Chapter 476

“Couldn’t I have saved her?”

A man with black hair and blue eyes muttered, kneeling. His pupils quivered, his hands trembled. His skin was dry and lifeless, with dark shadows under his eyes.

It looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He seemed shattered, consumed by regret.

Sharp gravel covered the ground beneath his knees. Blood seeped through his pants, but he didn’t care.

He simply stared with desperate eyes, silently pleading for an answer.

And an answer came.

“Maybe. Yeah, maybe you could have.”

The kneeling man opened his mouth again, responding to the voice that came from nowhere.

“Right? I mean, even if people say the dice won’t change, what if I just forced one of them to change—what happens then?”

“It would change. That would make it change.”

There’s nothing that can’t be achieved by willpower. A flawless answer.

But… is that really a good thing?

The man murmured toward the void, but the response came back without hesitation.

Even though there was nothing but a black wall before him.

“Then are you saying I just let Oara’s sword die?”

“In a way, yes.”

At some point, the black wall vanished.

Standing in its place was another man—black hair, blue eyes, lips pressed into a firm line.

Identical.

Two of the same person.

But they didn’t look at each other.

They simply spoke the words each had come to say.

“So you’re saying I made the wrong choice?”

The kneeling Enkrid’s pupils shook violently. His hands trembled more than before.

“You think it was the right one?”

The standing Enkrid asked coldly.

Tears of blood spilled from the kneeling Enkrid’s eyes. At first, they dripped like beads.

“Aaahhh… let me do today over again. Please.”

Screaming, he begged, sobbing blood.

“You know that’s not possible.”

Came the indifferent reply.

Even as the blood pooled up to his ankles, the tone remained cold.

“So next time, try to choose better.”

The words of the detached Enkrid—standing on the gravel—turned into blades and flew straight into his heart.

The manifested blade really did slide between his ribs.

And blood poured out of the kneeling Enkrid’s chest like a waterfall.

It clotted, darkened.

The blackened blood became a river. It rippled.

And there, on that river of blood—no one knew when it had arrived—a small ferry appeared.

A red lamp lit the surroundings, and a figure in a black robe stood, rowing.

From the side, the real Enkrid watched it all and asked,

“What are you doing?”

Suddenly the blood vanished.

The two false Enkrids disappeared as well.

The ferryman had finished his one-man play.

“Felt good. Just wanted to try it. Did it leave an impression?”

Not really.

It didn’t leave him disturbed, nor did it spark some deep reflection.

Enkrid remained unchanged.

A failed tomorrow is better than a perfect today. If you don’t move forward, you stagnate.

Better to lose limbs than stand still.

Of course, there are things he could never surrender. But expecting to always make the best choice at every turn—

That was arrogance.

All you could do was your best with what you had at that moment.

That was how Enkrid lived. That was how he avoided being trapped by today.

He was someone who moved forward without regrets.

And so, surprised that the ferryman was even discussing feelings, he asked,

“Is it the potato?”

He meant, what made you feel so good?

“Pfft. That you’d get it right away...”

The ferryman said.

He asked that so suddenly, without context—it was confusing.

“…I don’t know.”

But Enkrid answered anyway.

Compared to the Mad Squad’s madness, this might actually be considered a quality conversation.

Thinking back on those days, that was probably true.

“You’re strengthening the curse I’m casting, you know.”

Enkrid looked at the ferryman’s face inside the robe.

Cracked gray skin. Colorless eyes.

The lamp flickered, the blood river swayed, and a strange sigil hovered.

Thoughts snapped into reality.

Repeating today was the curse.

From the outside, they said what he had was a ward.

But in many cases, a ward was a form of taboo magic.

If you really pressed the logic, maybe he was the ward himself.

It was a convoluted explanation—but one thing was certain.

There were two curses.

Sometimes, conclusions struck purely by instinct, no analysis needed. This was one of those times.

“You’re drawing in the curse from the tent.”

That’s why the ferryman felt good.

He didn’t reply.

He smiled instead.

But it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

No—if anything, it was unsettling.

His mouth opened—no teeth inside. Just pitch-black darkness.

Enkrid didn’t react much. He just looked calmly.

“There was someone like you before.”

The ferryman chuckled.

“All the curses nearby will flock to you. Know what that means?

It means you’ll never be able to leave this place.

You’re my toy.

A specimen trapped in today.

You’ll never escape my grasp.

Even after death, you’ll remain here.

