Chapter 312
“I took the wrong path.”
Encrid rubbed his ear in the realm of his mind.
Did he hear that right?
“Face the wall.”
The ferryman spoke again.
Doubt came first, but regardless, the words rang clearly.
Face the wall.
Look at it properly.
What is the wall?
It was the sheer number of those blocking his way.
The quality of the troops.
The swordsmen of House Hurrier, the mercenaries, the Gray Dogs, the mages, the shamans—
Even the terrain itself.
That was the answer Encrid had reached after much thought.
‘Grow stronger and break through.’
Each time he did, another obstacle waited.
Just when he thought he’d barely escaped—
“The Gray Dogs never miss their target.”
Those bastards, more relentless than Rem, would appear before him again.
Even with their necks severed, they’d throw their bodies at him.
The arrival of the Gray Dogs, the tenacious lovers.
Once he overcame them, they too became part of “today.”
They were included now.
At first, there were Mercenary Sent and the three from House Hurrier; then came the mages, followed by the shamans, and after defeating all of them—came the Gray Dogs.
Meanwhile, the regular soldiers kept charging, again and again.
Even though the battles repeated, each “today” was different.
The order of encounters changed, and so did the way they fought.
Encrid wasn’t well-versed in strategy.
But one thing was certain.
‘Feels like I’m caught in something.’
Then what should he do?
What did he need to escape this place?
He still thought the answer lay in power.
Some days, he didn’t encounter the Gray Dogs. Other days, there were no shamans or mages.
Sometimes, he didn’t even meet Sent.
On those days, he almost missed him.
Though naturally, he met him more often than not.
“Oh, Sent, good to see you.”
“You know me?”
Valen-Style mercenary swordsmanship—good practice for his phantom sword training.
He pierced Sent’s throat with [Blazeblade], broke through the wall of men blocking his way, and then—
Died again.
And woke to another “today.”
He crawled down the cliff thinking there might be a path below, only to die again.
He threw himself into a valley stream and was thrashed by a mage.
By then, Encrid believed there were five walls in total.
The mercenary Sent and his men.
The three swordsmen of House Hurrier—he even knew their names now.
Roach, Merior, and Leblanc.
Then the four mages who summoned water spirits or shot water cannons.
Their water whips were especially dangerous.
If it caught your arm, it could slice through your guard in an instant, the rotating water current shredding everything. Even the casters would gasp from the strain.
He’d seen them grow pale from overuse.
And there was the shaman.
He mainly used the sorcery called [Invisible Force], which wasn’t too hard to handle.
Invisible didn’t mean without presence.
He could sense it and dodge through [Perception of Evasion].
Still, the shaman’s tricks were irritating—
Sticky ground as if coated with glue, and other annoyances.
To make matters worse, the shamans always came with heavily armored spearmen, making them troublesome foes.
Lastly, there were the Gray Dogs.
In pure strength, they seemed the weakest.
But in persistence—they were unmatched.
If tenacity were a contest, they’d earn double thumbs-up.
No matter what, he kept facing them in every “today.”
Thus, five walls.
The mercenaries, the Hurrier swordsmen, the mages, the shamans, the Gray Dogs.
If he could just break through all five at once, maybe he’d escape.
But that was impossible.
No matter what he tried—it was too much.
Add to that the archers, crossbowmen, spearmen, and heavy infantry.
Some elven archers among them shot frighteningly well, and there were beastkin with unpredictable movements.
At least there were no Froks, dragonkin, or giants—that was something.
Then, should he count it as six walls, including all those troops?
‘Not good.’
Despite thinking that, Encrid still relished the challenge.
Repeating each day, he used the time given to him to its fullest.
He struggled, and struggled again.
He used every lesson learned.
Under the mild winter sun, he gave everything he had.
And the result—wasn’t good.
‘Experience in slaughter.’
Killing and being killed became second nature.
The stench of blood dulled his senses.
Yet he still couldn’t find a way out of “today.”
So the ferryman’s words stuck in his head.
He faced the five, maybe six, walls.
But did anything change?
No.
In the dream between repeated days, the ferryman said:
“You cannot cross what you do not understand. The wall is one.”
Encrid took those words to heart.
Days passed.
Listening didn’t bring instant change.
He simply kept thinking.
Then he met the ferryman again.
“Hey, aren’t you bored yet?”
This time, the ferryman sounded casual.
“Not bored. Just… difficult.”
Which meant he wasn’t bored.
Was the uncertainty eating at him?
If he were the type to collapse from that, he wouldn’t have started dreaming in the first place.
Encrid kept turning the problem in his head.
What is the wall?
He had returned to the starting point.
“How much must I spell out for you to understand?”
The ferryman’s tone carried mockery.
Encrid, intrigued by the hint of emotion, asked back:
“Are you mocking me, by any chance?”
Maybe he’d misunderstood.
“Do I need to say it for you to know?”
The ferryman’s expression flattened into disgust.
He wouldn’t have known that if the ferryman hadn’t shown it.
With the dead-end prolonging their meetings, Encrid used the time to satisfy his curiosity.
“Why a ferry?”
Wouldn’t a hellhound-wrangling warden fit better?
Why a river? Why a boat? Why a ferryman?
“Because a boat can go anywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not something you’re meant to understand.”
After meeting him many times, Encrid realized—
The ferryman had multiple personalities.
His temperament changed at will.
One day he’d speak gravely:
“Do not seek curiosity.”
Another day, he’d sneer:
“Then I’ll call you a bastard.”
Sometimes, he’d say nothing but talk about the wall:
“Have you faced the wall?”
And on rare days, he’d sound kinder:
“You’re quite curious, aren’t you?”
When asked what he usually did, that kind ferryman had replied:
“I row the boat.”
He spoke, though not in ways one could understand.
