Chapter 823

Chapter 823

It definitely didn’t carry the scent of spirits. Enkrid focused his thoughts. Although he had drifted off while drinking, he had witnessed everything necessary and listened to every relevant word. His recollection never failed him, so he held onto the entire memory until the conclusion. Everyone had succumbed to the alcohol and fallen into slumber; nothing out of the ordinary occurred.

Rem let out a howl for “Yayuul!” that mimicked a wolf’s cry.

Observing this, Jaxon grumbled, “Immature infatuation doesn’t look good on you. Just drop dead,” and tossed a blade toward him.

Ragna snapped awake, yelling that it wasn’t the temperature but a weapon causing the disturbance, while Audin broke into a chant of “Lord, Lord, Lord.” In that moment, Enkrid finally grasped why Audin hadn’t specialized in the holy spear or vocal incantations. His voice possessed depth, yet he was completely tone-deaf. When he sang softly, it sounded manageable—was that the fruit of labor, or perhaps some noble struggle?

“Wasn’t there a proverb about singing being a natural gift?”

The query surfaced without warning. Who had uttered that? Nurat’s features surfaced in his mind, followed by the fleeting image of someone long dismissed.

That’s right—

“Commander Garett?”

Garett Gyro was the identity. He was a man with a natural pipes who had resigned, claiming he would rather spend his days as a traveling bard than a soldier. Later on, occasional rumors about him would surface. He had authored tunes titled “The Demonic Knight” and “Heartbreaker,” though word was that his songwriting abilities didn’t match his voice.

When Kraiss becomes anxious, he feels a sense of urgency, and to alleviate that tension, he prattles on. That was part of his rambling.

“You don’t recall Garett Gyro? He’s become quite a name recently.”

“Who was he supposed to be?”

Expecting a man trapped in a repeating cycle of the same day to recall every minor person he meets is asking far too much.

“You can be surprisingly slow sometimes,” Enkrid muttered, flicking his finger against Kraiss’s forehead.

“Ouch, my skull is going to burst.”

“And?”

“Nothing, just making a point.”

He had gained fame for his singing but was plagued by his lack of talent for composition—something to that effect. He mentioned receiving correspondence from his partner and protector, Nurat.

“Your attention is drifting.”

At the Ferryman’s remark, Enkrid raised his gaze. It was strange. This environment was a dream, a realm built of perceptions. Yet here he was, getting lost in trivial reflections. Furthermore, the Ferryman seemed particularly gentle and soft-spoken today. Even as Enkrid wandered into his own thoughts, the figure simply stood by and waited.

“What is the reason for your visit?” Enkrid inquired. This wasn’t the kind of entity to summon someone just for a casual greeting.

“Observe.”

The Ferryman suddenly extended the hand that wasn’t gripping the lantern. In an instant, a lengthy staff had manifested there. Its frame was obsidian black, with violet energy pulsing through it like a heartbeat. Enkrid didn’t recognize the object, but his body instinctively shifted into a combat stance. Suddenly, his own hand gripped a blade that was a perfect replica of Dawn Tempering.

A gust of wind followed. A spear shot forward. A spear is a long-reach weapon. In an engagement where space is maintained, it holds the upper hand over a blade. The small boat had somehow expanded, providing enough room for fluid movement. The wood underfoot felt as solid as stone. He shifted his blade and swatted the spearhead aside.

*Ting.*

If you redirect the momentum of a thrust along its own path, a vulnerability is created. If you penetrate that gap, the advantage of distance shifts to the swordsman. It was a straightforward tactical concept, but it wasn’t calculated—it was pure reflex. This meant the second he brushed the spearhead aside with his steel, he was already lowering his center of gravity and springing forward.

Then Enkrid noticed the butt end of the spear shaft whipping upward with speed.

‘If that connects, it’s over for me.’

Because he sensed it a moment early, he was able to halt his momentum and pull his blade back into a defensive strike.

*Clang!*

The wood of the shaft collided with the metal of the blade with a sharp ring. With that vibration, the exchange ceased, and the duel concluded. The Ferryman had already glided back—more than ten paces away. Despite the distance, his voice arrived with perfect clarity.

“It is a lethal blow.”

The concept wasn’t difficult to comprehend. There are comparable techniques in the way of the sword. In principle, the first stage is armor-piercing.

‘Striking down an opponent who is protected.’

Technically, it involves hitting the areas left exposed by the plating.

‘Like the staff strike that just targeted my throat.’

Even if you strike the armor itself, with enough power, you aim for a spot where the protection fails to truly guard the body. The second stage is striking with a part of the weapon that isn’t the edge. This means a move that usually relies on the sharp side takes on a new form. Essentially, it serves as a finishing blow with the element of surprise.

