Chapter 640

Chapter 640

Today was no different, though his perspective had shifted. ‘Sever the throat and escape.’ That was the primary objective. Cut the windpipe and break the cycle. Naturally, achieving that was far more complex than planning it. As he always did, Enkrid refused to let a single iteration of this day go to waste. He didn’t believe in simply dying to gather data or sharpen his reflexes. Through every loop, he fought with the singular intent of finding a path to triumph, never allowing exhaustion to dull his resolve. Was this relentless nature what made him so fascinating to the Ferryman? Perhaps. “You… can’t even crawl, yet you’re attempting to sprint?” The Ferryman seemed to stumble over his words. A human might trip over their tongue, but the Ferryman was no mortal. He projected his intent through pure will rather than vibrating vocal cords. This realm was a construct of the mind—or perhaps a vision. Consequently, physical speech impediments like biting one’s tongue should have been impossible. Nevertheless, during their encounter on the second today, the Ferryman had spoken with that specific, awkward cadence. It was peculiar, but Enkrid didn’t dwell on it. His focus was entirely consumed by the monster known as OneKiller. ‘He exerted equal power through both blades.’ The demon possessed the ability to modulate the force behind his strikes. When Enkrid had managed to snap the blade in the creature’s left hand, the demon had intentionally weakened it. That deception allowed the right-hand sword to bite deep into Enkrid’s shoulder. The cunning wretch had wounded him and then leapt back. ‘If my guard had been tighter, I could have taken his head. Grimy bastard.’ Enkrid leveled steady insults at the demon’s deceptive nature. To rely so heavily on tricks—was that the essence of being a demon? Or was it merely pathetic? He wasn’t exactly in a position to judge, given that his own style was Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship. Manuevers that felt effective in his own grip seemed cowardly when turned against him. ‘Well, it’s a demon. It’s to be expected.’ But did it matter? Was it excruciating? Was it taxing? Was he spent? Should he just collapse? Was merely existing and drawing breath enough? The night was absolute, devoid of even a hint of moonlight. An obstacle darker than the midnight sky stood in his path, but that was no reason to speak of hopelessness. If he was blinded by the dark, he would simply climb the wall by feeling the stones with his bare hands. That became Enkrid’s reality. The first time he used a Valen-style feint to bait a loss, he successfully cut the throat—but his foot was pulverized in the process. The second time he attempted a Valen-style deceptive move, he was the one outmaneuvered, taking a blade to the thigh without landing a return blow. His forearms, his digits, his legs, his shins—he was methodically carved apart. He couldn’t consistently land the opening blow during the most critical moments of their trade. People claimed the gap in their prowess was microscopic, but in truth, he was slightly the lesser combatant. That imbalance was why victory and defeat continued to cycle. Yet, as the days repeated, Enkrid began to decipher and memorize every one of the demon’s habits. An engagement that once required over 180 attempts was eventually settled in just three passes. And for more than 300 iterations, they had traded blows amidst a shower of sparks, dancing against the dark horizon. “You are as malleable as silver. Far too soft.” The Ferryman peppered the intervals with mockery. “To ignite a flame, one requires both the timber and the kindling.” At times, the entity spoke with the tone of a philosopher. “Your avarice is boundless. To save everyone? To guard the flank? It is an excess of ambition.” As the Ferryman rambled, Enkrid lived through dozens more todays. “So, are you going to rescue me?” He had these conversations with Shinar. Of course, the dialogue wasn’t perfectly identical every time. The future remained fluid. A today experienced once wasn’t bound to be a perfect replica when it reset. “Will you swing that blade on my behalf?” “Am I permitted to watch your back as well?” “I assume you’ve come ready for a wedding? If we make it through this, let’s marry immediately.” That was the flow of their interactions. On one occasion, when she reached that final line, he had provided a resolute response. “Are you simply going to abandon me?” “No. Support me.” Shinar’s words always struck a chord deep within him, carrying a sting as sharp as the rush of battling OneKiller. Like a downpour from which there was no shelter, her voice brought a specific kind of hurt—a concentrated sorrow he had carried for a long time. The Ferryman spoke once more. “You fool. You haven’t learned to quit? Don’t insult me. Shift your perspective. Reliving the same today over and over will shatter your mind. That is the destination of your path.” Enkrid channeled his concentration toward a single point. Because of that, he tuned out the Ferryman’s rambling. It wasn’t a new occurrence. However, he used the words as a chronological anchor. He calculated the approximate number of todays by tracking the Ferryman’s dialogue. That was why he committed them to memory. On the second today, the Ferryman had stumbled over his words while claiming Enkrid couldn’t even walk. What followed that? He combed through his recollections. Using the Ferryman’s speech as a reference point was a habit he had established in earlier cycles. “Respond to me. Do you not seek guidance? Even if you remain silent, I will provide it. That is my charity. Now, here is the method to break free from this today.” It was during one such cycle. As he continued to iterate and clash, Enkrid realized that even the way OneKiller projected nothing but pure bloodlust was a tactical lie. ‘Does he have blades hidden in his feet as well?’ The demon’s humanoid shape was a deception. Sharp edges could manifest from any point on its frame. He didn’t wear headgear, yet he never targeted the head initially. He focused on wearing down the body with minor cuts—before suddenly launching a lethal strike at the skull. ‘He is powerful.’ Not merely powerful. Out of every adversary he had encountered, this was one of the most grueling. Prowess, velocity, tactical mind, mastery of the blade—he had it all. He didn’t adhere to a single style. He lunged, slashed, and struck with no discernible rhythm. ‘Which makes him that much more lethal.’ As Enkrid processed this, the Ferryman finally stated his intent, despite the lack of a reply. “If you continue to disregard me, you will be trapped here for eternity. Listen well, captive.” While still occupied with analyzing his situation and hunting for a breakthrough, Enkrid felt the Ferryman’s voice vibrate through his very marrow. He didn’t understand the mechanics, but the sound was unavoidable. It felt as though someone had seized his ear and was breathing the words directly into it. The actual advice, however, sounded like nonsense. “Utilize a shield.” “A shield?” When he finally gave a sign of acknowledgment, the Ferryman’s proposal was monstrous. “Place Frokk in the vanguard. Position a human in front of you. Use a fairy to tank the impact. Only then can you slay him.” It was said that demons whispered alluring lies. Was the Ferryman a demon then? Likely not. Enkrid didn’t find the suggestion tempting at all. “Ah, I see.” So he discarded the idea. Though, in a cold sense, it was logical. Pragmatic, even. Sacrifice the comrades around you as fodder or distractions to secure victory—wasn’t that the point? So Enkrid did incorporate a version of the Ferryman’s logic. He kicked the carcasses of fallen beasts across the ground, skewering them with his blade to use as improvised cover. It was a grotesque spectacle, truly. During one of those many todays, he was purposefully drawing out the duel when Lua Gharne’s voice reached him—and he couldn’t find a way to argue with it. “Humans are governed by impulse, but the demon is governed by logic.” The demon was treacherous, but his actions followed a rational pattern. Enkrid, conversely, did not. He performed erratic, desperate feats just to crack that foundation of reason. He gripped a knife in his teeth, swung with reckless abandon, utilized dead bodies, and shattered pavement to use as stones. To an observer, the contrast would have been jarring. Enkrid persisted through the days. He chose the path of the irrational. He drew the monster’s focus with decoys, engaged again, and fell again. He mistook an effect for a toxin and attempted to purge it using the Will of Rejection. He was driven back. Perhaps it could be forced out. ‘The issue is when the frame simply locks up.’ In the heat of a struggle so intense he couldn’t afford to blink, there was no luxury to carefully repel something invading his system. Even the smallest lapse would allow OneKiller to dissect him and finish the job. Therefore, fighting off the internal intrusion was nearly a lost cause. It was pitch black. The way forward was obscured. Yet he moved. The toil granted him insight. His senses began to bleed into one another; his perception broadened, and he started to witness more. ‘The origin is identical.’ Immediately after, he recalled Esther’s explanation: the demon also tapped into a shapeless energy. The source was mana—the power drawn from the world itself. ‘It is refined mana.’ That was his intuition. Data collected in the realm of raw instinct, gathered by touch. And then he uncovered a truth he hadn’t sought. ‘She intended to sacrifice everyone, Shinar included.’ That was the depth of Shinar’s conviction. Information pulled from the repetition of days, verified with a blade’s thrust, revealed the reality. “If everyone retreats and waits, I will end this.” Even if it required a century—or a millennium—she would remain alongside the demon until they both perished. The fairy folk shared that bond. They were prepared to offer up their own kind if it meant the demon’s demise. They claimed fairies were not driven by spite. Then why were they fighting with such ferocity? “The path we took was flawed. Instead of avoiding the beasts, we should have sought the means to engage and destroy them.” That was a sentiment he had overheard from Bran. From that, one could deduce that the fairy race had turned their ship, choosing conflict over quiet endurance. ‘A drive to fight, not the patience for peace.’ And they were orchestrating it, piece by piece. Dispatching fairies to the outside world. Starting trade routes. These were the foundations of that shift. Enkrid sifted through the data—retaining the vital pieces and throwing away the rest. And yet, the secret to killing the demon remained hidden. But he hadn’t wasted a single iteration. If the answer wasn’t clear, he would simply keep moving until it revealed itself. Through his battles with OneKiller, he discovered the demon processed mana and utilized it as a core. It functioned much like Will. ‘Monsters are forged from refined mana.’ If that refined energy settled within a predator, it became a magic beast. Away from the heat of combat, thoughts filled the gaps of his accelerated mind. Enkrid allowed them to remain. What separated Will, holy power, sorcery, and mana? Where was the boundary? ‘Boundaries are irrelevant. What matters are the definitions.’ That was his realization. Will is forged through physical discipline and individual struggle. Magic exists to facilitate change. Esther’s magic proved that. She could alter her attire or turn mana into flame or frost. She could manifest physical objects like frozen spears. The heart of mana is transformation. Holy power? That is resilience. Like a mountain that will not move. ‘Because it employs devotion as a bulwark.’ If it held a drop of genuine holy essence, it could even restructure another’s biology. Recovery was a facet of that. ‘That is why those gray fools cannot manifest the light of restoration.’ From what he witnessed and endured, comprehension followed. The so-called Gray Holy Units could not produce healing light—but they kept their violent capabilities. Their tainted essence could no longer be classified as holy. He began to grasp sorcery as well. If Will utilized refined strength, sorcery tapped into potential futures—resources not yet manifested. ‘The Beast’s Heart, the Heart of Might—they are one and the same.’ They violently extracted what had not yet been earned. In return, there was a toll. Agonizing physical toll or a shortened life. Not all of it was immediately applicable, but categorizing it helped him understand his next move. The day reset again. He saw the flicker of hope on the fairies’ faces. As OneKiller arrived and the carnage began, their looks transformed. From hope to utter ruin. Enkrid watched it all with a cold eye, bearing it. ‘Dense muscle fibers.’ OneKiller possessed a physical structure far beyond the norm. The density was different. Like a biological construct. ‘Was this place designed to breed specific horrors?’ Perhaps OneKiller was the ultimate expression of that goal. By sheer luck or a moment of brilliance, he had once managed to open the demon’s throat. That was how he learned that OneKiller survived losing his head. ‘Heartless possesses no heart.’ So piercing the chest would not stop him. He was akin to the Undead that Pell had once fought and failed to destroy. So how could he prevail? He hunted for the solution. Without end. Without mercy. Then a vision came. A dream that had nothing to do with the Ferryman. He had held his ground as always, exhausted every trick—including the Will of Rejection—and still perished from a minor wound. The vision was fleeting. Golden hair, eyes of blue, powerful arms, a large kite shield sheltering half their frame. The figure spoke: “Only the first letters.” What? When the vision faded, the Ferryman stood before him once more. “Ultimately, you will be consumed by this day of agony.” This was after more than two hundred iterations. “Surrender now.” Enkrid picked up on a mismatch in the Ferryman’s speech. It was a feeling he had encountered before. There were sequences that simply didn’t belong. The Ferryman had no tongue to bite. He communicated through intent, not air. So the way he had stumbled—“You… can’t even crawl, yet you’re attempting to sprint?”—was an anomaly. His mind raced, bypassing logic to find the pattern. He searched his memory. Recalling words from months ago was a chore, but he managed. He had used the Ferryman’s phrases as tallies for the days. “You… can’t even crawl, yet you’re attempting to sprint?” “You’re soft like silver. Too soft.” “To ignite a flame, one requires both the timber and the kindling.” “Your avarice is boundless. To save everyone? To guard the flank? It is an excess of ambition.” “You fool. You haven’t learned to quit? Don’t insult me. Shift your perspective. Reliving the same today over and over will shatter your mind. That is the destination of your path.” “Respond to me. Do you not seek guidance? Even if you remain silent, I will provide it. That is my charity. Now, here is the method to break free from this today.” Take only the first letters. ‘Crawl, Soft, Flame, Excess, Fool, Respond.’ Crawl… soft flame fool respond? What? Just before the demon arrived, his state of acceptance—the same one he used to internalize the fairies’ plight—also accepted this puzzle. He wouldn’t dismiss it just because the Ferryman said it. ‘Crawl… soft… flame… excess… fool… respond.’ Waking into the next today, Enkrid felt a spark. Perhaps the Ferryman intended to mislead him. But his gut told him this was the light. Between those suffocating, black walls, a gap appeared, and a ray of light touched his skin. The reason one can find pleasure in hitting an impossible wall—because when you finally break it, the euphoria is unmatched. Joy surged through his veins once more, more potent than ever. “Hey, monster. Shall we give it our all this time?” That exhilaration was focused entirely on the demon. To anyone who hadn’t lived through the loop, he was just the same crazed Enkrid.