Chapter 394

There was nothing more to do at the royal palace, and Krang would be busy.

So it was time for Encrid to return as well.

Just before they parted, he saw Matthew dragging one leg as he tried to follow Krang—only to get chewed out and sent off for treatment.

“Wouldn’t it be better to receive treatment at the royal palace?”

The Marquis of Okto asked Encrid after watching Matthew leave.

He was meticulous about taking care of people.

And he had an eye for talent.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sided with Krang.

“It’s alright.”

Encrid declined. His right wrist would heal soon enough.

If he ate properly and rested, it would.

And he didn’t need to do that inside the royal palace.

He could fix his creaking joints himself, and Rem or Ragna could handle this level of first aid. Above all, there was Esther.

“It’ll heal quickly with my touch.”

Hadn’t she said that with such confidence?

She said it as soon as Molsen’s doppelganger—or whatever it was—died, after examining Encrid’s body.

“If he was going to die from this much, he’d have died long ago.”

She added, looking oddly satisfied.

Encrid didn’t know what she meant, but he didn’t bother asking. She probably wouldn’t answer, and he was exhausted enough already.

He wasn’t about to collapse on the spot, but he’d survived several days, beaten up Aisia, endured the Junior Knight’s hands, and watched Molsen and Krang argue to the bitter end.

Everything in between was too much to list.

In short, he beat, killed, and ran.

His legs weren’t wobbling, but he wanted to eat properly, wash up, and sleep.

His body reeked—blood and sweat mixed together.

When he stepped outside, he saw Rem chasing after some idiot.

Right in front of the royal palace, beside One-Eye. Rem was soaked in blood, like he’d bathed in it.

As Encrid looked Rem over, Rem said,

“Well, I beat him, hit him, and chased the bastard when he ran.”

There was dissatisfaction in his tone. Looking closer, his balance was slightly off. He’d hurt his ankle. He wasn’t limping, but it was injured.

“The bastard pulled out a hidden card at the end.”

Rem added without being asked. Even as he said it, he didn’t look relieved.

It felt like he’d chased him for some personal reason.

The guy also looked like a Westerner.

“Are you getting beaten because you lack skill?”

Ragna asked seriously from behind.

It even sounded worried.

In other words, it was mockery.

Rem finally smiled. Of course, it wasn’t a happy smile.

“You’re really going to die like that.”

“Huh? I can’t hear you, coming from someone who got beaten up.”

“Want me to split your eardrums with an axe?”

“I can’t hear you, coming from someone with an injured ankle.”

“Oh, then I guess I’ll have to use this on you.”

Rem reached for something in his pocket.

Encrid stepped between them.

“Stop it.”

It was everyday life. Still, he couldn’t help noticing they’d both gotten a lot better at talking.

Since when did those two start using words before hands?

He remembered Ragna, lost somewhere while chewing on an apple.

And Rem, sharpening his axe blade and walking up instead of speaking.

“You two have really improved your talking skills.”

He said it because it was true.

“…Who are you to say that?”

Rem shot back.

Ragna blinked a few times and said,

“What are you talking about?”

On the way back, Encrid mentioned that Ragna had come by a shortcut, and Rem was genuinely surprised.

It was a matter of perspective.

Calling a place with no road a road and marching straight across while keeping only the royal palace in sight—if that wasn’t a shortcut, what was?

“Bastard. He’s really improved.”

Rem spat out, and Ragna lifted his chin slightly.

“Finding shortcuts is my specialty. I’m better at that than swordsmanship.”

“Is he crazy?”

And they started bickering again.

After stopping them just enough and arriving at Andrew’s house, Encrid found Dunbakel, Andrew, and the trainees gathered there.

No one had died.

“What, you ran off like that all of a sudden.”

Dunbakel said to Ragna.

So Encrid had to hear the shortcut story again.

Was finding the road more rewarding than killing the Royal Guard’s Junior Knight?

That’s what it looked like to him.

Dunbakel was even more shocked that Ragna had found the way.

She wasn’t curious about what happened inside the royal palace anyway. She just nodded, her eyes heavy with fatigue.

Around then, Jaxson returned.

He only made brief eye contact to signal he was back, then acted as usual.

Meaning, he stayed silent.

“How did the job go?”

When Encrid asked, Jaxson answered.

“It went well.”

