Chapter 294

He was aboard a ferry drifting along dark waters.

A violet lamp stood still, casting a lonely glow—but the light barely extended beyond it.

Just enough to see his own hand.

Even though it was a familiar scene, today it felt especially eerie.

The Ferryman’s voice was heavier than usual.

It felt like it shook his heart and rattled his brain.

Among the words he heard, one part particularly caught Encrid’s attention.

“A path?”

Wasn’t this being supposed to enjoy watching him suffer against a wall? Why offer him anything?

“Step back and watch. Avoid it, and a path will open.”

Normally, once today passed, it would restart. In other words, evasion wasn’t a solution—he’d just loop again.

But now, he was being told to evade?

The Ferryman’s voice grew heavier and heavier.

“Avoid it.”

The resonating voice dug into his entire being.

It was like it stirred his guts.

No physical pain. It wasn’t sensory. This was the mindscape—so it wasn’t even sensory in the conventional sense.

It was psychological.

But whatever arose from the voice itself wasn’t the important part.

Encrid didn’t doubt the Ferryman.

Nor did he doubt his purpose.

The Ferryman had to keep him trapped in this repeating day.

Maybe that’s why he thought of something Audin always recited from scripture:

“Demons always come in the form of angels.”

“Avoid it.”

The Ferryman spoke again, still digging through his psyche and scrambling his thoughts.

And with that, the black river receded suddenly, and Encrid experienced that bizarre sensation again—waking while already awake—as he greeted another new today.

The Ferryman’s words stayed with him more vividly than ever.

Unlike the usual hazy dreams, this one felt more like a brainwashing.

‘Run. Turn back. Abandon just one child and you can clear this day easily. That’s more than enough.’

Alright. Encrid fully understood now.

The Ferryman was offering him an easy out.

He repeated those words over and over, and a craving began to grow—a desire to follow through.

“Do we really have to go this far?”

He let Krys’s familiar complaint drift past him. The Ferryman’s words felt right. His desire and logic were aligning on a single path.

But then—why now?

Why did his mind wander back to the child?

The kid who used to chatter away, hands on hips and chin up:

“If I ever make a famous potion, I might give you one. So be nice to me.”

Originally, [Will] should only activate in response to specific pressure: either overwhelming willpower or primal fear, like that caused by monsters.

Encrid instinctively knew this, but he still recited inwardly:

‘I refuse.’

The idea of the “easy path” still echoed in his mind. Logic told him it was correct. Instinct did too.

And yet, Encrid, limping, walked once more to the front line.

“…You’re heading out again today?”

A soldier beside him asked.

Encrid’s face was covered in small cuts.

“I’ll head out again tomorrow too.”

He replied and tossed aside his leather helmet.

Helmets narrowed his vision and dulled his senses. This time, he was going to pierce the scroll before it activated.

‘The fastest possible route.’

He plotted his path and visualized the movement that would carry it out.

A breeze brushed his cheek.

Though it was daytime, the sky was dark, and the wind carried winter’s bite.

It cut through the air, bringing with it the scent of the battlefield.

Blood. Iron. Feces. Fear. Terror. Excitement. Tension.

All of it melded into a singular sensory blend, unlocking the [Gate of the Sixth Sense].

A singular focus lit up his brain, slowing down the battlefield around him.

A child ran forward. He blocked out all surrounding noise.

No need to listen.

He fixed his eyes only on the child.

No need to see anything else.

Hearing, sight, smell, sensation—all blurred together into a single line.

Point to point.

‘I will also become a point.’

He became a single point. The child running toward him, another point.

And between those two points—the fastest line.

He bent his right knee deep, then sprang.

Even without [Will], his ruthlessly trained thigh launched him like a missile.

At the same time, he thrust his left-handed sword forward.

To the watching soldier, it seemed like the blade moved faster than Encrid’s body.

A blade tinted in blue streaked out faster than an arrow. That’s how it looked to the onlooker.

Encrid faced today faster than any previous attempt.

He saw the child’s face. The eyes. The nose. The mouth.

Overlaid with the face of the dead boy who once dreamed of becoming an herbalist.

His sword pierced near the child’s shoulder. A precise slash severed the strap holding the scroll. The parchment fluttered, glowing at the child’s chest.

Failure.

—

“You’re foolish.”

The Ferryman’s voice was flat. Emotionless.

Encrid didn’t reply. He acted as he always did. Repeating the same today.

When do people despair?

If you’re told from the start that something is impossible—it’s easier to accept.

You acknowledge the end.

But when it seems just barely within reach—only to slip away?

That’s when despair comes.

And if someone then shows you a side path, whispers of a shortcut?

The Ferryman, changed as he was, began to doubt for the first time this man before him.

Why doesn’t he give up?

Why doesn’t he break?

Why? How can he keep going?

Doubt gave rise to suspicion. That suspicion led the Ferryman to offer a second path.

It came after the eighty-sixth repeat.

“Even if you regret it, it’s too late now.”

The sudden statement made Encrid tilt his head.

Showing emotion like that in the mindscape?

Surprising—but not shocking. The man before him was full of surprises. This was nothing.

“But I am generous.”

“Generous?”

He echoed the word, showing just how firmly his will had rooted itself.

This wasn’t just the body within the dream—it was his will speaking.

His tone was irreverent, his posture casual, but it didn’t matter.

