Chapter 321
“Good.”
‘Good.’ Just one word.
Silence followed.
It was cold.
It was winter, after all.
The brazier flared up with a whoosh.
Right then, a gust of wind swept through the tent’s entrance.
A freezing winter wind.
If it were an ordinary person, they might have felt as if a dagger of ice had stabbed their heart.
But there wasn’t a single ordinary person here, Encrid included.
“I’d say the same.”
Krys quietly added.
He wasn’t wrong.
Naturally, Encrid didn’t panic.
Since when had Ragna ever been good with words?
Even Rem, who always bulldozed forward at his own pace, wasn’t much of a teacher.
So there was no reason to be flustered.
“Explain.”
“What do you do when lightning strikes?”
For Ragna, that was the best he could do.
Of course, to everyone else, it was the worst possible explanation.
But so what?
There was no problem.
Encrid, as always, could be the best listener and student.
He knew how to truly listen.
No—he was the kind of listener who could dig out answers even when the speaker didn’t know how to explain.
“You can’t block it.”
Encrid replied.
“It can be blocked.”
Ragna countered.
“Then how? Not just ‘well.’”
It would’ve been nice if Ragna got better at explaining, but that was wishful thinking.
He was directionless, bad with words, picky with food, and his temperament wasn’t exactly pleasant.
He didn’t care about reputation, did whatever he pleased, and some days, even talking seemed too much trouble.
If you listed all that, he sounded like a disaster. But when it came to swordsmanship, Ragna was the best.
The best among the best.
“You read the signs first, then strike.”
That was Ragna’s best explanation.
The best he could offer.
It was a matter of instinct and talent.
Encrid was relentless.
He asked countless questions and listened to each answer.
Ragna spoke as clearly as he could.
It didn’t fully take shape in Encrid’s mind.
Nothing quite came to him.
But it wasn’t over yet.
‘If I can postpone death.’
He could make better use of today.
If he used Ragna for that, he might even witness Ragna deflecting a knight’s sword.
Of course, Encrid wouldn’t do that.
Using Ragna as a shield just to prolong the day wasn’t the same as making the most of it.
That was a line he would not cross.
It was a line that had formed the moment he started repeating this first day.
For some, that line became conviction; for others, it became something called honor.
‘Honor, huh.’
Before the Reaper who judged honor arrived, Encrid had to do everything he could.
Through questions and answers, he shaped his imagination and sought clarity.
This wasn’t the end.
“Sinar.”
Even the Elf could withstand such a strike.
She reacted.
How could she?
“Do you know how to block lightning?”
“Dodge it before it strikes.”
“And if you can’t dodge?”
“You can always use a spear as a lightning rod.”
She flicked her spear and smirked.
Half-joking words, yet layered with wisdom.
There was a trace of deep insight within them.
“Spears are easy to pull out, easy to slash with, and good for redirecting force.”
“If you had to block a knight’s sword?”
It was a sudden question, but no one found it odd.
That was just Encrid being Encrid.
He was obsessed with swords, clawing toward an impossible dream.
That obsession made him who he was.
Everyone acknowledged it.
So his nonsense didn’t even sound strange anymore.
Even Krys simply watched as if it were routine.
Dunbakel, on the other hand, looked like she was waiting for her turn to be questioned.
“Before the opponent moves their foot or touches their sword, I’d draw mine first.”
As Sinar spoke, she felt herself drawn into Encrid’s aura.
What was this man?
He’d always been like this, but now, his flame burned even fiercer.
To her eyes, it was as if a fire spirit had possessed him.
‘No—not flame.’
A whirlpool of passion, longing, and ecstasy.
That intense emotion pierced the sensitive heart of the Elf.
If Frok saw potential in talent, Elves felt it through emotion.
That was their nature as a race.
To live on the continent, they had to dull that sensitivity—ignore what they must.
If Frok had to grow familiar with the word “heart,” then Elves had to learn to weather emotional storms.
In that regard, Sinar was an Elf well-adapted to the continent.
And yet—
‘It’s hot.’
Encrid didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t flail his arms or stomp around.
He just stretched his limbs, said a few words, and approached.
Yet that alone ignited Sinar’s blood.
It stirred the Elf’s essence.
That seriousness stripped away her usual composure—her laughter, her teasing tone.
“The sword of a knight is a calamity. How do you intend to block something you yourself call a calamity?”
Throwing back the question—that was the answer needed now.
If an earthquake struck, could human strength stop it?
What about a tornado?
A flood?
A typhoon?
A torrential downpour?
A drought?
All natural disasters.
And knights were called man-made disasters.
Among the races—Dragons, Elves, Giants, Dwarves, Beastkin, and Humans—the one with the largest population was Humanity, the continent’s rulers. Hence, the name ‘man-made calamity’ for knights.
There were Elven knights too.
Beastkin had a similar term—‘warriors,’ perhaps.
Even among humans, there were similar beings who weren’t called knights.
The terminology wasn’t the point.
Sinar recalled her past, observed her present, and envisioned her future.
‘How to move forward.’
Sinar Kirheis had once faced her limits and given something up.
She lost her path forward.
But giving that up was also what allowed her to reach this far.
A contradiction.
Was it that the fish she lost now seemed bigger?
Or that she realized she needed it to stand beside this man before her?
‘Maybe.’
What would it feel like to see this man die to a knight’s sword?
By chance, her keen Elven senses predicted what was to come.
‘It wouldn’t feel good.’
