Eternally Regressing Knight
Chapter 493 - 493 - Reflections and Choices
Chapter 493 - Reflections and Choices
Why go this far?
Enkrid couldn't understand for a moment.
Was there truly a reason for such hatred toward him?
Though he had seen resentment in those eyes, he couldn't fathom its source.
Even if one were consumed by hatred and blame, why him?
Of course, Enkrid couldn't know—he was unaware that the genius shaman of the Soothsayer Tribe called the apostle Enkrid had slain "father."
In the West, there was a saying:
One cannot live under the same sky as the one who killed their father.
The young shaman was simply following what he had been taught since childhood.
Or perhaps, with everything already ruined, he merely needed someone to blame.
In hindsight, it was a foolish thing to do.
Why betray the entire West and still cling to its teachings?
Yet, in another sense, it made perfect sense.
The young shaman of the Soothsayer Tribe had been brainwashed and pushed into a corner.
He had only two choices left: accept capture and die, or do something insane.
He chose insanity.
For this, he staked everything.
He sold his soul to a demon and cursed his own body.
Even if his soul fell into the flames of hell to suffer eternal torment, he didn't care.
He wagered everything, casting bad luck upon himself to absorb it as a talisman, and somehow, he succeeded.
He even managed to deceive a shaman of the Great Wings Tribe, and fortune smiled upon him there.
That shaman, seeing him sick and crippled, pitied him.
Pretending to be prey for cannibals had worked as well.
Fate seemed to favor his actions, so the shaman believed what he was doing was right.
Every circumstance pointed him in that direction.
The genius shaman thought this way, and his misguided choices led to this outcome.
Of course, Enkrid had no way of knowing any of this.
And so? Would it change the present?
No.
All Enkrid could do was accept it.
"Hmm."
He let out a faint murmur.
The world around him was yellow.
Even the wind seemed like it might crackle if touched.
The searing heat aside, there was nothing around him to use as a landmark.
So what now?
Fortunately, Enkrid was not Ragna.
He could wait until nightfall.
Though not skilled in navigating by starlight, he could manage.
The journey through Grime's Path had taught him the general direction of the desert.
"South-east should be fine."
He had a rough idea. Enkrid scanned his surroundings, his gaze traveling over endless expanses of sand—rivers of sand, lakes of sand, seas of sand.
Sand, sand, and more sand.
He gave up searching for shelter from the relentless heat.
The desert was a wretched place, offering nothing. Hadn't he heard of cacti, monsters, or animals that thrived in deserts? Yet here, there was nothing.
At least, that was what his senses told him.
He resigned himself to enduring the scorching sun, the blistering heat roasting his skin.
Luckily, his armor mitigated some of the heat thanks to its monster-hide composition.
It was tolerable.
Though unfamiliar with the desert, Enkrid knew well enough that moving recklessly in an unknown environment was dangerous.
He walked a short distance, observed his surroundings, and then stopped to endure.
Endurance was Enkrid's specialty.
"Was I careless?"
With time to spare, he revisited the techniques he had recently learned.
The wait for nightfall seemed long, the sun burning hot overhead.
Wasting energy through physical exertion was out of the question.
Enkrid sat down, slowed his breathing, and meditated, waiting for the cover of night.
Before a corpse with a shattered head, Geonnara stood, accompanied by Luagarne and Dunbakel. Geonnara frowned deeply and spoke.
"A spatial displacement spell."
Such sorcery relies on a medium.
It could be a totem, a talisman, or even life force offered as a sacrifice.
Geonnara had prepared for such a scenario, intending to burn his lifespan as a medium if Enkrid or Rem had been absent.
Using the fire of life to fight with the might of a hero, if only briefly—that had been his plan.
Having made similar preparations, she understood.
The enemy hadn't merely offered lifespan but everything.
"A madman," he muttered.
His deductions pointed to the most plausible scenario: a shaman from the Soothsayer Tribe with talent rivaling Rem's had sacrificed their soul for the spell.
Not a totem, but their very life and soul had served as the medium.
The traces on the corpse confirmed this.
Talent, soul, sacrifice, offering.
A desperate, forbidden act.
Without it, this outcome would have been impossible.
"They even cursed their own body first, absorbing misfortune as a talisman."
The shaman had faced misfortune deliberately, gambling everything on success.
By all logic, they should have failed, succumbing to backlash and dying alone.
Yet somehow, they managed to send Enkrid elsewhere.
Where?
No one knew.
This was conjecture, after all, and there was no way to discern everything.
"If it was spatial displacement, where was he sent? Not even the grand archmages who master the pinnacle of magic can displace others."
The frog spoke.
Geonnara considered the possibility that even if the shattered corpse were resurrected and attempted the spell again, success would be impossible.
It had been a fluke, a shift in the scales of fate, a moment when fortune favored the enemy.
In the continent's terminology, the Goddess of Fortune had extended her hand to the enemy.
In the West, this would be described as the scales tipping.
"The scales tipped unfavorably," Geonnara remarked.
"Speak plainly, human," the frog retorted.
"What of the benefactor?"
At that moment, Jiba's mother emerged, blinking her eyes.
The atmosphere shattered visibly, tensions broken.
The disappearance of their honored hero spread through the entire tribe.
Naturally, the Westerners, eager to show their gratitude, gathered.
Their chieftain stood at the center, his voice carrying authority.
"Every Westerner, listen."
He swallowed, his eyes blazing, his voice firm.
"Find him, no matter what."
And so they began.
Scouring every trace, following every lead.
"It doesn't matter if it takes years. We will find him."
The chieftain was not one to make promises he couldn't keep.
He was sincere.
