Chapter 232
Just because you’ve chosen your path and decided to walk it doesn’t mean you have to look straight ahead at all times.
Didn’t the great merchant Rengadis once say:
“Keep your eyes wide open, watch the ground, and pay attention to your surroundings. You never know where someone might have dropped a krong.”
Of course, he’s not the kind of sage who’d stoop to pick up a single coin. He was renowned enough to be called a merchant lord.
But the meaning behind his words was clear.
If you see a purse of gold coins lying on the road, you ought to pick it up.
If you’re set to camp on your journey, it’s smart to gather dry branches as you go.
If you can hit two birds with one stone, shouldn’t you throw that stone?
That’s what Encrid did.
‘Will.’
Even after setting his goal, he didn’t behave stupidly or stubbornly.
He didn’t become a racehorse that only charges forward.
On these repeating days, until the shepherd showed up in the evening, what else could he do?
Dueling, fighting, pondering.
Encrid narrowed down his tasks to those three.
He learned the basics of the Formed Sword Technique from Ragna and kept training alone.
After that, he learned more Valaf Style martial arts from Audin.
Both of them reacted similarly.
“Have you trained somewhere else before? Or have you been swinging your sword in secret all this time?”
“When did you train your martial arts like this? Brother, you make me proud.”
To each of them, Encrid just nodded roughly.
He’d been training alone, trapped in today, so it wasn’t a lie.
Honestly, he didn’t hear words like that often. Encrid usually put more weight on training than sparring.
Thinking alone, pondering, swinging his sword, moving his body.
If his mind wouldn’t work, he’d run himself ragged using the Isolation Technique.
“Are you hoping I’ll say you shouldn’t push yourself, brother?”
Did he really drive himself hard enough for Audin to worry? Encrid answered indifferently.
“Moving my body helps my mind work better.”
“That’s true. You need blood to flow to your brain if you want to think at all.”
Jaxson muttered from the side.
It was only a guess, but judging by Jaxson’s former job—or if he was still working in a similar field—he probably knew more about the human body than anyone.
“Yeah, that’s how it is.”
Encrid learned it with his body. If his brain wouldn’t work, he’d work his body.
If even that couldn’t solve his problem, he’d just sit and ponder.
After around one hundred and eighty of these repeating days,
Encrid had internalized the basics of the Formed Sword Technique, honed his Valaf Style martial arts further with Audin, and learned more about handling his senses from Jaxson.
If you have to spend the time anyway, you might as well sharpen what you have and put things in order.
That wasn’t all.
On top of swordsmanship, martial arts, and senses—
He became sharper, bolder, and more daring in what he learned from his companions and subordinates.
His senses sharpened, his concentration grew keener, and his judgment became more decisive.
But even so—
Flick!
He couldn’t always avoid the blade brushing against his skin.
A blade grazed the back of his hand and whirled away behind him. It flew like a snake, blending the principles of the Quick Sword Technique and Illusory Sword Technique.
‘Once it’s drawn, it’s hard to block.’
If you had the skill to overwhelm your opponent without getting grazed even once, you’d win without a scratch.
But for that—
‘You’d need to be a knight already.’
The opponent before him was better than that guy with the Swallow Blade.
What if it were a half-giant?
‘It’d come down to who lands the fatal blow first.’
What does it mean to gauge your opponent’s skill?
If Encrid had wanted to kill his opponent, he could’ve done so countless times already.
Not a single one of those nearly two hundred days had been wasted. That’s how he’d managed it.
But to not even get grazed—now, that was still difficult. It felt like something altogether different.
Is it really impossible unless you become a knight?
If not, you’d have to defend all night long.
He’d even tried that already.
But after midnight, it was just the same today starting over.
‘Enough with the defense.’
Dodging and blocking all day with only the Perception of Evasion led nowhere.
So, what now?
From then on, all that was left was to fight like it was real.
Encrid fought and fought again.
After getting cut, if there was time for conscious resistance, there was also plenty of time before that to make use of.
It was time to go beyond defense and evasion, to find ways to overcome the wall, to learn from his opponents, to master what he’d learned on his own.
He never got tired of it or impatient.
There was no reason to.
Every day, he was obsessed with learning something new.
Even if resisting what was within the sword felt pointless, he ignored it.
He pursued joy. Naturally, it taught Encrid a lot.
‘All this time.’
Maybe he’d learned too many odds and ends?
As he internalized each new thing, even he could tell he was becoming sturdier than before.
But he didn’t have time to get caught up in it.
Even with days repeating, every day was busy. He had things to do without rest.
Thinking, pondering, moving his body.
Anyone watching would definitely, completely think he was insane.
“What is it? What keeps you moving?”
Even the ferryman asked him that.
