Chapter 785 - Difference
A fierce Fire Serpent bit through his ankle, and a sword wreathed in black flame cut from his blackened shoulder all the way down, cleaving half his body.
"That was entertaining. Let's meet again."
Balrog offered the same farewell as always.
What he really meant by "let's meet again" wasn't that this today would repeat, but rather that he would trap Enkrid in the labyrinth.
Even if the underlying meanings differed, their intentions overlapped.
Enkrid nodded as he died—that was his answer to Beelrog's goodbye.
And so, it was time for him to face the nineteenth "today."
The Moons Filled with Fire lost its light and fell, and the Ferryman on the ferryboat received him.
"Ke, ke, ke."
The Ferryman let out his signature laugh as he began to speak.
His mouth was nothing more than a jet-black hole, not so different from those with no tongue at all.
The laughter was short and sharp, punctuating the silence.
Each time that deep darkness appeared and vanished, the Ferryman conveyed his message by force of will.
"You are trapped in this today."
"Do you suffer? This is the fate you brought upon yourself."
"You'll fade away struggling like this anyway."
"There is no flame that burns forever."
Creak.
The ferryboat groaned as it rocked on the river, its sound brushing past his ears.
"You can never escape this place for all eternity."
The Ferryman appeared again and again, each time proclaiming a fixed future.
Unlike usual, Enkrid read the intention threaded through the Ferryman's words.
It wasn't something he could be sure of—just a feeling.
Could those instincts, honed in reality, have any influence here?
Or maybe, after seeing him so many times, he simply began to notice things.
The reason didn't really matter.
"Do you want me to overcome this?"
Between the Ferryman's black eyes, his irises spun in deep gray—or rather, in a color that couldn't be described as just gray.
They turned gold, then red, then blue, almost green—then, as all those colors swirled together, they became black.
The Eyeballs of monsters were black; the Ferryman's eyes were black as well.
The difference was this: monster's eyes appeared black, as if stained, whereas in the Ferryman's eyes, countless things twisted and tangled, blackening them.
"It's possible to overcome?"
The Ferryman asked, but Enkrid didn't answer.
The Ferryman didn't even open his mouth, yet he conveyed his will once more.
"There is a way to get past today. If you want to know, ask me then."
There was no coercion, oppression, threats, force, or restraint in his words.
In the Ferryman's eyes—two orbs fastened to his face—a greenish light flickered, as if black were being suffused with green.
It became a dark, mossy green.
Compared to Shinar's pale green eyes, this color was far duller, but the will behind it was something Enkrid had never seen in the Ferryman before.
It was pity, compassion, a hint of empathy.
Enkrid's mind and will were always steadfast and unwavering.
He knew how to steady his heart, even in moments like these.
Otherwise, he would have given in to Shinar's jokes long ago.
"...I almost fell for it."
Muttering to himself, Enkrid brushed aside the Ferryman's offer.
The murky green in the Ferryman's eyes seemed on the verge of disappearing, then pulsed once before settling back in place with a heavy weight.
"You really are insane."
His tone was a little different from before.
At first, the Ferryman felt as expressionless and unreadable as always, while just now, when he offered a way out, there had been a fleeting trace of compassion in him.
Having watched Shinar's shifting emotions so many times, Enkrid had inadvertently learned to notice such things—the hint of emotion in the Ferryman's words was tiny, almost insignificant, but he saw it.
But this time, it was clear he was angry.
Or rather, to be precise, he looked annoyed and incredulous.
He didn't know why that particular memory came to mind now.
There was a time, back when he was gathering krona from all over the place, when he got especially lucky and hit it big.
It wasn't money earned from his sword skills, but either way, he ended up with a purse full of gold coins.
At that time, Enkrid went to a rather famous training hall.
On the Continent, with beasts and monsters everywhere and the environment being what it was, everyone was expected to know how to handle at least one weapon from childhood.
That's why there are so many training halls and dojos scattered around the cities.
Enkrid, with his gold coin purse, sought out one of the most renowned instructors among them.
That instructor, at first, had gently advised him to leave the life of sword-wielding behind.
Enkrid let her words go in one ear and out the other, focusing only on the skills and techniques he could learn.
"It's better to quit, you know. Even though I'm an instructor here, when you look at the Continent as a whole, I don't even rank among the city-level elites.
