He spoke with thick forearms and a smile that revealed his front teeth.

“I’ve never lost. Not once.”

Woorgh—!

Even mounted, one had to tilt their head back to look up at the giant lined up opposite the blond man.

The roar from the one who stepped forward sent a tremor through the air, making the hairs on your skin stand on end.

A giant? No, similar—but not quite. These creatures had yellow or red skin and wielded weapons like spiked clubs.

The one who let out that roar was clad entirely in metal. It resembled the heavy armor of a knight, but the craftsmanship was crude, a poor imitation.

Even so, the aura emitted from the mass inside that armor was very real.

Just looking at it was enough to make you dizzy. And yet, the man remained calm. He even snorted in derision and opened his mouth again.

“I told you, I don’t lose.”

They were outnumbered. Outmatched in individual might. That was the situation. But the man was always confident. He had to be.

As the leader of a group, he had to possess unwavering resolve. If your spirit broke first, then you couldn’t do anything.

“Watch.”

He stepped forward and fought the mutated giant. Enkrid didn’t know it at the time, but it was one of the giant-type monsters known as the Jotunn.

Similar in appearance to giants, but fundamentally different from the intelligent race of giants.

Some scholars debate whether giants can be called an intelligent species, but even so, they should never be compared to giant-type monsters.

The “Beast of Red Blood” was just a nickname for the giants—these, on the other hand, were truly monsters.

The man fought fiercely and won. His blond hair was soaked in blood, his arm broken, yet he brought his sword down upon the giant’s neck.

“I said I don’t lose.”

Confidence—or perhaps, the anxiety hidden beneath it—peeked through. He plunged his sword into the giant’s heart and let out a howl toward the sky.

Ahhhhh—!

The cry of victory echoed across the battlefield.

“You’re the fastest learner I’ve ever seen.”

“Because I’m a genius.”

The man possessed outstanding talent. To others, his life must have looked like a shining star.

At least that’s how it appeared to everyone. No matter how steep the cliff, he could climb it again and again, reliving today.

While others gave up, he alone swung his sword and turned the tide of battle.

He fought massive wolf beasts. He fought lumped-together monstrosities formed from hordes of draugr. He kept fighting and clawed tomorrow from their grasp.

He endured, and endured.

And then, one by one, those who stayed by his side departed. Outwardly, the man seemed fine.

There was a today he kept repeating in order to protect someone. Some days he achieved that goal; some days he didn’t.

Enkrid witnessed it all.

“Fight, like it’s the first time.”

The man repeated those words to himself. Every day, he brainwashed himself. And then—his lover died.

They made love during the day, and she died in the afternoon.

While he was out fighting, the rear lines were ambushed. The man broke there.

So he decided to stay in that day.

He kept repeating today, always holding the woman as if it were the first time. Always whispering words of love.

“Don’t you have to go to the battlefield?”

“No. What matters to me is this moment.”

If you only had one day to live, what would you do?

Even if chained to this single day for a lifetime—if he could be with her, he’d give up anything.

That was why he tried to move forward despite carrying the curse of today.

He didn’t dream of saving the world—he dreamed of living with this woman.

“Elena.”

The man was trapped inside today, with his lover. That was the end.

“Go forward, like you’ve never fallen once.”

That was the life the man dreamed of. His stance on life. What he ultimately wished to become.

He had no regrets about repeating that day with her. But the self he longed for on the battlefield—wanted something else.

That lingering regret, that yearning, that remorse, that sorrow—all of it bundled into a single message.

Enkrid realized that what he’d heard during the fight wasn’t just an auditory illusion.

“Fight, like it’s the first time.”

The man who had flailed in his dream was now staring straight at Enkrid.

Everything in the city turned gray, and a violet hue spread across the man’s two blue eyes.

“That’s exactly the image I wished and longed for.”

He said.

Then a black robe drooped over his shoulders, wrapping around his body.

He was part of the Ferryman.

“We’ll probably never meet again, but go on. Enkrid.”

A part of the Ferryman encouraged Enkrid. Even in a dream, his heart was painfully real.

