Chapter 494

Rem squatted in front of the corpse, its skull split and rotting, and drove a dagger into its chest.

The decayed flesh tore apart without resistance, and the blade stained black as it stirred through the ruined tissue.

Rigor mortis had fully passed, making it easy to slice through the body.

Even if it hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered.

From the chest emerged a heart riddled with boreholes—clearly eaten by insects.

It was pitted and gnawed-through, hardened with black, mucus-like blood.

Well, would you look at that?

Even with the captain’s eventual return, assessing the surrounding situation was a given.

That was why Rem had torn into the corpse’s chest.

No one here knew it, but Rem’s understanding and depth of sorcery had taken a drastic turn from before.

Some of it came from talent, but much had come from killing the Madman of Immortality, as well as changing their outlook on life after observing Enkrid.

Anyway, by inspecting the remnants of the spellwork, Rem could roughly grasp the situation.

To be precise, this was the process of discerning what the enemy had done.

‘Not a standard spirit.’

It was heresy.

In other words, a forbidden technique performed using the power of an external being.

A few scenarios passed through Rem’s mind before landing on a conclusion.

‘Lucky bastard.’

Rem had reached the same conclusion as Gennarae.

The scales of fate had tilted slightly in that direction.

There was also a bonus discovery: the nature of the heresy.

The Church of the Demonic Sacred Ground—the cult worships demons as gods.

And if priests are those who borrow divine power, then cultists too could be doing just that.

Namely, by praying to the Lord of the Demon Realm and borrowing their strength.

‘Does that still count as divine?’

If Audin knew, he'd jump up right where he stood and try to kick someone with both feet together, screaming about blasphemy.

At any rate, a doctrine of apostasy, a technique that borrows a demon’s power, and a genius-level sorcerer had all come together.

‘They performed a ritual worshipping a demon as a god?’

Rem understood the mechanics and could follow the sequence of events.

Throwing a fit alone wasn’t going to change anything.

There must have been more sacrifices.

Likely sent to wherever they were aiming for.

‘Not the Demon Realm, though.’

Rem nodded slightly and muttered,

“They didn’t go too far.”

“They wouldn’t be dead,” Lua Gharne added beside them.

It was a given.

At most, maybe a two-week journey on foot?

They would’ve placed another offering at the destination. So it probably wasn’t the Demon Realm.

The silence of the Demon Realm is what defines it, but that doesn’t mean just anyone can enter.

No matter how advanced the teleportation sorcery, you can’t just fling someone to a place you’ve never even seen.

So it wasn’t the Demon Realm.

More importantly, silence reacts when disturbed.

The fact that nothing had happened proved it wasn’t that place.

‘If the technique was this powerful, the sacrifices are surely dead.’

The worst case?

Beyond the River of Sand.

If not that, then somewhere on the western plains—he’d eventually return after reading the stars.

That was Rem’s judgment.

That night, the moons rose in the sky.

Two moons lit the western lands, and the stars glittered magnificently.

“Aren’t you worried?” Lua Gharne asked, looking at Rem.

While examining the corpse and sorting through thoughts, Rem had stepped back and sat near the fire, slowly roasting wind rabbit meat.

One small mistake and it would burn into something awful.

The doneness of the meat was crucial.

Staring into the fire, Rem answered,

“If he were the sort to die from this, he would’ve kicked it long ago.”

That was true.

Lua Gharne had been startled when Enkrid vanished but had now calmed down.

Dunbakel, same thing.

As soon as Rem appeared and took over, the beastwoman had internally gone “Ah,” then nodded in brief admiration.

Rem, too, had considered the worst outcome deep down.

But she couldn’t believe that the captain would die from such a fluke.

If one were to attempt this a hundred times, they’d fail a hundred times.

No—try it a thousand times, fail a thousand times.

The only reason it worked this time was pure luck.

And that guy, die to something like this?

Nonsense.

He’d survived countless brushes with death.

But if he had died...?

Useless thoughts. Rem quickly shook them off.

‘After I went through the trouble of tracing the sorcery, this is how it ends?’

She decided to wait in peace.

What difference would pacing around make?

“Everyone just get on with your tasks. You think you’ll see anything by looking?

As long as it’s not the desert, he’ll find his way back.”

