Chapter 232 - So Happy He Could Die

Choosing a path and deciding to walk it did not mean he had to keep his eyes fixed straight ahead. Hadn't the great merchant Rengadis said as much?

"Keep your eyes wide open. Look at the ground, look around you. You never know where someone might have dropped some Krona."

In truth, he probably wasn't the sort to stoop for every last copper coin. Not a man renowned as a great merchant. But his meaning was clear.

If a purse of gold lay along your path, you ought to pick it up. If you expected to sleep outdoors on your travels, gathering dry branches along the way would be wise. If you could bring down two birds with one stone, why not throw it that way?

That was what Encrid did.

'Will.'

Setting that as his goal did not make him plod along stupidly. Nor did he become a racehorse charging straight ahead with eyes for nothing else. What could he do in this repeated today before the Shepherd arrived in the evening?

Spar, fight, think. Encrid narrowed his tasks down to those three.

He learned the basics of the Flowing Sword Technique from Ragna and trained on his own again and again. Later, he learned more Balaf-style martial arts from Audin. Their reactions were much the same.

"Have you learned this somewhere before? Or have you been practicing your swordsmanship behind my back?"

"When did you hone your martial arts this much? You make me proud, brother."

Encrid gave each of them a vague nod. He had trained while trapped in today, but he had indeed trained alone. It wasn't a lie.

In fact, he did not hear such remarks all that often. He put more emphasis on training than sparring. Alone, he pondered, worked things out, swung his sword, and moved his body. When his thoughts refused to turn, he drove his sweat-soaked body through the Isolation Technique.

"Are you trying to make me tell you not to overdo it, brother?"

Had he pushed himself hard enough to worry Audin? Encrid answered offhandedly.

"I think better when I work my body."

"That's true. Your brain needs blood flowing through it to think, too."

Jaxon spoke in a near mutter beside them. It was only a guess, but given his former profession—or his current one, if he still pursued it on the side—he would know more about the human body's workings than most.

"Yes, so I've found."

Encrid had learned it through his own body. When his mind wouldn't work, he put his body to work. When a problem refused to yield to movement, he sat down and thought it through.

By the time his repeating today had passed a hundred and eighty times, he had ingrained the basics of the Flowing Sword Technique in his body, further polished his Balaf-style martial arts with Audin, and learned more from Jaxon about using his five senses.

If he had to spend the time anyway, he might as well organize and hone what he already had. And that was not all.

Beyond his swordsmanship, martial arts, and senses, what he had learned from his companions and subordinates grew sharper, more sensitive, and bolder. Yet even with keener senses, sharper concentration, and bold judgment added to them...

SNICK!

He could not avoid the blade grazing him. The blade swept back after nicking the back of his hand. It came at him in snakelike curves, its movements grounded in swift-sword forms and the Illusion Sword Technique.

'Once it's drawn, it's hard to stop.'

If he had the skill to overwhelm his opponent while dodging and blocking without suffering even a graze, he could win unscathed. But for that...

'I'd have to become a knight right now.'

The man before him was better than that fellow Swallow Blade. How would he fare against the half-Giant?

'It would probably come down to who landed a fatal wound first.'

What did it mean that Encrid could gauge his opponent's skill? It meant he could already have killed him several times, had killing been his aim. That was possible because he had not wasted a single day in nearly two hundred todays.

But avoiding even a graze remained difficult. It felt like a separate matter entirely. Was it truly impossible unless he became a knight? Otherwise, he would have to defend all night long.

He had already tried that, too. Once midnight passed, the same today simply began again.

'Enough defense for now.'

There was no point spending the whole day dodging and blocking with his dodging sense. Then what should he do? From that point on, he fought as though in actual combat.

Encrid fought and fought again. If the time after he was cut was for conscious resistance, he continued to make full use of the time before it, too.

Beyond defense and evasion lay the way over this wall, the things he could learn from his opponent, and the time to understand what he had learned on his own and ingrain it in his body. He was neither bored nor impatient. He had no reason to be.

Every day, learning something new engrossed him. Even if resisting whatever dwelled within the sword was pointless, he paid that no mind. He pursued enjoyment. Naturally, that led him to many realizations in all sorts of ways.

'All this time...'

Had he learned too many disparate things? As he ingrained them anew, one by one, he could feel himself becoming more solid than before. Yet he had no time to get lost in that feeling.

Even with his repeating today, every day was busy. There was always something to do. Ponder, think things through, put his body to work. To anyone watching, he would have looked utterly, completely insane.

