Chapter 320

               

Morning broke once again on the same day.
Encrid was repeating today all over again.
The chain of foreboding that had surpassed his [Perception of Evasion] still bound his body.
His limbs were stiff; he could not move.

And once again, all he could do was watch his comrades die.
By evening, Encrid said what needed to be said—a minimal preparation.

“Ragna, hold your sword even while you rest.”

He warned him in advance, though the sword wasn’t the issue.
They were tired.
They were injured.
They weren’t at their best.
Knowing that didn’t change the outcome.
That was why it was called a calamity.
The knight once again killed them all.

The third day passed, then the fourth.
And so the repetition continued.
Foreboding. Shackles. The deaths of his comrades. His own death. The pain.
Sometimes, he met the boatman on the black river.

“Despair,” said the ferryman again, etching that word into Encrid’s mind.

Encrid didn’t answer.

“Despair.”

Twelve repetitions passed.
The same day, over and over again.
Bound by the chains of foreboding, Encrid kept watching his comrades die.
He never looked away.
He couldn’t.

Krys, with his lousy fighting skills, always stood in front of him.
The same man who always talked about running away, now showing his back to protect him.
It was a curse.
That’s why it never dulled.

Neither the physical pain nor the pain within faded.
He endured them all, every time, forced to watch everything.
Encrid had never intended to avert his eyes—but pain was pain all the same.

“So this is despair,” murmured the ferryman as he drifted past.

It was the twenty-second day.

Twitch.

Right after Sinar’s chest split open, Encrid’s finger twitched.
A slight difference from the last twenty-one cycles.

“Fiancé,” she said.

She didn’t die this time.
He’d thought she had the first time, but Sinar wasn’t ordinary.
She twisted her blade’s angle mid-parry, minimizing the wound.
Within that movement was a blend of two sword styles—deflection and interception.

And Ragna?
Instead of trying to match speed, he braced his blade and endured the strike with sheer strength.
There was much to learn from them all.

Twitch.

After seeing Ragna, Krys, Dunbakel, and Esther die again, Encrid finally regained control of his hand.

“Finally moving.”

A simple statement.

“Hm?”

Even so, the brown-haired man’s blade still pierced his heart.
Encrid died again.

‘Splash.’

The black river.
The ferryman again.
He had nothing better to do, it seemed.

“Despair.”

The ferryman’s unfocused gaze met Encrid’s.
Encrid stared back without emotion.
No fatigue, no boredom—he said the same thing every time.

As Encrid’s body began to fade, the ferryman watched silently.
It was time to return—to relive another day of watching everyone die.

His face and body blurred like smoke.
The ferryman didn’t usually show expression, but sometimes, faint traces of emotion slipped through.

Now was one of those times.
As the dream world dissolved and Encrid’s figure vanished, the ferryman spoke aloud for once.

“You’re smiling?”

—

The river vanished.
Encrid woke from the dream.
In other words, the beginning of another repeated day.
The thirty-second one.

“Rough dreams,” he muttered, sitting up.
That was the first thing he did—
to dismiss the previous day as nothing more than a dream.

It wasn’t really denial, but rather a way to move forward.
To accept being powerless felt unbearable.
It was like insects crawling under his skin.

“What kind of dream?” Krys asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“You dying.”

“Charming.”

Encrid’s blunt honesty earned an equally blunt reply.

“Ragna, you died too. Keep your sword close.”

“What an awful thing to say,” Ragna answered in the same dry tone, and so began another strangely familiar morning.

He wasn’t superstitious, but coming from Encrid, the words carried weight.

“Did your nonsense rub off from that barbarian?” Ragna muttered.

His tone was calm, but the words weren’t.

“An insult?” Encrid asked. “That’s a duel.”

He deflected it easily with a smirk.
Ragna, finding no point in replying, stayed silent.

Encrid moved with more energy than any previous day.
Despair—such a word didn’t sit right with him.

Extreme circumstances? Sure.
An absurdly powerful opponent? He agreed.
But the answer was simple.

‘One strike.’

The knight would only swing once.
If that was all, then despair? Hardly.

