Chapter 316
Those chasing Encrid gave up.
The commander at the very front couldn’t speak.
Seeing that, his deputy spoke beside him.
“We lost him.”
It couldn’t be helped.
They threw a rope as a last resort, caught him, and yet he broke it apart with sheer force and escaped.
Superhuman strength.
And that wasn’t even the end of it.
He never tired—he just kept running forward, forward, and forward again.
The madman didn’t know how to rest.
He never stopped his feet.
Watching him made it impossible to even think of giving chase.
Their target never stopped, constantly in motion.
In the end, he ran, then walked.
At some point, the commander’s orders dwindled, and so did their steps.
Encrid had completely escaped the trap Avnaier had laid.
Even the Gray Dogs stopped.
The commander of the Gray Dogs stared blankly at the traces of the man who vanished.
He hadn’t just broken through the encirclement—he’d gone straight into the enemy’s camp.
If they pursued from here, they would be counterattacked.
So this was the end.
‘Avnaier, Avnaier.’
The commander of the Gray Dogs recalled the name of the man who swore to take full responsibility for everything.
Didn’t he say he didn’t care even if every soldier died just to catch that one man?
“Fine, call me a fool later if you want. Call me an idiot who sacrificed a thousand soldiers to capture a single elite warrior!”
He remembered Avnaier’s fiery speech.
If they had all died, would there have been something to say?
Not even half the troops died.
No, only a fraction of them did.
A few sorcerers, two magicians, a few mercenaries, two knights from the Hurier family.
The number of ordinary soldiers lost was small.
The enemy had avoided them.
It was unbelievable—a retreat so flawless that no one would believe it if told.
The Gray Dogs’ commander acknowledged it.
‘We can’t catch him.’
All that remained was to report it.
Didn’t Avnaier say he’d sacrifice a thousand men and accept disgrace to capture him?
Avnaier couldn’t even be disgraced—he lost that chance too.
—
Avnaier admitted that something had happened to Galaf and the Junior Knight.
“They’re not coming.”
He spoke while gazing toward the distant battlefield. His adjutant, Nilf, lowered his head.
Avnaier had staked everything on this.
It was a gamble against the King of the Commonwealth himself.
And the end was drawing near.
“What about those assassins who claimed to be confident in the dark?”
He’d even employed those who killed without hesitation in the shadows.
“There’s been no contact. They either fled or—”
“They were killed, you mean.”
Flee? They couldn’t.
With a mere gesture from Avnaier, their clans would be wiped out.
So, they were killed.
By whom?
It was absurd.
He’d been utterly defeated.
“Ha ha ha ha.”
Avnaier laughed.
If there was no hint of emptiness in that laughter, he wasn’t human.
“Does the world hate me? Or did the Goddess of Fortune turn her back on me? Or did I miss something? What did I miss?”
He muttered to himself.
His calm voice was like a blade stabbing into his own chest.
Nilf couldn’t possibly know what Avnaier didn’t.
He stayed silent.
They were in the command tent.
Only the two of them remained.
Avnaier sat by the brazier, head lowered.
The rising flames singed a few strands of his hair.
Crackle—sparks burst from the brazier, tiny embers scattering.
Some landed on Avnaier’s face, but he didn’t even flinch—just stared blankly, lost in thought.
He kept thinking.
Should he curse everything for being unreasonable?
Or should he admit it?
Admit what?
That luck wasn’t on his side?
If not luck, then how did they escape?
What happened to Galaf and the Junior Knight?
They were sent to intercept.
That was the second plan—to capture the small elite force.
But the plan was cut off before it even began.
He’d sent them merely to capture a few key figures in the enemy ranks, but had they been captured instead?
How could that be?
That Ayada?
Galaf, who could grab a river with her bare hands?
And what about those assassins?
They were supposed to silently eliminate enemy officers, yet there’d been no disturbance in the enemy camp.
They simply vanished.
How could that happen?
‘Did Naurilia send knights?’
“Nilf!”
The thought escaped his mouth.
“Knights? The Red Cloak Order? Cypress?”
He called out names of those infamous across Azpen, but it was meaningless.
One of Nilf’s main duties was to monitor Naurilia’s internal affairs.
They couldn’t possibly send knights right now.
That was the conclusion.
“No, sir.”
Nilf’s voice sank low.
Avnaier closed his mouth again.
He raked through every possible explanation, but no answer surfaced.
It was impossible to know—unless one knew that Encrid was reliving this day over and over again.
Avnaier ran his hands from his forehead to his hair, then exhaled deeply.
