Chapter 733

Chapter 733

Years of rigorous discipline ensure that one detects even the slightest disturbance while asleep—there was no threat here. Being by himself didn’t automatically equate to being consumed by sorrow, either. There simply wasn’t a spare moment to feel lonely. The sword demanded his full attention. In truth, the absolute silence and stillness made this an ideal window for honing his martial skills or cataloging his memories. Had he not absorbed a staggering wealth of knowledge by this point? Recently, the intricacies of Imperial martial arts and the very aura projected by Valphir Valmung as an Imperial Knight had served as a continuous masterclass.

“Imperial knight.”

Enkrid had scrutinized Valmung with the precision of a scholar examining a specimen. He used his vision to map out the architecture of Valmung’s honed musculature. He used his hearing to catch the subtle rhythm of motion tied to his breathing. Naturally, his other faculties were fully engaged as well. What kind of history had Valmung forged? What manner of strikes would he employ when blood was actually being spilled? If Tempest Zaun was comparable to a massive claymore, and Alexandra resembled a piercing needle…

“Valmung is like a fusion of a blade, a pike, and a mace.”

The mental image Enkrid formed was that of a spear point jutting past a wooden shield, merged with the weight of a hatchet, a longsword, and a morning star. It felt as though a solitary eye watched intently from the dark crevice between defensive barriers.

“He is an expert at obscuring his presence before delivering a fatal blow.”

While he might appear to rely on a simple club, it was highly probable he kept a multitude of hidden blades on his person. Was such a tactic underhanded? Rather than labeling it as such, it was more precise to say he lived up to his own introduction.

“He will employ any tactic required to secure a win.”

Should Enkrid limit himself to strictly tactical swordplay to counter him? Only that? Restricting oneself would guarantee defeat. A weapon is an extension of the soul. Tethering oneself to a solitary style would be an act of madness. One must never be picky about methods in the heat of a life-or-death struggle. It was just like when he had integrated Flash with the Blade of Coincidence to execute that wretch Gelt—or whatever his name had been. To survive Valmung, he would need to mobilize every scrap of talent he possessed. And even with all that, the result remained uncertain.

Enkrid located a functional cavern and made himself at home. He refrained from striking a flint. Instead, he pulverized several acrid berries he discovered nearby, smearing the crimson extract across his skin. This was a classic trick used by solo wanderers or soldiers of fortune. It served to drown out his natural scent, making it much harder for predators or monstrosities with keen noses to track him. It was even more effective if one could find traces of animal waste nearby. In regions where monsters or predators prowled, typical wildlife tended to keep their distance. Thus, the presence of droppings suggested a zone was relatively secure.

The Pen-Hanil mountain range teemed with abominations and beasts, meaning territorial borders were likely distinct. Without those boundaries, the prey animals would have been slaughtered long ago, leaving only monsters to reign—turning the entire region into a hellish wasteland. The heart of Pen-Hanil was rumored to be such a nightmare, but the periphery was different. Monsters, predators, and common animals existed in a precarious balance. This implied the borders of their hunting grounds were well-established. Even so, a stroke of bad luck could turn a man into a monster’s dinner.

However, that fate wouldn’t befall Enkrid. Only the unfortunate monsters or beasts would find themselves dead at his feet. There was no pressing crisis forcing him to sprint toward the border garrison. Not that he was wasting time on purpose, either. Enkrid simply followed the flow of his instincts. He calculated that he still possessed a buffer of time. Thus, within the confines of the cave, he deconstructed his lessons and meditated on various concepts. He cut through the stillness with his palm like a blade and contorted his frame into different positions, scrutinizing every angle of his posture. Replaying the maneuvers Valmung had displayed functioned as a form of mental training. Wisdom, after all, eventually hardens into power.

“Of course, I must be careful not to internalize flawed patterns.”

An elite warrior possessed such high-level somatic control that the risk of adopting bad habits was minimal. When exhaustion finally tugged at him, he drifted into brief intervals of sleep. He didn’t feel a heavy weight of fatigue building up. Certainly, the physical strain of the journey was present, but it wasn’t debilitating.

“Even if an ambush happened this very second, I’d be ready.”

