Chapter 319
Encrid’s eyes instinctively swept over the man before him.
Legs set at a casual distance, arms hanging loose, messy brown hair and dull eyes without any sense of individuality, plain and worn clothes that belonged neither to an enemy nor an ally.
Several questions struck him at once.
First—how had this man gotten here?
Second—just how strong was he?
And third—what was he apologizing for?
“I have my reasons,” the man said. “So let’s make this quick.”
He drew his sword.
‘Ching.’
A cheap short sword.
The sound of it sliding free told Encrid everything he needed to know.
The blade was chipped, the leather on the hilt had come undone and hung loose in a strip, and the color of the steel was dull—rusted.
The strange part was that Encrid hadn’t even sensed it until the blade was drawn.
The moment that sword cleared the sheath, a wave of dread welled up in him.
It wasn’t like the pressure exuded by Noll’s leader or the Junior Knight Aisia—it was something else entirely.
If theirs was an indirect pressure, this one was absolute—an oppressive fate that told him no matter what he did, he could not stop that blade.
Why?
Through endless repetition, Encrid’s senses had grown sharper than ever before.
His [Perception of Evasion] had crossed a threshold, gifting him with a new sensation—foreboding.
A lucky development, perhaps, but useless now.
Because of it, his body froze.
That foreboding feeling shackled his arms and legs.
“Hm, fiancé,” Sinar spoke.
Perhaps her elven senses picked up on even more.
“You should dodge.”
The moment she spoke, the man vanished.
A long afterimage burned across Encrid’s vision.
His eyes reflexively followed it.
The blur became a streak of light—and in the next instant, the man stood before Sinar.
Even though Encrid’s eyes were open, it was as if the man’s body flickered in and out of existence.
He was that fast.
Even with all his trained motion sight, Encrid could barely keep up.
‘Clang!’
‘Pipibik!’
The sound reached him before his mind caught up.
Then he saw it.
Sinar was already in stance, blades raised.
The chipped short sword drew sparks against her knives as it sliced from her chest down to her abdomen.
Crimson blood sprayed into the air.
Her daggers had blocked it for a heartbeat, but the force drove through and split her body cleanly.
Power, speed, precision—perfectly balanced.
In that instant, Encrid realized what a completed sword strike truly was.
“If you’re lucky, this’ll be quick. If not, I won’t swing twice. I know this isn’t honorable, but I ask your understanding.”
The man spoke quietly, his voice carrying clearly through the chaos.
Encrid couldn’t grasp what he meant by luck or by honor.
But one thing was certain—Sinar had fallen.
She clutched her chest and collapsed.
Her daggers hit the ground with a dull clink as she tried to brace herself, but her strength failed.
Her body toppled, head striking the floor with a heavy thud.
“I don’t like this either. I mean that,” said the brown-haired man as he turned.
Encrid stared at him.
Even if that rusty knife in his hand had been anything else, the result would’ve been the same.
It was inevitable.
The answers to all his questions converged into one truth—
The man before him was beyond a Junior Knight.
The moment Encrid saw him, he felt the kind of fate that could not be avoided.
A Knight.
A man who could slaughter a thousand alone.
A nightmare born of the battlefield.
A calamity in human form.
A living weapon capable of changing the course of war.
Encrid’s dream had appeared before him as a Death God.
“What the hell,” Krys muttered behind him, voice trembling.
“Move.”
Ragna yanked Krys back by the collar, stepping forward.
He didn’t even draw his sword.
He held a spoon.
“What is this?”
Dunbakel growled, her beast form already taking shape.
The man lowered his short sword, then moved toward his next target.
No sound of footsteps, no wind being cut—he simply ‘moved’ and ‘slashed.’
Even watching was almost impossible.
This time, it was Dunbakel.
She drew her scimitar first.
Had the man not moved, she might have struck first.
‘Ching.’
‘Thud!’
‘Whack!’
Three sounds overlapped.
That’s how Encrid’s ears registered it.
When he focused, the result was already clear.
He couldn’t track the sword’s path—faster than before, obscured by the man’s body.
But he saw Dunbakel.
Her scimitar was cleaved in half, one shard spinning off and slashing through the tent.
The man’s short sword thrust straight into her chest without pause.
“Damn, should’ve used a better blade,” she muttered, kneeling.
Her hand clutched the split in her chest, but blood pulsed between her fingers.
A fatal wound.
“Come on, then.”
Ragna was next.
He charged unarmed.
Even with a sword, it would’ve been hopeless—his arm hadn’t fully healed.
The knight didn’t hesitate.
He swung.
A silent slash cut through the air toward Ragna’s head.
Ragna didn’t act foolishly.
He twisted at the last moment, thrusting his uninjured arm forward.
‘Clack!’
The man caught his wrist effortlessly—with the spoon still in Ragna’s grip.
“You were the most capable,” he said.
Then, raising his blade above his head, he brought it down.
Ragna twisted again, trying to ram his shoulder forward, but the sword was faster.
‘Shluk!’
It only took one strike.
His arm flew off, spinning through the air.
Blood sprayed in wide arcs.
If left like that, he’d bleed out and die.
“Right. I don’t swing twice.”
