Chapter 311
The two men chanted the same spell.
The stream surged and formed a wall of water ahead.
When he lightly struck it with his gladius, the flow split but quickly filled again.
It was like cutting water with a sword.
The width of the water wall was barely five steps, but that wasn’t the end.
“Come forth, come forth, hear my words.”
At the other’s incantation, round lumps holding club-like shapes of water emerged beside the wall.
Their heads were smooth, their chests thick.
They had arm-like extensions, but instead of feet, sluggish currents twisted beneath them.
They were like water spirits—
Or perhaps golems made of water. Whatever they were, part of the spell world had manifested into reality.
“Stop him.”
At the mage’s command, the two legless water ghosts surged forward, churning froth beneath them.
They didn’t run; ‘“surged forward”’ was the better description.
Their bodies rose and fell like waves as they charged.
He thrust [Blazeblade].
Being a sword forged by the Elves, one might expect it to carry some magical property—
Of course, it didn’t.
[Blazeblade] was the result of fine craftsmanship, not magical intervention.
He stabbed into the water.
The spirit didn’t flinch; without hesitation, it swung its watery club connected to its arm.
Encrid retrieved [Blazeblade] and leapt aside.
Boom!
The club slammed into the ground.
The earth dented deeply.
Seeing that hollowed mark, he realized it couldn’t be taken lightly.
After a single exchange, Encrid found the answer.
‘The caster.’
There was no point in fighting the spell itself.
He had to kill the one casting it.
But the two had erected a water barrier that blocked his view and movement—
While the other two controlled the spirits to interfere.
Worse, they seemed aware they couldn’t kill him, focusing only on dragging him down.
Whenever he tried to escape, the spirits swelled and rolled toward him, making it hard to ignore.
He hadn’t even fought long before he had to face three swordsmen of House Hurrier behind him.
“Didn’t think I’d see you again today.”
Encrid muttered sincerely.
It was almost the reverse of yesterday’s actions, yet the result was the same.
“Don’t talk to him. He’s insane.”
“Don’t pull that cheap trick.”
“You know me? See me again? Feels like it’s the first time.”
All three radiated the heat of someone ready to greet him with a kiss—
Of course, not with lips, but with steel and entrails.
Encrid adjusted his grip on his sword.
His arm trembled.
He hadn’t properly rested since yesterday.
No matter how trained the body, overexertion had its limits.
‘This is rough.’
His breath caught in his chest.
His heart pounded violently.
He steadied his breathing, taking in the sight of the water ghosts, the three Hurrier swordsmen, and the group of soldiers.
There was no giving up.
No day was ever spent easily.
That was how he lived.
He resisted—and killed the two mages and three swordsmen of House Hurrier.
“Yes, this feels right. Kugh.”
The last dying swordsman coughed blood as he spoke.
Encrid had been shot in the thigh by a water arrow instead of a regular bolt or quarrel.
Without inner armor, it would have pierced his abdomen.
If there was anything worse than a quarrel, it was a water arrow—it did its job, then vanished, leaving blood to gush freely.
Had the arrow stayed lodged, it might’ve slowed the bleeding, but now the blood flowed fast.
It had struck a bad spot.
Among isolation techniques, there was one for muscle reinforcement to stop bleeding.
He applied it, but the torn vessel couldn’t be mended by muscle alone.
The blood loss made his head spin.
Still, his focus never wavered.
To the end, he stayed composed.
With the [Heart of the Beast] pounding within him, Encrid did not falter.
Adrenaline surged through him like wildfire.
“You’re wrapped in something precious.”
The surviving mage spoke.
When the man lowered his guard and closed the distance, Encrid kicked off the ground with one leg.
A limping charge—blood sprayed from his wounded thigh.
Before the drops hit the earth, Encrid was already within striking distance.
Having dropped his sword, he smashed the mage’s skull with his fist.
Crack!
“Ugh!”
The head shattered, spilling brain and blood.
No human could survive that.
It was a full-powered punch.
The enemy wasn’t even wearing a helmet.
Encrid had taken another mage as company in death—when suddenly, a spear tip flew at his back.
Squelch!
The red-hot steel ripped through his spine, tearing muscle, bone, vessels, and organs.
The pain of offering one’s body to iron never became familiar.
But he could still endure it.
“Die, monster!”
“Die.”
“Die!”
The soldiers stabbed with terror itself infused in their blades.
Madness gleamed in their eyes—
Eyes cornered to the edge of despair.
Encrid was calm.
No scream. No groan. He died silently.
