to do in human form.
She hadn’t forgotten about maintaining her spell world and working on the flash golem bonehead she’d acquired earlier.
A spell world, if left unattended, lost its sharpness like a blade that wasn’t often used.
“Dull, broken in the head, I’m telling you.”
Rem laughed, tapped his own head with the hand he’d just been scratching his toes with, and spoke.
Encrid neatly ignored him. It was that kind of evening. Audin was meditating, and Ragna was already lying down like he was on vacation when Vell arrived.
“Someone’s here to challenge you. What do you want to do?”
Vell coming in person at night meant the challenger was no ordinary opponent.
“People who show up at night always have something to hide.”
Krys rummaged through his belongings, looking like he’d finished maintaining his dagger and was searching for something else.
“I’ll go check.”
Whatever their motive, right now, Encrid needed a breakthrough.
A match with a new opponent—that was what a breakthrough meant for him.
The rapier knight didn’t acknowledge it, but Encrid felt his skills had grown through matches with the half-blood giant, Swallow Blade, Edin Molsen’s escort, and the rapier knight.
To others, the growth might look minor or insignificant, but it was growth all the same.
He’d refined and reviewed his sword in the process, and they’d all helped.
He believed this new match would help, too.
Vell asked if he was going alone, and he nodded without a second thought.
Nothing would happen immediately.
Rem and the others barely paid attention.
No wonder—plenty of people had shown up for matches in the night.
Some were afraid of losing face in front of a crowd and came secretly.
Others said they couldn’t show their skills in public.
Both were reasonable.
Encrid respected his opponents, as long as they were decent.
The very fact they’d come to him was enjoyable.
But it wasn’t like he accepted just anyone.
It was only natural to see those who could prove their skills. That’s what Vell was for—if she let someone through, they were worth his time.
“So what did he do to you?”
“Even though he had a sword, he just used his hands—hit me with his palm, like this. It hurt.”
Vell mimicked the opponent’s technique, but it wasn’t very convincing.
That’s when they headed for the city gate.
Thanks to the torchlight, the man’s hair looked red, but in the daylight it would probably be closer to brown.
He had a young face and long arms.
Through the insight gained from the Isolation Technique, Encrid assessed the man’s skills.
‘Long arms, good center of gravity.’
A well-balanced body and long arms—ideal for swordplay.
“I’m the Veteran you’re looking for,” Encrid said, stepping forward.
Whoosh.
A gust from behind bent the torch to one side.
Because of it, the shadows between them tangled and fell apart.
“Oh, you’re the one?”
The man’s eyes widened. Not particularly bright or clear, but there was no malice or murderous intent in them.
He looked like someone who had killed before but possessed a clear standard—a conviction, or something like it.
Of course, this was only speculation.
People couldn’t be judged by appearances alone.
There was a hint of mischief on his whole face. If Rem’s was the seasoned mischief of a devil, this was the pure mischief of a child.
“Sorry for coming so late.”
The man apologized first, bowing his head halfway.
As he did, he watched Encrid closely. A good stance.
“It’s fine.”
The man’s eyes ran over Encrid from chest to toes, then back up.
He didn’t hide his gaze as he spoke.
“You’re well trained.”
Would it be an exaggeration to say he could feel the emotion in that voice?
Apparently not.
“Where are you from?”
Encrid asked, unable to hide his anticipation.
“The Shepherds of the Wilds.”
It wasn’t a long conversation. Honestly, a trivial exchange.
Encrid had gotten used to the awkward nickname, “the Veteran.”
So many had come looking for him.
He hadn’t expected someone like this, though.
The Shepherds of the Wilds—a group famous for raising sheep in the wild, which meant they possessed ridiculous combat skills.
Some say their history and tradition stretched back before the founding of the Empire itself.
But that didn’t change anything. If anything, Encrid’s anticipation only grew.
The wilds were overrun with monsters and beasts.
To herd sheep there? Obviously, they weren’t ordinary people.
“Let’s begin.”
At Encrid’s words, the shepherd moved.
