Chapter 492

“Father, I will avenge you.”

The man, once hailed as a genius shaman of the tribe, made that vow as he sliced off his own finger and placed a curse upon his body.

All in preparation to kill a single man.

Ordinary means wouldn’t suffice, so he resorted to trick after trick, relying even on luck if he had to.

The man had made up his mind.

***

After brushing past the Demon Realm known as Silence and heading further south, patches of grassland began to appear again. And with that, more monsters showed up.

There were two no-go zones in the West: one was the Demon Realm called Silence, the other was the River of No Return—the river of sand.

The grassland they were seeing now was land left unused because of its proximity to Silence.

Naturally, for their group, an increase in monsters didn’t pose a problem.

For them, it was still nothing more than a pleasant outing.

Even if a ghoul fought like a knight, they’d be able to kill it without losing a single limb.

With Rem’s support and Enkrid’s current strength, it was entirely possible.

Grwooooh!

When a ghoul showed up—

“Hiya!”

Dunbakel would leap out to deal with it.

And if they happened to pass by a good cluster of monsters, they’d even detour just to fight them.

“Let’s loosen up a bit.”

At times like that, Enkrid would step up, and Rem would simply watch in silence.

‘He’s improved a lot.’

There was no hesitation in his stride, and the sword that fell showed no mercy.

A charging ratman lunged with a stick it had picked up from somewhere. Enkrid dodged it without even looking and beheaded the creature with Acker in one hand.

Shkak!

The monster’s tough flesh was sliced cleanly, its head flying through the air.

Behind the creature that sprayed black blood, another ratman collapsed—its forehead punctured clean through.

It was the work of Sparktip, already drawn and thrown.

A flickering silhouette shimmered in front of the ratman with the pierced skull.

A mirage born from Enkrid’s body moving at high speed.

He was already somewhere else, swinging his blade.

The onslaught was relentless and exhilarating.

Vertical slashes, thrusts, kicks—

All executed within a single breath.

Three movements in one beat.

Not an easy feat, yet he did it fluidly now.

By the time the first ratman’s headless body hit the ground, six more had died.

Then something like a serpent burst out of the earth.

He’d felt a tickle beneath his feet for a while—

A sand serpent had emerged.

The big ones were the kind that shaped dunes in the desert,

but in this area, one that size was unlikely to appear.

This one was smaller, but still had the girth of a grown man’s thigh.

Its tail burst from the ground, aiming to coil around Enkrid’s ankle.

Enkrid jumped forward to avoid the tail.

Before his foot even landed, he found balance mid-air and stabbed Sparktip into a flat patch of ground.

Right where the sand serpent’s head would be.

‘How the hell did he know that?’

Rem thought to himself.

Sand serpents hid their heads when fighting—

and that head was their weak spot.

Enkrid had pinpointed it instantly and killed it.

Was it instinct? Probably.

From a hunter’s perspective, sand serpents had a habit of concealing their weak points.

That’s why they attacked using only their tails.

It was easy—if you knew.

But if you didn’t, it was hard.

Yet Enkrid, despite not knowing, hadn’t hesitated.

As much as Rem hated to admit it, it was thanks to the cunning instincts of that sly alley cat.

Rem’s judgment had been accurate.

Enkrid looked like he could pinpoint an enemy’s location with his eyes closed.

His senses were sharper than ever.

After fighting the Giant, killing the mage, and sparring with Rem—

Lately, despite training the same as always, he felt different every day.

He could feel himself growing, and clearly so.

‘That sword is reaching farther and farther.’

To put it simply, his body was always in peak condition.

He breathed easily, his arms extended effortlessly, and each movement flowed into the next without thinking.

If a ratman raised its claws to stab, Enkrid would either block it, slice it, dodge and counter, or split it before it even got close—or just kick it apart.

He could see dozens of attack paths at once.

All Enkrid had to do was choose one.

And whatever he chose—he got the result he expected.

