Chapter 803

Chapter 803

“It is due to the fact that your magnitude exceeds that of Balrog.”

The statement was so sudden that he failed to grasp its significance immediately. Soft lantern light flickered across the deck of the boat as it drifted over the pulsing current of the river.

“I assume you aren’t referring to the size of a physical organ.”

He posed the question half-jestingly, seeking clarification, but the ferryman’s response was devoid of humor. His demeanor was profoundly grave. Because he communicated via Will, that gravity was a deliberate emotional weight he intended to convey.

“What saturated that pelt with consciousness was a combative spirit rooted in profound grief.”

Balrog had perished while still clinging to his worldly obsessions. Those fixations had solidified, leaving behind nothing but the hide. Enkrid momentarily thought of an ancient Western adage. It wasn’t a tiger, but a demon that had died and left its skin behind.

Dismissing the wandering thought, he fixed his gaze on the figure before him. Who was this version of the ferryman? Better yet—what exactly was the nature of such a creature?

‘Convoluted.’

Common wisdom suggested people were either simple or complex. In reality, every soul is intricate if examined closely, particularly those in whom raw instinct and high intellect battle for dominance. Yet, there are individuals whose internal labyrinth is visible on the surface.

‘Too fluid.’

The ferryman fit that description.

‘His words shift with every encounter.’

He was like that.

Without even trying to analyze it, Enkrid’s observations began to click into place. The various iterations of the ferryman he had met previously flickered through his mind like a montage. An intuition he had felt before finally surged to the top of his consciousness. It felt like the splintered timber of a shipwreck rising from the floor of a dark lake, slowly reconstructing its original silhouette.

‘The ferryman is not a single entity.’

There was a famous line from a novel that had once been the talk of the continent—that no human is singular—implying that people are defined by their social roles rather than just their biology. But Enkrid’s realization was far more literal and visceral.

‘The ferryman is a collective.’

He was a composite being, a mass of stitched-together consciousnesses. This explained his erratic nature, his contradictory statements, and the impossible task of deciphering his true intent.

Just as Enkrid was about to pierce through the veil of this revelation—

*Tap.*

The ferryman lifted his free hand and made a downward slicing motion through the air. Though the edge of his hand didn’t look overtly lethal, Enkrid felt the lethal trajectory it traced and pivoted his torso to evade the strike.

“That is quite enough.”

The momentum of his logic was severed. The cognitive chain snapped. The ferryman was a sly fox. No—he corrected himself.

Today’s version of the ferryman was sly.

The gesture had the flavor of high-level martial arts, yet it felt more like a magician’s redirection, designed to stop him from digging deeper.

“There is no requirement for you to see further.”

Enkrid didn’t argue. He hadn’t set out with the intent to interrogate the man; his deductions were simply the byproduct of experience reacting to the ferryman’s presence.

“The potential…”

The ferryman let the word hang, the syllables heavy with a lingering bitterness. Even without deep reflection, one could sense the staggering weight of regret attached to that single concept.

Slowly, the ferryman began to drift away. Or rather, Enkrid realized his own essence was drifting upward, distancing itself from the river.

“Keep this in memory. Continue your struggle. I shall find great entertainment in watching you.”

The vision shattered. The dark water evaporated, replaced by the sight of a plain white ceiling. He knew how such a ceiling was made: thin wooden planks joined with adhesive, secured with iron nails, and finished with a mixture of slaked lime and pulverized white chalk.

A lingering memory of his days performing manual labor for a few krona identified his surroundings instantly. He decided to shelf the mystery of the dream and the ferryman for the time being. Understanding why the Balrog armor failed to dominate him was sufficient; the deeper metaphysical questions could wait.

—

Once fully conscious, Enkrid broke his fast with a hearty meal of stewed duck and toasted duck eggs before heading to the royal training grounds to work out the stiffness in his limbs.

The regulars at the hall offered him respectful nods or crisp salutes as he passed. Enkrid held the rank of a knight commander sanctioned by the crown, a position of immense prestige. His reputation preceded him, and many were struck by how his ruggedly handsome features lived up to the legends.

More than that, he was the celebrated “monster slayer” who had recently arrived at court.