His steps were astonishingly quick.
Just as the man’s sword was about to be drawn, Encrid’s blade cut through the darkness first.
Ching! Whoosh!
Draw and cut. Heavy sword draw, an upward slash.
Through the slicing blade, Encrid saw the man’s eyes.
And at some point, there was a dagger in the man’s hand.
Encrid felt as though a line had been drawn between them.
Ping.
A low, steep sound rang out.
The dagger was fast—so fast that the moment he registered it, it was already before his nose.
Encrid pushed off with his left foot, twisting his body and leaning back.
A reflexive response.
[Perception of Evasion] activated.
Then the dagger jerked at a right angle, its path sharp.
Meanwhile, Encrid switched from a two-handed grip to a single grip on his sword.
With his free left hand, he reached for his waist, drew a black-bladed dagger, and blocked the man’s dagger—a weapon he’d taken from the Black Blade Bandits.
Clang!
Dagger met dagger, sparks flying.
In that brief instant, Encrid pulled back the sword in his right hand.
Not a slash but a scraping motion.
Instead of retreating, the man secured his distance—a range ideal for short weapons like daggers.
He slanted his dagger against Encrid’s blade, blocking the pull.
Kakakakak!
Sparks flew at close range, but neither of them so much as blinked.
They could barely catch their breath, so fierce was the moment.
It was as if only the two of them existed in the world—as if one had to kill the other to survive.
They shattered moonlight, kicked up earth, and fought cut off from everything around them.
The man’s hands sped up. Encrid’s hands and feet followed suit.
The Shepherds of the Wilds excelled at martial arts as well.
Encrid didn’t back down.
With neither side able to seize an advantage, Encrid suddenly forgot many things.
The place, the weather, the circumstances, even his opponent.
His heart pounded, hungry for a single breath. In the midst of this exchange, Encrid was lost—immersed—consumed.
It was similar to when he’d faced Mitch Hurrier before.
In a flash, Encrid grabbed the man’s outstretched elbow and unleashed the [Heart of Monstrous Strength].
Encrid hadn’t consciously planned or calculated his actions.
It all happened in the realm of instinct and sensation.
He twisted the man’s elbow, forced him to the right side of his own body, stepped forward, and caught the man’s back. Then, holding his sword horizontally, he pressed it to his opponent’s neck.
With his arm pinning the elbow, he spun the man’s body and placed the blade at his neck—a technique called the guillotine cut.
Encrid pulled without hesitation, about to claim victory by cutting the neck.
Clack!
He felt resistance against the pulling blade.
Encrid knew his sword was no ordinary weapon.
But even so, his attack was blocked.
The man had, at some point, wedged the sheathed sword at his waist between Encrid’s blade and his neck.
It looked like nothing more than a plain black rod.
“Hup!”
The shepherd let out a shout. At the same time, he rocked his body back and forth and drove his back into Encrid’s chest.
Even with the [Heart of Monstrous Strength] unleashed, Encrid was pushed back.
The man’s strength was impressive.
He spun around, and now there was murderous intent in his eyes.
Encrid, too, couldn’t back down and matched that killing intent.
From below, he swung upward again with his left foot sliding out—another heavy sword upward strike.
Strength, weight, rotation, timing—
Everything came together, and Encrid felt elation.
At the same time, the rising sword met the man’s black rod.
Bang!
It sounded like an explosion. As it happened, the sheath shattered, and a blade shot out from within.
Encrid reacted, but he couldn’t stop the sword from grazing his forehead.
Right after the cut, the man suddenly muttered and stepped back.
In that instant, Encrid’s immersion broke.
“Ah, I really shouldn’t have used that,”
the man muttered, and a moment later, Encrid caught his words.
“Damn it. I’m sorry.”
he said.
“Well…”
Encrid found himself unable to finish the sentence.
What was this?
Something seeped into his body from his forehead.
Poison?
No, it was something else.
“Uh, is there a priest nearby? If you hurry, you might survive. Ah, it’s probably already too late.”