“I’ve lost.”
A clean defeat.
Judging by all possibilities, the enemy had too many cards to play.
Maybe he grew into knight-class mid-battle.
Or maybe he had been knight-class all along and they hadn’t realized it.
If that were the case, then it was only natural something happened to Galaf and the Junior Knight.
That was the conclusion.
The assassins were killed in turn.
Could elves have been involved?
He’d heard there was an elf swordsman among the enemy ranks.
Still, even for an elf, this wouldn’t have been easy.
Fine, suppose they had hidden talent.
And Encrid… Encrid… Encrid.
Avnaier repeated the name three times.
That man had completely slipped away.
He couldn’t understand it.
How could a man like that exist?
Maybe he was just born lucky.
Or else—
‘A genius of intuitive judgment.’
A commander who moved by instinct, not by reason.
He’d heard of such a thing, but never believed it could exist.
Intuition was the sum of experience.
You can’t wage war with instinct alone.
By luck, you might sense the tide of battle once or twice, but to truly rely on intuition, you must have knowledge.
Only then does instinct become judgment.
Thus, experience must support it—only then can one sense ominous intuition.
But that man wasn’t some seasoned veteran who’d spent a lifetime in war.
Even the oldest, most battle-hardened commanders couldn’t pull this off.
Even a man who’d seen a thousand battlefields could’ve hunted him down.
And yet they lost him.
“I can’t just stop because I don’t understand.”
Avnaier murmured.
He’d used every card, but there was one last thing he’d earned at the cost of his own life.
“You’re going to use it?”
Nilf asked, knowing the answer, and Avnaier nodded.
“I started this, so I’ll see it through.”
When Avnaier borrowed magicians and brought the Junior Knight from the King of the Commonwealth, he’d also acquired an unexpected ally.
But using it would mean admitting his defeat.
He’d face heavy criticism when he returned.
He might even lose his position—or worse, be executed.
Still, he couldn’t end this in failure.
Avnaier stepped outside.
‘This must be the first time I’ve lost this miserably.’
None of his plans had come to fruition.
What had his plan been originally?
To reduce the enemy’s elite forces, that was the primary goal.
The first target—Encrid. The second—his subordinates.
‘I didn’t think Ayada would fail.’
Her eyes were special.
In some ways, her ability to read talent surpassed even Frok’s.
Her eyes, imbued with [Will], could gauge an opponent’s strength at a glance.
That’s why she earned the nickname “Ayada Who Never Loses.”
Though she also liked to call herself “Azpen’s Most Beautiful Woman.”
‘And she was defeated?’
It didn’t make sense, but he had to accept it.
He couldn’t stop here.
The Junior Knight Ayada was supposed to seek out and kill her target.
Galaf was kept as a trump card for later.
Encrid was to be captured and killed.
That had been the primary objective.
And that wasn’t the end.
He hadn’t intended to sacrifice a thousand soldiers just to kill one man.
He had secondary goals as well.
‘How unfortunate.’
This battle could have allowed Azpen to reenter Greenpearl.
If things had gone as planned, they could have.
He’d even prepared a follow-up strategy for after capturing the elite enemies, but now it was useless.
What remained—was it pride, or obsession?
He couldn’t tell.
Avnaier clenched his teeth.
—
“Is that sprained?”
At Encrid’s question, Ragna raised his arm, roughly wrapped in torn cloth.
“It’s sprained.”
Was bluffing all it took?
Apparently.
Even Audin, whose arm was clearly broken, had claimed it was just sprained—and Ragna, whose injury was just as severe, said the same.
Without proper treatment, he might never use that arm again.
Naturally, Encrid himself wasn’t in good shape either.
“I think my whole body’s sprained.”
He glanced over himself as he said it.
Ragna didn’t even laugh.
Below them, Esther growled as if in disbelief.
Encrid made a joke that didn’t land and turned around.
No trace of their pursuers.
Had they escaped?
It seemed so.
That oppressive, ominous pressure that had hung over them—gone.
Then what now?
Was it time to relax?
Maybe.
“Hey—ah—ah!”
A distant shout echoed.
It was a woman’s loud, clear voice.
Squinting, Encrid saw Dunbakel running toward them.
She was covered in blood from head to toe.
Her white fur was soaked red, making her look like a crimson beast.
White and dark red—speckled together.
‘Like a spotted cat.’
Encrid thought absently.
She sprinted like the wind.
Behind her, friendly forces approached.
Krys had apparently lost patience and sent reinforcements.
“Fiancé, is this what happens when I take my eyes off you?”