Observers maintained a respectful perimeter. Enkrid, however, remained indifferent to the attention. He had always been this way; in his younger years, people called him talentless or socially inept because he never noticed the way they looked at him.

And now?

The mockery had turned to awe and veneration. No one dared challenge his right to be there. There were no glares of spite or whispers of envy. It was a testament to the sheer weight of his accomplishments. Even if there had been jealousy, Enkrid wouldn’t have noticed. He would not have wasted a single heartbeat on them.

He remained fixated on his routine. It was business as usual.

Lua Gharne had often remarked that Enkrid’s truest gift was his capacity for repetition. That relentless, stoic diligence—the ability to perform necessary tasks regardless of the environment—was his ultimate edge. When his prowess had spiked during the time-loop incidents, Lua Gharne recognized it not as a miracle, but as the inevitable compound interest of that daily grind.

Frokk’s intuition for such growth was truly remarkable.

‘I should still be cautious with the arm.’

Enkrid focused on isometric contractions in his legs. As he did, Frokk—eyes darting with intensity—walked over and spoke without preamble.

“Let’s review.”

There were no pleasantries or health inquiries. Audin and Teresa had already handled the medical check-up earlier that morning. Enkrid had grown accustomed to Frokk’s unique personality by now—or rather, the version of Frokk that was Lua Gharne.

Even if she wasn’t physically pouting, that specific look in her eyes meant her intellectual hunger was reaching a boiling point. She looked ready to pin him to the floor with a dagger just to force a debrief. Her curiosity was vivid and unfiltered, and Enkrid found he didn’t mind it at all.

“Very well.”

He gave a simple nod of consent.

Following her lead, Enkrid began to synthesize all the fragmented discussions they’d had during the trek to Naurill into a coherent narrative. During the journey, their talks had been scattered. Lua Gharne had advised him to compress and align those lessons within his mind. Having finally enjoyed a night of rest, a warm bath, and a solid meal, he was in the perfect state for internal cultivation.

‘The Minotaur.’

‘The swarms of colony-class threats and beastman warbands.’

‘The obsidian lightning, the sorcerer, Thorn Castle, and its lord.’

‘Balrog’s domain, the cursed knight, Oara, and the demon itself.’

Even categorized, the list of recent trials was immense. The harvest from these battles was equally significant. Specifically, his swordsmanship had reached a zenith with the technique he termed “Extinguishing the Embers”—a leap in skill without precedent.

And prior to that, the evolution of his Will into Indules.

‘Swordsmanship is an extension of the person.’

The way he moved the blade had fundamentally shifted. The once-distinct categories of Precision, Mid-Tempo, and Swift Blows were merging into a unified flow centered on his physical core.

‘Execute the exact strike required by the moment.’

This evolution demanded a heightened state of sensory awareness.

He spent the time dissecting his actions, moving beyond the simple repetition of the day. It was a tactical autopsy, with Lua Gharne serving as the lead analyst.

“Demonstrate it.”

When she asked him to show how he had used triple-layered atmospheric pressure to crush an opponent, Enkrid immediately projected his Will.

‘The manifestation of dread.’

In essence, it was the act of paralyzing a foe through pure presence. It was the biological equivalent of a rodent freezing before a predator—shattering the opponent’s spirit with concentrated killing intent. Sentient beings, humans included, took this further by manipulating the target’s subconscious.

A slight shift in stance or a subtle drop of the hand could trick an enemy’s mind into seeing a phantom blade crossing their throat. The three crushing walls operated on this same logic—using minute physical cues to convince the enemy that their path was utterly blocked by an immovable barrier.

“…Magnificent.”

Lua Gharne’s praise was frequent and sincere.

As the session progressed, Teresa joined them, her strength largely returned.

“I gained much from this journey as well,” she noted.

Soon, Rophod and Pell arrived to contribute. Rem found a spot to sit and watch, while Jaxon eventually appeared, leaning against a stone pillar with his arms crossed in a pose that looked effortlessly cinematic. His half-lidded eyes were fixed on Enkrid; he looked like a living painting, and the way the nearby maids were whispering confirmed the effect.