It's only thanks to my teaching skills that I can make a living."
She spoke with humility, but she was once a member of the escort team for the Rengadis trading company.
Her skills were the real deal.
Enkrid wanted to learn from someone genuine like her.
"So, what should I do next?"
Enkrid's questions never strayed far from the point.
At some point, as she was speaking kindly, her eyebrows began to twitch.
"I told you it would be better to quit."
Her words grew a bit sharper.
"Enkrid, you really only hear what you want to hear. You have such conveniently selective ears."
A hint of reproach crept into her tone.
"Do you not understand what it means to quit?"
She sounded irritated now.
That memory simply resurfaced.
Perhaps because the current Ferryman overlapped with her in his mind.
Seeing someone's sympathy turn into anger brought back that moment from the past.
Enkrid just let that fleeting thought pass and only shrugged his shoulders.
It was his response to the Ferryman calling him mad.
Enkrid's gesture could have meant, "You only just realized?" or "What does it matter?"
Either way, both conveyed they had no intention of truly listening to each other.
"Well, I suppose there are worse things than playing around in a prison called 'today.'"
With that, the Ferryman's deep green eyes grew unfocused and distant.
Enkrid felt his body floating up in the air.
He hadn't even blinked, but the scenery twisted, and as he slipped into darkness, it was as if he was opening his eyes—and then again, as if waking up once more.
It was today again.
Talking with the Ferryman, the lingering traces of pain faded.
Because of all those conversations, Enkrid now found himself short on time to think things through.
Trying to keep up with the Ferryman's unexpected side had delayed his own review of the fight.
Even though he hadn't expected perfection, he'd believed his tactics would more or less succeed—but they had shattered.
'It wasn't even that my calculations were off.'
Enkrid had found the best line of attack in every calculation, while Beelrog hadn't.
So it was Enkrid who had moved ahead through insight.
"Looks like we have a visitor?"
His opponent had just started to speak to him.
Enkrid was about to cut him down in one swift move, but convinced the opponent wasn't any real threat, he merely glanced at him and said,
"Hold on a second. I need to think."
"…What?"
Whatever disbelief the other felt was none of Enkrid's concern.
"If anyone else comes, I'll cut him down too—so just wait."
He projected his oppressive force, manifesting pressure that took shape almost like an aura.
Even in the Demonic Domain, the Demon of Strife was someone others avoided, and Enkrid had fought him no less than eighteen times.
Moreover, every time they fought, Beelrog would try to crush Enkrid with his own overwhelming aura.
Only by enduring that would the actual sword fighting begin.
This was Beelrog's own form of trial.
Enkrid had overcome it every single time.
During that process, the resistance that had once writhed inside him gradually began to change.
The first way he learned to use Will was rooted not in conscious thought, but in the realm of instinct.
That alone wasn't enough to easily shake off Beelrog's overwhelming pressure.
'If moving from Junior Knight to Knight means using Will subconsciously...'
Then, when he became a Knight again, he would need to train his Will intentionally.
This was one of the theories he was slowly formulating, which he called the "Will Training Technique."
So he repeatedly broke free from the oppressive force through conscious effort.
Beelrog's form of overwhelming pressure manifested as burning chains of flame.
From the moment he faced it, the heat felt as if it would scorch his flesh and cook him alive, and if he slipped for even a moment, he'd be crushed under that pressure and die.
Enkrid would shake off those chains and emit his own intimidating force—and he was demonstrating that right now.
The form of Enkrid's intimidation was a wall—a castle wall of indeterminate thickness, so thick it was impossible to gauge its depth.
Ordinary strength or pressure couldn't penetrate it; it was a fortress that couldn't be pierced by something as trivial as a metal spike.
Ignoring Enkrid's remark, his opponent started to move forward, then stopped.
The mere fact that he didn't flinch was proof of both his guts and his skill.
But, even so, he couldn't come any closer.
Confronted with the wall Enkrid had created, he glimpsed the shadow of Beelrog and remembered that resisting the terror imprinted on the soul was the fate of any sentient being.
If one didn't want to submit and bow their head, this was the only way.
Still, was now really the time to yield?
He had bowed and scraped before Beelrog countless times, but now was different.
Now, he began his own battle against Enkrid's intimidating force.
While he bought himself some time, Enkrid replayed the fight in his mind.
