Is your head just for decoration?
This is what people say when they are frustrated with someone who can’t think properly.
In other words, the ferryman was exasperated with him.
Encrid clasped his hands together and adopted a listening posture.
Among the attitudes of good listeners, providing supportive reactions is one, but showing proper gestures toward the speaker is also critical.
By tilting his head slightly toward the speaker as a sign of attentiveness, and nodding to show he was following along, Encrid displayed his focus.
When he did this, the ferryman asked,
“What are you doing?”
“Preparing to listen.”
“To what?”
What else could it be? Clearly, the one calling him frustrating must have a clue to share.
Encrid silently replied with his gaze.
“You’re really insane.”
The ferryman threw this out as high praise before asking,
“Do you think it’ll stop if you try to block it?”
That marked the end as Encrid’s vision blurred. The ferryman began to scatter like grains of sand.
The dream was ending.
Encrid didn’t gain a thunderous epiphany from the ferryman’s words. Rather, it left him with a sense of dissatisfaction.
It was as if something ticked in his mind, leaving an irksome feeling stuck there.
“What kind of gibberish barking is that supposed to be?”
So he asked.
The ferryman smirked at his words.
“Live eternally. That’s your path.”
To Encrid, those words felt hollow, as if said out of obligation rather than conviction.
“I refuse.”
He answered, opening his eyes to find himself awake from his nap.
“Stop it? How?”
Wasn’t that what he was desperately trying to do?
Even as he questioned, his body moved reflexively to carry out its tasks.
He sliced through the flames.
Cutting through flames, while poetic in expression, was exactly what Encrid was physically doing.
Carrying nothing but his black-gold greatsword, he severed the straps of his armor and cast it aside, running.
“Where are you going?”
As he ran in silence, Luagarne asked from behind, and Delma blinked, holding a water cup.
Encrid, feeling sentimental, said,
“They won’t reach here, kiddo.”
His words, spoken as he passed by, were answered belatedly, as his thoughts raced ahead and matched his pace.
Even so, he heard Delma’s voice faintly.
“What?”
That single questioning sound was all, and she likely blinked, not understanding what he meant.
“They won’t reach.”
Stop them.
As he spoke, Encrid made a resolute vow in his heart.
Thus, another cycle of ‘today’ began.
Lacking time to ponder, his thoughts raced as he ran headlong into the day.
And there was always the ferryman, appearing just before death.
“I’ll tell you the method.”
From the next day, the ferryman’s demeanor changed.
This altered ferryman, uncharacteristically kind, offered advice without the usual frustration.
“If you can’t give up everything, give up a part. Abandon the outskirts of the slums, prepare, and brace yourself. You might survive this way.”
The ferryman’s words boiled down to this: use the time while the Walking Fire burns people, children, mothers, buildings, horses, and stable boys to prepare.
“Are you sick or something?”
Encrid faithfully answered the ferryman’s words.
Subsequent ferrymen were similar.
“Sacrifice is inevitable.”
“The ones meant to die will die.”
“No one will bless your achievements.”
“What are you so desperately fighting for?”
“Just hold out somehow at the village square entrance. Maybe then you’ll manage. Heh heh.”
The ferryman’s advice often bordered on interference, filled with unnecessary commentary and sometimes even mockery.
Listening to him reminded Encrid of a specific phrase.
‘Do you think it’ll stop if you try to block it?’
The ferryman’s one line before his attitude changed.
“I’m desperately trying to stop it.”
It was a phrase that compelled him to answer the empty air.
Things didn’t change much after that.
He repeated today and burned to death.
His swordsmanship grew more refined, but it didn’t bring significant differences.
Every day was a struggle, leaving no day to be passed easily, but it honed his skills and gave him expertise in severing intangible flames.
Passing through these repetitive cycles, he learned and sharpened his abilities.
It was like exploring an endless cave, with every step forward bringing the searing pain of burning to death as its price.
To this point, Encrid hadn’t felt his approach was wrong.
Slice and endure.
It seemed like the only path where a glimmer of light lay ahead.
Yet, a path illuminated by light isn’t always the sole way.