The man’s tone was steady, almost courteous.
Encrid understood now.
He meant it literally.
He would strike only once.
“If my blade is stopped, I withdraw. That’s my promise—my bit of conscience. Call it honor, if you want.”
He moved again, this time at Esther.
The swing came down like lightning, fast and absolute.
The arc gleamed like a falling storm.
‘Wham!’
Her front paw was severed—and her chest split open with it.
‘Kyaaaaaaak!’
The panther’s cry of agony tore through the tent, shaking the air.
“Go… run…”
Ragna’s voice rasped.
He tried to rise, slipped in his own blood, and slammed face-first into the floor.
His face smeared crimson.
“Damn it…”
Then a trembling back blocked Encrid’s view.
Krys.
The chains of foreboding still bound Encrid’s body.
He couldn’t move.
It felt like fate itself was whispering to him—the Goddess of Fortune revealing her other face, the Goddess of Fate.
‘You cannot escape. It ends here.’
“I knew I’d end up like this one day… but Captain, let me pay you back before I go,” Krys said.
Encrid couldn’t raise a hand or open his mouth.
All he could do was remember the time he had stood in front of Krys.
“Big Eyes, run.”
Why had he said it back then?
It hadn’t been a decision—just instinct.
“Go. I’ll hold him.”
Krys whispered it, knowing it was meaningless.
The knight knew it too.
No sigh, no emotion.
He simply raised his blade.
‘Whoosh.’
The fire in the brazier flared, casting many shadows.
One of those shadows became real—and pierced Krys’s heart.
‘Crack.’
With a final sound, he fell, blood pouring from his chest and tears of red trailing from his eyes.
Encrid watched everything.
Outwardly, he looked calm.
The brown-haired knight turned to him.
Two fiery lights reflected in his eyes—bright and haunting.
The flames in Encrid’s gaze burned fiercer than the brazier.
The knight saw it.
“Hah… once is enough.”
He exhaled in mild disgust.
This whole situation displeased him.
Knights lived by honor—what was this ambush?
Unexpected, but irrelevant.
The deed was done.
They were all dead.
Finally, Encrid spoke.
“Never thought I’d say this.”
He saw them all—Sinar, Ragna, Dunbakel, Esther, Krys.
Sinar collapsed on the ground.
Ragna writhing, missing an arm.
Dunbakel with a split chest.
Esther growling through a torn breast.
Krys, impaled, his body still.
Only Ragna and Esther were barely alive.
The rest—dead.
Ragna’s voice came faintly.
“Get out… go…”
Even bleeding out, he repeated the same futile plea.
He wouldn’t survive anyway.
And yet, that was all he could say.
It was absurd.
Encrid looked at the knight and murmured,
“Guess I’ll die too.”
If he died, the day would repeat.
He needed that.
The man raised his sword indifferently.
“Sorry about this.”
A voice without emotion.
Encrid tried to gauge his skill—
but he couldn’t see.
Everything was darkness.
Like walking a pitch-black path without a torch.
‘Thunk.’
The blade pierced his heart.
He didn’t dodge.
He accepted it.
He’d start again from the beginning.
‘Once more.’
It was the first time he’d ever let go willingly.
He realized something.
Sinar and her teasing jokes.
Dunbakel’s blunt nonsense.
Ragna’s lazy drawl.
Krys’s obsession with Krong.
And that temperamental panther of a mage.
‘I won’t let them die.’
Seeing their deaths before his eyes filled him with something he couldn’t name—
something far from peace.
He accepted death.
The knight’s sword, the Death God’s blade, pierced through his heart and withdrew.
“You… I’ll kill you.”
Ragna’s voice still lingered, fading into the distance.
Encrid endured the pain in silence, without even a groan.
“Good. You live—you’ve earned that. Stop the bleeding.”
The man kept his word.
He turned and walked away.
Encrid collapsed, closing his eyes.
Death consumed him.
‘Splash.’
As expected, the black river came into view.
Upon its flowing waters stood the boatman, holding a violet lamp.
He spoke.
“I told you—despair.”
Silence fell upon the river.
Encrid didn’t nod. Instead, he asked,
“What about agony and ignorance?”
He couldn’t read the ferryman’s face.
What kind of mood was he in today?
Fortunately, he answered.
The faint outline of his mouth moved, and his voice reached Encrid.
“The first was agony—‘Must one do what need not be done?’”
Was that a test the ferryman had given, or simply fate’s design?
He didn’t know.
But he hadn’t saved the child out of necessity.
It was something his heart commanded.
So why should that be anguish?
It wasn’t, at least not to him.
“The second was ignorance.”
Encrid hadn’t recognized the wall before him—ignorance, plain and simple.
But ignorance had been met with aid.
The ferryman had guided him.
Even without that help, he would’ve eventually understood.
He would’ve overcome it in time.
So ignorance, too, had no meaning now.
“And the third is despair.”
That meant: ‘you cannot overcome this one.’
The ferryman’s intent was clear.
‘Face the knight’s sword.’
It was the most brutal trial yet.
He would have to watch every one of his companions die first.
Saying it didn’t affect him would be a lie.
“Relish your despair,” the ferryman said, as he always did—without a trace of a smile.