Chapter 319 - Encrid's Dream Appeared as the God of Death

Encrid's dream had appeared before him as a god of death. His eyes reflexively swept over the man. Feet set comfortably apart, arms hanging loose, unremarkable tousled brown hair and brown eyes, shabby clothes. The clothes belonged to neither the enemy nor his own army. Several questions arose at once. First, how had this man gotten here? Second, how skilled was he? Third, what was he sorry about? "I have my reasons. So let's finish this quietly."

The man drew his sword. SHING. A cheap shortsword. Encrid could tell from the sound of it leaving its sheath and a cursory glance. Its edge was chipped, the leather wrapped around the grip had come loose and dangled in a strip, and rust dulled the blade. The strange thing was that he hadn't noticed the weapon until the man drew it. The man's sword-drawing stance sent foreboding surging through Encrid. The intimidation of the Knoll leader or the proto knight Aesia couldn't compare. If those had been indirect pressure, this was... how could he describe it? It felt like an overwhelming fate, a certainty that nothing he did could stop that blade. Why? His training had sharpened his senses beyond anything he had known. His dodging sense had vaulted past a limit and given him the gift of foreboding. An unexpected stroke of luck, but a useless skill now. Because of it, Encrid froze. Chains of foreboding bound his arms and legs. "Hmm, my betrothed."

Sinar spoke upon seeing him. What more had a Fairy's keen senses told her?

"We should get away." As she spoke, the man vanished. A long afterimage lingered in Encrid's vision, and his gaze reflexively followed. The man, reduced to an unbroken streak, was already in front of Sinar. Though Encrid's eyes were open, the man's movements seemed to skip. He was that fast. Even Encrid's painstakingly trained ability to track motion could discern no more. CLANG!

SHIK! Sound reached him first. Only afterward did he see what had happened. Sinar had already taken her stance. Encrid saw the chipped shortsword strike sparks off Nidle and pass from her chest down across her abdomen. Fairy blood sprayed into the air. When Nidle blocked it, the shortsword had pushed it aside and sliced her body with its tip. Strength, speed, and technique in harmony. Encrid knew the moment he saw it: a perfected sword strike was something like that. "If you're lucky... Though I doubt that will happen. Anyway, if you're lucky enough to survive, I won't strike twice. I know this isn't honorable. So I ask your understanding."

The man let his shortsword hang as he spoke, almost muttering. Yet every word reached Encrid distinctly. Encrid couldn't tell what he meant by once, or by lucky. His talk of honor made even less sense. Only one thing was certain. Sinar crumpled. Clutching her chest, she slid toward the ground. She tried to brace herself by planting Nidle's tip, but it scraped uselessly along the earth, and she fell headfirst. THUD. "This leaves a bad taste in my mouth, too. I mean that."

The brown-haired man turned as he spoke. Encrid stared straight at him. Even if the man had held nothing but a rusty knife, the same thing would have happened. It couldn't have gone any other way. All his questions led to a single answer. The man before him was beyond a proto knight. Someone whose mere sight filled him with foreboding, with a sense of inescapable fate. In other words, a knight. One who could cut down a thousand alone. The nightmare of the battlefield. A calamity born of human hands. A strategic weapon that could turn the tide of battle. Encrid's dream had appeared before him as a god of death. "What the fuck?"

Krais's bewildered voice came from behind him.

"Move."

Ragna hauled Krais back by the scruff of his neck and stepped forward. He didn't even have a sword. He held a spoon in its place. "What the hell are you?"

Dunbachel growled. She had already finished transforming. The man let his shortsword hang, then moved toward his next target. No sound of feet kicking off the ground, no whistle of air being split. He simply moved and slashed. Such simple movements, yet even following them with his eyes was a struggle. Dunbachel was next. She had drawn her scimitar before he moved. Had he not moved, she would have struck first. CLANG.

CRACK!

THUD! Three sounds overlapped. That was how Encrid heard them. Then he saw the result. He hadn't been able to read the shortsword's trajectory. It was faster than before, and the man's back had obscured his view. Instead, he saw Dunbachel. Her scimitar split in half, the broken half of its blade spinning aside and tearing through the tent. The man's shortsword cleaved through her heart without hesitation. "Fuck. Should've used a better sword."

Dunbachel muttered as she sank to one knee. She clutched her split chest, but blood welled out between her fingers. It was not a wound she could survive. "Come on."

Ragna was next. He charged without a sword. Even with one, it would have been too much for him. His arm hadn't fully healed. His opponent showed no mercy. Without a word, he swung. A soundless slash descended toward Ragna's head. Ragna didn't act foolishly. He twisted in an instant and thrust his uninjured hand forward. THWAP! The man caught it effortlessly. The hand held a spoon. Gripping Ragna's wrist with one hand, the brown-haired man raised the sword in his other. "You were the most capable."

As he spoke, he brought his sword down from overhead. Ragna resisted to the last. He twisted sideways, trying to ram the man with his shoulder, but the sword was faster. SHLACK! The blade took only one of Ragna's arms. He rolled aside, red blood spraying everywhere. With his arm severed, he would bleed to death if left alone. "Yes. There won't be a second strike."

