"... This is the wrong path. In the end, this is where you'll stop."
The ferryman spoke.
It was as usual.
Enkrid looked at him, thoughts swirling.
The ferryman had gray, cracked skin, eyes devoid of pupils, and a mouth like a bottomless abyss of darkness.
Every time he spoke, it seemed as though shadows leaked from his mouth, whispering despair, urging surrender, begging for defeat.
It was irritating, like a child throwing a tantrum.
Even a four-year-old wouldn't whine this much.
"Such irreverent thoughts," the ferryman remarked, just as perceptive as Rem.
Enkrid remained the same, whether inside or outside of dreams.
"No, I'm not," he replied bluntly, denying everything with confidence.
"... To end up here, before a wall you built yourself... How ironic."
Here he goes again, whining.
"Again with the irreverence," the ferryman accused.
"Not true."
Just because it was a dream, did the essence of things change? No, it didn't.
Enkrid's skill at feigning ignorance shone even here.
The ferryman almost lost his composure but suppressed it, his deep discipline honed over countless years holding firm.
"Be careful."
"Yes."
The immediate compliance made Enkrid even more infuriating.
The ferryman missed his old body, longing for the days when he had physical hands and feet—tools to act upon such insolence.
"What do you feel, facing an insurmountable wall? One you've built yourself, no less."
Enkrid tilted his head in response.
A single day had passed; wasn't it too soon to reflect on feelings?
That's what crossed his mind.
"Irreverence!"
"Yes."
"Caution!"
"Yes."
"Just stop responding entirely!"
Enkrid opened his mouth halfway, then closed it.
"Go."
"Get lost."
Placing his index finger and thumb against his lips, Enkrid mimed sewing them shut, nodding solemnly.
It was his way of showing respect for the ferryman's wishes.
As he retreated from the dream, the turbulent river and the small ferry faded.
The violet glow of the lantern on board flickered as the ferryman's arm trembled.
"Is my heart shaken this much?"
The ferryman murmured in a detached tone, gazing at the spot Enkrid had occupied.
It was inevitable, he knew.
Someday, this would end.
No one could endure the repetition of today.
Even Enkrid would eventually succumb, his journey ending upon the river.
And yet, the ferryman found it fascinating—delightful, even.
Though many of the days were already known to him, some defied even his foresight.
New days were born, not by altering the known ones, but by creating those that never existed.
This was one of those moments.
For countless years, the ferryman had tended to the ferry.
Retracing that time, he realized there had never been a case like this.
So it was fascinating.
So it rekindled forgotten excitement.
Despite the irritation Enkrid provoked, the ferryman couldn't deny a certain sympathy.
That, too, was curious—a divergence of intentions he had never felt since becoming the ferryman.
A part of him sympathized with Enkrid, another despised him, another sought to obstruct him, and yet another, albeit faint, wondered what would happen if the man truly escaped the endless repetition.
It was a pointless question.
No matter what happened, the end was already determined.
Experience had taught the ferryman that much.
Still, what if, by some miracle—
'If he defied all causality and moved forward.'
Could such a thing even be possible, driven solely by human will?
And if it were, what then?
'Failure.'
Enkrid accepted his failure without questioning the cause. He hadn't expected success on the first attempt anyway. Instead, he sought to relax the tension unknowingly wound tight within him.
He chose dusk for the daily opening of his Will, his favorite time of day.
It was his method of unwinding.
Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and continued pondering his earlier thoughts.
Rising, he stretched with the Isolation technique, ate voraciously, relieved himself, rested, and awaited the sunset—day after day.
A knight's life was an examination of such matters.
'How to slay a thousand men.'
Was it even possible?
He thought of the unique methods knights employed to achieve such feats.
As usual, he ate well, filling his stomach with enormous quantities of food. Preparation was key, and eating when one could was an ingrained habit.
"Something upset your stomach?" Rem quipped idly in the dining hall.
"Well-fed strength is part of training," Audin commented, but Enkrid paid him no mind.
"Why not spar, then?" Ragna suggested on the way out.
Was he that visibly tense today?
Perhaps.
After repeating this strange new day, Enkrid had resolved to loosen up.
Instinctively, his muscles had tensed, his nerves sharpened.
Acknowledging this, he resisted the fleeting anxiety that had surfaced earlier.