It was the night following his departure from Valmung. It was a night graced by two full moons ascending the heavens, while the stars glimmered intensely as if competing for attention. As he shut his eyes to find true rest, using the chirp of crickets, the swaying of the brush, and the ambient sounds of a summer evening as his soundtrack…

Enkrid suddenly found himself standing at the edge of a vessel. He had been beckoned—summoned—by the ferryman. The boatman stood atop the ink-black current, clutching a violet lantern and fixing him with a stare. Was this a repetition of previous nights? There were a few notable shifts. The ferryman’s features were more defined than they had ever been. His flesh was split and dry, resembling the cracked earth of a grey desert. His face appeared slightly more elongated. His obsidian eyes betrayed no emotion, and his mouth remained a static line. His tongue was a bruised purple. The interior of his mouth was a bottomless, lightless void. It looked exactly like one of those deceptive ponds where a person loses their bearings and sinks into the depths. It was a silhouette designed to trigger a human’s most ancient terrors. He had always been haunting, but tonight the atmosphere was far more oppressive.

The ferryman spoke with a voice that pretended to be warm and gentle.

“I welcome you.”

The warmth was a facade. Enkrid’s keen intuition caught the lie instantly. Yet, he couldn’t pinpoint the reason for the change. Previously, hadn’t the ferryman pressured him to shield Anne, to cling to the sanctuary of the present? Enkrid had never perceived genuine kindness from him, but tonight the shift was undeniable.

“What has changed?”

A long, dark silhouette stretched out far behind the ferryman. It was a shadow Enkrid had never noticed before—immense and sweeping. If that shadow required a title? “Malice” would be the only fitting name. Yes. Tonight, the ferryman was overflowing with spite. When the edges of his lips pulled back into a grin, there were no gums to see—only a void. Even the dark river, usually stagnant, seemed to recoil from his ill intent.

“Your greeting is a bit… intense.”

“If I do not greet you, who else is there? There is but one source of delight in this endless void.”

He uttered this with a mask of a smile.

“And what delight is that?”

“Ecstasy, euphoria, pleasure, bliss, joy, rapture—the perpetual recurrence of this magnificent day.”

Enkrid didn’t hear any crude lust in his voice. Instead, what he perceived was a frantic obsession. Where did such a fixation originate? Greed. Hunger. The ferryman was not a mortal, yet his psychology operated on a similar frequency.

“To truly comprehend a person, you must identify their deepest cravings.”

He mentally revisited the lesson he had gleaned from observing Heskal. Today’s ferryman was saturated with spite. And that spite had finally unmasked itself.

“He has shown his true nature.”

The boatman was honest, in his own twisted fashion. What he once alluded to with riddles, he now stated with total clarity. That was likely his version of being transparent. Reliving a day drenched in sensation and delight. That was the ferryman’s ultimate desire.

“What if I had failed to shield Anne?”

The ferryman’s fractured grin widened, causing flakes of dry skin to drift away like ash.

“Then you would have spent eternity repeating this day in agony and decay. Not a terrible fate, in the grand scheme. But… was that the conclusion you truly desired?”

He posed the question again. Enkrid offered no verbal reply, choosing instead to simply observe him.

“Eventually, that hour will arrive. One wrong turn at a fork in the road, and an unchangeable moment will be upon you.”

The ferryman was no seer. Enkrid was well aware of that. And yet, every syllable he uttered felt weighted with the gravity of fate.

“Observe.”

The ferryman projected a version of the future that had not yet transpired. In that vision, Enkrid was wasting away from a horrific plague.

“If you claimed to find joy in every conflict, then prove it with your actions.”

Ragna’s eyes were hollow as he gazed down at the expiring Enkrid. Beside him was the cold body of Anne. The background was a blur, but the core truth was stark. In that timeline, Enkrid was embracing suffering as his only friend—repeating a death that never quite finished. With no savior in sight, there was only the cycle of dying. The ferryman’s voice tunneled into his ears like cold fingers pressing into a wound.

“I am the one who assisted you.”

Each phrase felt like a blade sinking into Enkrid’s chest. At every critical juncture, the ferryman had stepped in. Before the beast could reach Anne, he had provided the alert. Before the sword was drawn, he had whispered guidance. Was that the objective truth? It didn’t matter. The ferryman had successfully triggered Enkrid’s most deep-seated fears. One error, and he would be imprisoned in a nightmare of a day. The past is a locked door. You cannot gather water once it has soaked into the dirt.

Enkrid looked down, silenced. To the ferryman, this reaction was expected. Those who are forced to confront their terror tend to paralyze. That is the moment he chooses to inject his own agenda.

“Take your place at the banquet. I will ensure your victory.”

“Take a woman into your arms. Drown yourself in sensations this world cannot offer.”

“Consume the substance. Feel it ignite your very blood.”