The same went for the sand serpent.

The moment its tail came out, he instinctively sensed where its body must be hidden.

He stabbed as a test, and black blood spurted from the hole Sparktip left behind.

After killing that batch of monsters and returning, the only mark on Enkrid was a few stray drops of black blood.

He wasn’t even out of breath.

Anyone watching would’ve thought he just went for a casual stroll.

“What’s that on you?”

“Huh? I don’t know. Did something splash?”

Even this sort of conversation wouldn’t have felt out of place—

He came back that clean.

He’d just killed over ten monsters, including those ratmen.

“Goddamn.”

Rem laughed, unable to help himself.

When they got back, he might have to stuff some herbs down the eldest shaman’s throat to hurry up and find his spell.

Dunbakel’s gaze was a little odd.

She stared at Enkrid like she was deep in thought—unusual for her.

Lua Gharne just nodded.

“If he’s enjoying it, he’ll forget about his limits.”

She seemed to have reached some sort of personal conclusion.

Either way, the group continued on.

When they weren’t fighting, they spent most of their time talking.

While Juul was fully absorbed in cooking, Owl would sit beside him and tell interesting stories.

“Sometimes, hunting parties from the continent settle in the northern parts of the West—near the desert wastelands.”

“Didn’t you say you can’t come back out once you go in?”

This was about outsiders living near the desert.

“That’s why they only stay on the edges.”

“Greed brings misfortune. Some fools crawl into the desert and end up coming back as skeleton soldiers. But that’s still pretty far from here.”

Rem chimed in from the side.

Juul, clearly familiar with the tale, added his own commentary as he stirred barley, oats, and thin-sliced cured meat in a big pot with oil.

“They come for the gemstone-tailed lizards and gemstone-eared foxes.

Those creatures sometimes wander out toward the desert’s edge, so hunters wait for a chance to catch them.”

These were animals Enkrid had never heard of.

There were many strange beasts in the West, and these sounded like more of the same.

Apparently, they were creatures with gemstones on their bodies—

lizards with jewels in their tails, and foxes with gems in their ear folds.

They lived in the desert because they ate sand.

They didn’t die from touching water, but for some reason, they all had an extreme fear of it.

They were aggressive, but if a hunter failed, they’d often run away at the first splash from a water flask.

If you succeeded, you could get a few gems.

And even if you failed, your life wasn’t usually in danger.

So what did it take?

“You need to respect the line. Don’t go deeper in. Just wait it out.”

“Luck helps too. Waiting doesn’t mean you’ll always find them.”

“Forget luck. Understanding their habits comes first.”

Rem, Juul, and Owl all said something slightly different.

But the message was clear enough.

To catch one of those beasts, you needed to be clever, prepared, and patient.

And yes, luck played a part.

So among the people who came all the way west just to catch gemstone-tailed lizards or gemstone-eared foxes—how many were truly skilled hunters?

Some were criminals, fugitives, deserters, or people drowning in gambling debt.

A whole parade of human wreckage throwing themselves into the hunt.

Naturally, plenty of fools popped up too.

Juul said that once, a mercenary band had come down west to catch a fox—

but they ended up going insane and attacking a tribe.

Ssshhhhh!

Juul shook the pot up and down.

The cured meat and grains tumbled up in a graceful curve and landed back inside.

A rich, savory aroma spread all around.

Enkrid, the ever-dedicated listener, offered his timely reaction.

“So? What happened then? Smells amazing, by the way.”

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

“You’ll love it. Western specialty—roasted barley. What happened next? We half-killed ’em, and they ran. The rest probably ended up as monster feed.”

Sometimes—very rarely—someone patient and sane managed to wait long enough, bag the gems, and go home. But even then, it didn’t seem like the payoff was life-changing.

‘If Kraiss heard about this, would he try to form a hunting unit and come here right away?’

Probably not. Kraiss hated leaving things up to chance.