So your best option is to find a way to enjoy today.”

The last line echoed in his skull.

Like someone had hit him.

Even so, Enkrid didn’t so much as flinch.

He just thought:

So that’s how it is.

It ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) wasn’t that he had some great power—

He was just burdened with a massive curse.

And that curse pulled in other curses.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

It wasn’t too annoying, but it did make him wonder.

Was this what happened back at the garden too, when no one said anything?

The one the ferryman mentioned—it had to be him.

The guy who died of natural causes just when his mission was finished.

Until now, Enkrid had believed that the assassin sent by the ferryman had died naturally.

“So I’ll never be cursed again for the rest of my life?”

At that, the ferryman looked over at the one speaking.

His smirk faded.

The more he looked at this guy, the more curious he became.

“What a strange one...”

“…Yeah, pretty much.”

“That’s fine then.”

“Yeah.”

“……Go.”

“Yes.”

The dream ended.

When Enkrid opened his eyes, it was just before dawn.

His body felt unusually light.

They said the curse was being drawn in, but his body didn’t seem to be affected at all.

So, he thought—even if the curse gets absorbed…

It seems he couldn’t really feel it physically.

Maybe that meant he could afford to be a little less cautious around shamans.

“So damn tired.”

Enkrid saw Rem mumbling as he entered the tent.

Rem moved silently and spread out a mat about three steps away before lying down.

“What are you doing?”

“Can’t you tell? I’m trying to sleep.”

Enkrid debated what to ask first—why he was sleeping at this hour, or whether he had no home.

He chose the latter.

“You homeless?”

“I got a home.”

“Then?”

“Yaul won’t let me in.”

So they still hadn’t made up.

Maybe he really should bring her her husband's head.

“No weird talk, please. I’m already thinking hard about it.”

Rem cut him off first.

“Then tell me what you’re thinking.”

Enkrid figured he couldn’t just let this be.

He’d received help, and he was willing to return the favor.

Besides, even in matters of the heart, he was confident he could do better than a barbarian.

“Hm.”

Rem seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if trying to decide.

Enkrid figured the best way to draw out someone’s thoughts was to voice what he had already guessed.

“You can tell me.”

“…Tell you what?”

Rem blinked and asked back. Enkrid spoke openly.

“It’s about your secret birth, right? You can talk about it. It’s no big deal.”

He was raising a curse-eating ferryman for god’s sake—what was a little secret about someone’s origin compared to that?

Westerners generally looked alike, but Rem’s appearance was a little different.

From that, Enkrid assumed that Rem had some continental blood in him.

It was just a hunch—but probably right. He looked different, after all.

That was what had crossed his mind when he first met Yaul.

That’s the secret of his birth.

Surely, within the tribe, such a background might’ve been a stumbling block.

Maybe his mother had died, or his father, or both. Most likely, he was mixed-blood.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

Rem snapped, eyes wide in disbelief. A red flush crept into his eyes, and his tone now held a tinge of irritation.

Enkrid’s instincts warned him:

You’ve stepped in it.

“It’s not true?”

Enkrid asked again, adding an explanation—just in case, to be sure.

Didn’t Rem have some continental blood in him?

“I’m a full-blooded Westerner, what the hell are you talking about?”

Enkrid stared thoughtfully at the face of the child lying far off in the distance.

The girl’s name was Ziba. In time, she’d likely grow into quite a beauty.

That much was guaranteed—Lua Gharne had said so.

Most Westerners had striking features.

Some had protruding cheekbones or freckles, but to any ordinary sense of aesthetics, they were handsome, beautiful people.

According to old myths, they were descended from a bear that became human—and apparently, that bear had been very good-looking.

Some said they had fairy blood, but that couldn’t be it.

Fairies had a kind of supernatural, inhuman beauty.

Westerners, by contrast, were full of life. They fought to survive, raised cattle and sheep, and lived close to the land.

Enkrid sat on a thick mat and looked over at Rem, who had propped himself up.

No matter how you looked at it, Rem leaned more toward the rugged, manly side than pretty.

Muscular forearms reinforced that impression.

His gray hair, tied back in a tight knot, was familiar now.

And his cold, narrowed eyes—

The kind that looked ready to swing an axe if you pissed him off.

Those eyes were drawn in a sharp triangle, always slightly squinting.

Or maybe not—Rem did have a way of constantly making his eyes look like an inverted triangle.

“Really not?”

Enkrid asked again.

