Eternally Regressing Knight-Chapter 494 - Fortune Flows in Both Directions

Chapter 494 - Fortune Flows in Both Directions

Rem crouched before a corpse whose skull was cracked and decaying.

With a dagger in hand, he split open the cadaver's chest.

Rotten flesh tore apart effortlessly, and the blade, tainted by the decaying tissue, turned black.

The rigor mortis had already dissipated, making the task easier.

Even if it hadn't, it wouldn't have mattered.

From within the chest cavity, he unearthed a heart, partially devoured by worms, riddled with holes and damage.

Blackened blood had coagulated into a viscous substance.

Interesting.

Assessing the situation before the captain's return was a fundamental step for Rem.

None present truly understood, but his comprehension of sorcery had advanced far beyond its previous limits.

Part of this growth came from innate talent, yet much was due to the lessons gained after slaying the Immortal Madman and the inspiration drawn from Enkrid, which had reshaped his perspective on life.

Examining the traces of sorcery, he gained a rough understanding of what had transpired—specifically, what the opponent had done.

This isn't typical spirit magic.

It was an unorthodox craft—a technique achieved by borrowing power from another entity. After reviewing several possibilities, Rem reached his conclusion:

Fortune smiled upon me.

He agreed with Geonnara's assessment.

The scales of fate had tipped slightly in their favor.

He also gleaned some additional insights—the identity of the unorthodox craft.

The Sacred Demon Cult, a heretical sect, worshipped demons as gods.

Their priests borrowed divine powers, and it stood to reason that the cultists could do the same.

By praying to the rulers of the Demon Realm, they channeled their power.

Would this qualify as divine magic?

If Audin knew, he'd throw a fit, yelling blasphemy while launching a double kick on the spot.

Still, this technique blended demonic teachings, infernal power, and a prodigious talent for sorcery.

They performed a ritual to deify a demon?

Understanding the principles and tracing the sequence of events gave him clarity.

Yet, acting impulsively wouldn't change anything.

There must have been additional sacrifices sent to the intended destination.

It's not the Demon Realm.

Muttering to himself, Rem nodded. "It's not far off."

"Of course it isn't," Luagarne replied beside him.

It was an obvious statement.

At most, the journey might take a fortnight on foot.

Other offerings would have been placed at the destination, meaning the target wasn't hurled into the Demon Realm.

After all, the realm's silence wasn't easily disturbed, nor was it a place one could casually send someone.

With sorcery of this caliber, all the offerings are likely dead.

The worst-case scenario was the land beyond the Sands of Death.

If not there, then they would likely emerge somewhere in the western plains, gazing at the stars to navigate his way back.

Rem concluded, "He hasn't gone far."

That night, two moons lit up the western lands, their light shining brightly as the stars scattered across the night sky.

"Are you worried?" Luagarne asked, watching Rem.

He had been examining the corpse, organizing his thoughts, but now sat by the fire, lightly roasting wind rabbit meat.

Even a slight misstep would burn it, ruining the flavor entirely.

Cooking required precision.

Staring into the fire, Rem replied, "If he were the sort to die from this, he'd have perished long ago."

Luagarne conceded the point.

The initial shock of Enkrid's disappearance had faded, leaving behind acceptance.

Dunbakel felt the same.

When Rem appeared, her confidence in Enkrid's return was almost instinctive, followed by a short nod of approval.

Though Rem entertained the worst-case scenario, he doubted their leader would succumb to such misfortune.

Surviving countless near-death experiences made him immune to luck's caprice.

If, by some chance, Enkrid had perished?

It was an idle thought, one he quickly dismissed.

What's the point of gaining magic, if it ends like this?

Rem chose to wait calmly. Pacing around wouldn't change the outcome.

"Just focus on your tasks. What's the point in searching when nothing's visible? If it's not the desert, he'll find his way back."

"And if he's in the Sands of Death?"

"He'll still return."

When the chieftain asked this, Rem responded without hesitation.

How, exactly?

He couldn't say.

But Enkrid would return, as he always had.

Call it baseless faith, or trust—it didn't matter.

Enkrid would fulfill his promises, guarding whatever he held dear.

He still needs to taste my heirloom weapon.

Three days passed since Rem inspected the corpse.

Enkrid had yet to return, and no trace of him had appeared.

***

Meditation.

Reflection.

Deliberation.

Lost in thought, Enkrid watched the sun dip below the horizon.

He tried gauging his direction, but the unfamiliar sky betrayed him.

There was no sunset glow, only fading light giving way to twilight and, swiftly, to night.

Under the starless desert sky, the heat vanished, leaving biting cold in its wake.

As the temperature plummeted, the frigid air seemed intent on freezing him to death.

Then, a sudden warmth rose from within his chest, banishing the chill instantly.

Reaching into his pocket, Enkrid drew out the source—a dagger emitting a faint crimson glow.

"A dagger imbued with warmth," Hira had called it when she handed it to him.

Its heat formed a thin barrier around him, shielding him from the cold.

For now, he had warmth.

But direction?

That was still a problem.

Enkrid inventoried his possessions:

Acker and Gladius, his main weapons;

Spark, his fairy sword;

A set of throwing knives in a chest holster, one hidden blade strapped to his ankle, and lightweight armor crafted from spider shell.

Lucky Fish, wasn't it?

There was also the preserved food, a bracelet gifted by Jiba's mother, a composite bow made by a craftsman from Oara, and the glowing dagger.

Finally, he had a dagger with a long central blood groove—the "Calamity Dagger," as it was called.

It was nothing more than a token—its blade unsharpened. Curses, supposedly, were devoured and scorched by the Ferryman, leaving it with little practical use.

There was no tool to help guide him in the right direction.