“You curious about the shortcut to the royal palace?”

Ragna asked him.

(T/N: AHHAHAHAHA.)

Jaxson ignored him.

With the help of the servants, Encrid washed, reset the bone in his right wrist, and put on a splint.

When he finished and came out, Esther approached in human form and grabbed his wrist.

Heat spread from her touch.

“Endure it.”

She said.

Encrid did.

As he endured the heat, fatigue crashed over him.

Nothing mattered more than proper rest.

Eat well, rest well—that was the key to recovery.

The surest path to restoring the body.

Encrid shared a room with Rem.

And he fell asleep without saying a word.

He’d instinctively known he would sink into a deep sleep, so deep he wouldn’t even dream.

So he was caught off guard.

Because the dream came immediately—Ferryman, the black river, the ferry.

“Sit down.”

Ferryman said.

The ferry was several times wider than before.

‘So it can change like this too?’

The table and chairs looked like they had been carved out of wood. They were fused to the deck, as if they had grown up from the floor itself.

That was what felt strange.

But that was all.

A brief surprise, and a small sense of, ‘It can do that too?’

The boat still swayed, Ferryman was still there, and the black river still stretched on.

The ferry’s size had changed, but it didn’t feel like an enormous difference.

Rather, Ferryman’s attitude was different.

There was no cup of tea, but the table suggested conversation.

Ferryman sat first on the opposite side.

Encrid took a few steps across the widened ferry and sat down.

The chair was hard. No matter how he thought about it, it wasn’t comfortable.

“It is said that giants have brute strength, Frok have the power of regeneration, Beastkin have exceptional voluntary control of their bodies, dwarves have dexterity and stamina, and dragonkin are born with words forged by excellent combat sense and will.”

Most people wouldn’t understand that, but Encrid understood most of it.

There had been a time when he worried about talent, pushed forward through effort, and tried everything.

Back when he believed theory mattered, he dug into all kinds of books and stories.

It hadn’t helped much.

Which was why he knew this one.

Giants’ brute strength.

Frok’s regeneration.

Beastkin’s physical control.

Dwarves’ stamina.

Dragonkin’s words.

“Then what do humans have?”

Ferryman asked at the end.

Encrid knew the answer.

“They say potential and possibility.”

“That’s right.”

A purple glow seeped from Ferryman’s black eyes. The faint light replaced a lamp and lit the table and the space around it.

No, there was already a lamp on the table.

“Humans can go anywhere.”

Was that what he wanted to say?

Ferryman continued.

“Therefore, they do not know their place.”

Eyes met eyes. Ferryman acknowledged Encrid’s growth again.

A man who once couldn’t even listen properly was holding eye contact now.

They could have a conversation.

“This is, therefore, my gift—advice and words born of a whim.”

When Encrid didn’t speak, Ferryman raised his right hand and covered Encrid’s eyes with his palm.

Just that alone made it feel like a wall had risen in front of him.

Then Ferryman’s voice echoed over itself, and dozens of words stabbed into Encrid’s mind, one after another.

“It’s too much.”

“You can’t escape.”

“Where will you go after leaving this place?”

“If you believe you can move forward like this every time, that is arrogance.”

“That is the arrogance of potential and possibility.”

“Humans are arrogant. Give up. This is my consideration. Greater pain will come.”

“The wall will get higher.”

“You can stop here.”

With Ferryman’s words, Encrid saw a vision.

In it, he was writhing in pain.

Unable to find his way, he wandered alone, lost.

He repeated that suffering for the rest of his life. Today had no end.

No people. Not even small changes.

That today repeated endlessly. Not despairing in it wasn’t something a human could do.

The moment he saw it, goosebumps rose across his body. Fear surged. The fear filling his chest swallowed him whole.

He saw other visions, too.

In them, Encrid lost everyone, every time.

Everyone around him died. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t reach them. Something beyond human power slaughtered everything near him.

And he could do nothing.

He could only watch, his arms and legs torn away.

The visions kept coming.

A massive fireball fell onto his head.

The impact burned everything—his body, his will, the ground, the air.

Even so, he didn’t die at once. He suffocated in the flames.

He could tell at a glance. That kind of pain couldn’t be endured, no matter how hard someone tried.

None of it could be stopped with a sword.

“Stop here. You will live satisfied with any today.”

Was this persuasion?

