Chapter 381

Encrid stared at the sword tip Aisia held out.

It was the same as before.

Aisia’s body vanished, leaving only the blade. Only the tip remained—a dot that clogged his vision. The sense of distance disappeared. He couldn’t see Aisia at all.

Then the tip began to waver.

Was it always like this?

Why?

‘Did my words get to her?’

It sounded like she was telling him to prove it.

His steady breathing, a wall he had to overcome without killing, the ferryman’s words, the wavering tip.

The wavering dot split. It became multiple dots.

He imagined striking down each one.

Each version of him striking was different.

He became Rem, Ragna, and Jaxson.

Facing Sword Tip Aiming like that, he clearly felt the traits of the ones he imitated. It was natural. Learning, mastering—it was all part of the process.

Rem’s method was to play along.

Jaxson’s was to clear the stage before it was even set, then face the opponent only on his own stage.

Ragna’s was to cover the opponent’s displayed [Will] with his own.

Encrid followed each one.

He repeated it over and over during today—over three hundred times.

They looked different, but they were the same.

Why could Rem or Ragna do that?

‘Instinct.’

They could because their senses were meticulous and precise.

That precision could take the form of Jaxson’s five senses, or something that only appeared when Ragna held a sword, but the conclusion was the same.

Encrid cultivated that precision. He went around in circles and returned to the starting point.

“Is this bastard…?”

Aisia spoke. The sound rang in his ears.

The dot vanished from Encrid’s vision, and everything blurred as if melting away.

Because Encrid had closed his eyes.

Darkness fell.

Then he felt everything through sound, touch, and intuition—and swung.

A diagonal slash. He leaned into it, planted his left foot as a pivot, and poured the rotation of his waist into the elasticity of his whole body. The blade fell with the sensation of dropping straight down through the air.

“As if that’ll work!”

Aisia shouted, yanking her sword back and taking a defensive stance.

It was a simple diagonal slash, but it couldn’t be blocked with Sword Tip Aiming.

Because Sword Tip Aiming was meaningless to someone who couldn’t see.

In an instant, Encrid’s blade accelerated, stretching out.

Clang!

To deflect an attack, you had to catch the exact point of impact. The shift in speed made that difficult.

Encrid had created that shift.

Aisia still twisted her wrist in the blink of an eye and knocked the sword aside.

If she couldn’t block even this much, the title of Junior Knight—and the name of the Red Cloak Order—would mean nothing.

Encrid yanked his deflected sword back and slammed it down again.

Whoong!

Aisia stepped back.

When Encrid opened his eyes, Aisia was once again aiming her sword tip, stance set.

“Don’t want to admit it’s broken?” Encrid asked, still poised in a downward-slash stance.

“Try again,” Aisia said.

There was no need to close his eyes on purpose.

Encrid deliberately blurred his focus. If he left only a hazy image, it would disrupt his concentration. Sword Tip Aiming was an Illusion Sword that fed on the opponent’s concentration.

In other words, this was enough.

He could replace vision with other senses.

Clang!

From the downward stance, Encrid twisted his wrist and struck upward. His sword flashed up like lightning.

Aisia couldn’t ignore it. She blocked, holding her blade horizontal, then sprang back to bleed off his brute strength.

Blade met blade and split apart. Sparks burst between them with a ringing clang.

Even after deflecting it, the impact jolted her whole body. Aisia knew she couldn’t win against him in pure strength.

Encrid’s half-blurred eyes sharpened.

“One more time?”

“…What are you?”

Aisia couldn’t understand.

Once could be a coincidence. Twice?

She’d known after the first exchange.

Encrid had broken Sword Tip Aiming.

But how?

In sparring, he’d struggled—not just to find a solution, but even to face it.

His mastery had been lacking. More than that, he lacked experience against techniques like this.

So what was this?

It felt like he’d trained separately—hundreds of times—aiming only at her sword.

Like an attack that arrived perfectly fitted to the moment.

A crack formed in Aisia’s heart.

‘My mind is wavering.’

The moment she realized it, Aisia steadied herself. She evened out her breathing.

If her mind wavered, she’d lose momentum.

So she rejected it.

No—she widened her mind into understanding.

“Fine. Is this that absurd talent Ruagarne was talking about?”

“I just got lucky.”

A common excuse.

It sounded like provocation.

One corner of Aisia’s mouth lifted.

“Do people tell you you’re annoying a lot?”

“Sometimes.”

“Yeah. You’re annoying.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

She couldn’t beat Encrid with words. There weren’t many in the Royal Guard who could wag their tongues like this.

So Aisia used her sword instead of words. Instead of her tongue.

Because she didn’t only have Sword Tip Aiming.

‘Even if a technique gets broken, your skill doesn’t rise in an instant.’

That was the truth.

Yet before even ten exchanges passed, Aisia’s common sense was shaken and cracked.

Because Encrid’s swordsmanship had reached an unprecedented level of polish.

What had lacked precision turned delicate.

The gap between deflecting and striking back—smaller than before. He no longer bent his wrist excessively and gave the opponent time.

The angle of his wrist, the force of the deflection, the push that followed—everything was appropriate.

Precision.

‘No way.’

It was the kind of talent that made her want to click her tongue.

At this rate, it was greater than the “seniors” within the Royal Guard.

Aisia had to move her feet to avoid the sword that twisted like a snake as it slipped past her thrust.

His response was faster than before. His timing was better, too.

Breaking Sword Tip Aiming wasn’t the only change.