‘A tactic that settles the conflict in a single heartbeat.’

It bore a resemblance to Pell’s style. It shared the quality of concluding a fight with one decisive movement. The spearhead serves as the distraction, while the subsequent attack with the shaft is the true intent—psychological traps woven into the strike.

“Remain devoted to the fundamentals, but do not underestimate the adversary.”

He contemplated the words the moment they were spoken. The Ferryman provided the lesson, and Enkrid lowered his weapon to listen. It was wisdom forged in trial—or realized on the threshold of the end. Eventually, the blade in his palm vanished, and the spear the Ferryman held dissolved like mist.

“Are you finding this pleasant?” the Ferryman inquired.

Enkrid lifted his empty palms, signaling his desire to spar again, and replied, “A few more rounds and I believe I would enjoy it quite a bit more.”

Rather than granting the request, the Ferryman remarked, “It is said that if you grasp a rival’s longing and their dread, you can truly know them.”

The violet light remained steady. Today, even the waters were less turbulent than usual. The boat was incredibly still. Even when they had been trading blows with spear and sword, it felt as though they were standing on a vessel of iron anchored to the earth. As Enkrid stared into space, the Ferryman spoke once more.

“Do you wish to learn the demon’s longing?”

He understood the moment the words were uttered. It was a proposition. A lure.

“I shall reveal their dread to you.”

The Ferryman did not pause. He continued.

“And you could experience such an enjoyable dream every single day.”

It was a vow to provide a man consumed by technique, blade-work, duels, and discipline with the very thing he cherished most. And to uncover the secrets of the hidden foe. Naturally, this wasn’t a gift without a price. The Ferryman always required something in return.

“Relive the day you just finished. Ten repetitions will suffice. It is simple. Right now, declare that you wish to perish immediately. That will start it. For the remaining nine instances, take your own life before the day concludes. It is not a difficult task.”

He had already met his end in countless ways. To Enkrid, a few more deaths by his own hand were insignificant. It was true—this wasn’t a hard request. Even so, he didn’t speak quickly. The boat was motionless, the river more stable than ever—yet his stomach felt unsettled. A heavy quiet fell between them. The Ferryman’s lips—parched as if they belonged to a desert that hadn’t seen water in months—moved again.

“Five repetitions?”

The requirement had decreased. Enkrid understood what the Ferryman was after. He desired a day without shadows, a peaceful day without the strike of lightning. He was pushing him to repeat that specific day because he craved one thing. The Ferryman sought serenity.

“Live as though you have never perished a single time.”

That sounded like a different Ferryman from the one currently speaking. Yet their goals remained constant. Perhaps each version of the Ferryman varied slightly. Recognizing that he couldn’t grasp everything, Enkrid hadn’t bothered to investigate those details.

“Will you do it?”

Only then did Enkrid speak to ask a question of his own.

“How about three times?”

He understands that today is valuable precisely because it is unique. Enkrid knows that even if someone offered him the power to repeat today as much as he liked, he would refuse. Because he is obligated to advance toward the next day. Because while he may have used death to turn repetition into an opportunity, he cannot allow himself to become stagnant. His resolve remained unshaken.

“Twice?”

The number the Ferryman requested dropped once more, but Enkrid did not concede.

“You will come to regret this.”

Finally, a bitter remark escaped the figure.

“Don’t you get tired of saying that?”

The Ferryman realized he had been repeating the same brand of intimidation.

“…You truly will regret it.”

It seemed today’s Ferryman lacked a diverse vocabulary.

Enkrid opened his eyes. The individuals scattered in a drunken stupor were beginning to stir one by one.

“Why am I lying here?”

Squire Rophod blinked at his discarded clothes and boots, which had been neatly folded.

“What sort of alcohol did you bring along?”

Jaxon chimed in. He looked at Rem with tired eyes. When it came to spirits, Jaxon was no novice. But even he couldn’t withstand what they had consumed the night before.

“How should I know, kid. Anne mentioned it doesn’t build up a tolerance in the system, but she intended to brew a drink that hits you hard and fast.”

“That isn’t liquor; that’s a concoction.”

Anne, who arrived in the morning, replied bluntly.

“So that’s what you did with it after I sent it out. I told you, it’s designed for people whose lives are falling apart because of booze—to take a small sip of every day.”

Anne’s area of expertise is vast. The recent growth of the Border Guard had brought about free time, and that free time gave rise to various interests. Some of those interests led to heavy drinking that damaged the health, and a man who wanted to open a lounge imagined a drink that would provide a buzz with less physical toll. You can’t sell simple tea in a lounge.