“You have an obsession with the blade? Then swing it. You wish to tear something apart? Then do so. Follow every whim. I will facilitate it all.”

The ferryman’s distorted grin burned his commands into the void left by Enkrid’s fear.

“Exist in this day, drenched in pure rapture.”

The ferryman craved it—delight, triumph, peak sensation. A flood of pleasure that fills every void. That was the mechanism by which human terror was meant to shatter Enkrid’s resolve.

“Shield Anne.”

Every directive the ferryman had ever given was now twisted into a source of dread. He had orchestrated this entire narrative for this singular moment. Directing Enkrid to protect Anne, providing him aid—it was all a calculated setup. One slip-up, and every person he cared for would perish. That kind of present cannot be rewritten. Yes. It was a devastating realization. Fear began to eat at his composure. It would have been effortless to simply give up. The human psyche is a finite resource. It erodes. And fear acts as a cage—funneling victims down a path they didn’t choose.

Even Enkrid felt the chill of terror. He was flesh and blood, after all. However, fear and horror are at their peak during the initial encounter. They become manageable through the sheer weight of repetition. Fear is a powerful engine for a person. It is even more potent if a reward of pleasure sits just on the other side. Now, Enkrid could discern the limits of the ferryman’s power.

“The boatman can witness the now and speculate on what comes next. But the past is a blind spot for him.”

If he had any knowledge of Enkrid’s history, he wouldn’t be playing these psychological games. That strange collector with the purple lantern was ignorant of the man Enkrid had been before the cycle began. Enkrid summoned his memories. The comrades he had watched fall because he lacked the strength to save them. The lives he couldn’t grasp with his own hands. Reality being warped by a single choice. These were experiences he had lived through more than once.

“If I surrender here, then every drop of blood I’ve spilled up to now is for nothing.”

That was the reason he spoke. And the ferryman’s face contorted. The smile vanished—replaced by raw annoyance. His lantern flickered violently. The dark water began to churn.

“…You will live to mourn this.”

“I already mourn. Every single day.”

Following a brief period of silence, the ferryman’s features remained rigid, yet they vibrated with visible agitation. Then came the sensation of weightlessness. And even though it felt like a fragment of a fever dream, he heard a cacophony of voices.

“Excellent work.”

“You stubborn little brat.”

“That was the proper decision.”

“And that is why you put your gold on the long shot.”

“Take a look at that bastard’s expression.”

Then—muffled laughter and mocking giggles. It was a total mess. So incredibly loud. Enkrid snapped his eyes open, his mind racing. Whether it was a dream or a mental breakdown, he was back in the real world. The night remained pitch black. There was no sound of predators or monsters nearby. He hadn’t been startled awake by a physical threat. Enkrid rubbed his eyes.

“Thank heavens.”

He must have let a tear fall while he was under. If he were back at the garrison, Rem and the rest of the crew would have branded him “the weeping sergeant” for life. And Kraiss would have made sure every soldier in the province heard the story. Absolute lunatics. Enkrid kept his eyes shut a moment longer, then stood up as the sun began to crest the horizon. He checked the solar position, plotted his course, and set off. He didn’t head straight for the border post; instead, he chose a more manageable detour.

That was when he hit upon an unexpected discovery. Indicators that someone had recently moved through the brush. The way the grass was matted down, the lingering traces of a scent—it all pointed toward human activity. This region was the no-man’s-land between the empire and the wild continent. It was no place for a settlement. So what was the meaning of this? A trail left by a tracker? But this was far too deep into the wilderness. Hunters went out to bring home game, not to commit suicide—none would wander this far in.

If a person didn’t feel a spark of curiosity here, they weren’t human. Enkrid tracked the path—one that only a person of his caliber could have spotted, through a mix of luck and honed perception. And there, he stumbled upon a village. He recognized the nature of the place instantly.

“A hidden settlement.”

The continent wasn’t designed for small-scale villages. With monstrosities and beasts running wild, people huddled together in fortified cities. But occasionally, individuals found themselves unable to fit into society. Some were drained by greedy lords. Others were framed for crimes they didn’t commit. Some were genuine outlaws. So where did those people go? They survived by vanishing. Evading both the monsters and the beasts—subsisting by any means available. What he was looking at now was exactly that kind of sanctuary. The landscape itself functioned as a natural stronghold. They had dug pit-traps and utilized the cliffs to redirect monster paths.

“And it’s more than that—they must be exploiting the monsters’ own territorial boundaries.”

It felt oddly like home. After all, Enkrid had spent his formative years in a place just like this.