“What if it is beyond the River of Sand?”

“Even then, he’ll come back.”

The chieftain had asked, and Rem answered without hesitation.

If they asked how, she’d have to say she didn’t know.

But Enkrid would return. Just like always.

It was a belief without evidence, but some would call that trust.

He would become a knight, he would keep his word, whatever it was.

‘I still haven’t let him taste my handed-down weapon.’

Yes, that would happen.

It had been three days since Rem inspected the corpse.

Enkrid hadn’t returned.

No signs, no traces.

***

Meditation. Thoughts. Reflection.

He spent so much time in that state that before he knew it, the sun had set.

He tried to gauge direction by watching the sun’s descent, but it just didn’t work.

What the hell was wrong with this sky?

The bright sun was sinking, but he couldn’t find direction.

There wasn’t even a sunset.

The light just gradually faded, then it was blue twilight—then suddenly, night.

Pitch-black night.

A desert without light.

When the heat vanished, its successor came: the cold.

It had barely become night when the temperature plummeted.

Why is it so cold all of a sudden?

He suddenly thought: I could freeze to death out here.

Whatever the case, he had to find his way.

Enkrid lifted his head.

Above him, the stars glittered so brightly that they painted the night sky white.

There were so many stars.

Too many.

What the hell is this now?

Westerners called this place the River of Sand from Which None Return.

It was a fitting name.

This land had no markers to guide your way.

“Should I call this… Skyshade River?” he muttered into the void.

They called clouds that blocked sunlight sunshade clouds, and the canyon that shielded against sandstorms the sandshade canyon.

So this must be Skyshade Milina?

That would make sense.

In western terms, the river of stars in the sky was called Milina.

Ziba had told him that.

She said that sometimes, in the western sky, a river of stars would form in every color imaginable.

That was Milina.

In the day, this desert would roast a person like grilled meat.

At night, it chilled like death.

Is this where I freeze to death?

That thought had barely formed before warmth welled up in his chest.

A gentle heat that instantly made him forget the cold.

Enkrid slipped his hand into his clothes and pulled out the source.

On this sea of sand, where all light had vanished, a dagger glowed faintly red.

It was a gift from a blond squire.

“A dagger that holds warmth,”

Hira had said roughly.

The heat from the dagger formed a thin layer around his whole body, easing the cold.

He had gained warmth.

The gift had served its purpose.

So what now?

He needed to find direction.

Was there anything that could help?

Enkrid took stock of what he had on him.

Acker, Gladius, Ember—his main weapons.

Six throwing knives strapped to his chest,  a dagger hidden at his ankle, and armor made from spider carapace: breastplate, pauldrons, bracers, shin guards.

Lucky Fish, was it called?

Emergency rations he packed without thinking.

The bracelet filled by Ziba’s mother.

The recurve bow made by the artisan from Oara.

A dagger that emitted heat and light.

A dagger that returned when thrown.

The last dagger had a long blood groove down its center.

Disaster Dagger, was it?

An amulet blade, never even sharpened.

Curses were all eaten up and digested by the ferryman anyway, so it didn’t mean much.

Nothing here could help him find direction.

Blades and rations.

That was all he had.

Enkrid had to make a choice.

To move, or not.

Of course, the answer was already clear.

If standing still wouldn’t change anything, then Enkrid—was the type who moved.

Tap, tap.

He began walking.

The starlight—a sky overflowing with stars—opened his sight.

All he could see was sand, but he walked on diligently.

He walked for a full day.

Thanks to the dagger’s warmth, the cold wasn’t a threat.

That was fortunate.

He walked all evening, ripped his undershirt, and wrapped it loosely around his head.

If the sun rose like this, his scalp and face would roast.

His face and the back of his neck were already burning.

The sun rose again.

‘Walking during the day is impossible.’

Thanks to the dagger, the cold was bearable—so walking at night was the correct choice.

Slow, long breaths. Move only at night.

That was the plan. And so he followed it.

Were there other options? Probably.

Like charging forward with all his strength.

If he burst his Will through his thigh muscles and sprinted at a speed beyond ordinary humans...

Could he escape the desert in one go?

And if he failed?

How many times could he charge like that using Will?

Ten times? Twenty? Assuming his body even held up.

Even then, would he escape this place?