“Isn’t there a drink you can have that gets you intoxicated but lessens the strain on the body?”

That was the specific request. In essence, the liquid they had consumed last night was the product of research paid for by Kraiss himself. This meant it was something Rem and Kraiss had developed in cooperation. They had sampled it to check the flavor and the potency.

“Working up a sweat should clear your heads.”

That was Enkrid’s contribution. He had woken up later than his usual time, but he moved with ease. He maintains the same routine every day, but even that consistency isn’t absolute. There are days when he bypasses his training. Enkrid knows such things happen. Only the dedication to persistent effort must never cease.

“Regardless, you all certainly drank your fill.”

Anne’s eyes twinkled. The evidence that her creation—whether medicine or moonshine—was potent lay spread out before her. A knight had succumbed, Frokk had succumbed, a fairy had succumbed, and even a bear beastman had succumbed.

‘Wait, not a bear, that’s incorrect.’

A correction was needed. A half-blood giant had succumbed instead. Teresa stood up, wearing only a thin base layer, and quickly gathered her garments. Rophod watched without hiding it. He wasn’t the only one who had stripped down to sleep.

“True. A bit of exertion and the feeling will fade.”

As was typical, Pell voiced his agreement with Enkrid.

—

The Mad Order of Knights might do as they pleased, but Rem’s assault unit maintained their daily routine. Their training doubled as a reconnaissance mission along the edges of the Pen–Hanil Mountains. Along the paths connecting the peaks to the settlement and around the mountain base, they had designated zones under their supervision, and there were also zones managed by the ten warriors under Ragna’s command. Naturally, the Holy Infantry held their own areas of duty as well.

And of all these groups, Rem’s assault unit ventured the furthest in. Did they request that? Hardly.

“Our group goes the deepest. No arguments. If you have one, your skull gets opened by an axe and then you’ve got no more arguments.”

Rem didn’t provide a long explanation. He simply made a blunt request and stated his wish. Of course, it was politeness as defined by Rem. The benefit was that his motivations weren’t convoluted. He didn’t speak in riddles, either. He simply didn’t want to be surpassed. They appreciated that attitude. If they were going to perform a task, they wanted to be the superior choice. That direct way of thinking might not have started with Rem; perhaps he had simply recruited people who already possessed that mindset.

Rem’s assault unit consisted of more than a hundred soldiers. If one included the backups and newcomers, the number sometimes exceeded a hundred and fifty. Among them were a few skilled enough to be referred to as the Rem Guard. In the Border Guard, they were known as Rem’s private security; within the assault unit, they were simply the “First Unit.” Its membership was slightly over twenty, and every single one of them kept pace with the grueling regimen Rem insisted upon. Several among them hailed from the West. They had either followed Rem from the start, or Western wanderers had joined the ranks.

Naturally, no one attacked one another or bickered over their place of birth. This was why their training was so harsh—harsh enough to cultivate a sense of kinship where none had previously existed. To them, the assault unit was their brotherhood and their family. Heritage and background were irrelevant. Those twenty had grouped together and were scanning and moving through the corners of the mountain range.

If you don’t regularly eliminate the creatures or beastmen in these heights, they transform into a serious threat. That was the purpose of the reconnaissance—and a live combat exercise to boot.

“Hey, have you ever encountered one like that before?” one of the soldiers asked—a man who had a nervous habit of twitching his brow.

A warrior from the West hoisted his axe. “And it’s already far too hot out here.”

It was the summer season. Within the range, the air was muggy and sweltering. Perspiration flowed thick and tacky. And in the midst of that heat, a creature surfaced—its entire form composed of blazing fire. It looked like a mass squeezed together from burning logs. Three limbs, two heads. A distorted creature.

“First time I’m seeing it.”

They all lived as kin, but there was still a hierarchy. Usually, a fighter who had won Rem’s respect acted as the leader. Winning that respect meant facing Rem’s axe and remaining standing. A former soldier of fortune with a prominent scar near his eye—currently the leader of the Rem Guard—spoke up.

“Forget it. Crush it.”

Retreat from a creature they had never encountered? Rem’s assault unit didn’t operate that way. One of the men reacted to the command and threw a hand axe. The metal blade sliced through the monster’s frame.

*Boom!*

Fire radiated outward in a ring, then pulled itself back together. Now it possessed an extra limb, and one of its heads was partially mangled.

*Fwoosh.*

It parted its remaining mouth and a wave of heat surged outward. A flame about two handspans long blackened the vegetation surrounding it. In this high humidity, the fire wouldn’t spread easily, but—

“It’s ineffective,” said the man who had tossed the axe. It was a creature that ignored conventional weaponry—metal forged through normal smithing. And it breathed fire as well.