Following behind Dunbakel was Sinar.
Even her light leaps kicked up dust—her movement was graceful and quick, unmistakably elven.
When she arrived, Encrid finally felt it sink in.
‘Tomorrow.’
The day was ending.
The long sun stretched shadows over the slopes.
The light that had illuminated the world was fading beyond the western horizon.
The sunset, glowing orange, marked a different today from yesterday.
Encrid basked in that light.
He had survived, struggled, and was ready to face tomorrow.
“Let’s go back.”
Encrid finally spoke.
No one knew exactly what he’d gone through.
They couldn’t.
But the soldiers of the battalion had seen him fight.
They knew he’d plunged into the enemy ranks alone, swinging his sword like a madman.
For Encrid, cursed to repeat this day endlessly, it was a memory of long ago.
For them, it was merely a day or two past.
Waaaaaah!
A cheer ripped through the air.
A chant for the hero who had pierced through enemy lines and returned alive.
“Pain!”
“Death!”
Their crude battle cry followed.
To Encrid, it all felt distant.
The sound seemed to fade away.
Why?
His body was tipping sideways.
Someone caught him—Ragna, surprisingly, supporting his shoulder.
“Idiot.”
Encrid muttered toward him.
With the sunset at their backs, the two wounded men leaned on each other.
Ragna could barely stand himself.
The fact that he made it this far was a miracle.
“Growl.”
Esther shook her head below them, as if saying, ‘stupid humans.’
“Here.”
Dunbakel stepped forward.
She was exhausted too.
There were too many skilled swordsmen among the enemy.
She hadn’t been on the brink of death, but she was drained.
Still, she wasn’t so weak she’d collapse while walking.
She simply lifted Encrid onto her back.
The soft fur of the beastwoman carried him easily.
“Wow, you’re fluffy.”
Encrid muttered, half-conscious.
She was indeed soft.
“Did you take drugs while fighting or something?” Dunbakel grumbled.
Encrid turned his gaze back one last time.
Beyond the ridge, the enemy no longer advanced.
“I could’ve carried him.”
Sinar muttered beside her, but Dunbakel ignored her and walked on.
Ragna, who had tried to help, finally fainted.
Several soldiers caught him.
It was a miracle he’d stayed on his feet until now.
There was hardly a spot on his body that wasn’t injured.
Waa—ah?
The cheering faded.
They weren’t pursuing enemies—just watching the wounded heroes return.
The sight of them walking was a miracle itself.
Among the shouts, quick-witted soldiers began to act.
“Make way!”
“Inside, hurry!”
“Medic!”
The soldiers moved efficiently.
The officers took command.
Encrid and Ragna were led into the unit’s lines.
Following behind, Esther glanced at Encrid’s body and quietly shook her head.
He looked like he’d crossed dozens of death lines.
At a glance, Ragna looked worse, but in truth, Encrid was in far more critical condition.
Cracks and dislocations ran through his bones.
He had pushed himself beyond his limits.
Not that Ragna was in good shape either.
But Esther had no interest in Ragna.
By evening, they were back in camp, receiving treatment and tended by the bright-eyed Garrett.
“Your mouth’s fine. I bet you’ve got plenty of stories to tell.”
He clearly wanted gossip, not medical details.
Sinar, overhearing, pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You need to learn to respect wounded victors.”
She looked ready to hit him if he kept talking.
Garrett was quick on the uptake.
“Nurat, I made a mistake, didn’t I?”
His aide, Nurat, answered dryly.
“Yes, if you stay longer, your superior might change.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’ll die.”
“Let’s go.”
Did he bring her just for banter?
Encrid, wrapped head to toe in bandages, watched the two chatter.
“Tell me next time.”
Garrett finally said and left.
“Focus on recovery.”
Sinar stayed, for some reason.
“You’re not leaving? I’m sleepy.”
“Sleep. I’ll just admire the view.”
Elven humor still didn’t sit right with him.
Encrid slowly let go of consciousness.
Returning to cheers—he remembered it only in fragments.
He’d pushed his body that far.
He collapsed in the infirmary, ate a little porridge, and had herbs and ointments smeared all over his body before lying down.
His whole body felt feverish.
For a man known for endurance, even this was harsh.
Encrid fell asleep.
When he closed his eyes, he saw a dark river.
The boatman was there.
“The first is Agony, the second is Ignorance, the third is Despair.”
Encrid couldn’t understand what he meant.
Today’s boatman was far more solemn than usual, and Encrid himself was too exhausted to move his lips—even in his dreams.