Sometimes, the right path is hidden in darkness.
What is right or wrong, correct or mistaken—it all boils down to personal choice.
For Encrid, there were only two paths.
Neither was related to the ferryman’s previous suggestions.
One was to continue doing what he had been: fighting and preventing the Walking Fire from consuming everyone.
But some would still die. The city would burn.
It was inevitable. Protecting everyone while holding out was beyond difficult—it was impossible.
The Walking Fire wasn’t solely targeting him. Its goal was the city itself.
If it responded only to provocation, things wouldn’t have been this difficult.
When he burned to death, continuing his thoughts became almost impossible.
The pain was so excruciating that even Encrid felt hesitation.
Yet his determination to swing his sword never wavered.
One day among these repetitions, Encrid pulled out a mirror while running and muttered,
“Can’t you just cut such spells?”
He hadn’t intended to change how he obtained information from Esther.
The thought arose reflexively as he remembered the phrase, ‘Do you think it’ll stop if you try to block it?’
Even while running, he saw Esther’s expression change on the other side of the mirror.
A cold, mocking smile spread across her face.
Simultaneously, a repository of knowledge opened.
Her mind was indeed a treasure trove. What could be more valuable than a witch’s knowledge?
“Could it be possible? Theoretically, yes.”
At her words, Encrid’s ears perked up. His curiosity exceeded even his skepticism.
“Spells are phenomena, and phenomena represent power. Since all spells draw upon magic as their source, what if a force superior to the magic fueling the spell were applied? If one’s will exceeds the magic borrowed from nature? Then yes, it could be done. Hmph.”
The faint huff at the end was barely audible.
Truthfully, Encrid was too shocked to catch all of what she said.
“Surpassing the magic of nature?”
Encrid recalled cutting through a fireball spell in the past. When had that been?
It was so long ago it was hazy, but he remembered someone named Swift Blade using a scroll.
Back then, he hadn’t thought much about it. He just swung, fueled by raw determination.
Why couldn’t he do that now?
Was it because the fire moved?
According to Esther, it was because the natural magic pushed back against his Will.
That’s why the fire couldn’t be cut but merely dispersed.
His thoughts deepened. His habitual actions continued, confronting the Walking Fire and dying to save children or mothers.
The agonizing flames seared his body and mind.
When he revived for yet another ‘today’, he heard Esther’s voice again.
“Magic is like supply and demand. What lies between supply and demand? If you cut that, sure, as you said, you could cut it.”
The connection between spell and caster is magic.
The provocative questions extracted more treasure from Esther’s repository.
Encrid immersed himself in those treasures.
It wasn’t that he suddenly grasped complex spell theory or constructed new frameworks of understanding.
Rather, he conceived a simpler, more brutish approach.
Back in yet another ‘today’, Encrid acted contrary to his earlier resolve not to burn to death again.
“Walking Fire.”
The words he spoke into the empty air might have been meaningless, but Luagarne popped her head up behind him and asked,
“You mean the command spell?”
Instead of activating the mirror, Encrid stepped forward and replied,
“I shouldn’t have tried to block it from the start.”
“What?”
“Instead of blocking, I should have cut it down.”
“What… are you talking about?”
To Luagarne, it sounded like nonsense from someone who woke up delirious.
‘Do you think it’ll stop if you try to block it?’
The ferryman’s words.
Encrid thought about how absurdly cruel those ferrymen were, watching him struggle and mocking him.
If they wanted to teach him, couldn’t they have done so kindly?
Watching his desperate attempts to block the fire, all the ferrymen had been clear in their messages.
‘Don’t block it.’
Don’t block—cut it down.
How does one cut it?
Trying to slice and endure was like an instinctual thrash born from desperation.
It seemed the only illuminated path, leaving no alternatives.
But now, another way forward presented itself.
‘Did she say I needed to be superior?’
Esther had indeed said so.
The idea was to overwhelm the spell by sheer force.
But was it necessary to always maintain superiority? Probably not.
His thoughts accelerated. This realization didn’t even require speed—it boiled down to a single action.