Even if he could dodge, he wouldn’t.
The opponent was a Knight.
Even if he came as a Death God, Encrid felt a strange excitement at seeing his dream manifest before him.
Pain came with joy.

He buried the memory of his comrades’ deaths as dreams and looked forward.
He wouldn’t let anyone die this time.

The answer was clear.

‘All I have to do is block it.’

If not? Then until he did.
No matter what it took.

Seeing his comrades die again and again—if that was despair, then—

‘Pretty weak.’

How many “todays” had he already surpassed?
There was more than one way to break the cycle.
Repetition didn’t mean everything had to play out exactly the same.

He already knew that.
Once immobile, he could now move freely.

Encrid gathered his gear from the corner of the tent.
Should he wrap himself in bandages like armor?
No, useless.
He’d seen the Knight’s sword—no armor could withstand it.
Even Sinar’s enchanted defense had been split clean through.

There was something embedded in that strike.
He knew what it was.

‘Will.’

Knights were those who wielded [Will].
Encrid understood that clearly now.

So how would he counter it?
Should he let it flow past him?
Would the [Snake Step] work?

He’d forgotten how battered his body was.

Another day passed.

“You all did well,” he said again.

Even repetition couldn’t dull certain things.
Gratitude, for one.

After the usual meaningless exchanges,

“Dangerous charm, that’s what you are,” Krys joked.

Then came the tearing sound.
The tent ripped open.
The brown-haired man entered.
Always the same beginning.

“Sorry about this.”

He spoke, and Encrid prepared.

“One strike, then I’ll leave. My last bit of honor.”

He looked reluctant, almost tired of the act.
Still, Encrid knew how it would end.
The Knight spoke again, but Encrid didn’t listen.

He’d heard it too many times already.
If repetition dulled anything, it was patience.
The words were meaningless now.
All that mattered was focus.

The chains of foreboding constricted him again, but he had already started to overcome them.
He commanded his fingers, his muscles.

Move.

His foot stepped forward naturally.
The suffocating dread clung to his throat, but he ignored it.
He could move. That was enough.

The Knight’s gaze fixed on him.
Encrid opened his mouth.

“My turn first.”

“Fiancé,” Sinar called, trying to stop him. Too late.

“I’m the target, right? Thought so.”

He kept walking.
He’d long since figured it out.
To surpass today, one had to understand it fully.

‘His target is me.’

If he stepped forward and provoked him, the Knight would never ignore it.
That much Encrid had learned through repetition.

The man—the Knight—drew his sword.
The chipped short sword, the weapon of the Death God.

“So bold,” the Knight said.

He swung.

‘Thud.’

Encrid tried to block, but the sword was faster.
Faster than Laikanos, perhaps?
Similar to Jaxson’s [Soundless Thrust]?
He’d seen it countless times, but this was the first time he’d tried to stop it.

He felt the difference instantly.
The Knight swung without telegraph, the motion flowing from his legs to his arms seamlessly—unreadable timing.

‘I was too slow.’

He accepted it calmly.
He was slow, and so his heart was pierced.

Death approached.
Even so, Encrid grinned.
He’d achieved his first goal, hadn’t he?

The Death God noticed.

‘A lunatic,’ the Knight thought, seeing through him instantly.
His opponent wasn’t normal.

Not that Encrid cared.
He was satisfied his plan had worked.
If he didn’t want to watch his comrades die, he only had to act first.

His eyes closed.
Death came.

‘Splash.’

The black river.
Even though it wasn’t time for this world, the ferryman appeared.
He drifted by and offered high praise.

“Lunatic.”

It was already the second time he’d said it.
Encrid barely managed a reply.

“Thanks.”

No time for more.
Was it an illusion that the boat on the black river seemed to shake violently as it drifted away?

Who knew.

Either way—

‘The body moves.’

Now, all that was left was to block.

“Good,” Encrid exhaled.

“What’s good?” Krys asked when he awoke again.

“Never mind.”

Encrid thought.
Could he recover his body fully right now?
No.

He stood Ragna’s sword upright beside his bed.

“…What’s that for? A duel?”

“Keep it by your side.”

Actions were easier than explanations.
If he wanted to raise his body heat, he had to keep moving.
By the fire, he stretched and performed recovery drills, all while thinking.