The man spoke to Ragna. Encrid understood now. No second strike. Once. He would use his sword only once. "Stop my blade, and I'll withdraw. That's the bare minimum I'll offer you. That's my conscience. You could call it a little shred of honor." As he spoke, his sword moved again. This slash was aimed at Esther, who had slipped behind him. It resembled a merciless lightning bolt, and also a stream of rain falling and flowing away. THUD! Esther, too, lost a forepaw. Not just her forepaw: her chest was split as well. RRAAAOW! The Lake Panther's agonized cry rang in Encrid's ears. It struck his heart. "Get away. Go."

Ragna spoke from the ground. Trying to rise, he slipped in his own blood and planted his face in the dirt with a dull thump. The ground was soaked in the blood he had shed. His face was drenched in it. "Damn it."

A small, trembling back moved in front of Encrid. Chains of foreboding still bound his entire body. He couldn't move a muscle. It was as though the goddess of fate, the other face of the goddess of luck, was telling him: this is fate. You cannot escape. This is where it ends. "I knew this would happen someday. Still, Captain, I'll repay what I owe before I go."

Krais stood in front of him. Encrid couldn't raise a hand. His lips wouldn't part. He could only recall the time he had stood in front of Krais. ["Big-eyes, run."]

Why had he done that? It hadn't been his head telling him to. "Go. I'll hang on to him."

Big-eyes whispered. He must have known his own words meant nothing. His opponent knew it, too. He showed no emotion. Didn't even sigh. He simply raised his sword. FWOOSH. The brazier's flames fluttered in the wind, casting several shadows of the sword. One of those shadows became solid and pierced Big-eyes' heart. "Ghk."

With a death rattle, Krais collapsed, bleeding. Bloody tears flowed from his eyes as well. Encrid watched it all. On the outside, he looked impassive. The brown-haired man turned toward Encrid. The two flames burning in that impassive face were truly striking. His eyes blazed with an intensity the brazier could not begin to match. The knight saw it. "Whew. One strike."

The man heaved a displeased sigh. He disliked this entire situation. Knights lived by honor. And yet a knight had launched a surprise attack. Encrid hadn't expected that. In truth, it didn't matter. It had happened. Everyone was dead. Only then could Encrid speak.

"Never thought I'd say this myself." He could see Sinar, Ragna, Dunbachel, Esther, and Krais. Sinar, collapsed on the ground. Ragna, struggling with one arm gone. Dunbachel, her heart cleaved apart. Esther, snarling fiercely with a forepaw missing. Krais, who had stood before him and taken a hole through the chest. Only Ragna and Esther were barely alive. Sinar was dead, Dunbachel was dead, and Krais was dead. And what of Ragna, floundering on the ground?

"Get out."

That was what he said. Get away. Run, even if it would come to nothing. Go. Even if the knight never swung again, Ragna would bleed to death. And if he survived, would he be all right? He had lost an arm. Yet he kept parroting the same words, telling Encrid to run. It was absurd. So very, very absurd. Encrid looked at the knight and finished speaking.

"I need to die." If he died, today would repeat. He needed that today. The man leveled his sword indifferently.

"Sorry about this."

The words held no emotion. Encrid tried to gauge his skill. He could see nothing. It was dark. Like walking a dark road without a single torch. SHUNK. The blade flew in and pierced his heart. Rather than dodge, he chose to accept it. It must have been the first time since he began repeating today. 'Again.'

The first time he had given up from the very start. He had no choice. Encrid realized anew. Sinar with her jokes. Dunbachel, always spouting nonsense. Lazy Ragna. Krona-crazed Krais. The panther who was also a mage, with her terrible sleeping habits. 'I won't let them die.'

Watching them die before his eyes was anything but pleasant. Encrid accepted death. The knight who had come as a god of death split his heart with his sword, then pulled it free. "I'll kill you."

Ragna's voice reached him, still holding on. It grew more distant. Encrid endured the pain, bearing it without so much as a groan. "Yes. You should live. You've earned it. Be sure to stop the bleeding."

The man kept his word. He turned away. Encrid lay fallen and closed his eyes. Death consumed him. The boat rocked. As expected, the black river came into view. Upon its flowing waters, the ferryman holding the violet lamp opened his mouth and spoke. "I told you it was despair."

Silence settled over the river. Rather than agree, Encrid asked,

"What about anguish and ignorance?" He couldn't tell the ferryman's state from outward cues. What would he be like today? Fortunately, perhaps, this ferryman gave answers. He spoke readily. His dimly visible mouth moved, and the meaning he conveyed reached Encrid. "The first is anguish. Must you do what you need not do?" Had it been a trial set by the ferryman, or fate wrought by circumstance? He didn't know. But he hadn't saved the child because he needed to. Why agonize over doing what his heart told him? It wasn't worth agonizing over. In other words, it wasn't anguish. Not for him, at least. "The second is ignorance."

Encrid hadn't recognized the wall. Not knowing: ignorance. The ferryman had helped him in the today called ignorance. He didn't know why. But even without that help, he would have understood and overcome it eventually. He would have found his way out of ignorance in time, and until then, he would have kept walking in silence. Thus the wall called ignorance was meaningless, too. "The third is despair."

Those words carried the meaning: you cannot overcome this. The ferryman's intention came through clearly. 'Withstand a knight's sword.'

It was the cruelest today he had faced yet. Worse, before that, he had to watch those he called his comrades all die. It would be a lie to say it didn't affect him. "Savor your despair."

As on any other today, the ferryman spoke without a trace of a smile.