Chapter 322
The day repeated.
Whether the Ferryman watched or not, Encrid remained constant.
As always, unwavering.
He was no different from when he first picked up a sword and set out as a mercenary, nor from when he was beaten bloody and swung his blade toward trees.
No—something had changed.
His sight had changed.
What he saw, what he pondered, all evolved.
His body changed.
The sword in his hand changed.
His dream drew closer.
Yet Encrid was still Encrid.
Every day, he contemplated.
‘How do I block it?’
There was no answer.
But that was fine.
It was always like this.
Rarely did Encrid ever find an answer to his questions.
Everything around him urged surrender.
It forced him to give in—to rest within the safety of today.
He even thought of ways to give up.
Perhaps it was the Ferryman’s trick, or perhaps this was simply how it was—there was never just one way to pass the day.
‘What if I took everyone and ran?’
What if he woke up, body aching, and fled like a madman?
There were carriages at the Green Pearl camp.
If he stole one and escaped, what then?
Would the knight chase him all the way to the Border Guards?
The knight only appeared by evening—would he give chase if Encrid ran from dawn?
Could he even catch up?
He didn’t know.
He didn’t need to know.
Because Encrid would never do that.
Running away was easy.
Even if Garrett stopped him, it didn’t matter.
‘I’ll rest in the rear.’
Or—
‘I have something urgent to attend to.’
That would be enough.
Who would dare question the hero of this victory, the most distinguished contributor of the battle?
Already, the camp was growing restless with anticipation.
Once Azpen withdrew, there would be a feast.
They would eat meat and drink wine.
Would such a tomorrow ever come?
“Despair.”
The word the Ferryman had repeated echoed in his mind.
“You cannot surpass it.”
He said it again.
A fleeting thought—but nothing changed.
Encrid continued to swing his sword in his mind.
He searched for a way.
‘If I retreat and deflect…?’
How could a blade shake and twist like that?
How could he make his own edge meet that curve?
Encrid saw the curse of repeating days as a gift.
Painful deaths felt the same each time.
But he endured them for the thrill that followed.
Thus, he met the knight’s sword again and again.
Each repeated day burned with focus.
And through that focus, he began to see more.
“Honor.”
The knight who demanded, “Block me once, for honor,” had returned.
In that instant, Encrid saw everything cut off like severed film.
The foreboding chain that bound him since morning played its part—
His instinct for evasion was at its peak, driving his focus to the extreme.
‘The blade…?’
As he tried to retreat and redirect, the knight’s sword accelerated.
Its speed changed.
Before it reached full momentum, Encrid saw something—
A tremor.
It quivered.
He clearly saw it.
And at that exact moment, Encrid met the knight’s blade at an angle.
It felt as though every muscle in his body snapped—but he did it.
Focused only on the sword, Encrid never saw the knight’s face, though it had flickered with surprise—just for a moment.
Then it vanished.
Clang.
When the blades met, the short sword cleaved the dwarf-made gladius.
‘The advantage of weapons…’
None.
Thud.
His heart was pierced.
Encrid died.
And the day began again.
It played out the same way.
But this time, he added something new.
As he blocked with the gladius, he triggered [Will of the Moment], willing to let his left arm’s muscles tear apart if needed.
It was half a gamble.
After all, [Will] was power drawn through the user’s own body—a divine force.
Using it with an unhealed body was reckless.
His left arm tendon tore, but Encrid still thrust the sparks toward his intended path.
That was why—
The knight’s sword trembled, twisted, and stabbed his heart, but it didn’t shatter it completely.
He bought time.
Just a little, but enough to delay death.
“Kh–!”
Encrid staggered back, coughing blood.
His knees buckled.
He tried to support himself with his left hand but failed.
He almost fell—
Thud.
Someone caught him.
Looking down, he saw feet—
Sinar had caught his body against her thigh.
Encrid didn’t repeat the same mistake.
He pressed his right hand to the ground.
He couldn’t stand.
Blood kept spilling from his lips, each drop drawn from the shock to his heart.
“What the hell.”
Sinar muttered.
At that moment, something came slicing down over the knight’s head.
Ragna.
His sword tore through the tent’s roof.
Crack!
The sound of fabric ripping, followed by the furious thrust of steel.