To be honest, he didn’t even have the strength to exhale one last breath.
And so, he died.
You never grow used to the pain of death.
‘Haa.’
With one deep breath, he pushed aside the pain of another day.
There was no dream.
The ferryman did not appear.
It was simply the start of his third “today.”
And on that third day, he ran down another path again.
Yet—
“Why is there a cliff here?”
He hadn’t even climbed that high, but a sheer drop greeted him.
Would he survive if he jumped?
Only with luck—perhaps half-paralyzed.
Even that would require the goddess of fortune herself to court him.
That kind of luck would still leave him crippled.
In other words, falling meant death.
“That’s your grave.”
Behind him stood three Hurrier swordsmen, a capable mercenary, and a new shaman he hadn’t seen before.
‘Even though I came from a different route today.’
Encrid scratched his chin with his left hand, not his right.
This was strange.
Why did the result always end the same?
He fought while instinctively seeking an answer.
The third day ended with sorcery.
Encrid was struck by a technique called [Invisible Force].
Something formless had struck and shoved his body.
But that was after he’d already thrown his gladius through the skulls of Mercenary Sent, the three Hurrier swordsmen, and the last shaman.
“Fell!”
The shaman shouted, and then the gladius embedded in his head like an ornament.
Encrid fell from the cliff.
Naturally, he learned firsthand that dying from a fall was horrifying.
At first, the breath was crushed from him.
Then came the bone-shattering impact that followed.
Yet, he didn’t die easily—and so he endured agonizingly long pain.
The fourth, fifth days passed.
On the ninth day, he died again.
This time, a Hurrier swordsman dropped his sword, clinging to Encrid’s body.
That brief moment gave a mercenary the chance to slash his neck with a poisoned dagger.
He had exhausted himself annihilating the enemy’s heavy infantry beforehand.
His body gradually stiffened.
There was nothing he could do.
Even his [Perception of Evasion] could only carry him so far.
No man could withstand such numbers.
Twenty-five “todays” passed.
The forms of death differed, but the result stayed the same.
Every path led to a dead end.
A maze.
He was trapped.
The sky became the ceiling, the wind his prison bars, and every commander wished for his death.
By then, he had realized something.
It was an extension of what he’d discovered earlier—
Why, every time he saved the child, the outcome remained unchanged.
Even when he acted differently each time.
‘Someone’s watching and casting the scroll.’
It was the same now.
Someone outside was controlling the soldiers to kill him.
That was why every outcome was identical.
Then how was he supposed to overcome this?
He knew it was a wall—but how to cross it?
On the thirty-fourth day, the ferryman asked again.
“This time, you can answer, can’t you? Tell me, are you enjoying yourself?”
Now, he had the time to answer.
And he even felt like talking.
“A little.”
He paused for thought, then continued.
“A lot.”
The ferryman could never understand such a mind.
Encrid smiled.
It was in his nature.
When most would despair in darkness and blindness,
Encrid found joy in moving forward.
He knew that within change lay the chance to build something new.
He hadn’t figured out much yet, but that didn’t matter.
Even without answers, he could still face it with a smile.
“You truly are mad.”
Encrid received praise from the ferryman.
—
Long ago, the continent’s greatest strategist once said there are five things to weigh before a war.
First, are the hearts of the king and people aligned?
A war waged from royal greed and neglect of the people can never be welcomed.
Second, have the seasons—cold and heat—been accounted for?
Third, has the terrain been studied in detail?
Fourth, is the commander in charge truly competent?
Fifth, are the army’s structure, command chain, and supply lines solid?
In short: the ruler’s politics, the right timing, terrain understanding, command ability, and organization—five essentials.
Avnaier had focused on the third, fourth, and fifth.
The second—seasons—was already lost, for the battle began in the cold, on unfavorable ground.
The first—political will—was something to review later.
As for terrain, he reshaped disadvantageous land to his favor.
He dug out the ground here.
He set traps there.
Regarding the fourth—choosing commanders—he invested much.
“Will you bury the name of the Gray Dogs here? If not, then do what must be done.”
Proper provocation followed by future reward.
Even if the Gray Dogs fell here, they would rise anew.
Their current leader had accepted sacrifice.
He stepped forward out of loyalty and patriotism.
Avnaier used that.
And the fifth—the army’s organization—was what he paid the most attention to.
Criminals. Men with families back home.
For them, this battle was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to change their fate.
Desire and threat—two weapons that held his army together.
Encrid didn’t know exactly what Avnaier had done.
He didn’t even know the enemy commander’s name.