‘How do I block it?’

Still impossible.
Just being able to move didn’t mean he could stop it yet.
But—it was only one swing.

‘No… not ‘just’ one swing.’
A Knight’s swing.

‘It’s absurd.’

Encrid wasn’t naive.
He knew what his sword could do.
Ordinary soldiers couldn’t block him.
He’d cut through veteran mercenaries, even scions of noble houses like Hurrier’s.
Among them were mages and sorcerers.

He’d been trapped before, too.
He’d escaped purely by instinct—but it hadn’t been easy.
To anyone else, his feats would look like miracles.
Three swords, against impossible odds.

“Were you a mage?” Krys asked suddenly.
Even Esther’s eyes flicked toward him.

Of course not.
He couldn’t use spells.

He replayed the Knight’s sword in his mind.
Now he truly felt like just another soldier.

Would Jaxson have noticed something?
If Jaxson were here, would he have fallen so easily?
Would he have found a way?

If Ragna weren’t injured?
Pointless thoughts.
Was this despair, then?
Some leftover trace of what the ferryman had forced into his head?

Encrid didn’t bother rejecting or erasing them.
He let them linger.
It didn’t matter.

What was despair?
It was the collapse that came when there was nothing left to hope for.
The breaking that came from self-pity.

None of that applied to Encrid.

Trapped in the day until he could block the Knight’s sword?
He welcomed it.
Better that than living a meaningless life, watching his dreams rot away piece by piece.

“Then I’ll make today count.”

If death came—fine.
He wouldn’t live just to die.

All the days before—the ferryman’s talk of agony and ignorance, the countless cycles—they had all broken another shell inside him.

His mind stood sharper than ever, like the first day he woke in this loop.
A small realization—yet a profound one.

‘No one said I can’t use today.’

He’d used his repeats before—against the werewolf, against the mage, to break through spell traps.
This was just expanding that idea.
To struggle, endure the curse of repetition, and use it.

What his body had done before, his mind now understood.
His eyes opened wide.
He knew what to do.

“Ragna.”

“…Yeah?”

Strength filled his voice naturally.
Ragna looked up, sensing the change.

What now?

“Assuming you’re in perfect shape,” Encrid said, eyes gleaming—an oddly excited, almost feverish look.

“I am. More than you, anyway.”

Arrogance—sometimes the strongest weapon of all.
Ragna’s bravado shone as brightly as Encrid’s determination.

“My body’s nine-tenths recovered,” Encrid said.
In truth, barely half.

“I’m fully healed,” Ragna replied.

“So am I, just now.”

Watching the two of them, Sinar muttered softly, “What are they doing?”

“Seeing who’s dumber,” Krys answered dryly.

“I’m not hurt,” Dunbakel chimed in.
She was, of course, but no one acknowledged her.

Encrid and Ragna ignored everything else.
More precisely, Encrid ignored it, and Ragna followed his lead.

The real question was this:

“Can you withstand a Knight’s sword?”

The tone, the weight, the intensity in his gaze—beyond any pretense of confidence, something fierce burned in it.
It was contagious.

Ragna closed his eyes briefly, thinking.
This battle had shown him something.
A path.

He could see where his talent pointed.
He hadn’t walked that path yet, but it was clear.
The light of his gift illuminated the way.
He was half-certain now—
This was the road to knighthood.

So he answered,

“I can block it.”

Stripped of bravado, the statement still rang true.
If he could channel [Will] into his own cut, then perhaps he could stand against a Knight’s strike.
A fragile confidence, but confidence nonetheless.
At least he wouldn’t fall in one blow.

Contemplation wasn’t weakness—it was preparation.
And Encrid could feel Ragna changing too.
Each repetition brought a subtle shift in his reactions to the Knight.
Did that mean he was beginning to ‘see’ something too?

Doubt, curiosity—they drove him.

Encrid took the easier route.
He sought the answer directly.

“How?”

Tell me your way.

Ragna seemed almost drunk on the intensity of Encrid’s gaze.
It drew words out of him naturally.
He imagined the Knight’s strike, traced its arc in his mind—
And then, with the talent of a man destined to be one of the continent’s best, he opened his mouth without hesitation.