His sword fell faster than an arrow.
Ragna had once spoken of lightning.
It hadn’t been an empty metaphor.
His blade became lightning.
Infusing it with [Will of Severance], he executed the Northern Jaun family’s sword art—Lightning Strike.
Boom!
A thunderous sound erupted from his sword.
And the knight stabbed upward.
Lightning Strike?
Not for nothing was he called a knight.
Not for nothing was he a wielder of Will.
What others couldn’t do with fragments of Will, the knight did easily.
He caught Ragna’s sword with his left palm and stabbed in the same motion.
Encrid saw it all.
Not a moment escaped him.
He refused to release his focus even as his body died.
‘Ah.’
Even to Encrid’s eyes, it looked as though the knight’s sword split into dozens of blades.
“Grk–”
Encrid coughed not just blood but foam.
Sinar, standing beside him, spoke.
“An Elf who loses her partner never forgets vengeance.”
Partner?
Since when?
What were they even? Vengeance? Really?
Still… the words were oddly reassuring.
If she could still joke like that now, she was truly fearless.
Ragna fell, stabbed through.
It was fatal.
His eyes were lifeless.
A hole gaped in his chest.
Of course it did.
“Damn.”
Krys stepped in front of Encrid again.
This time, Dunbakel joined him.
Grrr.
Even Esther stood her ground.
So none of them planned to run, huh?
This time, Ragna died.
Maybe he’d gotten too excited, using such a grand technique.
Still, it wasn’t in vain.
Even the knight was wounded.
Through Encrid’s fading sight, he saw the knight examining his palm between Krys and Dunbakel.
Blood dripped from the tip of his short sword.
From his left hand too, thick crimson drops fell to the ground.
The color was deep, almost glowing scarlet.
“He cut me?”
The knight muttered.
It was no wonder.
Even if the attack carried Will, Ragna’s was but an incomplete shard.
He, on the other hand, was a full-fledged knight.
And yet—his hand, sheathed in Will, had been cut?
“He cut me?”
He repeated, disbelief heavy in his tone.
Whether it was misfortune or luck, Encrid saw only up to that point before his eyes closed.
The time he’d bought with his sacrificed arm ran out.
“Ghhhk–”
He tried to endure, but a guttural scream escaped him as he collapsed.
He’d reached his limit.
“Even dying, he makes it dramatic.”
Through dying ears, Encrid heard Krys’s grim voice—half amused, half unsettled.
He closed his eyes, died, woke, and the day began again.
The trembling sword. The bending sword.
Most of all, he remembered the knight’s movements when facing Ragna.
He had changed his footing, his stance.
He had adjusted, adapting mid-combat.
If it had been the same pattern, Encrid would’ve already overcome it by now.
“Good.”
“What is?”
“Good!”
“What are you even talking about?”
Was it normal to wake up shouting “good” like a madman?
Krys beside him asked repeatedly, but Encrid was lost in his own world.
Deeper than ever before.
“Did he hit his head? Seriously, this time, I think he did.”
Krys muttered, and even Sinar silently agreed.
He had always been strange—but now he was even stranger.
That, however, was part of his charm.
Encrid went through several more days.
He began to organize what he’d realized.
In one recent repetition, he had witnessed something curious.
By chance, Ragna and Sinar had attacked together—
And the knight’s sword had ‘sung.’
Wuuuuum!
It trembled, releasing a resonant hum.
A phenomenon known as [Blade Echo].
An echo born of the sword itself.
A faint hum, visible even to the naked eye as white light poured from the knight’s eyes.
It was the materialization of [Will].
Wuuum—Chung!
The knight’s short sword traced a streak of blinding white.
Ragna’s blade, caught in its path, split cleanly in two.
Sinar’s spears followed.
Encrid had attacked first that time and earned a brief reprieve again.
He saw it clearly.
‘With that old short sword?’
This wasn’t skill—it was divine craftsmanship, a miracle.
Both Ragna’s sword and Sinar’s weapons were cut down.
One was a masterwork, the other thick enough to seem impossible to sever. Yet both were sliced cleanly.
No sparks. No resistance.
‘Like cutting rotten wood.’
Was that possible with Will alone?
What was Will, truly?
What was the essence of resolve?