Sparring would have been an easy way to ease his mind, but instead, he dismissed it all.
"Tomorrow," he said, postponing their match to a day that might never come.
"Did you get hurt?" Lua asked, her concern evident.
"I'm fine," Enkrid replied with a smile, continuing his familiar routine.
In the midst of it, he resumed his earlier contemplation: the art of slaying a thousand men.
Each knight, he reasoned, had their own extraordinary means.
Take Oara, for instance.
She would wield a seamless, flowing blade, cutting through one, then two, then three, and more without pause.
Her blade would only stop when an unforeseen force intervened.
And Ragna?
His speed might lag compared to Oara's, but against a tightly packed formation, the story changed.
Enkrid imagined Ragna cleaving through a shield wall—a disastrous mistake for any enemy.
While Oara's blade was relentless but could falter momentarily before a wall, Ragna's sword would smash through any feeble barrier.
Which was superior?
It didn't matter.
The outcome would be decided in battle, for death by steel was impartial to all.
How would the others fare against a thousand foes?
Rem, with her leaping strikes and wild axe swings, would likely finish fastest among them.
And Jaxen? Enkrid struggled to envision him cutting down a thousand. If asked, Jaxen might reply:
"Must I kill all thousand? Wouldn't targeting the commander suffice?"
Such would be his pragmatic gaze, questioning the necessity of the task.
It seemed inevitable.
As he thought this far, a faint chuckle escaped his lips.
"Did you think of something amusing? You can share it with me if you'd like."
The voice belonged to Esther.
Enkrid opened his lightly closed eyes and gazed at the black-haired, blue-eyed witch.
The nickname
Black Witch
suited her perfectly.
Her black hair, lustrous skin, large eyes, sharp nose, and crimson lips—her appearance was striking to anyone.
And the glimpse of her cleavage peeking through her robe could easily enslave the will of most men.
"It's nothing," he replied, closing his eyes again.
Esther didn't press further and took a seat on the floor.
Watching her withdraw, Enkrid returned to his thoughts.
The knight of Aspen weren't familiar to him, so imagining their capabilities was difficult.
The Mercenary King?
He wouldn't face a thousand men alone.
What about Audin?
Could Audin take on a thousand men?
It seemed possible.
But what if he were in a situation where he had to block the swords, fists, or weapons of knights?
On the flip side, from the perspective of a soldier facing a knight...
Pure luck wouldn't suffice to block a knight's sword.
Even if the goddess of fortune showered her kisses, survival would be the only reward.
That must be it.
Knights who had slain a thousand foes were rare, yet knights were said to be capable of such feats.
They were called calamities.
But what made them so?
It was
Will
The intangible force called Will was the source that enabled one to surpass limits.
The sun began to set.
It was a day similar to yesterday, but with subtle differences.
Weird-eyes had approached him earlier, and Teresa had hummed a tune.
Though just a hum today, it was pleasant.
Audin had tapped the back of his left hand with his right index finger, keeping rhythm.
Audin's sense of rhythm hinted that he likely mastered at least one musical instrument.
"The foundation of martial arts is footwork. Rhythm moves the feet. Never forget this, brother."
Those were words Audin had once told him.
Enkrid began matching rhythm as if singing, moving his Will.
Thud-thump, thud-thump, thud-thump.
Drawing out his Will as if drumming, he planted it in his steps.
He'd practiced extracting and controlling Will when needed, but now he had to implant it and forget about it.
To forget yet retain the Will—that was the challenge.
Can one forget and still maintain it?
Yes, it was possible.
He'd learned something similar from Jaxen: the art of keeping one's senses subconsciously open.
"Once you master the sensory arts, your ears open up.
You may see and hear everything, but does that mean you'll notice it all?
If you try to process every detail, you'll go insane.
Selecting only what's necessary is essential."
Intuition.
That's why something beyond the five senses was needed—a sixth sense.
Instead of consciously processing all incoming information, one filtered it through instinct.
By engraving the sense of danger into his very bones, he could maintain the sensory arts unconsciously.
"Survive a hundred brushes with death, and you'll just barely take your first steps."
Jaxen had said this as if it were an impossibility, but it was the simplest condition Enkrid had ever heard.
It was far more appealing than "just keep trying," as Ragna might have put it.