Ragna stood off to the side, experimenting with the sheathed Sunrise. It was hard to tell exactly what he was practicing, but despite being told to recuperate, the entire group had gravitated toward the training hall.

Marcus, walking by and taking in the scene, simply ordered a dining table to be set up nearby. He knew these people well enough to realize they wouldn’t stop for something as trivial as a scheduled dinner.

Enkrid exchanged a brief nod with the Captain of the Royal Guard. The man was swamped with administrative duties and quickly moved on after the silent greeting.

They ate dinner on the spot and pushed their training well into the twilight hours. Everyone took turns demonstrating techniques and critiquing one another. What seemed mundane to one warrior was a revelation to another. Even among the elite of the royal family, there were occasional knowledge shares, but they were usually guarded. These warriors were different; they laid their secrets bare, offering up the core of their martial arts without hesitation.

To an outside observer, this was a legendary exchange of secrets. To the Mad Order of Knights, it was just a Tuesday.

A watching soldier eventually found the nerve to ask a question.

“Would it be permissible for me to practice alongside you?”

Their skill levels weren’t even in the same league, but the Mad Order didn’t drive him away.

“You think you can learn just by staring?”

One person did offer a sharp retort—Rem. However, he didn’t actually block the soldier. Having spoken up, he actually stepped forward to fix the man’s posture. He might have been blunt, but he provided explanations. Rem had learned a thing or two about instruction while dealing with Enkrid, making him a surprisingly effective, if terrifying, teacher.

The gap between the Madmen and the average Royal Guard was simply too wide; analyzing their basic flaws was effortless for him.

“Why is your stance so wide?” Rem barked. The soldier was clearly intimidated by the barbarian’s presence, but he held his ground. You didn’t make it into the Guard without a backbone.

“That’s the form I was taught, sir.”

“Discard what you were told. Tell me what your own brain thinks about it.”

It was a return to the absolute fundamentals. Understanding the *why* behind a movement transformed the basic into the advanced. The fastest way to elevate a warrior’s skill was to shift their perspective—pointing out the correct direction to someone who was lost. He opened the door, though they still had to walk through it.

Rem actually found the process enjoyable. In his old Border Guard unit, incompetence was met with a beating, but using words to coax out potential was a novel kind of fun.

“What, are you praying for death? Why is your grip so tight? You think you’re going to parry anything with those stiff wrists? Go ahead, try it. But if you miss the block, I’m cracking your skull open, clear?”

Following his “noble hunter” moniker, Rem was quickly earning a new one: “the skull-breaker.”

His pedagogical style was aggressive, yet the soldiers didn’t back down, which spoke well of their character. More accurately, Rem’s ability to actually teach was the real surprise. If his old squad could see him now, they’d assume he was possessed and try to exorcise him with an axe.

Within a single day of the Mad Order’s arrival, a fever for training had consumed the hall, lasting until the moon was high in the sky. No one was forced to be there, but no one wanted to leave. Guards went to their shifts and returned of their own volition. The Madmen were the same; if someone wanted to sleep, they slept.

“To stir up such a storm the moment you set foot here…”

A blond man entered the training area. He was dressed casually in a vibrant red shirt and dark blue trousers. The silk was clearly high-quality, but it was far from formal attire. Few would have guessed this was the king.

The official ceremony wasn’t for another three days, but the King of Naurillia had come to the hall anyway. He was intrigued by the commotion and wanted to see his friend. It had been a long, exhausting few days filled with self-inflicted political headaches, and he needed a break.

“Hey,” Crang called out to Enkrid.

The night was deep. Silver moonlight bathed the stones, and the sizzle of moths hitting the torches provided a rhythmic backdrop to the evening.

“Yeah,” Enkrid replied, wiping sweat from his brow and raising a hand. The king was carrying a dusty bottle he’d personally retrieved from the royal cellars.

“Care for a drink?”

It was a vintage reserved only for the greatest celebrations; only three bottles remained in existence. It was known as the “Founding Liquor,” rumored to have been brewed at the nation’s birth using a recipe provided by the Sun God himself.

“Sure,” Enkrid said simply. He wasn’t shocked by the king’s appearance. There was no reason to be startled when a friend dropped by for a visit.