Chapter 320 - High Praise

High Praise

The morning of the second today dawned. Encrid lived through the exact same today again.

The chains of foreboding that lay beyond his dodging sense still constricted his body. His limbs were rigid, unable to move. Even watching the others die before him remained unchanged.

As evening approached, Encrid said what he needed to say. The bare minimum of preparation.

"Ragna, keep your sword in hand while you rest."

He had warned him, but the sword was not the problem. They were exhausted. Injured. Far from their best. Knowing what was coming did not mean they could stop it.

That was why a knight was a calamity. They were not called calamities for nothing. Once again, the knight killed all his comrades.

The third today passed, then the fourth. It repeated. Foreboding, constricting chains, his comrades' deaths, his own death, pain. Sometimes he met the ferryman on the river.

"Despair."

The ferryman appeared again and planted that word in his mind. Encrid did not answer.

"Despair."

Twelve todays passed. He lived through the same today, again and again. Immobilized by the chains of foreboding, Encrid watched his comrades die. Not once did he look away. He could not.

Krais, with his pitiful fighting skills, insisted on standing in front of him. Why did the man who talked of running away every day turn his back to Encrid and shield him now?

This was a curse. And so nothing dulled. Physical pain and inner agony alike. He always had to endure the same pain. Always had to watch everything.

Encrid had never intended to look away in the first place, but pain was pain.

"Now this is despair."

The flippant ferryman came and went. It was the twenty-second today.

A twitch. Right after Sinar's chest split open, Encrid's finger moved. This repetition was a little different from the previous twenty-one todays.

"My betrothed."

She had not died. He had thought her dead on the first today, but her skills were anything but ordinary. She had deflected the sword's trajectory with Nidle, minimizing the wound. Two styles were blended into that move: a sword that deflected and a sword that received.

And Ragna? Rather than pit his speed against the opponent's strike, he braced his sword and held out through strength. There was much to learn from them.

Another twitch. Ragna, Krais, Dunbachel, Esther. After watching all of them die, Encrid regained the use of his hand.

"Finally, it moves."

Then came a brief response.

"Hm?"

Even so, the blade in the brown-haired man's hand pierced his heart. Encrid died again.

The water swelled. The black river and its ferryman. Did he have nothing else to do? He kept appearing.

"Despair."

Having conveyed his meaning, the ferryman turned his unfocused gaze on Encrid. Encrid looked back impassively. The ferryman repeated that word every time, yet showed not the slightest weariness or boredom.

As he watched impassively, Encrid's body slowly began to fade. It was time to return to reality. To live another today spent watching his comrades die. Time to return to a today of repeated death.

As his body and face grew hazy as smoke, the ferryman looked at him.

The ferryman did not speak through facial expressions. Sometimes, however, he revealed a fraction of what he felt. This was one of those times.

As their time in the dream ended and Encrid faded, the ferryman expressed a little of his emotion. He even put it into words.

"You're smiling?"

* * *

The river vanished. Encrid awoke from the dream. Another repeating today had begun. His thirty-second.

"What a nasty dream."

Encrid muttered the words as soon as he woke. That was the first thing he did: dismiss the previous today as a dream. More precisely, he made that his first step forward.

A today in which he could do nothing. That was rather—no, quite unpleasant, wasn't it? It even felt like insects were crawling all over him.

"What did you dream about?" Krais asked beside him, picking the sleep from his eyes.

"You dying."

"That's bad luck."

Encrid had spoken honestly, and Krais answered with equal sincerity.

"Ragna, I dreamed you died too. Keep your sword in hand."

"That really is an unlucky thing to say."

Ragna's reply was just as sincere. What a warm, friendly morning. He was not superstitious, but words like that out of nowhere were bound to bother him. Especially coming from Encrid.

"Have you caught that barbarian's habit of talking nonsense?"

For once, Ragna said something resembling a complaint. His tone was indifferent, but the words themselves were hardly acceptable. Encrid responded as anyone would.

"Is that an insult? I challenge you to a duel."

How dare he compare him to Rem? Encrid tossed back the casual joke, and Ragna offered no particular reply.

Encrid moved more energetically than on any of the previous todays. Despair. The word did not readily reach his heart.

He acknowledged that this was an extreme situation. Acknowledged that his opponent was absurdly, monstrously powerful. But the answer was clear.

'Once.'

Survive the first strike, and the man would leave. Was that supposed to be despair? No. Even if there were a way to avoid this, he would not take it.

His opponent was a knight. Even if that knight came as a reaper, Encrid felt pure joy at the approach of his dream. Exhilaration accompanied the pain in equal measure.

