Chapter 310

What had Abnaier done?

Abnaier’s advance had been slow, but it had never been leisurely.

In truth, he had been extremely busy.

It was like a swan, gliding gracefully on the surface while paddling furiously beneath.

From sorcery to structural preparations, there had been much to set up.

Building a fortress on a mountain slope would have been simpler than this.

This was the technique Abnaier had devised.

“Nilf, go ahead and start stacking stones here. Build a wall.”

His subordinate nodded as Abnaier traced his finger over the map.

“That’s an absurdly tight schedule.”

“Talk less, move more.”

First, he sent a commander with unwavering loyalty.

Nilf was meticulous. He would handle it well.

Then, he deployed a portion of his troops under the guise of a scouting party—when in truth, they were more like an engineering corps.

These men built the barricade between the hills.

It was the same barrier Enkrid had encountered.

Afterward, while maintaining the speed of the main force, Abnaier dispatched another detachment.

Stacking stones, digging trenches, laying traps—these weren’t things that could be done in an instant.

There’s no need for large-scale execution.

This was a strategy designed to eliminate elite units.

At most, it was meant for three people. At least, two. Maybe even just one.

Every factor had to be accounted for. Every scenario, anticipated.

That was how Abnaier operated.

He had been called a prodigy since childhood.

But what was the foundation of his brilliance?

Those who knew him often pointed to one particular trait: his boldness.

Or rather, his audacity to exploit people’s blind spots.

“You’re a bit insane.

Your tactics are daring, but they’re never feasible.”

That had been said to him during his training.

His classmate had been right.

Abnaier’s strategies were always audacious, and their probability of success was low.

But what if he could execute them?

That was where his second strength shone.

He was thorough.

Even when hunting a single rabbit, he always prepared a second and third trap.

He was willing to expend excessive resources to achieve his goals.

And he always achieved them.

“Isn’t this just a loss?

All we get from a rabbit is a bit of meat and fur.

But you’re spending more than what you’re gaining.”

His classmate had chastised him again.

Short-sighted.

Abnaier’s thoughts were different.

“It’s just a habit of mine—to prepare thoroughly.”

He had brushed it off at the time, but he hadn’t been thinking about just that one rabbit.

*The traps I set in the hunting ground can be reused.

As long as I drive the next rabbits into them.*

From the next hunt onward, catching rabbits would be twice as easy.

So it wasn’t wasteful at all.

Viewed through the narrow lens of the present, it might seem excessive.

But if he maintained the traps, he could catch a deer.

With consistent upkeep, before summer arrived, he would have multiple high-value prey.

It was this meticulousness—this structured, convincing logic—that shaped Abnaier’s strategies.

Of course, he hadn’t been able to say all this aloud.

His classmate had been a noble.

One of the Ekkinis, a lineage that stood beside the royal family.

If Hurrier was the body of Azpen, then Ekkinis was the brain.

Abnaier had been born a commoner.

But he was quick-witted. He could read the flow of things.

This may be my place now, but circumstances change.

He had ambition.

He had been sharp since childhood. He had always known how to take what he wanted.

And he had taken everything he had ever set his sights on.

There was almost nothing he had failed to accomplish.

His self-assurance was warranted.

Even studying under a noble-born, soft-hearted instructor with unremarkable skill—

That, too, had been a calculated move, blending caution with boldness.

He had drawn the ire of a band of vagrants, lured them to the road his instructor frequented, and fought them there—

All of it had been orchestrated.

But the instructor had mistaken it for fate.

“Follow me.

A better life awaits you.”

“Yes, sir.”

A carefully staged encounter.

Abnaier had walked his own path ever since.

From childhood, he had held a single belief:

Why should Azpen be satisfied with being a mere duchy?

A nation with greater power.

It was possible.

A duchy, yes—but one with knights and knight-level forces.

Even if neighboring Naurillia was a problem—

Azpen’s only enemy is Naurillia, but Naurillia’s enemies are not limited to Azpen.

He had wanted to prove his worth.

And his teacher—his father, by adoption—had instilled in him a love for his country.

Abnaier, as much as he was a pragmatist, was still human.

He had been affected by the warmth his teacher had shown him.

“I love this country, my son.”

A man who had taken him in as his own.

A man who knew nothing of politics, but who had loved his homeland.

A man who, even when he realized he had been deceived, had still given Abnaier his affection.

That man had been his teacher. His father.

And so, balancing his ambition with the ideals passed down to him—

Abnaier had forged these elements into weapons.

I will prove myself in this land.

And in doing so, he would realize at least part of his father’s dream.

Which is why you must die.

No one in Azpen had studied Enkrid as deeply as Abnaier.

He had devoured everything about him.

And in doing so, he had concluded that Enkrid—and his unit—were the greatest threats to both Azpen and his aspirations.

A future knight.

Or perhaps something beyond that.

Though his approach differed from Kraiss’s, his conclusion was similar.

Kraiss had wanted Enkrid to be part of his envisioned salon.

Abnaier had no such plans.

If Enkrid truly became a knight—if a knight were to rise from Naurillia’s borderlands, right at Azpen’s doorstep—

A single knight could alter a nation’s military power.

And an enemy knight could only be a disaster.

That cannot be allowed.

So he would die.

Abnaier had devised the Triangle Seal, a strategic entrapment formation.

Three hills, fortified structures.

To win a war, the terrain had to be turned into an ally.

Abnaier had done just that.

Through artificial manipulation, he had bent the land to his will.

Earth and sky—both became his weapons.

Then, he added sorcery.

Blocking the sky, blinding the enemy to their direction.

It was easier than Fog of Annihilation.

It required fewer sorcerers, and while it still exhausted them, it only needed to last a single day.