There could still be some ancestral link Rem didn’t know about.

“You trying to start something? I don’t have time to play. I’m busy. Gonna sleep and then head out again.”

“So it’s really not true?”

Enkrid trusted his instincts. He was sure. Even now, he had a feeling it wasn’t the whole truth. But just in case…

“Let’s not talk. Seriously. I’m going to sleep. What do you even know, saying it’s fine? You got brain damage from that curse?”

He had no response to that.

He’d clearly misread the situation.

Not every instinct applied to every case.

And so, Enkrid decided he’d spend the day revisiting and refining his sensory techniques.

Nothing special.

Just a bit of stretching and listening.

Birdsong. Crying children. Barking dogs. The rattling of belts. Grass blades dancing on the breeze.

Sounds of the night, brushing past his ears.

Starting from those sounds, he began to recite the Six-Pointed Verse.

Then followed the chant of the Hugari Pattern, a form so ingrained he could recite it without looking.

She quietly took a seat behind him.

Dunbakel had come too.

With nothing better to do, she had tagged along when told to join in.

She twisted her body, stretched her legs between her knees, and let out a long yawn behind him.

Stretching out her whole body, she placed her hands on the ground like a cat and arched her back.

No need to go far—they just passed time like that.

Training, and talking occasionally with those who’d regained their senses.

“You came here with Rem?”

One of them asked.

This man had been one of those.

Around midday, while Enkrid was training, Rem had left. By evening, a man who had survived the curse finally opened his eyes.

After a wash, Enkrid returned to find the stranger striking up a conversation.

His hair was half white, tangled in some places, but the rest was as black as Enkrid’s.

“I’m from the Sword Clan.”

“You can call me Enkira. People say my full name’s too long, too hard.”

They exchanged pleasantries. Then the man said,

“That guy’s not the type to listen to anyone.”

The idea that Enkrid was Rem’s captain must’ve sounded strange to him.

The man’s eyes clearly showed he was observing carefully.

Enkrid looked at him and replied,

“If he won’t listen, I’ll just talk with this.”

He gestured to his shoulder.

It wasn’t a lie.

Even if he got beat up, they always talked with swords.

Now he could even communicate by beating someone up.

“You fight better than Rem?”

The man looked genuinely surprised.

“A bit. I win about nine out of ten.”

Not in the past—but now, yes.

To be precise, winning nine out of ten was a stretch, but sometimes it felt good to exaggerate a little.

Though “a bit” didn’t quite match “nine out of ten,” the man believed him.

Maybe because there was something playful in Enkrid’s face.

Still, it wasn’t undeserved admiration.

“Impressive. Even without using shamanism, to be stronger than Rem…”

“Would it really be different if I had shaman powers?”

“It’d be a whole different story. You’d be worthy of the title Hero.

He’s a man who chose to live beneath the dim sky.”

Why didn’t Rem use shamanism?

No one knew.

“I heard from Hira. Two giants beat you down and cursed you, so I thought you’d lost an arm or something.

I should be thanking you.”

The man from the Sword Clan had thick, purple veins bulging through all his limbs—so much so it looked like his veins wrapped around his arms and legs.

They called that cursed blood “violet blood.”

The name of the curse was oddly direct.

There were even demons with purple vein growths, and even the people who created them called it that.

Even if those veins were just residual effects of the curse, no one would say anything in that condition.

Seeing all that, Enkrid understood.

The Sword Clan man tried to rise a few times, pulling at invisible strings, then lay back down.

His body still wasn’t cooperating.

“Can’t get up, so take my thanks in words alone.”

He was a funny guy, too.

“Sure thing.”

Enkrid let it slide.

They were… just people he liked.

Especially—

“When my body recovers, let’s have a spar. I’m curious about your skill.”

A welcome proposition.

“You know what to do if you want to recover quickly, right?”

He asked Hira.

“Shut up and rest.”

The Sword Clan man burst out laughing at her answer—then broke into a fit of coughs.

His body was still struggling.

But even so, he didn’t lose his smile.

The next to wake was a woman about the same age as Hira.

As soon as she got a sense of the situation, she said,

“Thank you. I almost want to give you my daughter.”

At that, the Sword Clan man cut in,

“You don’t have a daughter.”

“That’s why I’m offering her.”

The two of them burst into laughter. Their laughter matched. Enkrid laughed with them.

Unlike fae humor, this was genuinely funny.

These people—

Enkrid liked them.

Truly.