But he was sure of one thing—
He felt as if he stood before an unscalable cliff.
Yet Encrid remained calm.
He rose, opened his eyes, and repeated today once more.
This time, he charged straight into what he assumed was the center—only to be greeted first by Mercenary Sent.
It might’ve been the first time he met him uninjured.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Anywhere?”
“You can’t go.”
Sent clenched his jaw and raised his stance.
Behind him stood the man who had once slit his own throat with a poisoned dagger.
He still didn’t know that one’s name.
No escape came to mind this time.
The future was hazy.
The landmarks ahead had blurred again.
But—
“You’re smiling?”
Sent frowned as he saw Encrid’s face.
Who could smile at a time like this?
He doubted Encrid’s sanity.
He really was insane.
Encrid felt cornered—yet thrilled.
He couldn’t see the way forward, yet felt no frustration.
Whatever blocked his path, he would push through.
And where would that lead him?
He wouldn’t give up. He wouldn’t retreat. Even if his dream was torn to shreds, he would stitch it together and move forward.
Encrid smiled.
He had gained much already.
Hadn’t he lived through countless “todays”?
And what had he gained from them all?
Experience—enough to embrace even an uncertain future with joy.
“Kill him!”
Archers poured in from behind Sent and two mercenaries.
Sent had faced him many times before. This time, three swings would be enough.
If he could throw the gladius, two.
Should he throw it?
No, not yet.
He had to fight a long battle.
Throwing his weapon while outnumbered was foolish.
Still, since the battle had just begun, he held a steel sword glowing faintly blue.
That one—he could throw.
It was the kind of sword that broke after a few swings anyway.
Luckily, Encrid had two more blades.
He stepped forward with his left leg, drew with his right hand, and threw.
The motion was smooth—
Practice had made it so.
After countless repetitions, even death hadn’t been idle time.
Encrid had honed everything he had.
Even the art of throwing longswords—an adaptation of the dagger-throwing [Throwing Sword Technique].
Bang!
Startled by the flying sword, Sent quickly deflected it.
Encrid stomped the ground, activating [Will of the Moment].
Proof number two that he hadn’t wasted all these days.
It was the second [Will] he had mastered—born from learning the fastest sword, the ultimate strike.
He infused will into that fleeting moment and dashed.
The world blurred backward.
The muscles in his thighs bulged near to tearing from acceleration.
Blood thundered through his veins like galloping horses.
Encrid thrust [Blazeblade].
With speed and precision, the stab pierced Sent’s throat.
This day began with Sent’s death.
“Peekaboo.”
He joked as he pulled back the blade. Sent likely didn’t even hear it, but the mercenary behind him recoiled in terror.
“Crazy bastard!”
Cursing out of reflex—typical of mercenaries.
As Encrid thrust with his gladius and parried, he followed with [Blazeblade].
Using [Will of the Moment] twice, he cut down both mercenaries.
Then came the heavy infantry and the three Hurrier swordsmen.
Among the crossbowmen and archers, a few Elves were present too.
Some of them shot frighteningly well—
Aiming precisely for the moments his movement ended.
They targeted the breath between motions.
It wasn’t the first time.
Encrid endured.
Longer than before—each repetition lengthened his survival.
Through fifty repetitions of “today,” Encrid fully mastered [Will of the Moment].
He refined his swordsmanship even further.
After the [Snake Step], he devised a second style.
‘Should I call it the Stabbing Sword?’
His naming sense was still terrible.
To stab and end it—[Stabbing Sword], really?
After reflecting through battle after battle, he renamed it.
‘Lightning Flash.’
A sword like lightning, a flash of the blade—much better.
[Lightning Flash]. He rolled the words in his mind.
A good name gave a technique more strength.
The Four Swords and Lightning Flash—
The Serpent Sword and the Lightning Strike. Both worked well.
Alongside swordsmanship, he learned other things through endless battles.
He improved his footing by dying in a pit filled with poisoned arrows.
He learned to cut through loose nets after dying entangled in one.
‘Maybe not thick ones yet.’
He could now slice iron even while moving.
The [Heavy Sword Style] emphasized destructive power through strength.
He incorporated that too.
Today repeated.
And continued.
And continued again.
Through one hundred and five repetitions, Encrid trained endlessly.
He polished every skill he had learned.
His techniques grew sharper, stronger.
Yet he still couldn’t escape Avnaier’s trap.
Then, on the two hundred and fifty-fifth day—
The ferryman said something unexpected.
In the previous day, he had told him to give up.
But this time, he said something else.