And if he did decide to hunt those gem beasts, he’d study their habits first, find a method, and only act after eliminating as much luck from the equation as possible.

As for Enkrid himself?

He wouldn’t bother.

There were other ways to earn krona.

It was just a fun story to pass the time.

Chiiiiik—

Steam rose from the pot. The Western specialty—roasted barley—was ready.

Wild barley and oats cooked together with all sorts of dried vegetables. It was seasoned with finely chopped cured meat, and the taste—

went without saying.

He scooped up a big mouthful and took a bite.

Barley bounced around between his teeth, puffing up and rolling this way and that.

When he crunched down, nutty richness filled his mouth. The balance of savory herbs and saltiness was perfect.

Enkrid instinctively raised a thumb.

“A masterpiece.”

Juul grinned from ear to ear, completely satisfied.

Their group dealt with a few more monsters and then returned to the tribe.

“You’re back,”

the chieftain was the first to greet them.

And once things settled into the rhythm of everyday life, two days later, Rem came to Enkrid and said,

“I’m heading out. Try not to cause any trouble while I’m gone.”

“Wow. Of all the people in the world, I never thought I’d hear that from you.”

“When I get back, it’ll be fun.”

Rem chuckled and turned away.

What was spellcraft, exactly?

They didn’t know precisely.

But one thing was clear:

Ragna may have been the first to reach the realm of knighthood,

but Rem was going to stand beside him soon enough.

“I heard it can kill you.”

The more talented you were, the higher the risk of death. That’s what people said about spellcraft.

It was something Owl had once told him.

Enkrid asked Rem, as he was walking away,

“You think you’ll die?”

“Nope.”

The answer came instantly.

Rem cackled and left.

Enkrid let out a quiet chuckle himself and went back to what he was doing—

swinging his sword, moving his body, sparring now and then.

“Don’t you ever get bored?”

One of the twins asked from the side. The other was passed out.

Enkrid had always wondered—if one of them was knocked out, would they only speak half a sentence?

Apparently not.

He answered the twin’s question with a question.

“Get bored of what?”

“Training.”

“Why would I get bored?”

There was no common ground. The twin shut his mouth.

Enkrid let the question slip out the other ear and savored his own anticipation.

Just like he’d learned something from Ragna, he’d definitely learn something from Rem too.

That thought alone made his heart beat faster.

Owl came by in the middle of it all and told him it would take about half a month for Rem to return.

Enkrid didn’t think that was a long wait.

In the meantime, the fleeing shaman tribe was captured, and a young shaman rescued a poor cripple from his tribe.

Apparently, the cannibals had been dragging the man around as food.

His face was pocked with scars, and all his fingers except the thumb on his left hand were gone. He spoke with slurred, clumsy words.

Not that he had any exceptional talent in spellcraft, but his care for the sick was remarkable.

Maybe because his own body wasn’t whole, he understood others’ pain better.

Because he looked after those still suffering from Boramain’s Curse, he ended up sharing the same barrack tent with Enkrid.

Since he always crawled on the ground, he’d often make a strange sound whenever he moved.

Ssssk… ssssksk… ssssssssssssk…

The sound of two arms dragging his body across the floor.

It was the fifth day since Rem had left for the holy ground.

Enkrid woke early that morning and was practicing the Isolation Technique.

He’d awoken earlier than usual.

Lua Gharne and Dunbakel were still asleep. He was alone.

As he moved through his drills, he found himself thinking:

“If curses don’t work on me, does that mean I’m immune to spellcraft too?”

So could he afford to be careless when facing shamans?

Probably not.

But still, curses didn’t work. That much he knew.

And that thought—created a small opening in his guard.

“You know, curses don’t work on you.”

The cripple spoke.

Enkrid hadn’t paid much attention before, but now he noticed—the man’s speech had changed. It was no longer clumsy.

Clear. Articulate.

Acker hung at Enkrid’s hip, and his body was clad in armor.