Not a chance.

So the best course was to walk—slowly, enduringly—preserving stamina.

Saving strength was the right answer.

As stray thoughts crept in, Enkrid looked around.

They say the average person dies after three days without water, but that depends on the individual.

Enkrid had a strong foundation and extraordinary endurance.

He never pushed beyond his limits.

He never suddenly ran.

He walked calmly to preserve his stamina and what moisture remained in his body.

After ten days of walking aimlessly, something finally changed.

He saw a rise in the sand—like a dune.

It gave off a strange sense of wrongness.

As he stopped in front of it, shhk!—something sharp and pointed shot toward him.

Enkrid drew Acker and struck the incoming object aside.

Thunk!

It was a tail—more precisely, from a monster resembling a scorpion.

Fwoosh!

The monster burst from the sand.

Whether beast or monster, having something appear was almost a relief.

In an instant, Enkrid saw countless attack lines.

He could rush in and cleave it with his sword, or dodge and strike with Ember.

But all of that would drain stamina.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

With a thought, Enkrid flicked his left hand.

A dagger appeared in his grip—and with a ping, it flew and pierced the creature near its head.

Thunk!

Its tough carapace shattered, and black, solid chunks sprayed in every direction.

Was that thing evolved by living in the desert?

The black chunks were its blood.

It had turned from liquid to solid.

Not that you could drink monster blood anyway.

The sight made his thirst worse.

‘I’m thirsty.’

His skin felt dry, brittle.

He reached out, and the thrown dagger slowly returned to his hand.

There was a taut sensation at his fingertips, like a thread pulling.

When he tugged on it slightly, the dagger flew back faster.

As he caught the dagger with a tap, a thought occurred:

This was such a great weapon—he regretted not using it sooner.

He readjusted his gear, which had shifted after the throw.

The bow ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) strapped across his back wasn’t heavy, but it was a bit of a nuisance.

Why had he even brought the bow during training this morning?

He wasn’t going to practice archery anyway.

Why bring it at all?

Just one monster. That was it.

He kept walking after that.

He took short naps here and there.

During the day, he’d rest under dune-like formations.

Having killed the monster, he stripped its hide, and used the bow stave as a pole to fashion a makeshift shelter.

Now that he was using it, he didn’t regret bringing the bow.

The recurve bow held up against both heat and cold.

‘Could’ve replaced it with Ember or Gladius,’ he thought, but he didn’t discard any equipment.

Around the twelfth day—without a sip of water—he urinated, and the color was black.

The stench was vile.

It was concentrated urine—an indicator of dehydration.

His skin had gone from dry to failing elasticity.

Pressing it with a finger no longer left it bouncing back.

His armor now felt heavy, but abandoning it meant facing the sun’s heat unprotected.

That would be worse.

His thirst seemed to squeeze even his heart.

His lips cracked and peeled.

Skin flaked off in strips like bark shaved with a plane.

The body that had withstood over ten days of searing heat and freezing nights was now screaming in pain.

‘Like a snake shedding its skin.’

As that thought crossed his mind, Enkrid stopped walking.

His vision swirled.

“To be left alone with no one around—to tremble at the suffering of solitude—this is the ‘today’ you’ve chosen.”

The Ferryman’s voice came from far away.

No rippling river, no ferry, no lamp—just the voice.

Enkrid didn’t have the strength to respond.

He simply listened.

Then opened his eyes.

And began walking again.

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed.

Dizziness, headaches, constant pain—a loop of agony.

He felt like he was wandering without purpose.

No path. No direction.

He might wander the desert, die, and die again.

That was what the Ferryman wanted.

Enkrid knew it too.

But still, he kept walking.

Knight or squire—he was still a person.

If you don’t eat or drink, you die. That’s the same for anyone.

Even so, Enkrid didn’t try to eat.

The rations were dried salted fish.

If he ate that, he’d only get thirstier.

So he resisted.

An astounding show of will.

They say mirages appear in the desert.

Enkrid didn’t see any.

His innate endurance didn’t allow illusions to form in his eyes.

So he walked.

And walked.

How many times had he pushed past what felt like the limit?

‘It’s hot.’

As sunlight pierced through the monster-hide shelter, splitting his skull with its intensity—he lost consciousness.