‘How?’

Did he find some teacher and swing his sword like a madman for months?

Surprise piled on surprise.

Still, Aisia regained her composure again.

“What is [Will]?”

Heart. Belief. Resolve.

How could someone whose heart had collapsed win in reality?

She used her teacher’s words as a standard and steadied herself.

It worked—especially against Encrid’s current state.

He had regained himself by deciding he wouldn’t kill Aisia.

Aisia was doing the same in real time.

The mindset of a Junior Knight was different.

“Ha!”

She shook off the noise by throwing it into her shout.

Pivoting on her right foot, she poured the rotation into the sword in her right hand and thrust.

It was the third [Will] technique after intimidation and Illusion Sword.

A high-speed thrust.

A technique similar to Encrid’s [Will of the Moment].

One of the basics of the Royal Guard.

Because speed was always the truth.

Clang!

Encrid took the thrust on the flat of his gladius.

He’d done the same with [Will of the Moment].

‘This too.’

Before, he used [Will] in distinct chunks.

The separation was obvious. When he used [Will of the Moment], he needed preparation, and it showed.

Not now.

“You blocked that?”

“If you think it’s a coincidence, try again.”

Before they knew it, both of them were smiling.

Encrid slashed down.

Aisia raised her sword as if to block horizontally, then swerved and slipped away.

As his sword cut down through empty air, her high-speed thrust came again.

Encrid twisted his body.

The tip grazed his cheek.

His skin split slightly, and droplets of blood scattered.

They clashed, swung, and fought.

Encrid had surpassed Aisia’s Sword Tip Aiming, but he couldn’t completely subdue her.

To be precise, it was a draw.

If they had both decided to kill, one of them might have died.

But neither had any intention of doing so.

That was why it ended with them exhausted and injured.

Encrid’s left upper arm had been stabbed; he couldn’t lift it properly.

Aisia’s calf had been cut badly; her movement was hampered.

They stopped with their swords lowered, a few steps apart.

Aisia asked again, not hiding her bewilderment.

“What are you, really?”

Then she added, staring at him.

“No—why are you smiling?”

Encrid was grinning broadly.

There was a limit to enjoying a fight. Smiling like this meant something in his head had snapped.

By now, the sun was setting. The light through the window died, and dusk crept in.

Aisia frowned.

Encrid was still smiling.

‘Did he go crazy while fighting?’

Maybe he really had.

Encrid looked at her and spoke.

“I feel like I’m going to die from excitement.”

“What?”

What was he saying?

In his eyes, it was as if the vanished sunlight had remained.

A light made of passion and fervor.

And he finished.

“I’m going crazy with joy that there’s a way to go higher.”

He meant it.

Pure joy, without a trace of impurity.

Encrid had sharpened his senses beyond evasion and attack.

He’d advanced his techniques step by step, but still couldn’t completely subdue Aisia.

That was why.

Because there was farther to go.

More to train.

Higher to reach.

He could see it. His fingertips were touching it.

That made him happy.

“Crazy bastard,” Aisia said, just as sincerely.

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it.

—

“That’s not a wall.”

The ferryman appeared in his dream. These days, he seemed freer than before.

Encrid couldn’t answer.

Because it was a dream.

Because it was close to a fleeting afterimage.

And yet, it remained vividly carved into his memory.

It felt like he had to follow the ferryman’s words, no matter what.

“Kill her.”

Someone was ordering him, and it felt like he had to obey.

Encrid ignored everything as if it meant nothing.

“It’s a ridiculously good morning.”

Muttering before the sun even rose, Encrid stepped outside.

Rem, barely awake, watched his back and tilted his head.

“Why are you crazy from the morning?”

An ominous mood had been hanging in the air since last night, so what was so good?

Rem’s words carried that meaning, but Encrid didn’t care.

He trained with the Isolation Technique.

As he moved, his thoughts sorted themselves out.

Walls were conditions.

If killing that thrusting pervert had been a condition.

Sometimes, just surviving had been a condition.

Sometimes, just taking a knight’s sword once had been a condition.

Had there only been one way through each “today”?

No.

So it was the same now.

No matter what the ferryman said, Encrid did what he always did.

Whatever he wanted.

A little later, Esther shifted into human form and said she was heading out.

Seeing her, Encrid spoke.

“Bring melon when you come back.”

Melon was a rare fruit from the south—hard to find on this continent.

“Your condition gets worse day by day,” Esther said flatly, then left, deciding it was pointless to try to understand that human.

Rem watched Encrid with narrowed eyes.

“Why are you so excited? Do you feel like you’re about to fly away?”

It wasn’t like they’d only met yesterday. Rem could tell his captain was more energized than ever.

Jaxson noticed too and stared at him strangely.

Dunbakel’s eyes kept drifting out of focus.

Ragna, as always, didn’t pay attention.

It was worth being excited.

The heavy weight that had clung to his heart was gone.

Like taking off a sandbag—everything felt light.

And he could see a path forward.

He was happy to walk it.

“Ah, my heart’s pounding just thinking about knocking someone down,” Encrid said.

Rem couldn’t understand that line, and he didn’t ask.

Soon after, the Chief of Public Order appeared and Encrid knocked him out with a blow to the back of the head.

Rem stared at the fallen Chief Of Public Order and asked, as if it had just clicked.

“Were you really going to knock this guy down?”

As in—did you know he was coming?

Encrid smiled.

“No.”

Because the one he planned to knock down was the orange-haired female knight.