Bury his comrades' deaths as a dream and move forward. That was where Encrid began. In other words, he would let no one die. Only the clear answer remained.

'I just have to withstand it.'

And if he couldn't? Keep trying until he could. Do whatever it took, if necessary. That was all there was to it.

He would have to watch his comrades die every time? If that was supposed to be despair...

'It's full of holes.'

How many todays had he overcome? There were many ways to twist a repeating today. Did the same things have to happen every time? He already knew they did not. Now he could do what he had never even considered when his body refused to move.

Encrid first gathered his weapons from the corner of the tent. Should he put on the bandage armor too? No, there would be no point. Hadn't he seen the knight's sword? Armor could not stop that. Sinar's armor was no ordinary protection either, but it had been sliced straight through.

Something imbued that strike. He thought he knew what it was.

'Will.'

A knight was someone who wielded Will. Encrid understood that clearly.

Then what should he do? Try deflecting it first? Would Snake Sword work? He had already forgotten what a wreck his body was.

Another similar today passed.

"You all worked hard."

Encrid always said much the same thing. Some things must never lose their meaning, however often they repeated. He did not forget that.

After his thanks and some more idle conversation...

"Irresistible. That's what you are."

As Krais finished speaking, the tent tore open, and the brown-haired man entered.

RIP!

It always began the same way.

"Sorry about this."

The man spoke, and Encrid began preparing.

"Just one strike, and I'll leave. That should at least preserve some of my honor."

He acted as though he disliked what he was doing. Yet they had still failed to stop even one of his strikes.

While he was saying something, Encrid moved. In truth, he barely listened to the man's words. He had heard them far too many times. Some things dulled with repetition, while others did not. Words he already remembered were merely tiresome.

Honor or whatever else the man was talking about, Encrid's concentration blazed. The shackles of foreboding tightened around him, but he had already begun to overcome them once. Starting at his fingertips, he commanded every muscle in his body to move.

His foot lifted naturally. His body obeyed him. The foreboding still tightened around his throat, but it did not matter. He could ignore it. He was moving, wasn't he?

The first to catch the man's attention was the fellow stepping forward without listening to him. His gaze settled on Encrid, who spoke.

"Me first."

"My betrothed."

Sinar tried to stop him, but it was already too late.

"I'm your target, aren't I?"

He completed his step as he spoke. He was right. Those previous todays had already taught him everything he could learn. To overcome today, he had to recognize and face what it required.

'He's after me.'

And this was a man who would never ignore someone stepping forward with courage. Encrid confronted him, voicing what his Review of the situation had revealed.

The man—the knight—raised his sword. Drawn with a metallic ring, the chipped shortsword was a reaper's weapon. The reaper named Dream had raised his weapon.

"You've got spirit."

He swung.

THUD.

Encrid tried to block, but the other sword reached him first. Was it faster than Lycanos's? Something like Jaxon's Intentless Stab? He had watched it countless times, but this was his first attempt to block it.

He felt the difference in speed. His opponent had lashed out without transferring force up from his feet. It truly was a sword whose timing could not be read.

'I was too slow.'

That was how Encrid accepted it. He had been slow and missed his chance, so naturally his heart was cleaved open. Death approached.

Even so, he grinned. Hadn't he achieved the first thing he wanted? The reaper saw that too.

'He's insane.'

He saw straight through Encrid in an instant. The man was not normal. Of course, that was no concern of Encrid's. He was simply satisfied that his little trick had worked.

If he did not want to watch Sinar, Ragna, Krais, Dunbachel, and Esther die, he only had to step forward first.

His eyes closed. Death drew near. The water swelled: the black river.

There was no time for the world within his mind to open, yet the ferryman forced it open and entered, if only briefly. As he passed, he left the highest praise.

"Madman."

That was already the second time he had received such praise. Encrid barely managed a reply.

"Thanks."

There was no time for anything longer. Was it his imagination, or did the ferry on the receding river seem to rock violently? Who knew?

In any case...

'I can move.'

All that remained was to withstand the strike.

"Whew. Good."

"What's good?" Krais asked at the words Encrid uttered upon waking.

"Don't worry about it."

Encrid thought it over. Could he heal his body right away? No. As he considered it, he picked up Ragna's sword and stood it beside his bed.

"... What? You want to spar?"

"Keep it with you."

Acting was easier than explaining why. In any case, keeping himself moving was important if he wanted to warm his body even a little. Beside the brazier, he went through a series of stretches and movements that stimulated his regeneration. All the while, he kept thinking.

'How do I block it?'

He still had no idea. He had not expected to block it immediately just because he could move. Still, it was only a single sword stroke.