That crazy bastard would probably just say,
"You'll figure it out as you go."
Enkrid found himself cursing Ragna under his breath—what an insane guidez.
Regardless, Enkrid had faced countless brushes with death. He'd actually died numerous times.
Engraving the intuition of sensing danger into his subconscious wasn't difficult.
By repeating today over and over, it came naturally.
Once more, Enkrid began the process of extracting, forgetting, and engraving Will into his subconscious.
Soon, the Will filling his body began to rampage.
The gathered intangible force formed a flow and pounded against his heart.
It felt as though his blood was coursing at multiple times its usual speed.
In truth, no such thing was happening—it was solely the movement of Will.
Crack.
His heart burst once more.
On the next day, his lungs shattered.
After that, parts of his internal organs burned away.
He could use Will briefly and release it, but why couldn't he sustain it?
He didn't know yet.
He would figure it out one step at a time.
Enkrid continued his repetitions.
"Foolish."
Occasionally, the ferryman would appear and comment, but Enkrid merely mimed sewing his lips shut.
After about fifty repetitions of today, he changed his approach.
Instead of channeling Will throughout his entire body, he concentrated it solely in his foot and tried to sustain it.
It wasn't easy.
The Will kept rampaging and dispersing through his body.
Could this be solved through perception?
What was a straightforward path for Ragna was for Enkrid like clearing every pebble from his path as he crawled along.
No, walking wasn't even an option in the first place.
Does it matter?
Enkrid crawled instead of walking.
Hadn't he done this before?
Was it difficult to regress after feeling his progress recently?
Not really.
Every path Enkrid had walked so far had been a trial. Overcoming trials wasn't difficult—it was simply a matter of pressing on.
He examined the path step by step, retracing his steps when necessary. That was enough.
He could see the way forward.
Adjusting and repeating was his specialty.
Whether it was activating Will, controlling his breathing, maintaining his mental state, refining his posture, or honing the intangible sense needed to regulate Will—he tackled them all meticulously.
To him, perseverance, resolve, and self-discipline were the only requirements.
He took stock of every mistake, retraced his steps, and started again. Repetition required patience.
His unwavering resolve prevented him from faltering despite repeated failures.
And enduring the agony of Will tearing his body apart required extraordinary mental fortitude.
Having faced death so many times, he'd experienced the sensation of his muscles, nerves, organs, and even the tips of his fingers and toes being shredded.
In truth, none of this was particularly challenging for him.
Enkrid could do it all.
He was fine.
What he needed was simply an unyielding dream.
And he already had one.
Once shattered into tattered fragments, that dream had been patched together to bring him this far.
For the first time, the Will flowing from his feet found brief stability.
Starting with the right foot.
The moment joy brought a smile to his face, the Will rampaged again.
But perhaps thanks to his brief success, the process of his body being torn apart slowed slightly.
"Step aside, brother."
For this reason, even as Enkrid lay dying, he witnessed something extraordinary through his barely open eyes.
Audin's entire body began to emit light. It wasn't a metaphor—a halo formed behind him.
The light scattered into visible particles. It was divinity.
Radiating this light, Audin bled profusely from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears.
Whatever the case, it seemed Audin was prepared to risk his life.
His body might be sturdy enough to survive, but it was clearly pushed to its limits.
As the gathered light neared, Enkrid instinctively moved aside.
He realized that using this light—this divinity—would either kill or severely injure Audin.
Immediately after dodging, Enkrid died. There was no strength left to utter a single word—he simply passed.
Just before his eyes closed, he saw the light touch his body, but there was no miracle.
Divinity was miraculous, but it couldn't bring the dead back to life.
Only just before dying...
"Rise, brother."
Audin's voice reached him.
He spoke, blood pouring from his eyes and nose.
When this day ended and another began, Enkrid immediately knew as soon as he opened his eyes.
"You insane bastard."
As Enkrid rose, he glanced at Audin and muttered.
"Did you dream of something good, brother?"
Audin replied with his usual smile.
Enkrid watched him for a moment, then shook his head and stood.
It was time to start another new day.
Having succeeded with his right foot, he seemed to have grasped the knack.
Letting go of yesterday and embracing today anew—that was already second nature to him.
Wasn't crawling, walking, and running toward tomorrow the one thing he excelled at?

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