Why, even with today repeating, did he never just let a single day slip by?
It wasn’t that he couldn’t—it was that he wouldn’t.
Encrid was happy now.
Even if he was chasing a faded dream and flailing in the dark with no end in sight,
Even if the road was blocked and there was a wall in the way, the fact that there was light on the other side now filled him with a joy he’d never known.
Even if pain and suffering followed,
Encrid felt the joy of growth again.
He’d never thought he was stuck, but facing a chance to move forward was always a joy, always a thrill.
That happiness was what kept him moving.
Once again, after getting another cut on his wrist.
When a scratch appeared on the back of Encrid’s hand, the shepherd frowned.
He had a face that clearly showed he didn’t like what was happening.
Encrid brushed his hand with the other.
When he wiped away the blood, dark red dripped from a wound as long as two finger joints.
He’d gotten used to it by now—the kind of shriek that sounded like a banshee grabbing your earlobe, and the howl of a ghoul as if it stuffed its own skull inside its belly.
It didn’t mean it wasn’t painful, but he could keep it from showing.
That’s why his tone stayed calm.
“Does that sword have a name?”
“…Huh? Are you okay?”
The shepherd was actually surprised. This wasn’t the first time, so Encrid completely ignored his reaction.
“The sword’s name.”
He simply asked again. The shepherd bit his lip and answered.
“It’s called Hero Slayer.”
It was a sword that deserved to have a name, though he’d never heard of it before.
He still had no idea about the sword’s power or what made people die from being struck by it.
He’d tried asking about it, but never got a clear answer.
This was their first meeting today, so it wasn’t likely he’d get a straight answer even if he asked.
‘It wouldn’t have helped anyway.’
‘Will’ was something you couldn’t explain, couldn’t teach, couldn’t pass on.
Among those things, what they called baptism was almost a kind of superstition.
Just because you experienced baptism didn’t mean you’d awaken to ‘Will.’
“If a talented human is put in a life-or-death crisis, wouldn’t they realize it? So if you’re cut by a blade forged of willpower, maybe you can understand the feeling?”
That was the reasoning behind baptism as a method.
So there was no point in asking. Whatever that sword was, if you had ‘Will,’ you wouldn’t die—so they said.
That sword was something forged from ‘Will.’ So he stopped asking and just kept rolling with it—choosing to learn by experience.
“Can you forge it yourself? Can you block it?”
The shepherd asked, and Encrid shook his head. It was something he heard more often as he lasted longer against the sword.
Another repetition of today.
After that, Encrid pulled off a few tricks.
For example:
Instead of spending the whole day dodging and blocking the sword, he did things like making it so the shepherd couldn’t even draw his sword in the first place.
Tap! Thwack, thud.
He popped up from under the shepherd’s palm, swung at his nape as the shepherd dodged, then swung his hand horizontally like a blade.
The shepherd blocked that swing by ducking his chin. He was skilled in martial arts as well.
While pulling off tricks with his hands, Encrid at some point stepped on his opponent’s foot.
When his foot was stepped on, the shepherd’s hands got tangled.
He was skilled in martial arts, but it wasn’t his specialty.
This guy was a swordsman.
When the shepherd grabbed his sword’s grip, Encrid grabbed it at the same time.
He’d gotten in close—closer than dagger range—to make it work.
‘Valaf Style Martial Arts—Pommel Pinning.’
It was one of the secret techniques to keep your opponent from even drawing their sword.
It was a technique he’d learned recently and trained until it became instinct.
“…I lost.”
The shepherd, filled with competitive spirit, tried to draw his sword, but even that failed.
He’d known it would be dangerous to try, but did it anyway.
But Encrid had blocked the source itself. It was only natural to admit defeat.
“No, let’s do it again.”
But Encrid stepped back instead.
He moved back to sword range.
Shing.
Encrid drew his sword.
“It’s sharp and keen. Be careful.”
He was saying his weapon wasn’t ordinary, so the shepherd bit his lip for a moment and drew his sword.
Ting!
He drew in an instant and aimed it forward.
“Even a graze will kill you. Think of it as if it’s coated in deadly poison.”
Two moons cast two shadows. Because of the odd angle, the shepherd’s shadow looked bigger than Encrid’s.
‘How kind. Telling me not to even let it graze me.’
Encrid nodded, recognizing this as the shepherd’s repeated kindness.
It was a signal to attack, so the shepherd took his stance.
He was more cautious than ever before.
He had to be. His opponent had tied up his sword with just his fists and feet.
Now, sword faced sword, both weapons licking at each other.
Clang!
Steel struck steel and sparks flew.
He’d seen all sorts of styles—how to use swords, how to use feet—but every time Encrid faced him with a sword, it felt new.