Then she’d probably regret it.
She’d think a lot about the fish that got away.
‘Pointless thoughts.’
Outwardly calm, Sinar shook her head inwardly.
Useless thoughts indeed.
Encrid pondered her question.
Ragna had mentioned lightning.
Sinar’s answer likely connected to that.
At least the Elf had added some consideration to her response.
Hearing both of them, he reached something like a conclusion.
‘How do you block lightning?’
Finding that answer came first.
“You’re not gonna ask me?”
As he pondered, Dunbakel came over.
“Ask you what?”
“The knight. The sword. That stuff.”
“Go to bed.”
Dunbakel was still unripe.
No need to bother asking her.
She’d speak up on her own anyway.
“Just block it with a clang!”
Sure, fine.
Encrid patted her shoulder.
“That was… very helpful.”
Not a trace of emotion in his tone.
“Was it?”
“It was.”
He nodded vaguely and sent her back to bed.
Krys watched the exchange and marveled.
“At this rate, Commander, you’d make the perfect salon host.”
Encrid had no intention of charming noble ladies.
By evening, after resting, eating, thinking, practicing sword swings in the air, and checking their weapons, he simply said they had worked hard.
It was preparation of the heart.
No one mentioned demons or any other nonsense.
Encrid’s attitude and eyes carried a strange intensity.
Even without words, they struck Sinar’s heart like a hammer.
Of course, she kept her heartbeat steady, controlling her emotions well.
And then, the knight appeared.
“Just once. Block me once.
That will be the bare minimum to protect my honor.”
Why did that man always say things no one asked?
Encrid gripped his sword and drew a breath.
How to block lightning—
You start by crossing blades.
[Flowing Sword], the first form Encrid created—the [Snake Sword].
Just because it was lightning didn’t mean it couldn’t be deflected.
“…It’s as if you’ve been waiting. Strange.”
The knight spoke.
Encrid didn’t reply.
His focus burned, shattering the chains of foreboding.
Then he gathered it all to a single point, fixing his eyes on his foe.
He waited, motionless, for the first strike.
“Indeed.”
Sinar murmured from behind.
“Was he a prophet?”
Krys looked incredulous.
“Telling us to hold our swords like that?”
And Ragna?
Esther? Surely even they were surprised.
Dunbakel froze at the sight of the opponent.
“What is that thing?”
A monster that roused every beast’s instinct for survival.
Whoosh—
A sword flew.
First, meet it.
Blocking lightning came next.
Slash—
Encrid saw an illusion.
He saw the sword bending before him.
The enemy’s blade pierced through his own and met his steel.
It was strange enough to make him doubt his sight.
Then his heart split apart.
—
The Ferryman watched, both in the world of imagination and beyond it.
He saw reality as well.
Nothing escaped the Ferryman’s gaze.
He watched the cursed one dying.
That was his only entertainment—his only joy.
But this cursed man was unlike any other.
‘He’s smiling?’
He dies smiling.
Smiles through pain.
Smiles though agony races through his veins.
Even trapped in a dark pit, he smiles.
Encrid found joy in seeing something new, but for the Ferryman, this was neither normal nor familiar.
He kept watching.
Through countless repeating days, Encrid died again and again.
Died smiling, thinking, pondering, and reflecting.
What joy could there be in such repetition?
None.
The Ferryman knew that well.
He knew better than anyone why the repetition of today was a curse.
“That bastard’s insane.”
He muttered to himself.
“Despair… fails to become despair?”
He asked again.
“Anguish, ignorance, despair itself can’t taint his will.”
He murmured.
Thus he watched Encrid die.
Observed.
Witnessed.
Death, again and again.
“Still enjoying yourself?”
Sometimes, he asked him directly.
“Hm? What did you say?”
Encrid didn’t even hear him properly.
He was wholly immersed in the moment.
He saw nothing, heard nothing, focused only on one thing.
And he enjoyed it.
The Ferryman recalled an old saying from the continent—something he’d heard long before he became what he was.
Since he’d been stripped of the gift of forgetfulness, remembering the past came easily.
Those who know are not as good as those who like, and those who like are not as good as those who enjoy.
To know is to understand.
To understand is to believe your knowledge is truth.
Thus, knowing leads not to progress, but to stagnation.
To stop, to settle in the present.
To like something gives you drive.
You work for it because you like it.
That brings progress, not stagnation.
But effort seeks reward.
You strive because you want what comes next.
Liking is the fuel of effort.
Effort is the heart’s strength.
To enjoy is to lose oneself.
To forget the self, the world, the moment—just like a child lost in play.
If one could still do that even after growing older—
If one could truly forget themselves and immerse without realizing it—
Then that would be true devotion.
But could such a human exist?
No.
He had never seen one.
Most wore down.
They dulled.
Their hearts faded.
Their effort waned.
They grew weary.
They tired.
They sank into exhaustion.
Into ruin.
All of them.
But before the Ferryman’s eyes stood one who did not.
Never before had he seen someone so utterly mad.
And so, Encrid repeated the day again and again.
The repetition was no shackle, no prison to him.
The bars could not confine Encrid.
Yet the Ferryman’s gaze did not waver.
He kept watching.
Today’s chains were solid.
Heavy.
Unbreakable.
Then what should one do?
Encrid had already answered.
A shackle?
You just run with it on.
In fact, he didn’t even seem to realize it was there.
“Ha.”
The Ferryman finally laughed.