Chapter 67: Chapter 232 - Feels Like I Could Die Of Joy
Having chosen a path and deciding to walk it doesn't mean one must march forward blindly.
Didn't the great merchant Lenga Dis once say:
"Keep your eyes wide open and watch the ground around you. You never know where someone might have dropped a stray krona."
Surely, Lenga Dis wasn't a man who picked up copper coins like some miser. After all, he was a person worthy of being called a great merchant.
But the meaning behind his words was clear.
For instance, if a purse of gold coins were lying on the road, wouldn't it be wise to pick it up? Or if a traveler anticipated sleeping outdoors, wouldn't it be prudent to gather some dry branches along the way?
And if one could kill two birds with one stone, wouldn't it make sense to throw the stone?
That's what Enkrid did.
"Will."
Even as he set his sights on this goal, he didn't act foolishly or stubbornly.
He didn't become a racehorse fixated on a single finish line.
During the repeated days, what could he do before the shepherd visited in the evening?
Spar, fight, and ponder.
Enkrid distilled his tasks into these three.
He learned the basics of the Flowing Sword technique from Ragna and repeatedly trained on his own.
Later, he delved deeper into the Balafist martial arts style under Audin's guidance.
Their reactions were similar:
"Have you studied this before? Or have you secretly been practicing swordplay all this time?"
"When did you hone your martial arts skills so thoroughly? Brother, you bring me such pride."
To both, Enkrid offered a modest nod.
While his training stemmed from being trapped in today, it was true that he trained alone, so it wasn't a lie.
That said, hearing such words wasn't common. Enkrid prioritized solitary training over sparring.
He would contemplate, ponder, swing his sword, and move his body alone.
When his thoughts hit a wall, he pushed himself to the limit with the Isolation technique, drenching himself in sweat.
"Are you hoping I'll tell you not to overdo it, brother?"
Had he worked himself hard enough to worry Audin? Enkrid nonchalantly replied:
"Moving my body helps clear my head."
"That's true. Your brain can't think without blood flowing through it," Jaxen murmured from nearby.
It was only a guess, but given Jaxen's former profession—or if he still dabbled in it—he was likely more knowledgeable about human anatomy than anyone else.
"Yeah, that's exactly it."
Enkrid had realized this through experience. When his thoughts stalled, he moved his body.
And when physical exertion couldn't solve the problem, he'd sit down and think.
By the 180th repetition of today, Enkrid had mastered the basics of the Flowing Sword technique, further refined the Balafist martial arts through Audin, and learned more about sensory perception from Jaxen.
If the time must pass anyway, he saw no reason not to refine and organize his skills.
And that wasn't all.
Beyond swordsmanship, martial arts, and sensory training, he sharpened his judgment, instincts, and courage through lessons from his comrades and subordinates.
Even though his senses became sharper and his focus more precise, even though his judgment grew bolder—
Swish!
He couldn't avoid every blade that grazed his skin.
The sword that grazed the back of his hand swung back with a whirl. Its movements, like a serpent, were based on the Rapid Sword and Illusion Sword techniques.
"Once unsheathed, it's hard to block."
If he had the skill to dodge and block without even being grazed, he could surely overwhelm his opponent.
To achieve that...
"I'd need to become a knight right away."
The opponent before him was more skilled than that sword wielder.
If it were the mixed-blood giant?
"It would come down to who lands a fatal blow first."
What does it mean to gauge an opponent's skill?
If Enkrid had intended to kill his opponent, he could have done so several times already.
Not a single one of the nearly 200 repeated days had been wasted. That's why it was possible.
But avoiding even a graze was still difficult. It felt like an entirely separate matter.
Would it be impossible unless he became a knight?
If not, then he'd have to spend all night defending himself.
He'd already tried that.
And once midnight passed, the same today would begin again.
"Enough with the defense."
Relying solely on evasion and blocking all day served no purpose.
So, what should he do?
From that point on, it became nothing but real battles.
Enkrid fought and fought again.
In the moments between conscious resistance after being cut, he made full use of the time beforehand.
After defense and evasion, he sought ways to overcome this wall, learning from his opponent and mastering what he'd trained alone.
It wasn't tiresome or urgent.
There was no reason for it to be.
Each day was filled with something new to learn, and he was utterly engrossed.