It wasn't about simply repeating the battle sequence over and over; instead, he delved deep, examining every detail—each action and reaction, his psychological state, everything—in a single bout.
He didn't just review it; he dissected it, leaving nothing unexplored.
But in a way, it felt like a kind of stubborn attachment.
In truth, there wasn't much left to uncover.
The reality was simple and clear.
Enkrid reined in his wandering thoughts and organized them with clarity.
"I had the advantage in terms of possibilities."
He counted, assessed, and struck based on all possible outcomes.
The entire process felt like a system devised by someone who'd worked with numbers their whole life.
There was no waste.
The blade moving along its predetermined path was graceful; the actions taken for that purpose were precise, and the logic that permeated his swordsmanship made it seem almost beautiful.
In those fleeting moments, the blade, catching the light, seemed as if it could easily split one of the crystals.
"There's no way to be more prepared than this."
Matching Enkrid's calculations, the tool that most often challenged him was the Flame Whip: Salamandra.
Almost as if proud of its own sentience, that whip seemed to revel in games of strategy.
Afterward, Beelrog would swing his wings, fists, feet, and sword, moving unpredictably within the boundaries Enkrid had foreseen.
At that moment, Enkrid introduced the Sword of Chance into the equation.
This was his way of ensnaring the demon, who had broken free of his calculations, once again with a Spiderweb.
And yet, he couldn't stop Beelrog from moving within the boundaries of his calculations.
It was different.
Beelrog's swordsmanship was different.
For a moment, it was so fast, heavy, and fierce that it slipped past all prediction and calculation.
"Behold."
Amid the fight, Beelrog conveyed his intentions through mental resonance.
Instinctively, Enkrid's eyes went to his right hand.
There, in his grasp, was the cursed sword called Urtran, its blade wreathed in black flames that blazed intensely.
Those flames erupted time and again like bursts of fire.
Knowing already that once it caught, that fire would not go out, Enkrid dodged every one of those attacks.
His bangs were singed, and he had to remove and throw away the cloth gauntlet on his left hand, but he managed to hang on somehow.
Remembering the flow of that battle would take a long time.
It's unnecessary.
There was no point in dwelling on the process.
The outcome of the fight wasn't decided by calculations.
Instead of flaring outward, Beelrog's Urtran drew the flames inward.
Then, above the deep red blade, a shape began to form.
A blade.
Rather than burning and smoldering, the fire was now being shaped into the form of a blade.
That sword—it could not be stopped It was something that couldn't be solved with calculations.
That was what made it different.
And in that moment, Enkrid saw something there.
'Difference.'
He had seen that difference not only in Beelrog, but in others as well.
Ragna's blade, Audin's holy armor, Rem's axe, Jaxen's thrust—he had felt that same sense of otherness from them too.
What is different?
What was it that set them apart?
Now, having achieved part of his dream from the past and arrived at the present, he thinks of those who brought him this far.
Again and again, almost obsessively, like a madman, he continues to do so.
He retraces his memories, recalling and reviewing the things each of them had shown him one by one.
"Hooah!"
At that very moment, his opponent had just managed to overcome Enkrid's pressure.
The man pulled a sword from his sleeve and held one in each hand.
"Where did you come crawling from?!"
Shouting, the man feinted a charge, then hurled two daggers.
It was a crafty move.
The way he threw daggers while still gripping swords in both hands was so impressive, Enkrid almost found it fascinating.
Clang! Clang!
Enkrid held Dawnforged in his right hand, and Penna in his left.
Enkrid faced his opponent with a sword in each hand.
The fight didn't last long.
He defeated his foe before the man could reveal his true specialty.
After more than ten repetitions, his enemy's weaknesses became glaringly obvious.
Their strengths faded, while their vulnerabilities sharpened in focus.
He pressed on.
His thoughts never found closure—the process of reflecting on each encounter continued.
Enkrid faced yet another today, and once again, he died.
The crimson blade forged from flame didn't cut through everything.
The blade of Will that Enkrid manifested could block it.
But—
He was overpowered.
In the end, he was cut down.
What makes the difference?
Twenty times.
Thirty.
Forty.
More than fifty todays passed by.
Amidst relentless pain and suffering, Enkrid found himself endlessly free to reflect on each day, able to replay and review his countless battles.
***
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