"What is it? What keeps you moving?"

Even the ferryman asked him that. Though today repeated, why couldn't he let even a single day pass idly? It wasn't that he couldn't. He chose not to.

Encrid enjoyed the present. Before, he had struggled toward a faded dream in darkness so deep he could not see an inch ahead. Now, even if the path was blocked, even if a wall stood before him, there was light beyond it. That gave him greater exhilaration than ever.

Even if suffering and pain followed, he felt the joy of growth once more. He had never thought himself stagnant, but the chance to advance always brought joy, always exhilaration. That pleasure kept him moving.

He had been wounded at the wrist again. The moment a scratch opened on the back of Encrid's hand, the Shepherd frowned. His face made it clear this was the last thing he had wanted.

Encrid brushed the back of his hand with his other hand. He wiped away the beads of blood, and more seeped from the wound, two finger joints long.

By now, he was accustomed to the screams, as though a banshee had seized his earlobe and shrieked into it, and the howls, as though a Ghoul had thrust its head into his belly and begun to roar. That did not make it any less agonizing, but he could keep it from showing. Hence his calm tone.

"Does that sword have a name?"

"... Huh? Are you all right?"

The Shepherd was the one taken aback. Encrid had seen that reaction far too often to pay it any heed.

"The sword's name."

He simply repeated his question. The Shepherd worked his lips before answering.

"It's called the Idol Slayer."

It was a sword worthy of a name, though he had never heard this one before. He still knew nothing of its power, or how whatever dwelled within it caused death.

He had asked about those things, too, but getting answers was difficult. As far as the Shepherd was concerned, today was their first meeting. He could hardly be expected to answer properly.

'Hearing it wouldn't have helped anyway.'

Will could not be explained, taught, or passed on. Even baptism was, in part, a superstition. It did not necessarily bring an understanding of Will.

"Might a talented person awaken it when faced with death? Then wouldn't being cut by a blade shaped from willpower let them grasp the feeling?"

Baptism was a method born of those questions and handed down. So hearing an explanation would do no good. Whatever that blade was, the Shepherd had clearly said that with Will, he would not die.

That sword was something shaped from Will. So instead of asking, he threw himself into the ordeal. He would learn through it.

"Can you, um, shape it? Can you block it?"

The Shepherd asked, and Encrid shook his head. It was a question he routinely heard now that he lasted longer against the sword.

Today repeated again. After that, Encrid tried a few tricks. For instance, rather than dodge and block the sword all day, he stopped his opponent from drawing it in the first place.

THUD! TAK, TAP.

He drove the heel of his palm up toward the Shepherd's chin. When the Shepherd evaded it, he turned that rising hand sideways and chopped toward his neck. The Shepherd tucked his chin to block that, too. He had a knack for unarmed combat.

Amid his handwork, Encrid had stepped on his opponent's foot. With his foot pinned, the Shepherd's hands faltered. He had a knack for unarmed fighting, but it was not his specialty. He was a swordsman.

When the Shepherd took hold of his sword's grip, Encrid grasped it with him. He had managed it by closing to point-blank range, inside even a dagger's reach.

'The pommel press from Balaf-style martial arts.'

It was one of the secret techniques that prevented an opponent from even drawing a sword. He had learned it during this stretch of training and practiced until it became second nature.

"... I lose."

His competitive spirit roused, the Shepherd had tried to draw his sword, but had failed even at that. He had attempted it despite knowing how dangerous drawing it would be. Yet his opponent had stopped him at the source. That was reason enough to admit defeat.

"No, let's try again."

Instead, Encrid stepped away as he spoke, retreating to sword range.

SHING.

He drew his sword.

"It's keen and sharp. Be careful."

At this warning that his weapon was no ordinary blade, the Shepherd bit his lip hard for a moment, then drew his own.

TING!

He drew in a single motion and leveled the blade ahead, offering a warning of his own.

"Even a graze will kill you. Think of it as coated in deadly poison."

The two moons wove their shadows together. A strange angle made the Shepherd's shadow look larger than Encrid's.

'How kind. Telling me not to let it graze me.'

It was kindness Encrid had experienced over and over. He nodded. Taking that as the signal to attack, the Shepherd settled into a stance more cautious than ever. He had good reason. His opponent had bound his sword with fists and feet.

Then the swords darted their tongues toward one another.

CLANG!

Steel met steel, throwing sparks. Despite everything he had seen—the man's swordplay, his habits of footwork, and more—every time Encrid raised his sword to face him, it felt new.

