Chapter 140: Chapter 294 - The Boatman Spoke
On the ferry drifting over dark waters, the scene was eerily familiar, yet today it felt more foreboding.
A solitary purple lamp stood still, casting a faint glow that barely illuminated the hands of the one holding it.
The boatman's voice was heavier than usual, resonating deeply as though it reverberated through the heart and rattled the mind.
Enkrid's attention sharpened on a particular phrase.
"A path?"
He had always assumed the boatman relished watching him struggle, trapped by the wall before him. But now, he was offering guidance?
"Step back and observe. Evade, and the path will open."
Evading meant pushing the day forward. Normally, skipping today would only lead to its repetition. In other words, evasion wasn't a solution.
Yet, the boatman insisted.
"Evade."
The words, heavy and resonant, dug into his entire being. It wasn't a physical sensation but a mental intrusion, something deep in the realm of consciousness.
Despite the boatman's strange demeanor, Enkrid didn't doubt him.
Nor did he question the boatman's purpose—to keep him bound to today.
Perhaps it was because he understood this that Audin's oft-recited phrase from scripture came to mind:
"A devil always arrives in the guise of an angel."
"Evade."
The boatman's words sliced through Enkrid's psyche, as if mixing up his thoughts.
Suddenly, the black waters faded away, and though his eyes had been open, he felt as though he opened them once more—a bizarre experience signaling the arrival of another today.
Unlike other dreams that blurred into hazy memories, the boatman's words lingered vividly in his mind this time.
It was different, almost as though he had been brainwashed.
"Flee. Turn away. Leave the child behind, and you can easily break free of today. That will suffice."
Clarity struck Enkrid like lightning.
The boatman was giving him an easy way out.
He mulled over the words, turning them over and over in his mind, and the urge to follow them grew.
"Does it have to be this way?"
Krais's slightly altered words echoed faintly. The boatman's logic was sound, and every fiber of his being whispered that this was the path to take.
Yet, why now?
A memory surfaced—a little girl, hands on her hips, chin raised as she prattled away.
"Someday, I'll act like I know you. If I make a famous potion, maybe I'll even give you one. So you better be nice to me, got it?"
Willpower resisted through sheer force, rejecting the weight of those suggestions.
'Reject it.'
Even so, the words 'easy path' echoed in his mind, as if compelling him toward them.
Enkrid limped forward toward the battlefield.
"Out again today?"
The soldier beside him inquired, noting the scratches covering Enkrid's face.
"I'll head out again tomorrow."
With that, he cast aside his leather helmet.
The helmet narrowed his vision and dulled some senses—this time, he would pierce through before the spell could activate.
'The fastest path.'
He envisioned the trajectory, etched the movement into his mind.
The wind brushed his cheek.
Though it was daytime, the sky remained dim, and the gusts were sharp and cold, carrying the stench of battle—blood, iron, waste, fear, and tension—all coalescing into a single overwhelming scent.
As his five senses merged, a sixth awakened.
A point of focus ignited, making everything on the battlefield appear to slow down.
The child entered his vision. He shut out every other sound.
There was no need to hear.
He saw nothing but the child.
There was no need to see anything else.
All sensory input blurred into a single thread—a line.
A point connecting to another point.
'I am also a single point.'
He perceived himself as a point, the child's path as a point, and the fastest route between them.
Bending his right knee, he pushed off. Though devoid of Will, his rigorously trained muscles launched him forward with terrifying speed.
At the same time, he extended the sword in his left hand.
To the watching soldier, the blade seemed to move faster than Enkrid's body, like an arrow shot from a bow.
The blade glimmered faintly with blue light as it hurtled forward.
Faster than ever before, Enkrid confronted today.
The child's face came into view—her eyes, nose, lips.
The face of the already deceased child, who had once dreamt of becoming an herbalist, overlapped with the one before him.
Enkrid's sword pierced near the child's shoulder, delicately severing the strap. The scroll hanging from their chest trembled as it split in two, spilling light into the air.
It was a failure.
"Foolish."
The boatman's voice was flat, devoid of emotion, making it impossible to discern his feelings.
Enkrid did not respond, simply repeating his actions, reliving the same day.
When does despair truly set in?
When told something is impossible from the start, one accepts it with a degree of calm. They recognize the end and move on.
But what if the goal seemed just within reach, only to remain out of grasp?
Despair comes in those moments.
And if someone then pointed to a shortcut or hinted at an easy way out?
The boatman, transformed from his usual self, felt an unfamiliar curiosity toward Enkrid.
Why does this man not give up?
Why does this man not falter?
Why, how, what allows him to persist?
Curiosity birthed doubt, and doubt led the boatman to make a second offer, after eighty-six repeated todays.
"Even if you regret it, it'll be too late."
The sudden statement made Enkrid tilt his head in confusion.
In the realm of the mind, such displays of emotion were rare.
It was surprising, but this man had provided many reasons for surprise, so it was hardly noteworthy.
"But I am generous."
"Generous?"
Enkrid's questioning tone and unwavering demeanor revealed his firm resolve.
In the realm of the mind, words are shaped by will rather than the body.
Though his attitude bordered on irreverence, the boatman wasn't offended.
He was already aware of the situation and knew playing along would only make him appear foolish. With calm detachment, the boatman pressed on.
"I'll give you one more chance."
"Again?"
Even so, Enkrid's sarcastic tone grated on him. The way he tilted his head and furrowed his brows seemed mocking.