‘He gets stronger as he fights.’
It was talent. Something Encrid didn’t have.
But just recognizing it didn’t make him jealous.
He was just pleased to see his opponent change and improve.
Every day was a new opponent on these repeating days.
So, to win without even being grazed by that sword was impossible.
Enduring until morning and winning were two different things.
He had no intention of taking a stab on purpose, but he also didn’t want to spend the whole day just enduring.
It was the same this time.
Flick.
A shallow wound, a scream starting.
Soon after, his heart stopped and his mind went blank.
It was like someone was stabbing his skull with a red-hot poker.
Excruciating pain. Pure agony. That’s how Encrid died.
Died. Died. And died again.
He died over three hundred times.
Death after death, continuing death.
Each time, he used Valaf Style martial arts to keep the sword from being drawn.
Doing it so many times naturally improved his mastery of the technique.
Of course, all of that was just extra.
‘Can’t catch it.’
In the pitch darkness he couldn’t see, Encrid became a wandering traveler who’d lost his way.
He could see a light in the distance, but he couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t approach it.
So did anything change?
Not seeing the path didn’t change anything, so Encrid just kept moving forward. He crawled, stumbled, but as long as he could move forward, he walked as a traveler, a wanderer.
“Idiot.”
That was the ferryman’s comment.
Every time he popped up, that was all he said.
Idiot.
Fool.
Blockhead.
Never a thought to whether those words might hurt.
Of course, he wasn’t hurt.
So he walked on, a fool in the autumn of today.
He picked up a fallen leaf along his path.
On a day when he was clutching that leaf and walking and walking, a light brushed his hand.
‘Die.’
A voice came through the scream.
Encrid reacted instinctively to that voice. No, it was something he’d always, truly, desperately cried out himself.
He looked calm on the outside, but inside, Encrid was thrashing and struggling.
That struggle was always the same, and in the end, it always led back to a single wish, a single longing.
‘I don’t want to.’
That’s it. I don’t want to die. I won’t die. No matter what your blade does, I won’t die.
That was what those words meant.
He died again this time, but it was a different kind of death.
The pain was the same.
“Huh? But you said you didn’t have it?”
For a while—truly, for quite a while—he endured.
How should you describe it?
Humans don’t have tails. If one suddenly grew a tail, using it would surely be difficult.
So, to use it, you’d need practice.
On a road where only black darkness fell, at the moment he realized what he had to do—
In some ways it was a matter of sensation, in some ways it was something intentional.
What is ‘willpower’?
What is ‘Will’?
‘As I wish.’
If the shepherd’s sword meant death, if the sword demanded death,
Encrid had only one thing to do.
On the four hundred eighty-fifth today,
Even after overwhelming his opponent with sword and fist, he couldn’t block the blade that grazed his shoulder.
Encrid felt a will urging him to die.
It was one-sided aggression and pressure imbued in the sword.
An intangible power that tightened his heart and burned his mind.
He could feel it so clearly that he was able to refuse.
When he couldn’t feel it, he had to die not knowing a thing, but now, because he could feel it—
Like seeing a hand coming toward him and knocking it away to show his intention.
He was able to show his will that way.
“No.”
He voiced it aloud, expressing his will.
Something he never knew before realization.
Until willpower, Will, was transformed into some intangible force, he could never have predicted it.
“Ah.”
The shepherd gasped in surprise.
Encrid shook off the “will to die” seeping in from the wound on his shoulder.
He’d simply been cut, simply muttered to himself. There was no blast of pressure, no burst of light, nothing magical happened.
And yet—
Because both he and the shepherd could sense the intangible pressure and will that those who touch the power of ‘Will’ can feel—
The shepherd knew, and Encrid knew.
Now, the shepherd’s sword could no longer be fatal to Encrid. It couldn’t harm him.
Except for its physical edge, the ‘willpower’ of that sword could no longer kill Encrid.
Encrid realized he’d shaken something off.
It was someone’s entire life, their grudge, their longing.
Someone had embedded their Will into that sword.
And he’d just shattered it.
“…Did you just realize it now?”
The shepherd was quick on the uptake.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t deny it. He even felt like being honest for once.
Not just now, but after more than four hundred days.
Of course, he couldn’t say that.
“I lost.”
The shepherd lowered his arm, the tip of his sword touching the ground.
His face was hollow, but also looked relieved.
Encrid knew that today was over.
The two moons still shone on them.
Of the long shadows, Encrid’s looked larger. It was the change of the shadows as the moons drifted by.
Encrid murmured to himself.
‘This is Will.’
It wasn’t everything. It was only a small part.
All he could do was ‘refuse.’
And yet—
“This is insane.”
He felt like he could die from happiness.