“I see.”
“You too will row the boat.”
The ferryman said, and Encrid let it pass.
After more than three hundred days, Encrid felt the limits of his skill.
‘I can’t improve much further.’
He’d felt the same when he met that stabbing-mad opponent.
At some point, there was only so much one could gain from repetition.
Nothing would change unless tomorrow came.
So he had to cross the wall called “today.”
‘Five, or maybe six walls.’
No—one wall.
All five as one?
Gather them together and face them at once?
He followed his instincts.
He herded all five groups together and fought.
He died.
The four mages and the shaman worked frighteningly well together.
Though they didn’t seem acquainted, they synced quickly.
He also reconfirmed Sent’s specialty—
Striking from behind rather than head-on.
He’d forced him into direct combat every time, but thinking back, Encrid realized he had always caught him through instinct.
‘So he was always aiming for my back.’
He hadn’t known.
It took over three hundred days to notice.
Still, that wasn’t the answer.
Next, he kidnapped an enemy soldier.
Normally ten moved as one, but those going to relieve themselves moved in threes.
“Gotta piss.”
He hid and waited—then struck.
“Go together, all three.”
Following the squad leader’s command, Encrid followed too.
When one soldier began relieving himself, he snapped his neck and stabbed the other two with [Blazeblade].
He hid the bodies among the brush and stripped one of them.
Changing clothes was more work than killing them.
He threw the uniform over himself.
Then Encrid came up with an idea.
“Ambush!”
He shouted suddenly, running toward a different unit.
If he escaped this way, what would happen?
Would the day reset again?
Did he truly have to break through all five walls for it to count?
But the ferryman had said there was only one wall.
And that he couldn’t cross what he didn’t understand.
‘What am I not understanding?’
He didn’t know.
The thrill was fading, but despair didn’t take its place.
Encrid searched for a way.
Wandering, digging, enduring—that was one of his specialties.
“Were you the one who shouted?”
It happened when he ran into another unit.
The soldiers didn’t relax their guard.
Why?
He was dressed like them.
Did every soldier know each other’s face?
That wasn’t it.
“Dry flower.”
They had a password.
Could he learn it after a few more days?
Either way, he’d been exposed.
It was time to struggle again.
Mad combat followed.
And the next day, he tried again—this time asking first.
“Dry flower.”
“Enemy!”
The soldier immediately shouted.
What went wrong?
Encrid couldn’t tell.
The truth was simple.
Avnaier hadn’t underestimated him.
He had studied him thoroughly.
He had learned everything about the man called Encrid.
And his conclusion:
“He’s clever. Skilled at deception. A natural tactician.”
To counter that, Avnaier prepared a safeguard.
The password “Dry Flower” wasn’t about the words themselves but the accompanying gesture.
One had to speak ‘and’ move simultaneously.
Only then would others respond with the correct sign of belonging.
It wasn’t complicated—but impossible to know without being told.
Avnaier was meticulous.
He had even prevented Encrid from escaping by overhearing codes.
He made sure nearby units recognized each other’s faces.
Even slight differences in uniform served as confirmation.
No matter how many times Encrid repeated “today,” there were things he could never discover.
After several attempts, even Encrid could tell—
‘This isn’t the way.’
‘A bit of a headache, but…’
He steadied himself.
‘What am I missing?’
He reflected and analyzed, never forgetting his strengths.
He recalled the ferryman’s words.
After countless repetitions and deaths, Encrid finally understood.
‘The wall is one.’
What is a wall?
Something to be crossed.
‘The wall is one.’
After repeating it countless times, he understood why the ferryman had said it.
“I see now.”
“What?”
It was the moment of realization—right in front of Sent.
The mercenary’s eyes widened.
So what if he saw?
Encrid struck Sent’s jaw with his sword hand.
Crack!
His jaw shattered, teeth flying.
Then Encrid’s gladius sliced through his neck.
Slash!
The severed head hit the ground.
“Kill him!”
The battle erupted again.
He fought and fought, dodging and hiding whenever death neared.
By now, he had mastered the art of prolonged combat.
Each time he caught his breath, his thoughts cleared further.
To move forward, he needed understanding.
‘You can’t cross what you don’t understand.’
Of course.
The wall wasn’t something physical—it was a lesson to grasp first.
It wasn’t five walls.
‘Strategy.’
Or perhaps tactics—battlecraft itself was the true wall.
He had to break free from the trap the enemy commander had laid.
‘How?’
He wasn’t Krys.
So what should he do?
He dug into his memory.
He had once talked with Krys about something similar.
When that memory surfaced, so did a clue.
The road was still long, but now he could see the way to find it.
“I think there are two kinds of thinkers,” Krys had said.
“One who predicts and prepares for everything, and one who moves by instinct in the moment. Both kinds need to be smart.”
Then Krys had added,
“The commander is the latter—completely instinctive. The former’s not his style.”
Encrid hadn’t asked why.
But he recalled every one of the three hundred days he’d lived.
Moments blurred by frantic fighting overlapped in his mind.
Those faint warning signals he’d ignored—
Why had he dismissed them? Why had he charged ahead?
‘Because I had to overcome the wall before me.’
His vision wasn’t narrow this time.
This was different.
He hadn’t been able to cross because he hadn’t ‘understood’ the wall.
Now that he could see it—he knew what to do.
‘Minimal battle—fighting only to survive.’
Not desperation, but intuition, instinct, and sense. To overcome the enemy’s strategy itself.
That was the path.
‘If I don’t have to fight them all…’
The one thing Avnaier could never have known—
And the one thing he had misjudged.
First, that Encrid was reliving each “today.”
Second, that his mind worked far sharper than he realized.
“Ah.”
On the three hundred seventy-eighth “today,”
Encrid found the path.