Even if resisting the force within the sword was meaningless, he ignored that.
He pursued joy. Naturally, this revealed many truths to Enkrid.
"All this time..."
Had he been learning too many scattered skills?
As he integrated them into his body one by one, even Enkrid could feel himself becoming more solid.
But there was no time to revel in that.
Even with the repetition of today, each day was busy. There was never a moment without work.
He pondered, contemplated, and pushed his body to the limit.
Anyone observing him would surely think he was utterly and completely mad.
"What is it that drives you so relentlessly?"
Even the ferryman asked him that.
Despite the endless repetition of today, why couldn't he let a single day go to waste?
It wasn't that he couldn't. He simply didn't.
Enkrid was having the time of his life.
Even if he floundered in pursuit of a faded dream, it was far better than wandering blindly in darkness, unable to see even an inch ahead.
The sheer joy of knowing there was light beyond, even when the path was blocked or a wall loomed before him, filled him with an exhilarating thrill.
Even if pain and suffering trailed behind, Enkrid relished the joy of growth once again.
While he had never thought of himself as stagnant, the opportunity to advance was always a source of delight and exhilaration.
This happiness was what drove him.
After sustaining yet another wound to his wrist, Enkrid glanced at the graze on the back of his hand. The shepherd's expression grew grim as he furrowed his brow, clearly displeased with the situation.
Enkrid casually wiped the trickling blood from the wound, a cut about the size of two finger joints.
He had grown accustomed to the screaming shrieks akin to a banshee pulling at his earlobes or the ghastly roars of a ghoul ramming its head into his guts.
It wasn't as though the agony no longer affected him, but he had learned to suppress it outwardly. This was why his tone remained composed as he spoke.
"Does that sword have a name?"
"Huh? Are you alright?"
The shepherd appeared startled. Enkrid, having seen such reactions before, simply ignored him and repeated his question.
"The sword's name."
The shepherd hesitated before replying.
"It's called Idol Slayer."
A name befitting such a weapon, though Enkrid was hearing it for the first time.
He knew neither the sword's properties nor how its embedded power caused death. Despite asking, answers were hard to come by. For the shepherd, this was their first meeting, so providing detailed explanations would be challenging at best.
Enkrid reflected briefly.
'Even if I heard something, it probably wouldn't help.'
In the world of Wil, some things defied explanation, transmission, or understanding. Wil wasn't necessarily something that could be unlocked by rituals or traditions.
"If a talented person faces the brink of death, might they awaken to Wil? Perhaps being cut by a blade forged of sheer willpower would help them understand the feeling?"
Thus, baptism was born—a method born of such musings passed down through the ages.
The shepherd watched Enkrid endure the blade longer and longer with growing curiosity.
"Can you shape it? Can you block it?"
Enkrid shook his head. This inquiry had become a routine as his resistance increased.
The looped repetition of today began anew.
Enkrid used this time for a different approach, one of clever improvisation. Instead of merely evading and blocking the sword all day, he worked to prevent his opponent from drawing it at all.
He used techniques like a palm strike to tilt the shepherd's chin upward, immediately following up with a slicing motion toward the neck.
Though the shepherd deftly evaded, Enkrid had already stepped in close enough to immobilize the shepherd's feet by stepping on them.
Close-quarters maneuvers like these were part of the Valah-style Martial Arts.
When the shepherd attempted to draw his sword, Enkrid's hand locked the hilt in place. The shepherd eventually acknowledged his defeat.
"You've bested me."
"Not yet. Let's go again."
Enkrid backed away to a sword's distance and drew his own blade, signaling for another round.
"Your weapon is sharp and dangerous. Be careful."
The shepherd grimly nodded, drawing his sword and adding, "Even the slightest cut is lethal. Think of it as being laced with potent venom."
The moonlight cast their shadows at odd angles, the shepherd's silhouette towering over Enkrid's.
'How kind of him to warn me not to get scratched.'
Enkrid, familiar with the shepherd's polite reminders, nodded once more and raised his weapon.
Their swords clashed with a metallic clang, sparks flying.
No matter how many times he sparred, Enkrid always found it fresh and exhilarating.
'He improves as we fight.'
It was talent—something Enkrid lacked. Yet, he felt no jealousy, only admiration for his opponent's growth.
Each repeated today was a fresh challenge, a new opponent to face.