Though today had ended and the fire moth was trapped on the ferryboat, it still longed to find the flames and burn itself again.

So too did he wish to vanish from this world, just like Elena. Without her, he wished only to die.

But even now, all of him remained trapped on that ferryboat.

“Still, let’s meet again.”

With those parting words, waves surged from all directions, turning everything into black riverwater. And before he knew it, a ferry had formed beneath his feet, lifting him up.

Standing atop that ferry was the Ferryman, holding a lamp in silence. His black holes for eyes replaced pupils, and the back of his hand exposed beyond the robe looked like the gray wasteland.

Enkrid met the Ferryman’s gaze.

No words.

But he understood now that the Ferryman was not just one being. He had suspected as much already.

If the Ferryman was not a singular being, then he was someone who had ultimately succumbed to today—both a prisoner and a jailer.

Enkrid woke from the dream. And then, he fell into deep thought.

“Did you have a nightmare or something?”

Rem asked, at some point already awake. Enkrid didn’t respond. He looked completely absorbed in something.

“Was it some dogshit dream?”

“That’s not quite it.”

Only then did he answer.

Had the story of the blond knight and his lover struck a chord?

Was it just the kind of melancholy you feel after waking from a sorrowful dream?

It wasn’t that.

'That swordsmanship.'

Enkrid became immersed in the swordsmanship shown by the blond man in the dream.

He often fought opponents larger than himself. If a historian had seen it, they might have called it the Age of Behemoths, but Enkrid wasn’t a historian, so he didn’t know that.

He only knew one thing.

'A swordsmanship honed through fighting opponents many times larger than the average human.'

He focused on the technique—the skill the blond man had demonstrated. He remembered it all, one motion at a time.

Separate from his talent for physical movement, his memory had always been exceptional. And now, having risen to the rank of knight and even forged sword styles of his own, that ability had become something greater.

To Enkrid’s eyes, the essence and execution of the blond man’s swordsmanship were instantly clear.

If he repeated the memory enough times, he could refine it into a viable form of swordsmanship.

If the Ferryman could read his thoughts in detail—especially if the blond Ferryman knew this—it would have left him with a strange feeling.

"Instead of the love story between me and Elena... the swordsmanship? Even in that moment—swordsmanship? Again? Really? What a crazy bastard."

Something like that, maybe.

“No training allowed. Stop. Just stop—stop it.”

Rem chattered beside him.

Even for someone obsessed with training, with his body in that condition, rest had to come first. And in truth, Enkrid had no intention of going out to train.

But his deep contemplation must’ve made it look like he was debating it, at least to Rem. And somehow, the way Rem tried to dissuade him grated a little.

“Do I look like a dog?”

“A horny dog or a commander obsessed with training—same difference.”

Enkrid figured it wouldn’t be that hard to smack Rem’s head using just his foot. But he refrained.

After all, it was true that he wasn’t in any shape to push himself. Rem, too, was coughing up blood from even the slightest shock.

When Enkrid asked what the hell he’d done to end up like that, Rem had given a rather bizarre answer.

“I was trying to kill that horned bastard with wanderlust. That’s all.”

He said it with a grin, but it was the kind of grin that tried to hide something. Enkrid, for no reason, recalled the blond man and Elena from the dream and said,

“Don’t do anything that’d make Owl sad.”

“Tch. Don’t stick your nose in other people’s family matters.”

After that, the group slept like the dead and kept repeating sleep and food in cycles. And two full days after the battle, on the morning of the third day, a group of armed soldiers appeared in the distance.

Had they been enemies, things would’ve gotten very rough.

Enkrid still couldn’t use his arm. Audin couldn’t properly draw on his divine power. Lua Gharne had only her right arm remaining and was regenerating the rest—so she was out entirely. Roman had also been badly injured during the battle.

His thigh had been deeply slashed, and though he was undergoing treatment, any mistake and he’d be limping for life.

“It’s not like you can’t be a knight just because you limp.”

Roman said this as if something had finally clicked for him.

It was a fair point, so Enkrid simply nodded in agreement.

In the end, those still capable of fighting were Rophod, Pell, Teresa, and Enkrid.