The Ferryman had expected it. He knew dancing to this man’s rhythm would only make him look ridiculous. So he ignored it and continued.

“I’ll give you one more chance.”

“Again?”

Even so, that kind of reply was irritating. The tilt of the head, the scrunch of the brow—like mocking him.

Still, the Ferryman was long past being human, so he remained calm.

Had he still been a mortal, he’d be cursing.

But he was beyond that now.

“Keep the wall’s agent from reaching you. Make them cross the river before they can approach.”

The Ferryman kept his composure. Encrid, still in the same posture, responded.

“A river?”

The Ferryman, needing no breath, sighed deeply—and banished him from the mindscape.

Once Encrid disappeared, the Ferryman finally let his true will show.

“Son of a bitch.”

A short, sharp curse—but it carried weight.

Even though he had prodded, tempted, and tried to force his will into Encrid’s mind—

‘This bastard’s still going to do things his own way.’

The Ferryman sensed Encrid would betray his intent.

Realizing that made him smile—unconsciously.

“Heh.”

His first genuine emotion since becoming the Ferryman.

Half-exasperated. Half-amused.

—

‘He’s talking nonsense again. Must be bored.’

Encrid never took the straight path. He crushed everything in his way.

Of course he ignored the offer again.

Only one thought filled his mind:

‘Can I go faster?’

He connected point to point, burned his focus, felt his eyes almost pop out of his skull.

Still, he failed.

So what was speed?

He thought he’d seen all kinds of speed—especially the “swift” from [Proper Heavy Recovery].

But the answer came suddenly, and easily.

“When I used to pick pockets, I wasn’t the fastest. But I was the best. Even if your hands are slow, you just strike when they’re not looking. What kind of idiot tries to win by being fast while they’re being watched?”

Ragna had been sparring with him to exchange the fastest sword strikes. Audin had been explaining first-move techniques from the Valaf Pressure Point Technique. But it was Krys who said that in passing.

A meaningless comment. Krys hadn’t even thought twice about it.

But the line that followed was the real kicker.

“They already know about us. This is like trying to steal a coin purse while they’re staring right at you.”

It meant the situation was bad—they needed a variable.

But Encrid didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Because Krys’s words struck like lightning.

‘Outside their field of perception.’

Speed is relative.

Once the enemy detects your intent, no matter how fast you are—it’s too slow.

If they see it coming, they’ll prepare.

“Hey, not this again. Can’t hear me? Enki? You bastard?”

Krys waved his hand and jumped around, but Encrid didn’t hear him.

He was immersed in his own world. Jaw slack, drool dripping.

But the thoughts kept flowing.

“Enough.”

Ragna dragged Krys away.

Encrid was breaking through the mental cage trapping his thoughts.

Opponent’s intent. His own intent.

Humans can communicate with just a gesture.

Misdirection developed from that. Sleight-of-hand magic tricks are rooted in this.

Even in gambling halls—it’s a common skill.

That’s what “intent” is.

‘Deceive.’

You can fool people with just your intent.

Speed only matters if it’s outside the opponent’s awareness.

Was this a duel of speed in plain sight?

No. Encrid didn’t see it that way.

To him, this wall was about saving the child or not.

That’s how he defined it.

So what he needed was [phantom swordplay] or [will-blade techniques].

Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship had many such skills.

‘Ah.’

Realization flooded in. Lightning danced inside his head.

What is speed?

It’s something performed outside the opponent’s awareness.

End it before they even see your blade.

Jaxson’s silent thrusts crossed his mind.

He added something new.

‘The instinct for evasion stems from raw reaction.’

Evasion triggers when the sixth sense is disturbed. But what if you added intent to that?

What if you gave that instinct direction?

A path he hadn’t seen before was now within reach.

Close enough to grab.

So he jammed “speed” into his brain.

No—there wasn’t only one path.

‘And if I can still be absolutely fast on top of that—’

They say if you chase two rabbits, you catch none.

But all his training, all his mistakes, all the sharpening of his left arm—everything showed him the path where both rabbits ran.

He could catch them both.

Jaxson’s training had helped.

He had practiced using the [Perception of Evasion] at close range.

Dodging flying rocks—what had that meant?

Every question needed intent.

Every training session was a journey toward results.

Encrid had only one result in mind.

‘Intent layered on instinct.’

[Perception of Evasion] is a dance of instinct. Reflexes reacting to the sixth sense.

That’s why it’s called perception—born from the instinct to protect the body.

Encrid twisted that technique.

‘Add intent.’

It could now be called an “offensive sense.”

‘Crack.’

The psychological shackle the Ferryman had embedded shattered.

A wall that had seemed within reach—yet insurmountable.

The suggestion that came at just that moment—

All of it had been a trap. A prison of temptation.

But Encrid never even stepped close to that prison.

He ignored the offer and found a new path.

‘Ah.’

At the end of his realization, another today awaited.

The battlefield waited for him.

“Today, again…”

“Pain that cannot kill me—”

He stood at the front line. A soldier beside him, about to say the same thing, was interrupted.

The soldier blinked, met his eyes, and responded.

“Makes me stronger.”

In truth, the pain that kills makes you stronger.

But this version of the chant felt more fitting today.

Encrid pushed through the cutting wind.

From the other side of the battlefield, the child wrapped in the scroll came running again.