Fully armed.

Why? No particular reason.

He could’ve trained unarmed as usual.

But today, this felt right.

He’d thought that morning:

Comfort is compromise. And consistent training and repetition are what carry you forward.

Checking your gear was part of that too.

That’s why he’d done it.

Even the bow he’d been gifted—a weapon he hadn’t had the chance to use properly—was strapped to his belt.

Unfortunate, for his opponent.

Not being armed would’ve been a problem too—

but now, Enkrid was armored head to toe.

He could see dozens of attack paths,

and he could tell the man’s crippled body wasn’t an act.

The man stood well within sword range.

If Enkrid so much as thought about it, he could cut him down before a breath was drawn.

“If curses don’t work on you, then you’re my natural enemy.”

The man spoke again.

Looking into his eyes—Enkrid remembered.

The final one, the one who’d thrown a dagger after the Apostle died.

That face had left an impression.

It was him.

A member of the shaman tribe.

What had they said?

That he was the one with the most talent after Rem?

Gomnarae had called it a shame.

Hira had said he was the tribe’s greatest misfortune.

A young genius ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) shaman.

Maybe even more gifted than Rem.

Too young to be called a man—he was still a boy.

Unkempt, greasy hair.

Crust in his eyes.

One front tooth missing.

Did he lose his leg from Enkrid’s thrown dagger?

Or maybe he’d just cut it off himself, knowing he couldn’t move anyway.

That’s how it looked.

His condition was a wreck.

But he smiled.

Not with joy—but with madness.

The kind of madness born of hatred.

It was like someone had poured boiling water into his eyes.

Rage rose like steam.

And his voice carried it too.

Like his insides were being torn apart—choked with misery.

“You think there’s no way if curses don’t work?”

He let out a strangled, fake laugh to hide the pain, then continued:

“This is a forbidden art. A technique I created by offering my future, my soul—everything.”

Why did it remind Enkrid of that time he was ambushed by the pixie assassin in Border Guard?

He hadn’t let his guard down, yet the dagger had slipped right through a seam.

This felt the same.

“I offer my past, my present, my future.”

The boy spoke, reaching out a hand.

From his fingertips, thread-like strands emerged and reached toward Enkrid’s body.

There was no threat, no killing intent—

Enkrid could have ignored it.

But his instincts acted first.

He swung his sword.

Just as he’d thought: within the span of a breath, his blade split the boy’s head.

Crack.

Still reaching out, the boy’s skull split open vertically.

Blood. Brain matter. A cleaved skull—all spilled down.

And then—

Darkness.

He didn’t close his eyes, but it overtook him anyway.

The world spun.

The sky and ground flipped upside down.

He felt weightless.

Not like being struck and thrown—something entirely new.

At the end of that weightlessness, a burst of scattered light exploded before his eyes, forcing them shut.

Then came the heat.

Unlike the warmth of sunlight in Oara or the gentle rays of the West—

this was a scorching heat that felt like it was cooking his skin.

When he opened his eyes, the world was yellow.

A vast sky.

Sand, everywhere.

And three corpses.

Kneeling around him in three directions.

Dried up.

Already dead—he didn’t need to check. He could feel it.

Enkrid’s strength had always been his quick grasp of a situation.

As he reexamined everything, he asked himself—

What the hell happened?

One thing was certain:

He had learned something again.

Never let your guard down.

Even if your body is wrapped in steel, a single sharp dagger can pierce through.

And now, it seemed…that’s exactly what had happened to him.

He looked around.

Nothing but sand.

Dunes. Mounds. Heat shimmers rising.

And only one thought came to mind.

The River of No Return.

The desert of sand.

This was the enemy’s final card.

Not a curse, but a forbidden art.

A genius shaman had sacrificed his own life—and the lives of his comrades—to make it happen.

Since curses didn’t work, he had sent Enkrid…into the desert.

And judging from the scene—he’d succeeded.