“If you do something bad, it might make things easier now, but it’ll make your sleep restless, and if it keeps happening, you’ll feel uneasy all the time. Why live like that? It’s better not to do it.”
This was the wise remark of someone who appeared to be a fool—one of the five who guarded the underground.
“What if I get used to it and stop feeling uneasy?”
Encrid countered.
“I don’t want to get used to it.”
The friend replied without hesitation, as if there was no need to think about it.
“I see.”
This happened one morning while Encrid was drenched in sweat from training. The person had simply come to say thank you, and the conversation followed after a few exchanged words.
Later, Delma brought water and asked if there was anything uncomfortable, and his uncle, though cautious, didn’t push Encrid away.
He looked at Encrid only with respect and admiration, just like Lord Louis.
Many others in the city also looked at Encrid with such eyes. But did respect and admiration completely define the city’s gaze? No, not entirely.
“They say if you do something bad, he’ll come and kill you. That’s the rumor. So, some are saying they need to attack first.”
According to Delma, this was what some were saying. They saw him as a threat and whispered such things among themselves, but of course, they couldn’t act on it.
The lord was organizing forces and rigorously cracking down on the city.
Even without that, Encrid was not someone they could take down.
As Delma’s words implied, there were still those in the city who harbored malice or posed a threat.
“The Demon God will descend and purify everything!”
There were also crazed individuals spouting such nonsense, and some hid knives in their sleeves, glaring at Encrid.
Others lurked in the shadows, observing silently.
Among them were the poor, drug addicts, and those gripped by fear, all watching Encrid closely.
“So, this is how they repay being saved.”
Luagarne muttered as she observed the people.
“Forgive them; they’re fools.”
This was what the fool who visited him had said.
“I don’t know. I know things are better now, but it still feels uneasy.”
Delma, who had never known safety before, admitted that the changes made him feel anxious.
Yes, there were people like Delma, and there were others like them.
Encrid thought back to his swordsmanship trainer by the seaside.
“I used to be an executioner.”
The man had said this once.
“I didn’t need to know whether the person before me was guilty, innocent, framed, or just a scapegoat. My job was to swing the sword and kill. The mask with holes for eyes was both my helmet and my greatest weapon.”
When he said this, he seemed deeply troubled, as though he wished he could undo or erase his past.
When Encrid, after a few drinks, asked him if he could change the past, the man said he would if he could—but of course, it wasn’t possible.
Thinking about it now, Encrid realized he himself couldn’t go back to any point in the past, not even during this endlessly repeating day.
Even repeating today wasn’t something he wanted to do.
“I killed children too. Yes, there were children. A mother once asked me why her child had to die.”
The trainer admitted his past was far from honorable.
“I swung the sword without thinking.”
Even so, his skill at killing grew sharper. Working as an executioner taught him certain truths.
Listening to him, Encrid realized the man had a particular talent.
Then, one day, a mother’s question changed the trainer’s life.
“I regret it.”
He spoke of his regrets.
After that, what kind of life did he lead?
Encrid only knew bits and pieces. After leaving his job, the man never killed recklessly.
He especially avoided killing the defenseless.
With the skill he had honed as an executioner, he became a mercenary. Surviving, he eventually reached a self-governing city in a remote corner of the continent. Along the way, he became more passionate about saving lives than taking them.
“Does saving people bring back the ones I killed? No, it doesn’t. But this is how I’ll live.”
Had he saved more people than he had killed?
That was impossible to know.
Encrid believed it was futile to judge someone’s life by good or evil.
It wasn’t about deciding who to forgive or condemn.
But there was something he prioritized above all else.
It was the anchor of his life. The moon that guided the starlight, the signpost along the road.
“You aim to protect those within the boundaries you’ve set, don’t you? Then it’s simple. Take them all to the underground shelter. You’re capable of that much.”
The ferryman interjected as the day replayed. Encrid turned to see the faint image of the ferryman.
At some point, everything around him—people, air, sunlight—had stopped. Everything froze, turning the surroundings gray.
It was the end of a recalled memory.
The ferryman’s words were true. It was the right path.
Following them, Encrid could save Delma, the fool and his friends, Delma’s uncle, Luagarne, and the lord.
The Walking Fire would burn the city. When there was nothing left to burn, it would disappear.
Protecting them until then would be enough. There was no need to risk his life or break through an insurmountable wall.
In the gray world, Encrid gazed at Delma.
“What do you think that child will grow up to be?”
Keeping his gaze fixed, he asked the ferryman. The ferryman couldn’t answer—he wasn’t a fortune teller.
Even though Encrid asked, he didn’t know the answer either. No one could.
Delma might grow up to be an innkeeper.
He might become a hunter. Perhaps he’d wander the turbulent continent and, inspired by grand aspirations, establish a kingdom. Who could say?
“No one will know.”
Encrid spoke again. The ferryman observed him with gray eyes, this man cursed with immortal life.
In the gray world, Encrid stood as the only one with color.
“And so?”
The ferryman asked, and Encrid suddenly brought up the question that had stirred his heart.
“How far will you protect?”
The ferryman played along.
“Yes, how far will you protect?”
People, lives, what lay behind him.
In other words, the lives of those living behind him. That was what he had decided to protect. But was that all?
If it were, if that was all, there would be no reason for him to live such a loud, ostentatious life.
Why rescue the saintess of the Holy Kingdom far away? No reason.
Why save an unknown child? They weren’t standing behind him, so there was no reason.
Encrid realized he had wavered. For the first time, the ferryman’s words resonated with him.
Save only those within reach, only those who supported you.
This city—it was merely a connection of four days.
It was the correct answer. An entirely correct answer.
Slap.