'He improves as he fights.'

Talent. Something Encrid did not possess. Recognizing it did not make him jealous. He simply welcomed the changes in his opponent. In his repeating today, each day brought a new opponent.

That was also why he could not win without being grazed. Enduring through the night and winning were different matters. He had no intention of deliberately taking a blade, but neither would he spend the day merely holding out. This time was no different.

SNICK.

A light wound. The screams began. Soon his heart stopped, and his mind burned white. It felt as though someone were driving a red-hot poker into his skull. Excruciating pain. Horrifying pain. And so Encrid died.

He died. He died. And died again. He died more than three hundred times. Death upon death, followed by more death.

Each time, he used Balaf-style martial arts to prevent the Shepherd from drawing his sword. Repetition naturally improved his mastery of the technique. Of course, all that was merely incidental.

'I can't grasp it.'

In darkness too deep to see through, Encrid became a lost wanderer. He could see light far away, but could neither grasp it nor draw closer. Did that change anything?

Being unable to see the path changed nothing, so he walked on silently. He crawled. As long as his struggling could carry him forward, that alone made him a pilgrim, a wanderer who could keep going.

"Fool."

The ferryman's words. Whenever he appeared, that was all he had to say.

Fool. Dimwit. Ignoramus.

Did he never consider that the person listening might have feelings? Not that Encrid's feelings were hurt.

Thus he trudged foolishly through this autumn today. He gathered fallen leaves along the path. Holding those leaves to his chest, he walked and walked, until one day the light brushed his hand.

'Die.'

A voice sounded amid the screams. Encrid reacted reflexively to it. No, this was what he had been crying out all along, sincerely, from the depths of his heart.

Though outwardly calm, he had been flailing and struggling desperately. That struggle had always been one and the same, and in the end it came down to a single wish, a single yearning.

'No.'

He refused. He did not want to die. He would not die. Whatever your blade did, he would not die. That was the feeling the word held.

He died this time, too. But it was a different death. The pain was the same, yet...

"Huh? I thought you said you didn't have it?"

He held out for a while. A very long while.

How could he describe it? Humans had no tails. If one suddenly grew a tail, it would surely be difficult to use. Learning to use it would require practice.

On a road shrouded in blackness, he realized what he had to do. In one sense, it belonged to the realm of sensation. In another, it was something deliberate.

What was willpower? What was Will?

'As I wish.'

If death was what the Shepherd's sword said when it cut him, if death was what it forced upon him, then Encrid had only one thing to do.

On the four hundred and eighty-fifth today, he overwhelmed his opponent with sword and fist alike, yet failed to stop the blade from grazing his shoulder. He felt the determination commanding him to die.

It was a one-sided assault, a pressure dwelling within the sword. A formless power that constricted his heart and burned his mind. Because he could feel it so clearly, he could reject it.

When he could not sense it, he had been forced to die without understanding anything. But now he could. Just as he might knock aside a hand he saw reaching for him to make his refusal clear, he could express his intent.

"No."

He spoke aloud, making his determination known. It was something he had not known before his realization. Something he could never have anticipated before his willpower—his Will—became a formless force.

"Ah."

The Shepherd's mouth fell open in surprise. Encrid repelled the "dead will" entering through the cut across his shoulder.

He had merely been cut and muttered to himself. No intangible pressure burst in a thunderous explosion, no light shone down, and nothing magical occurred.

And yet he had stripped away the formless coercion and determination that anyone who had brushed a fingertip against the power called Will could feel. The Shepherd knew it. So did Encrid.

Now the Shepherd's sword could no longer be fatal to Encrid. It could not harm him. Beyond its use as an edged weapon, the willpower within it could no longer kill him.

Encrid perceived what he had repelled. It was someone's entire lifetime, their life, their bitter anguish. Someone, in other words, had planted Will in that sword. And he had just broken it.

"... Did you just awaken it?"

The Shepherd was quick on the uptake.

"Yes."

He did not deny it. A small part of him wanted to tell the truth: not just now, but over more than four hundred todays. Of course, he could not say that.

"I lose."

The Shepherd let his arm fall. The tip of the sword in his hand touched the ground. He looked deflated. He also looked relieved.

Encrid knew this today was over. The two moons still shone on them. Of their long shadows, his now looked larger. The shadows had shifted with the moons' passage.

He murmured inwardly.

'So this is Will.'

This was not all of it. It must be only a tiny fraction. All he could do was "refuse." Even so...

"This is madness."

He was so happy he could die.