Without loyalty, one couldn't call oneself a Westerner.
Rem sat alone in the pitch-black void, deep in thought.
How many days had passed?
He didn't know.
But one thing was clear: the ritual was over.
The memories that had flooded his mind during the process flitted past like a whirlwind.
As a child, the shamans who observed Rem's talent all said the same thing:
"If your body can't keep up, you'll explode. So take it slow."
The eldest shaman of that time had given the warning, and he still held that position now.
Rem half-listened, outwardly obedient but secretly doing as he pleased.
Why?
Because it was fun.
Why stop something so enjoyable?
Through this, he learned the concepts of ancestor spirits and divine shamanism, and it was then he realized he was different from others.
"Is there no alternative use for this?" he thought.
It felt like there was.
A shift in perspective, coupled with experience and instinct, guided him.
Absorbing another's sorcery into one's own body was sheer madness for most, but Rem managed it, even formulating a theory around it.
He explained everything to Ayul, who initially recoiled but eventually understood.
He knew why everyone, especially the head sorcerer, was worried.
Sorcery involved invoking divine spirits to channel their power.
However, these so-called spirits could also be demons.
"The Deviant Path."
An improper, erroneous road—one littered with precedents.
Countless tales spoke of cunning serpents deceiving people into creating malevolent spirits.
The greater the vessel handling the sorcery, the stronger and more potent the spirits that could exert their influence in the mortal realm.
Naturally, this worried people.
But with unwavering resolve, he dismissed any doubts.
"That won't happen to me."
He had reassured them.
And so he chose his medium.
His axe.
It was an axe forged of meteoric iron.
Even Rem, despite his abilities, needed a medium for his sorcery.
He had long designated his custom-forged heirloom weapon as his medium.
Thus, there was no need for facial tattoos.
Why carve into one's skin, inject dyes, and risk impairment if those marks faded or were damaged?
Though westerners without talent in sorcery often skipped tattoos, most practitioners relied on them.
Rem, having no such necessity, never bothered.
In the dark, the medium of his sorcery began to resonate.
The axe, which had been sulking in refusal, finally complied.
The weapon was a double-headed axe.
One blade was significantly larger than the other, with the smaller, hand-span-sized blade facing him and the larger, double its size, aimed outward.
Though it required regular sharpening like any blade, this axe, functioning as his sorcery medium, neither dulled nor broke.
Sharpening it was merely an indulgence for the axe, akin to giving it a treat.
After steadying his thoughts and refining his determination, Rem opened his eyes to find the elder sorcerer standing before him.
"You startled me, you rascal."
"Why were you startled?"
"It's been six days."
Rem had infused his heirloom weapon with all of his sorcery. Yet, during his absence, the weapon's accumulated power had grown disproportionately.
For lesser sorcerers, approaching it could cause them to faint.
The head sorcerer had estimated it would take at least ten days for Rem to reintegrate the heightened sorcery into his body.
But not for him.
From a young age, he had handled spiritual descent and possession without strain.
Now, with a stronger physique and honed skills, his vessel had only grown.
He'd also finalized his understanding of what a champion was and the difference from knights.
Accepting the sorcery anew had been straightforward.
Knights harmonized technique and Will.
Champions harmonized technique and sorcery.
In simple terms, that was it.
Though the process of integrating the sorcery took five days, three of those were spent pacifying his weapon. Including a day of physical and mental preparation at the start, the entire process took six days.
If a weapon imbued with personality could be considered to possess an "ego," then heirloom weapons like his fell into that category.
Though it didn't speak, the weapon carried emotions.
The emotion Rem had felt upon first touching it was akin to Ayul's—a sense of sadness.
"Why did you leave me behind?"
It was still young. Rem soothed it like a child, coaxing it gently.
As he finished the final stages of the process, an overwhelming sense of omnipotence enveloped him.
"One more step, and I could stride directly in front of that directionally-disfunctional fool."
With a single swing of his axe, he felt as though he could cleave mountains. The sun, the wind, lakes, the very earth—everything seemed within his power to rend apart.
But Rem shook off the feeling. His experiences with countless spirits had already taught him this: knowing the difference between what could and could not be done was crucial.
Rem understood that distinction well. It was why he could fight semi knights even without sorcery and, when determined, could kill them.
The sorcery flowed seamlessly into his expanded vessel. Though capable of holding the immense power, he had deliberately left it behind before—temporarily.
Now, with the sorcery restored, the omnipotence returned. And so? That was all.
The head sorcerer, observing Rem rise with his axe, looked older, his face etched with new wrinkles.
"You've worked hard."
Sorcery required invocation and ritual.
Not even Rem could casually dive in and return unscathed.
The elder sorcerer had likely spent over thirty days conducting rituals.
Appeasing the heavens and pacifying the earth, he had sought the permission of all spirits dwelling in nature—on Rem's behalf.
"Shall we head back?"
"I'll rest a few days first."
Impatient, Rem left the elder behind and returned ahead of him.
The first news that greeted him was this:
"Enkrid has disappeared."
From Luagarne.
"Where did he go? Don't tell me he went monster hunting alone?"
Rem asked.
"No."
"He's not one to get lost."
Rumors of spatial teleportation techniques surfaced.
With no sheath for his heirloom weapon, Rem carried it in his hand. Everyone around seemed tense.
Rem, infamous for his outbursts when displeased, surprised them with a calm response:
"He'll return on his own."
Enkrid wasn't the type to perish over something trivial.
Rem's unwavering belief conveyed as much.
Ayul and the others blinked in surprise, unprepared for such a reaction.
But Rem was confident.
He trusted that Enkrid wouldn't fall to something as minor as this.

Comments

Loading...