The shepherd seemed flustered, his words all jumbled.
A terrible pain spread from Encrid’s forehead through his whole body. At the same time, somewhere, a man’s shriek rang out.
“So, this sword—if you carelessly cut someone, it’s bad… This sword severs the soul. If you can overcome it the moment you’re struck, you can live, but… looks like it’s too late.”
He rambled on, over-explaining.
Encrid couldn’t even understand, only felt something constricting his heart.
The shepherd was right.
He couldn’t grasp it all, but he caught that one thing—it was too late.
Something he couldn’t overcome with everything he’d learned slowly overtook his mind.
His vision dimmed.
He’d thought he’d experienced so much, but this was a new kind of death.
Something was rummaging through, stabbing, and splitting open his mind.
It was physical, too.
On Encrid’s forehead, black, bruise-like marks swelled up.
Still, he didn’t feel wronged.
Immersion and focus.
It had been a meaningful time.
It was hard to say whose skill was better—his or the shepherd’s.
The shepherd had fought well.
An advantage of weaponry? If this had been a real fight to the death, using whatever you had was only natural.
Of course, it was a sparring match, and they’d both gotten carried away, which led to this.
It wasn’t intentional—the cut was a reflex, and Encrid liked that. He’d done the same.
Encrid couldn’t blame his opponent.
In that last guillotine cut, he’d tried to take the man’s head too.
If he’d held back there, it would’ve been his loss.
There are moments when losing just isn’t acceptable, no matter what.
He felt that from his opponent now.
‘Why?’
It wasn’t that he didn’t care about victory, but if he could learn something, if today could be like that, he wouldn’t dwell on defeat.
If not for that, he would’ve risked everything in a life-or-death match against Swallow Blade or anyone else.
Encrid was used to pondering and reflecting.
So it was easy to understand his complicated emotions.
‘Ah.’
A flash of realization.
The man before him reminded him of the kid he’d met when he first wandered the continent.
That kid who’d put a hole in his stomach after only six months of sword training.
Of course, it wasn’t that the kid had grown up and returned, but this opponent evoked that memory.
The place, the time, the weather, all of it. Even that innocent look on the man’s face.
That’s why he hadn’t wanted to lose.
He remembered the kid who’d broken his “beginning.”
He’d set that child as his goal for a long time.
“Anyway, sorry for killing you.”
Even the man’s attitude was similar. The shepherd awkwardly bowed his head.
This guy.
He looked genuinely apologetic but also as if there was nothing to be done. The shepherd turned away, adding one last thing.
“If you survive, let’s call it my debt. I’m Pell, the shepherd.”
Then he left, seeming to know it’d be trouble to linger.
Encrid collapsed forward.
As he fell, his mind was filled with just one thought: If this wasn’t poison, then what was it?
Blackout—dead from nothing but a scratch to the forehead. Death.
Just before dying, he heard a woman’s bizarre scream and the wailing of what felt like souls rising from hell’s depths.
It was strange.
When he opened his eyes, there was the familiar black river.
The Boatman stood there, holding a violet lamp and smiling.
“Do you think knowing about it will help you overcome it?”
the Boatman asked.
Encrid answered calmly.
“Doesn’t matter if I know.”
If getting cut by that sword meant death, then he just had to avoid getting cut.
Or even if he was cut—
‘One more time.’
He wanted to experience that immersion, that moment again.
He wanted to fight the shepherd once more.
Winning or losing didn’t matter; just fighting that opponent made his whole body surge with excitement.
So Encrid was sincere.
“…Maybe I really do need to fix my broken head first?”
With those words, Encrid lost consciousness again.
And by the way, could the Boatman hear what’s said outside?
Rem’s shout about a “broken head” seemed to have reached all the way here.
Rem really was the problem.
And so, another new day.
“You really might die if you try again.”
Again, the same evening.
“Don’t care. Rem, just train Dunbakel properly.”
“…Why does it feel like you’re being rougher with me than usual?”
Rem protested, but Encrid didn’t answer.
