“You’re here.”

Enkrid spoke first.

“You blocked it, Brother.”

Their voices overlapped. The moment Balrog’s kick came flying, Enkrid had crossed his arms to intercept it. He hadn’t taken the blow passively—he’d outright rejected Balrog’s pressure in real time.

And, of course, it was Audin who caught the flying Enkrid.

The hand that supported his back radiated warmth—thanks to the divine energy Audin had released.

“I’m not hurt.”

Enkrid said again.

“Looks like it. So, what fun were you having ditching us, huh?”

Rem’s voice chimed in from behind Audin. And from Rem’s words, Enkrid caught something odd.

“Us?”

Was that a word he ever used?

Probably said it without realizing. It felt strange if you recalled the old days with the Mad Squad, but now... not so much.

They’d spent enough time together that “us” didn’t sound so out of place anymore.

Beside Rem stood Ragna with his usual expression, and Jaxon, arms limp at his sides, had his eyes narrowed.

He was gauging the opponent. Not making a move right away meant this wasn’t someone to be taken lightly.

That was how those two prepared for battle. Everyone else, including Rem—and especially Audin—kept their gaze locked ahead, even as divine light softly glowed in Audin’s hands.

Even through their own standards, not just Jaxon’s, the presence ahead would’ve felt brutal.

The campfire’s flames slithered as if alive, stretching long to brush against what had once been Oara’s shadow. The fire traced the edge of the shadow in a full circle—and from within rose hands, horns, a head, a chest studded with black crystal.

It looked like a crouched bear rising to its feet.

It hadn’t appeared in Balrog’s memory earlier, but Enkrid had noticed something distinct. Using Audin’s hand as a brace, he righted himself and asked:

“You press with pressure and strike right away?”

Normally, Balrog used his oppressive aura only to test his opponent. This time, he’d attacked outright. That was unexpected.

—You ask questions first, do you, mortal?

Balrog was perceptive. He picked up on the direction of that offhand comment immediately. Of course, Enkrid had known he’d understand.

They’d seen each other’s faces enough times to grow fond—well, in a manner of speaking.

He could practically read Balrog’s mood from his face. Not that it was hard; Balrog’s expressions were about as straightforward as they come.

“When I’m curious, I ask.”

Their exchange was odd. One side—a human—spoke as if familiar with his opponent, while the other—the so-called Demon of War—maintained an unfamiliar front. Neither of them seemed to care.

“You two look close.”

Jaxon’s sentences got shorter when he was annoyed—like now.

“Do we?” Enkrid replied casually.

Audin just chuckled in his usual good-natured way.

Jaxon had spoken up, but none of the others seemed particularly concerned with the exchange. The moment the figure rose from the shadow, everyone had shifted into battle stance.

Let your guard down, and you die. The skin prickled with tension.

If you couldn’t read the air in here, you had no business calling yourself a knight.

Any ordinary person stepping into this pressure would have their heart stop—or their lungs collapse. That’s how dense the atmosphere was. It might’ve turned into a labyrinth, but even out in the open, the air wouldn’t feel any less heavy.

The sheer presence exuding from those gathered here was a weapon in itself.

And in the face of all that pressure, Balrog spoke like he was completely untouched by it.

—I came because I was summoned. I had no expectations. But...

His voice didn’t come from vocal cords—it rippled through the air like a vibration. Enkrid was used to it, but the others might be thinking: What the hell kind of magic is this? Not that it was that hard to figure out if you just looked.

And even if they didn’t understand, they wouldn’t care.

Balrog’s mouth curled upward, and the flames in his eyes swirled. Enkrid had seen that look countless times. Joy, exhilaration, satisfaction.

He knew what Balrog was about to say. And when you already knew what someone was going to do, why not strike first?

Enkrid’s mouth moved before Balrog’s.

“Sounds fun, right?”

Somehow, Enkrid was smiling the same way. It wasn’t intentional. It was just a natural mix of anticipation and delight.

He had stolen Balrog’s line. Or rather, reclaimed it—it was something Enkrid used to say all the time.

—Yes. That’s exactly what I was going to say.

Balrog conveyed his thoughts again. Of course, something like that wouldn’t faze him. Balrog wasn’t that kind of guy. Still, he had to settle for the fact that Enkrid had landed the verbal hit first.

Click.

And then—somehow—a fairy was standing one step ahead of Enkrid, grinding her molars as she stepped forward. Enkrid had been at the front, but now he could see the fairy’s back.

Small in frame, but the presence she radiated wasn’t. If you knew what she was capable of, it made sense.

The resolve coming off Shinar was clear. ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) It wasn’t the usual fairy aura. Fairies tended to hide their emotions, observing everything with cool detachment.

This kind of bold advance was rare. It was said fairy pressure didn’t come in form—but in scent.

They used life force, not Will, after all.

The scent of forest air poured forth. Wrapped in that scent, the fairy spoke.

“Who hit you? Was it that thing? Say the word. I’ll swear a blood vendetta.”

Blood. Vengeance. Not the kind of words fairies were known for.

Even Jaxon seemed surprised.

“A blood vendetta... from a fairy?”

“I’ve always wanted to say that, honestly.”

The fairy let go of the tension with a soft comment. A rare moment of fairy-style humor—without engagement, marriage, or Enkrid at the punchline.

If someone were to ask why she was joking in a moment like this, Enkrid could’ve answered immediately.

Fire and demons—those two things triggered Shinar’s trauma. This must’ve been her way of loosening that grip.

“But I meant what I said about revenge.”

Shinar repeated herself.

Loosening tension aside, the Shinar standing here now had no trace of old wounds in her eyes. She was locked onto the thing that had hit Enkrid.