Or was it, as he said, advice—a whim, a gift?

Encrid didn’t know.

But even if it was a gift, it changed nothing.

A man who could refuse a gift he didn’t want—that was Encrid.

“If I lose my way, then until I find it.”

He finally spoke. Then he continued.

“If I don’t have arms and legs, even if I have to bite down on a sword hilt.”

“If I can’t avoid it, even if I have to tear it apart.”

Disaster couldn’t always be avoided.

Then he would become the disaster.

Encrid said he would move forward even if it took that.

The present mattered more than an unknown threat.

He wouldn’t be afraid ahead of time, kneel, and hesitate.

As he had until now, he would do it again.

Ferryman said nothing more. He only watched.

Then the chair vanished.

Encrid dropped onto his backside with a thud. In reality, he would have tightened his thighs on reflex and caught himself, but it didn’t work that way here.

The table and chairs disappeared.

Ferryman had already pulled his hood back up, hiding his face.

Holding a lamp in one hand, he said,

“To dare sit at the same table—it’s too much.”

“It’s not like I asked to sit down…”

That was unfair.

“Go.”

Ferryman said.

Encrid opened his eyes.

Reality.

It would have been nice to forget dreams, but it didn’t work that way. The visions stayed, carved into his mind.

A today he couldn’t do anything about.

So it was the same now.

Repeating a today where he could settle down—that was the best way to preserve his body and keep himself safe.

“…Did you have a good dream?”

Sometimes Rem asked about his dreams every morning, and in moments like this, it felt like that bastard had some kind of instinct.

Something like a barbarian’s instinct.

“Yeah.”

Encrid answered and sat up.

As he lowered his head and caught his breath, Rem spoke again.

“You were sweating a lot. You were talking in your sleep.”

“What did I say?”

“You said you wouldn’t have even held a sword in the first place if it was going to be like that.”

It must have been his inner thoughts slipping out.

‘A safe and protected life?’

“I wouldn’t have even held a sword in the first place if that was the case.”

Encrid muttered. Sweat on his forehead dripped onto his thigh.

It was for Ferryman—and a vow to himself.

“No. Captain would have held a sword no matter what.”

Rem said.

That was true, too.

Encrid got up.

It was dawn, before sunrise.

“In our land, we call this time Ulquiorra.”

A Western word.

“What does it mean?”

“It’s the moment before a baby bird that’s broken out of its egg is about to fly.”

“What?”

“It’s also called dusk dawn.”

Dawn—dark morning, the moment before sunrise.

“It’s a natural principle that dawn comes after dusk dawn.”

Rem muttered, like he was reciting poetry.

Encrid liked the word.

Dusk dawn.

The darkness right before the sun rises.

Wasn’t it perfect for the best time to train?

Time to move his body.

Krang would handle his work on his own.

Encrid would handle his.

Training and training.

While they were training as usual, news arrived that Count Molsen had declared himself king.

“The Nauril Plains, in a month.”

It was morning. Aisia delivered the message. A bruise still darkened the side of her nose.

Seeing it, Rem yawned and said,

“Where are you getting beaten up? Who did it? Tell me. I’ll pay them back. I’ll cut that bastard’s face in half.”

It was a joke, of course—half teasing, half nonsense.

“He did.”

Aisia pointed at the joker.

She pointed at Encrid.

Encrid still hadn’t told her about the time she blocked his path.

“Captain?”

Was Encrid skilled enough to beat Aisia like that? No way.

Rem’s gaze swung to Encrid.

“Pick up your axe. I’ll give you a chance to avenge the lady.”

Encrid said.

“Who’s the lady?”

Aisia cut in, but Rem didn’t miss the beat.

“Let’s do it. Smashing the face of a wrist cripple is nothing. Is your rib cage all healed?”

It wasn’t.

Rem’s eloquence really had improved. A great development.

And Rem himself seemed surprised when the sparring ended quickly.

“Again?”

It was something he’d seen often.

Rapid growth—swordsmanship that changed in a day.

Talent?

No. It was more like a man who lived through a different span of time alone.

A sword carved and carved again.

A tower built by stacking and stacking.

“Are you the only one living a different day?”

Sometimes Encrid thought Rem’s instincts were terrifying.

From the dream that morning until now—

“Correct.”

Encrid answered with whatever words came to him.

Rem wouldn’t believe him anyway.