'No.'

It was not merely a single stroke. It was a knight's sword.

'It really is absurd.'

Encrid was no idiot. He knew what he had done on the battlefield. Mere groups of ordinary soldiers could not stop his sword. He had cut down mercenaries who prided themselves on their skill, and swordsmen from the Hurrier family. Mages and shamans had been among his victims too.

Most recently, he had been trapped among the enemy. He had escaped by relying on his senses, but it had hardly been easy. To anyone unaware that he repeated today, it would seem not merely miraculous skill, but something supernatural. He had made it look as though he had braved all that hardship with a single sword—three, to be precise, but swords alone nonetheless.

"Were you a mage all along?"

It was only natural for Krais to ask that out of nowhere. Even Esther gave him a speculative look. Of course he was not. He did not know how to cast spells.

He recalled the knight's sword again. Now he felt like the ordinary soldier. His thoughts continued.

Would Jaxon have noticed if he had been there? No, would Jaxon have avoided going down so easily even against a knight? Would he have found a way? What if Ragna had not been injured?

Idle thoughts. Was this what despair meant? Had traces of the emotion the ferryman shoved into his mind lingered? Encrid made no effort to discard or erase any of it. He let it be. It did not matter.

What was despair? Having nothing to look toward, severing hope and collapsing. Sinking into pessimism and falling apart. None of that had anything to do with Encrid.

He would be trapped in today because he could not withstand a knight's strike? He welcomed it.

Rather than force his way through each day, unable to do anything, without any catalyst, watching the dream he cherished fade, tear, and grow worn...

"Give today everything, too."

He would rather struggle like that. Death was approaching? It did not matter. Whatever happened, he would not live for the sake of dying.

Above all, those past todays—the ones the ferryman had called anguish and ignorance, and the countless todays before them—had shattered another of Encrid's shells.

His mind stood straight and firm, as it had when he first encountered today. It was a small realization. And a great one, too.

'Nothing says I can't make use of today.'

He had used it against the wolf-men and the mage, and made full use of it to get through the spell traps. It was an expansion of the idea: struggle, but endure and exploit the curse of repetition. His mind had finally recognized what he had been doing all along with his body.

Encrid's eyes opened. He knew what to do.

"Ragna."

"... What is it?"

Strength naturally entered Encrid's voice. Ragna reacted to the change in his manner. What had gotten into him now?

"Assuming you were uninjured."

Encrid's eyes sparkled. How to describe them? Strangely excited, almost gleeful eyes. As he began speaking with that look, Ragna interrupted.

"I'm fine now. Better than you, Captain."

In some ways, bluster might be the strongest weapon of all. Ragna's shone as brightly as Encrid's eyes. Encrid smoothly took up the exchange.

"I'm at nine out of ten."

He was actually at five.

"I've recovered completely."

"I've just finished healing too."

Listening to their exchange, Sinar spoke quietly.

"What are they doing?"

"Competing to see who's the bigger fool."

Krais summed up the situation.

"I'm not hurt."

Dunbachel chimed in. She was injured too. Naturally, no one responded.

Encrid and Ragna paid no attention to the others either. More precisely, Encrid ignored them, and Ragna naturally followed his lead. This was the real point.

"Can you withstand a knight's sword?"

That question, his manner, the weight of his words and the look in his eyes. Something burning apart from the bluster. All of it was a stimulus. At the question, Ragna briefly sank into his own world.

The recent battle had been a catalyst. Ragna could see a path. It was all too easy to tell where his talent would lead him. But seeing a path did not mean he had walked it. Without experiencing it, he could not know for certain.

Yet hadn't his brilliant talent already shown him the way? Awakened by that catalyst, it had revealed a path once more. Ragna was half certain that this was the path to knighthood.

And so...

"I can block it."

Bluster aside, he could. Scission imbued with Will: if he first carved a path with what he had gained this time, he could block even a knight's sword.

It was a hazy certainty. Confidence, too. At the very least, he would not go down helplessly to a single strike.

Thinking things through did not mean clutching his head alone like a fucking idiot. Besides, Encrid had faintly sensed a change in Ragna as well as in himself.

In particular, Ragna's reaction upon seeing the knight had differed a little with each repeating today. What did that mean? Could he be seeing something? A suspicion. A question.

Encrid saw an easy, simple path. He sought the answer from Ragna.

"How?"

Now, then. Tell me how.

Ragna felt almost drugged. Encrid's voice and gaze had made him that way. So he readily began to speak.

He imagined a knight's sword, conjured it in his mind. In sheer talent, he could well be called the finest man on the continent. He did not agonize over it. The words came at once.