“You dare hit him?”

Her eyes said it all.

The stage had been set. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Enkrid had dragged out time deliberately—waiting for them to arrive. If he were in danger, these were the kind of people who would come running, shouting from afar and risking injury without hesitation.

Preserving his strength and theirs, meeting like this had always been the starting point of his plan.

So yes, it was fair to say—this was a good start.

Rem, Jaxon, Ragna, Audin, Shinar, and himself. Six in total, now standing face-to-face with Balrog.

Off to one side, Oara rolled and just barely lifted her head. Enkrid had lived through enough iterations of today to know: if the battle began like this, Oara would remain sidelined—spectating, instead of turning into Balrog.

She looked this way, and Enkrid met her gaze with his usual detached air. The way he spoke now was no different from when he teased her.

“Today is the last.”

Resolve, will, belief, oath—each of these made one’s Will stronger. Enkrid had forgotten that even if he died, the day would restart. He had forgotten the Ferryman. Forgotten it all.

He held onto only one thought. All his complex reasoning had been reduced to one.

'Kill Balrog.'

This battlefield was shaped by the concepts he’d expanded through endless repetition.

Must he endure all this alone? How far does “alone” even reach? Haven’t their efforts also become part of what he’s built?

If you peeked into Enkrid’s head, you wouldn’t find complicated questions like that. Just a straightforward, burning certainty.

'If I can do it—I do it.'

With the strength of others—his squadmates—he could bring down Balrog without needing to beg.

This wasn’t a calculation. It was a stage built on trust.

The corners of Enkrid’s mouth lifted even higher. Thump-thump. His heart pounded. His Will surged, unrestrained.

To say he wasn’t excited for what came next would be a lie.

In that sense, the word “madman” suited him all too well.

No matter how many times he’d died, he never cowered. He simply existed because there was a fight.

So then—who was the true berserker here?

The unspoken question hung in the air.

As always on this continent, the one who stood victorious was the one who was right.

Winner and loser. Survivor and corpse. It would come down to that. Standing now at the boundary of life and death—

In a perfectly symmetrical scene, the one man smiling looked as though he’d broken out of the frame.

That was Enkrid.

Fwoosh!

The flaming line surrounding Balrog stretched sideways like a serpent, then straightened as if raising its head—uncertain whether it was a whip or a flaming snake.

Next, a sword appeared in his right hand—black fire blazing. The flames kindled from his skin, ran down his arm, and took shape as a weapon.

It was always a fascinating trick. Balrog had the ability to store weapons inside his body.

Enkrid didn’t envy much—but that was one skill he could admit was worth wanting.

Balrog entered battle mode. And seeing that, Enkrid set tactics into motion. There was no time for drawn-out thinking. Definitely no time to collect everyone’s opinions and debate.

So he spoke short and sharp. And the reason it came out as a command was precisely because of that.

“I block. Rem throws. Ragna cuts.”

Of course, that wouldn’t line up perfectly.

Balrog wouldn’t just stand there and watch.

***

“Are you planning to memorize every pattern?”

One day in a past today, the Ferryman asked that out of nowhere.

Watching Enkrid drag things out with three teachers on hand, it had looked like he was studying Balrog’s every move.

But would memorizing all the patterns really lead to victory? That was the heart of the Ferryman’s question.

Even after splitting his thoughts, accelerating cognition, and outperforming in combat calculations—Balrog had simply shattered those premises with ease.

'A single kick was all it took.'

It was like an external force interfering from outside the battlefield. Why had it gone that way?

Simple.

'Balrog has more fighting experience than I do. On battlefields. In duels.'

He didn’t need to calculate combat. His experience filled in the blanks.

He’d fought that much.

And what did that mean?

It meant Enkrid couldn’t block the trajectories of Balrog’s sword, whip, fists, and kicks with just clean equations.

When the Ferryman talked about patterns, it was like stating a law of nature: “Whatever you do, you’ll break eventually. No matter how long you endure, the ending’s the same. And when that time comes—you won’t get to choose.”

Was that meant to help him? Or hinder?

From the Ferryman’s view, Enkrid’s future looked pitch-black. In every sense of the word.

On one hand, it meant his path would be brutally difficult. On the other, even the Ferryman couldn’t see what kind of today awaited anymore. That’s why it was black.

Why couldn’t he see ahead?

Because the “record” had already been broken. And once that happened, it could no longer be the subject of wagers.

That alone had shaken many of the weaker-willed.

“If you surpass this without asking for help, then what? What happens if something worse comes next? You’ll break eventually. And even if you regret it later—nothing will change.”

Enkrid, who had been quiet—thinking about how to fight—looked into the Ferryman’s hollow pupils.

He didn’t know what answer the Ferryman wanted. But his own answer had been decided long ago.

Since the day he first gripped a sword, it had never changed.

“I’ll think about it when I get there.”

Simple. Clear.

The Ferryman had no retort. Words failed him.

Should one stop waking up in the morning, just because the future is uncertain?

The future is always uncertain. No one knows how it will unfold. Not even the Ferryman.

That’s why he said such things.

“If you’re scared, then just stand back and watch.”

Enkrid said that half in jest.

And the Ferryman, unwilling to show fear, once again fell briefly silent.

“Arrogant brat.”

That was all he could say in the end.

Enkrid had never changed.

He simply gave his all to what was in front of him.

What his hands could reach. What he could do. What had to be done now.

If he didn’t give his all now, then the “me” of tomorrow would be no different. And if that was acceptable, he would’ve already stayed in just another ordinary today.

More than anyone, he lived for the moment. For today.

Even within the vast bounds of the Ferryman’s experience, this was a first.