In the gray world, Encrid slapped his cheeks with both hands.
The world blurred, and he returned to the dreamlike realm of the black river. The ferryman stood on the boat, holding his lamp, watching him.
Encrid did not protect a connection of four days. What he protected was something else.
“These people also have potential. I will protect that potential.”
Within Cross Guard, there were those who hid knives, fearing his blade. Assassins remained. Followers of the cult lingered.
There were likely unforgivable villains. Husbands who beat their wives. Mothers who hit their children.
Children who stabbed their parents. People who lived by stealing from others.
And yet.
There was a child who dreamed of becoming an innkeeper.
An adult who had looked after that child to prevent him from starving.
Even idiots in a thieves’ guild who had lost fingers trying to protect the townsfolk.
A lord who could have fled but stayed out of love for everyone in the city.
People who, despite having nothing to gain, stayed by that lord’s side.
There were righteous people. There were those who strayed. And they were all living in the present, in the moment.
Encrid sought to protect that fleeting moment. The people’s tomorrow, uncertain as it was, would vanish under the fire—a fire unleashed as a forbidden spell to kill him, taking with it the city and everyone’s future.
How could he allow that?
Peace, the end of war—that was what he sought.
Why?
Because everyone deserved a chance at tomorrow.
Peace, the end of war—that was what he sought.
Why?
Because he didn’t know how he might change tomorrow.
He didn’t want to erase that possibility.
He wanted to erase the Demon Realm.
Demons and beasts always erased and killed the future.
The ferryman asked again.
“How far will you protect?”
“My tomorrow, and theirs as well.”
Encrid stood on the boat floating on the black river and raised his hand. Though it was empty, the ferryman saw a sword.
An intangible blade represented his will. His words embodied his resolve. Encrid gave his answer.
-Hehehe.
-Hahaha.
-Ahahahaha.
-What a foolish answer.
-Is he insane?
-If that’s your will.
-I’ll respect it.
The ferryman said nothing aloud, yet the words were heard. In truth, they came from a countless, incomprehensible being that wore the guise of the ferryman.
Several layers of meaning overlapped, entering Encrid’s mind, attempting to corrupt his resolve, but it was futile.
The Will of Rejection had already taken root deeply within Encrid.
No matter what the opponent said, even if it meant becoming the enemy of all humanity, as long as he felt it was not right, he would refuse.
“You’re insane.”
The gray-faced ferryman said, holding his lamp. Encrid realized that everything around him was fading as he woke from the dream.
But in that fleeting moment, he thought he saw the ferryman’s face smiling.
‘A trick of the eye?’
The idea of the ferryman smiling was unthinkable.
A smile like Sinar or Esther’s was one thing, but this?
Encrid was cast out of the black river’s realm.
Even as Encrid left, the ferryman remained on the boat, laughing. His laughter held no falsehood—it was pure, genuine laughter.
To teach once more. How long has it been?
Swordsmanship? That wasn’t teaching. Techniques of the body could be learned on one’s own.
Awakening courage and fortitude in the mind—this was true teaching.
If this wasn’t joy, what was?
Although called immortal, he was merely a prisoner of today, screaming and thrashing to escape.
The ferryman found himself enjoying watching it all.
Of course, not all ferrymen shared the same sentiment.
“A practical problem remains, beastmen yearning for mortality.”
The ferryman spoke to the void, though it felt as if his words reached Encrid, who had just awakened.
***
“A practical problem remains, beastmen yearning for mortality.”
Encrid heard this as soon as he woke. Another beginning to a day he had repeated countless times. His mind raced, thoughts chaining together.
Included were responses to the ferryman’s words.
‘I know.’
A practical problem remained—the Walking Fire.
After a hundred repetitions of today, he had found no clues and had helplessly burned to death, watching others meet the same fate.
Yet strangely, Encrid felt that part of the despair he had felt in the previous day’s repetition was gone.
Perhaps he had never truly felt despair.
‘It’s a matter of the heart.’
Without setting a path, no matter how far one went, the destination would never be reached.
Now, he had set a course. Clearing the soot that clouded his heart, he spoke his intentions clearly.
Only one task remained. To cut the Walking Fire.
How does one cut what cannot be cut?
If the answer had been immediately clear, he wouldn’t have felt despair.
So, what should he do?
“This is going to hurt.”
The words slipped from Encrid’s lips—a rare occurrence.
But it was understandable.
The solution was simple: keep trying until it worked.
The only difference now was a slight change in his approach.
“Luagarne, tell me everything you know about the Walking Fire.”
There was no time to waste. His thoughts raced as he asked and listened. Then he charged forward, drawing his sword. He swung it with everything he had, pouring his Will into the strike.
Fwoosh!
Encrid threw himself at the fire. His sword strike was all he could do, and by throwing himself in, the fire’s heat engulfed him, burning his body.
Crackle.
The heat melted his scaled armor, which clung to his skin. The pain was excruciating. His eyes burned, the world turned red, and only searing pain remained.
Encrid died again.
After burning to death twenty-five more times.
“Call me a fool if you want.”
Encrid spoke as soon as he woke. He couldn’t help but mutter to himself.
“What?”
Luagarne approached, puffing her cheeks and rolling her eyes as if asking what he was talking about.
“I mean it.”
Encrid repeated as he pulled out a hidden trump card. It was a mirror, the one Esther had given him, telling him to use it when he felt uneasy and to look at himself.
Who knows magic best?
A wizard, or perhaps a witch.
Among those Encrid knew, one stood out as exceptionally skilled. Esther, the witch, now looking back at him from the mirror, her black hair framing her face as she blinked.
“The Walking Fire—do you know it?”
Encrid asked.
The black-haired beauty in the mirror nodded confidently.
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