Facing the Walking Fire, Encrid asked aloud.
The spell, devoid of intelligence, couldn’t answer.
However, the apostle Anella, observing Encrid through the spell, heard the question.
* * *
To Anella, it sounded like utter nonsense. But Encrid was dead serious.
There are things in this world that can’t be quantified or evaluated.
Encrid was one of those.
Anella had been observing and analyzing him.
She believed that burning the city wouldn’t make him give up easily.
But would he risk his life for it?
At this point, it was a coin flip.
Either path benefited Anella, as she had contingencies for all outcomes.
If he continued to fight and sustained severe injuries, she could activate her prepared traps and kill him.
If he fought half-heartedly and retreated?
That was also acceptable.
Knights use their Will as their weapon. From what she observed, Encrid couldn’t stand by while those near him were harmed.
Even if he saved only a portion and retreated?
That wasn’t bad either.
This event targeted Encrid but also served to demonstrate the Demon Realm Sanctuary’s power by burning a city, warning the continent.
Additionally, it revealed the hidden strength of the Cult of the Demon Realm, delivering salvation to the ignorant who had lost their faith.
“Ridiculous.”
Anella muttered, responding to the question,
“Aren’t you going to cut it for real?”
Naturally, Encrid couldn’t hear her.
Beyond the spell’s view, Encrid’s calm face appeared.
Though his expression hardly changed, there was an air of excitement about him.
The searing heat singed his hair, and beneath the scorched strands, his blazing blue eyes shone like true flames.
* * *
Encrid raised his black-gold greatsword and struck down.
To cut—his Will-imbued sword severed the Walking Fire.
It burst and exploded.
At the center of the blast, his skin split and tore as the flames scorched his eyes and seared his tongue.
The agonizing pain returned. But it hurt less than before.
Why?
“Is that your madness?”
The ferryman asked in his dreams.
Encrid didn’t answer, gripping his sword instead.
Even in the dream world, his sword manifested tangibly.
His overflowing Will influenced the imagined realm as well.
Upon awakening to yet another today, he found that just five more cycles were all he needed.
Encrid visualized a fortress wall rising behind him.
All he had to do was concentrate that Will, the Will he used to create the fortress, into a single strike.
With the method clear, he advanced.
In the fleeting moment where his life burned away, the strike he delivered was incomparable, the culmination of countless repeated experiences.
Through those repetitions, Encrid had practiced endlessly, gaining mastery over techniques without even realizing it.
Pouring every ounce of Will he could feel into his blade, he slashed.
His greatsword resonated with a sharp hum.
If not for Eitri’s craftsmanship, the weapon would have shattered.
A crack formed mid-blade as Encrid faced the Walking Fire once more.
Everything but the Will imbued in his sword remained unchanged.
Running forward, casting aside his armor, he gripped only his black-gold greatsword.
By the time the Walking Fire burned two horses in the stable, Encrid stood before the spell.
He repeated his question.
The stable hand, about to charge in with a pitchfork, froze.
The timing couldn’t have been better.
No one had yet been consumed by the fire.
Raising his greatsword above his head, Encrid executed a precise overhead slash.
The essence of Middle Sword Technique—Crown Splitter.
What his blade carried was all of his Will—at least all he could muster in that moment.
If he were to name it, it would be something like the Sword of Iron Wall.
The Will that formed a fortress was converted into a cutting edge and delivered in a single strike.
Whoosh.
All the countless repetitions of today, where he burned to death, came to fruition in this slash.
Every experience, every struggle culminated in this moment.
Blue eyes, shining with flame-like determination, disappeared behind the descending blade.
The Will that once defended against armies now fell as a single, decisive strike.
Thump.
There was no explosion or deafening roar.
The Walking Fire simply dissolved along the path of his blade.
The line his greatsword traced seemed to split the world itself.
The sheer concentration of Will overwhelmed the spell’s magic in an instant.
Only someone with an unending Will could even attempt such a feat.
Thus, the Walking Fire was cut.
Poof.
It faded with an almost pitiful sound, like air escaping a balloon.
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