However, defeating this sword without being grazed remained impossible. Surviving the night was one thing; winning was another.
Still, Enkrid had no intention of merely enduring the night.
The inevitable scratch came, and the searing pain returned—sharp and burning. It felt as though his heart stopped, his mind blanked, and a blazing poker stabbed into his skull.
He died. Over and over again.
More than three hundred times.
Yet, in those repeated deaths, Enkrid refined his techniques. He mastered the Valah-style Pummel Suppression, preventing his opponent from even drawing their sword.
But those achievements were secondary.
'Still… I can't be caught.'
Lost in the pitch-black darkness, Enkrid had become a wandering soul.
Though a light shimmered faintly in the distance, it remained elusive, unreachable.
Did anything change because of it?
Even if no path appeared before him, nothing altered the fact that Enkrid trudged onward. Whether crawling, stumbling, or flailing, the mere act of moving forward made him a traveler and a wanderer.
"You idiot."
The ferryman's voice broke the silence.
Every so often, he emerged to hurl such insults.
"You fool."
"You dimwit."
"You ignorant dolt."
It was as if he never considered how his words might wound the listener.
Of course, he didn't.
Enkrid continued his journey through the sluggish, hazy days of late autumn.
On the path, he picked up fallen leaves. Clutching them close to his chest, he walked and walked until, one day, light brushed against his hand.
"Die."
Amid shrieking cries, a voice rang out.
Enkrid instinctively reacted. That word—spoken with such raw finality—was something he had resisted countless times before.
Outwardly, he maintained composure, but inwardly, he was thrashing, desperately struggling against it.
This resistance always boiled down to a single thought, a singular desire:
'I refuse.'
No. He didn't want to die. He wouldn't die. No matter what the blade intended, he would not succumb.
It was a declaration of his will.
This time, though, he died again—but it was a death unlike the ones before.
The pain was identical. Yet for a fleeting moment, he resisted.
How could this be explained?
Humans do not possess tails. If one suddenly sprouted, it would undoubtedly take practice to use it.
So too was this newfound awareness something that needed honing.
On a path blanketed by shadow, when the realization finally struck, it was as though sensation fused with intention.
What is willpower? What is Wil?
'It is whatever I desire.'
If the shepherd's sword demanded death, if it insisted upon it with relentless force, then there was only one course of action for Enkrid.
On the 485th today, despite overwhelming his opponent with both sword and fist, Enkrid failed to block a blade grazing his shoulder.
The sword exuded a palpable will to kill—a suffocating, searing pressure that constricted his heart and scorched his mind.
Yet, because he could now sense it, he could reject it.
Where once he would have perished unaware, he could now defy.
Like swatting away an incoming hand, he could assert his own intent.
"No."
The word left his lips, a vocalized manifestation of his will.
It was something he hadn't grasped before.
Not until willpower, or Wil, transformed into an unseen force could he understand it.
"Ah."
The shepherd's astonished gasp escaped him.
Enkrid deflected the deathly intent emanating from the wound on his shoulder.
There was no explosion, no divine light piercing the darkness, nor any magical phenomenon.
Yet for those attuned to the power of Wil, the dismissal of such force was unmistakable.
Both the shepherd and Enkrid knew it now.
The shepherd's sword could no longer deal fatal harm to Enkrid. Its edge, stripped of intent, was no longer a mortal threat.
Enkrid recognized what he had rejected: someone's lifelong devotion, their soul, their grudge.
Someone had embedded their Wil into that sword.
And he had just shattered it.
"Have you only just realized?"
The shepherd caught on quickly.
"Yes."
Enkrid didn't deny it. For a moment, he wanted to explain the truth—that it hadn't been a mere realization but the culmination of over 400 todays.
But, of course, he couldn't say that.
"I've lost."
The shepherd let his arms fall, the tip of his sword grazing the ground. His expression was one of resignation yet also relief.
Enkrid knew the day was over.
The two moons continued to illuminate them, their shadows intertwining. In the subtle shift of light, Enkrid's shadow appeared larger.
Enkrid mused silently to himself:
'So this is Wil.'
But he knew it wasn't everything. It was merely the tip of the iceberg.
He had achieved only the power to reject.
And yet—
"This is insane."
He was elated, nearly to the point of madness.
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