Encrid pondered, but no answer came.
Still, his thoughts shifted—becoming more constructive.
The knight had slain Ragna, sliced his limbs, and each time, muttered something similar.
“What a waste. You shouldn’t have fought.”
He coveted Ragna’s talent.
Encrid recalled that moment vividly.
He reviewed every memory carved into the repeating days—Sinar’s defiance, Krys’s death, Dunbakel’s struggle, his own demise.
He recalled them all, weaving them together.
Swordsmanship. Technique. Desperation.
All tangled in his mind.
“The swamp swallows all who fall into it.”
Between it all, the Ferryman still tried to drag him down into some abyss—but it was useless.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?”
Sometimes, Encrid asked him that first.
And on those days, the Ferryman went silent.
It almost looked like he was sulking.
A foolish thought.
After all, that being was beyond comprehension.
And so came the fifty-sixth day.
‘How do I block lightning?’
He repeated, questioned, and pondered again.
He asked Ragna. He asked Sinar.
Never did he let a single day go to waste.
In one of those days, he saw the knight’s sword twist again—and died for it.
He died seeing it tremble.
His sparks were cut. His gladius shattered.
He never saw [Blade Echo] again.
That required chance—luck.
To others, it might seem fortune itself followed him.
But Encrid knew better.
Luck was never on his side.
He couldn’t expect it to happen again.
If not by chance, he’d have to coordinate—Ragna, Sinar, and himself moving as one.
‘But that’s not right.’
His heart refused.
That path demanded their deaths—especially the lazy, joke-loving Elf’s.
He would have to push them forward himself.
That was unacceptable.
To watch their deaths for the sake of “tomorrow” might be a small comfort.
But to drive them to it?
‘I’d rather bite my sword and charge.’
That was how his heart felt.
So he swung alone.
Pondered alone.
Endless thought, endless struggle—yet he advanced by the tiniest fraction.
Encrid’s contemplation returned to its start.
How to block lightning.
“It begins by perceiving its true form.”
That was Ragna’s answer.
Now, Encrid understood.
To block, you must first see.
“Then, react to its speed.”
That was Sinar’s answer.
React, then strike.
Defend.
“And do it well.”
That was Ragna’s final word.
Everything was contained in that single syllable—‘well.’
Still…
“Haa.”
The knight’s sword.
The knight’s strike.
Wasn’t it exhilarating?
“Again.”
He whispered to himself—smiling.
In this repeating day, Encrid felt an ecstasy unlike ever before.
His dream had once come as Death itself, but now, the sword he wielded felt like a guidepost.
A beacon of light shining through the dark tunnel.
What the Ferryman saw as despair, Encrid saw as brilliance—joy.
And the day began anew.
The seventy-second.
His body was wrecked as ever, but he still moved.
He saw Ragna’s strikes.
He saw Sinar’s defiance ten times over.
A way?
He didn’t know.
Tomorrow?
It wouldn’t come.
He didn’t care.
Thus, the Ferryman could never understand Encrid.
Among those countless days, some rose for no reason with inexplicable confidence.
He still died.
Then twelve more days passed.
The sword that seemed blockable never was.
Such was the knight’s blade.
“You.”
On the ninetieth day, the knight drew his sword, furrowing his brow.
Then he said—
“What a waste.”
Encrid didn’t feel joy—but denying pride would be a lie.
Of course, in the moment, he felt nothing.
He was in deep focus.
Always.
Facing the knight demanded total immersion.
The slightest lapse meant his heart would split again.
Even as his will wore thin, he couldn’t afford to loosen his focus.
Still, to be acknowledged by the dream that had come as Death—he would never forget that.
The knight spoke again of honor, of a single strike.
Encrid exhaled and prepared.
It looked blockable—but wasn’t.
Then something must be wrong.
Did he have to reach the knight’s level now?
Impossible.
Even with fragments of [Will], he couldn’t reach that height.
Then how?
Wuuum—
The faint [Blade Echo] resounded—then the knight’s sword tore through his heart.
Thud.
Faster than before.
[Blade Echo], here?
‘Ah.’
It truly was like lightning.
At that same moment, lightning struck in Encrid’s mind—
A bolt that illuminated the path beyond today, toward tomorrow.