Realistically, Enkrid shouldn’t be fighting either—but he insisted he’d be fine just using his legs.

The approaching group wasn’t just one unit. There was a faint boundary drawn between the two factions. The sun had been rising steadily on a string of clear days, and its rays shone right through the divide, as if cutting it in half.

They were approaching with the light at their backs. Two riders broke off from the larger groups and advanced toward them.

The residents of the Demon Realm were still anxious, but by now, they simply chose to believe in the Mad Order of Knights.

Two riders approached, backlit by sunlight, and opened their mouths at the same time.

“Commander?”

“Brother?”

They were both familiar faces.

One had once served under Enkrid but had since restored a ruined noble house and earned the rank of aristocrat—Andrew Gardner.

The other was someone he’d seen in passing—a high-ranking priest of the Holy Nation, the head of the Heretical Purge Inquisition.

“If Crang sent you to attack me, then he’s lost his damn mind—so it’s not that. And I take it Noah didn’t send you with orders to attack either?”

Enkrid asked.

The two dismounted and nodded matter-of-factly.

“His Majesty the King ordered us to assist. He said to ask if anything is needed.”

“Legion will always stand by your side. Half the reason I came is the Pope’s orders, and half is my own will.”

The priest said with a serene smile. Neither of them were enemies.

And in fact, Enkrid had been feeling some concern about leaving the Demon Realm residents behind like this.

After making such a commotion about saving and protecting them, they couldn’t just sweep the area once and abandon it.

Given time, it was inevitable that demons and monsters would resurface in the region.

Unless the Demon Realm itself disappeared, that would never change.

Leaving Roman here had also been part of the plan to both aid in his training and to help protect this city.

Enkrid slowly recited what he’d already said before—to Andrew.

They could relocate a portion of Oara’s forces here, and this land would be designated as part of Border Guard territory.

“It’s too far from Border Guard. I don’t think you’re just after land. For protection, His Majesty said this area should be made part of the Naurillia domain.”

'My country, my people.'

There was something Crang had once said in a speech Enkrid had heard long ago.

If they were making this place part of Naurillia, then it meant they were accepting these people—regardless of their appearances—as citizens of the nation.

It was all because Enkrid had willed it.

Of course, Crang had deeper calculations. Claiming a portion of the Demon Realm would allow them to put pressure on the southern regions—a strategic point.

That’s what he wanted from this village.

So the relocation of part of Oara’s army? Approved.

“We’ll assist.”

And in that process, Legion got involved.

Andrew showed his nobility by engaging in... politics.

“Very well.”

By maintaining a favorable relationship with the Heretical Purge Inquisition, they’d managed to create something like an alliance with Legion.

Crang and Noah had both been feeling each «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» other out.

They couldn’t exactly declare, “We’re friends now!” when there were still internal issues to navigate.

But truthfully, both sides had started to feel closer—thanks to the unifying presence of Enkrid.

This small village would be the starting point of that relationship.

Andrew was, in every sense, a full noble now.

“He asked if he could stop by on the way.”

“Crang?”

“Yes.”

At Andrew’s words, Enkrid gave a quiet nod.

Neither of them mentioned anything about Balrog—whether he’d been slain or not. As a result, no one on the continent knew that Balrog had died.

But to the demons who still nested within the Demon Realm, it was a different story.

Balrog had, whether willingly or not, played some role in the southern part of the continent—and that role had now vanished.

Well, Enkrid didn’t much care about that sort of thing. That was a matter for later. And there were plenty of smarter people to deal with it anyway.

Thus, with Andrew and the High Priest joining them—

“How was it?”

Roman asked during a quiet afternoon, a time of rest.

“Still smiling.”

Enkrid gave one last report on Oara’s condition.

The ever-smiling Oara. Her last squire, Roman, fell into a brief silence before nodding.

The conviction carved deep into his face would not waver easily now.

And if it did, well—he could be beaten back into shape.

Enkrid and the others stayed another fifteen days.

And just before their departure, the village chief Zoraslav approached with an item wrapped in clean cloth.

“Please...”

Bowing his head in a gesture of offering, he held out the wrapped bundle.