If not for that, he wouldn’t have used sorcery at all.

Abnaier had calculated it all.

He had forced his target into a natural prison—then unleashed a thousand soldiers upon him.

Was it an efficient battle?

Of course not!

But it guaranteed one thing.

That one target would die.

Spending twenty traps and five hunters to catch a single rabbit—

Would that be wasteful if the rabbit would one day grow fangs and become a monster?

Was it excessive?

Abnaier didn’t think so.

He immediately sent a dozen couriers and ordered the flag bearers.

“Move the white banner.”

The flag bearers relayed his command.

Drums were forbidden—sound had to be cut off entirely to make this a true prison.

The Triangle Seal was now complete.

One side, an artificial wall.

Two sides, bound by magic.

The last, sealed by a thousand men.

Not even a knight could escape this.

This was Abnaier’s trap.

***

The ferryman asked.

The violet lantern swung above the dark waters.

Its light flickered, shadows shifting, twisting.

“Did you not enjoy yourself?”

The ferryman asked again.

His face became visible.

Even as he looked upon it, Enkrid did not answer.

The ferryman waited.

There was no reply.

Time passed.

It was a realm where time had no meaning—

But the ferryman knew their meeting was ending.

Enkrid’s body, drifting in the boat, began to crumble like grains of sand.

A return from the inner world to the outer.

The cycle, once again.

The ferryman watched as Enkrid’s form scattered like dust.

And as he left, Enkrid finally spoke.

“…Ah.”

It was strange.

As if the ferryman had only now truly seen him.

Had Enkrid’s silence not been due to a lack of words, but simple disregard?

Something stirred within the ferryman’s depths, but he suppressed it.

He was no longer the man who had once called Enkrid a bastard.

“I’ll ask you again next time.”

With Enkrid gone, only the ferryman’s words remained.

***

Enkrid had no time to answer.

Until the very moment of death—whether just before or at the instant of it—

He never resigned himself to dying.

Yet, by instinct, he still absorbed everything happening around him.

It was a habit.

A habit of reviewing, of preparing for tomorrow.

Far too much had happened.

The amount of information he had taken in—the things naturally committed to memory, the necessary details—

Too much.

It’s a lot.

With every bit of information came questions.

Had they really deployed this many troops just for him?

He didn’t know.

But did the reason even matter right now?

This wasn’t a time for pondering.

It was a time to accept reality and push through.

Pushing the thought aside, Enkrid retraced the events of the day in reverse order.

Then—

Rustle.

The sound reached his ears the moment he opened his eyes.

Of course.

The cycle repeated itself.

There hadn’t been enough time to review.

He barely had a moment before the next battle began.

But this wasn’t a crisis.

Thin.

Enkrid didn’t consider this a wall.

If he survived another day of this madness, he would have a general grasp of his surroundings.

At most, two days. That was the calculation.

This was a day he could get through.

He had dodged danger countless times before.

Against the Thornbush Lesha, the werewolves, Azpen’s elite troops—

When he had dived into the Nol packs—

Even when he had first faced the Piercing Freak.

Some things changed.

Some did not.

The broad patterns remain the same.

And now, having experienced it once—

Do I need a second today?

No.

This wasn’t a wall.

Compared to the previous loops, this was almost absurdly simple.

Enkrid moved.

What if he ran in the exact opposite direction today?

There has to be a gap somewhere.

Surely they wouldn’t deploy entire battalions just for him.

…

They had.

The struggle repeated.

Yesterday’s battle all over again.

“My name is Sent.”

Enkrid was slightly surprised.

He had run in a completely different direction—

And yet, the same man was blocking his path.

Why?

The day was repeating.

Unless he deliberately disrupted it, nothing would change.

His throbbing arms, his broken sword—

The gladius in his grip instead.

The fight hadn’t lasted long, but the man—Sent—had tangled his path.

Using Serpent Sword, the very first technique he had created, Enkrid redirected the attack and sliced off Sent’s fingers.

Snap!

Blood and severed fingers scattered through the air.

A gap.

The moment he saw it, his body moved on instinct.

It wasn’t just a reaction—

It was intentional, a trained reflex.

Maybe not Will itself, but the techniques he had learned while crossing blades with Lykanos had not faded.

Shnk!

The tip of Ember pierced the man’s throat.

From slicing Sent’s fingers to stabbing with Ember, it had been a single fluid motion.

So fast. So natural.

Shhk!

Enkrid withdrew his blade.

A clean arc of blood sprayed from Sent’s throat.

“Grrrk.”

The man grasped at his ruined neck.

Blood gushed from his severed fingers.

He collapsed, face-first, onto the dirt.

“Let’s not meet again.”

Enkrid muttered, grabbing the corpse.

Lifting it with one hand, he used it as a shield.

Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk!

Crossbow bolts lodged into the dead mercenary’s body.

Persistent bastards.

The numbers truly were absurd.

And he still didn’t know why.

Then came the arrows. The spears. The heavy infantry.

The Hurrier swordsmen.

Veteran mercenaries.

Just like yesterday.

He barely pushed through, sprinting toward an opening—

Only to be blocked again.

“Persistent bastard.”

“Stay alert.”

Four men.

Dressed in thick gambesons against the cold—

Mediocre fighters, by Enkrid’s estimation.

That assessment was correct.

They weren’t skilled warriors.

But they wielded something else.

Magic.

They had intercepted him by the riverbank.

Enkrid regretted not bringing his Whistle Dagger.

No. Even if I had…

By now, it would be gone.

Every escape route had been an ambush.

Every path, a barricade.

It felt like a ghost was toying with him.

And now, after all that running—

This was the result.

“Force him in! Don’t let him escape!”