But the boatman had long since transcended humanity and remained composed.
Had he been a mere mortal, curses would have spilled from his lips.
But he was not.
"Keep the wall from closing in. Force it to cross the river before it reaches you."
Maintaining his air of calm, the boatman answered, and Enkrid, still in his previous posture, questioned back.
"The river?"
The boatman took a deep breath—a rare action for him, one born of necessity rather than habit. Then he dismissed Enkrid from the realm of the mind.
After Enkrid vanished, the boatman allowed his true emotions to surface.
"Bastard."
Short, yet thick with meaning.
Even after prodding and planting his intent into Enkrid's mind...
"That bastard will act on his own."
The boatman foresaw that Enkrid would betray his intentions.
And recognizing this, he couldn't help but laugh.
"Heh."
It was the first genuine emotion he had shown since becoming the boatman.
Half exhausted, half amused, it was a peculiar kind of laugh.
'The nonsense he spouts. Is he bored?'
Enkrid, who had always forged his own path, crushing anything in his way, naturally ignored the latest offer as well.
His mind was consumed by a singular thought.
'Can I be faster than this?'
Connecting the dots, focusing until his brain felt as though it would burst from the strain—it was still a failure.
So, what is speed?
Enkrid had seen countless swords hailed as swift, yet their meaning was clear.
The answer came suddenly, and with unexpected ease.
"When I picked pockets, my hands weren't the fastest. But I was the best. My hands were slower, but I had sharp instincts. All it took was timing—striking when they weren't looking. Trying to rely on raw speed when someone's watching? Only idiots do that."
It was something Krais had once said in passing. Enkrid had been sparring with Ragna to exchange the fastest strikes and learning initial attack techniques from Audin's Valah style when Krais commented while walking by.
At the time, it had seemed trivial, spoken without much weight.
No, the follow-up was likely Krais's true point.
"They know us. It's like trying to steal coins from someone's pouch while they're staring at you. Idiotic."
The situation was dire enough to demand variables. That's what Krais meant, but Enkrid hadn't responded.
No, he couldn't.
Krais's words struck him like lightning.
'Outside their perception.'
Speed is relative.
If your intent is seen, no matter how fast you are, it will seem slow.
If your intent is known, they will prepare.
"Hey! You're ignoring me again? Enki, you bastard!"
Krais was waving his hand and bouncing around in front of him, but Enkrid didn't hear him.
Enkrid sank deeper into his own world, his jaw slack, drool trailing down.
Yet his thoughts didn't stop.
"Enough."
Ragna dragged Krais away.
Enkrid was breaking through something that had confined his thinking.
Intent—his own and that of his opponent.
Humans can communicate meaning with a mere gesture.
Techniques that distract an opponent's gaze stem from this. Sleight-of-hand tricks, non-magical illusions, employ this principle.
Such methods are even commonplace in gambling dens.
Intent works like that.
'Deceive.'
You can fool your opponent with intent alone.
Speed exists outside the opponent's perception.
This wasn't about a contest of speed visible to the eye.
No, Enkrid refused to interpret it that way. This wall was about saving the child—or failing to do so.
He had made up his mind.
Therefore, what he needed was either a sharp sword or a quick sword.
Valah-style mercenary swordsmanship had countless techniques for such purposes.
'Ah.'
The realization struck. Lightning seemed to hit his head one after another.
What is speed?
It's simple: move outside the opponent's perception.
Don't show them the fast sword, just end it before they realize.
The thrust that Jaxen had demonstrated—a killing strike—brushed past his mind.
He added something new to it.
'The sense of evasion is driven by instinct.'
The sense of evasion avoids everything that falls under the realm of intuition. What if you add intent on top of that?
What if you direct instinct toward a purpose?
This was a path that hadn't been seen until now.
It seemed within reach, just barely. That's why. That's why he had focused only on speed in his mind.
No. The path is not singular.
'But still, if it's absolutely fast, it's better.'
They say if you chase two hares, you catch none, but…
The experience accumulated until now, and the left arm honed by repeated misjudgments, combined with speed, all seemed to point to a way where both hares could be caught.
Most of all, training from his previous experience with Jaxen proved helpful.
Hadn't he trained using the sense of evasion in close quarters?
What was the significance of the training dodging stones?
Questions must have intent.
Training, too, must move toward a result through its process.
For Enkrid, the result was one.
'Instinct, with intent.'
The sense of evasion is a symphony of instinct. It makes the body react to intuition and perception.
That's why it's called the sense of evasion—a skill born from the instinct to protect oneself.
Enkrid twisted that skill.
'Infuse it with intent.'
It could just as easily be called the sense of attack.
clang.
The psychological shackles the boatman had planted within him shattered.
An easy wall that seemed almost within reach.
Yet still, it was an impassable wall.
The offer presented to him at that moment.
Everything was a trap. Everything was a prison that tightened around him.
But Enkrid never stepped close to the prison.
He ignored the offer, finding a new path instead.
'Ah.'
At the end of this realization, a new today awaited him, and the battlefield stood ready.
"Today too…"
"The pain that can't kill me…"
The lead of the battlefield. He cut off the soldier's usual question.
The soldier stared blankly at him before responding.
"It only makes me stronger."
In truth, the pain that could kill him would only make him stronger.
But he preferred this rallying cry.
Enkrid pushed through the biting winds.
On the far side of the battlefield, a child wrapped in scrolls came running toward him.
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