And so, today began again.

He died while walking.

Didn’t even collapse—he just died while standing, enduring to the end.

It was the result of willpower, a trained body, and a spirit that refused to break.

Enkrid didn’t even realize he’d died.

‘Is it the same today again?’

He’d seen so much sand he couldn’t tell if this was the same day repeating, or just another painful day passing.

Yes, he’d collapsed from exhaustion and died, but perceiving it was another matter.

The Ferryman appeared a few more times.

Sometimes giggling, sometimes speaking with pity.

“Just give up. You’ll feel better.”

And then—he stopped showing up.

At times, Enkrid heard hallucinations.

“Hey, I still can’t speak properly, but if you’ve got Will left, try pushing a bit more.”

That’s probably what it meant.

It was hard to understand.

In his hazy consciousness, Enkrid followed instinct.

‘Let’s try this way today.’

What does it mean for even the best guides to avoid a place?

That trying to find a path is meaningless.

He thought he’d heard once that there were guides who only traveled deserts.

Maybe he had.

Some days, he died in a sandstorm.

Other days, from exhaustion.

Then one day, a massive barrier appeared before him—a great river of sand.

‘So this is the River of Sand.’

He didn’t have the strength to speak.

He simply repeated it in his head.

It was still the desert.

The so-called River of Sand was a vast sandy marsh.

Enter, and you die.

He tried to find a way across.

Collapsed from exhaustion and died.

Then changed direction.

With no landmarks, he gauged direction using the shadow of his scorpion-hide shelter.

After seeing the River of Sand, he found a cliff.

Even with a healthy body, he wouldn’t have dared cross it.

Trying to find another path, he died again— this time kneeling on one knee, panting, his throat torn, bleeding.

The blood made his throat feel wet—oddly comforting.

But it was a sign of death.

Again and again, he wandered.

Died.

Repeated today.

No idea how many times he’d died, or how many todays had passed.

Even living was suffering.

Dying was suffering.

His thirst felt like it would eat his mind.

The constant headache and dizziness made it impossible to track time.

The Ferryman no longer showed himself.

Enkrid was dying alone.

And yet, he never stopped walking.

Walking had become too difficult—so he summoned his Will.

Muscle alone couldn’t carry him—

he had to will himself forward.

‘Legs, walk.’

Body, hold on.

Will surged through him, reaching even his toes—giving him just one more step.

Thus, he learned how to endure again.

Then one day, while walking—

he saw a faint shadow.

A rattling skeletal monster.

Beside it stood a fox with oversized ears.

A gem sparkled atop its ear.

A jewel-eared fox.

Click-clack.

The skeleton stepped forward.

Enkrid’s lips were dry and cracked.

His cheeks had hollowed, his eyes darkened beneath.

He looked terrifying.

Yet, he drew his sword.

Reflex, triggered the moment he saw a monster.

Could he swing it? Who knew.

The Ferryman watched it all.

And thought:

Is every today a crisis?

An endless stream of suffering?

It depended on the person.

The Ferryman understood that too.

No cheer, no one to protect him—he had assumed Enkrid would fall to isolation and loneliness.

But that wasn’t it.

The cursed one, Enkrid, wasn’t walking for applause.

He was walking for what he believed in.

The Ferryman’s eyes shone violet.

Enkrid didn’t know how many todays had passed—but the Ferryman did.

This was the thirtieth today.

Only thirty.

Because he didn’t break, isolation and solitude were simply things to overcome.

His mind never shattered—so thirty todays were enough.

That unwavering will summoned fortune.

“You’re lucky.”

The Ferryman’s voice faintly brushed Enkrid’s ear.

Fortune never flows in just one direction.

The bracelet Ziba’s mother had given him kept desert bloodsuckers at bay.

Bonds from the past had become arrows that now saved Enkrid.

Ping. Thwack!

An arrow shattered the skeleton’s skull.

Luck had turned its head—and changed direction.

“Captain?”

And Enkrid thought the voice he heard sounded familiar.

That thought made his vision reel.

The Will he’d been forcing forth snapped apart.

All his strength drained away, the world spun.

He’d learned this signal well—after so many todays.

He was losing consciousness.

The final thread he had clung to snapped.

And if that voice calling him captain was a hallucination—then today would begin again.