All he had were blades and preserved rations.

Enkrid faced a choice: to move or to stay.

But the answer was clear.

If standing still changed nothing, movement was the essence of who Enkrid was.

He began to walk, his steps deliberate and heavy.

Starlight blanketed the sky, illuminating an endless expanse of sand.

Though there was nothing but desert in sight, he trudged forward tirelessly for an entire night.

The warmth from his dagger kept the cold at bay, a small mercy he was grateful for. As night turned to dawn, he tore pieces of his undergarments to wrap around his head. If the sun continued to rise unimpeded, his scalp and face would blister under its merciless heat.

Even now, his skin was burning, and his neck felt scorched.

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By the time the sun rose again, he knew walking during the day was impossible.

The cold at night was tolerable thanks to the dagger, so he decided to travel only under the stars, moving slowly and breathing deeply.

Perhaps there was another way—like running with all his might, propelling himself beyond human limits by unleashing bursts of Will through his thigh muscles.

Could he escape the desert in one fell swoop?

And if he failed?

How many bursts could he manage—ten, twenty?

Assuming his body could withstand it, would that even suffice to cross the wasteland?

No, such thoughts were folly.

The best course was to conserve his strength, move steadily, and endure.

As he walked, he contemplated the limits of human survival.

People typically died after three days without water, but the exact threshold varied.

Enkrid, with his remarkable stamina and patience, avoided overexertion. He neither sprinted recklessly nor wasted precious energy.

Instead, he conserved every ounce of strength and moisture in his body, treading carefully. On the tenth day, a change broke the monotony: a sand dune appeared, peculiar enough to give him pause.

The moment he stopped, a sharp object whizzed toward him.

Instinctively, Enkrid drew his blade, deflecting the attack with a calculated sweep.

Thud!

A tail.

To be precise, the tail of a scorpion-like beast emerged.

With a loud roar, the creature burst from the sand.

A magical beast or monster, but its appearance was oddly comforting.

Enkrid briefly glimpsed countless attack trajectories.

He could charge forward and cleave it with his sword or dodge and strike with a fiery thrust.

However, each option would cost him stamina.

Instead, Enkrid flicked his left hand, and the dagger he held flew through the air, piercing the scorpion's head.

Crack!

The creature's tough exoskeleton shattered, sending chunks of its blackened blood scattering.

Adapted to desert life, its blood had solidified, not liquid but crystalline.

Not that it mattered; monster blood was undrinkable anyway.

If anything, the sight made his thirst worse.

"I'm parched."

His skin felt parched, too, rough and cracked.

As Enkrid extended his hand, the dagger returned slowly, as if tugged back by an invisible thread.

He tightened his grip, pulling it faster until it landed firmly in his hand. He admired its craftsmanship. A weapon this effective had been a waste to leave unused for so long.

Gathering his scattered gear, he adjusted the bow slung over his back. Though it wasn't heavy, it was cumbersome. He briefly questioned why he had brought it—he hadn't even practiced archery. But as he used the monster's shell to create a makeshift shade, the bow proved its worth as a frame for his cover. He reconsidered, realizing the bow had its uses, especially as it endured both heat and cold without issue.

"Perhaps I could substitute it with Ember or the Gladius," he mused. But he didn't discard it.

By the twelfth day, his body exhibited clear signs of dehydration. His urine had turned black and reeked. His skin, dry and brittle, failed to regain its shape when pressed. His armor felt unbearably heavy, but abandoning it would mean succumbing to the day's searing heat. His thirst was unrelenting, as though it constricted his very heart. His lips cracked and peeled, his skin shedding like bark stripped from a tree.

"Like a molting snake," he thought grimly, staggering forward until dizziness overwhelmed him.

"You are alone, surrounded by nothingness.

What is solitude but torment?

Such is the day you have chosen."

The Ferryman's voice echoed from afar, though there was no river, no boat, not even a lamp—just the haunting resonance of his words. Enkrid lacked the energy to respond, so he merely listened and opened his eyes, resuming his march. Time blurred, the days melting into an indistinguishable continuum of pain and delirium. He wandered aimlessly, directionless, knowing he might never escape the desert.

The Ferryman had succeeded in his aim, yet Enkrid walked on, driven by sheer will. He was still human, after all. Without sustenance, even knights and squires were mortal. Yet, he resisted consuming his rations, knowing the salted fish would only worsen his thirst. His restraint was extraordinary.

Despite legends of mirages, Enkrid saw none. His ironclad patience left no room for hallucinations. So, he walked, step after step, crossing countless thresholds of exhaustion.

"It's hot."

When the sun's rays burned through the gaps in his monster-shell cover, he finally collapsed, his consciousness fading. Even as he stood at the brink of death, his body, tempered by willpower and training, refused to yield.

But Enkrid himself wasn't entirely aware of his death.

"Is this the same day?"

The unchanging desert landscape made it impossible to distinguish one day from the next. He died on his feet, walking, yet his perception blurred the lines between death and another excruciating day.

The Ferryman reappeared sporadically, sometimes laughing, other times offering pity.

"Give up, and you'll find peace," he urged, before vanishing once more.

At times, faint voices echoed in his mind, fragments of unspoken conversations:

"Hey, I can't quite speak yet. If you've got any Will left, pour some more into me."

Though incomprehensible, these murmurs spurred Enkrid onward, his instincts guiding his steps.

"Today, this way."

The desert was a land of no paths, its meaninglessness making the search for direction futile. Some whispered of desert guides, but even they rarely ventured into such inhospitable terrain.

One day, a sandstorm consumed him; on another, dehydration claimed him. Each death was followed by more wandering. How many times had he died? How many days had passed in this endless torment?

Living was agony, and dying brought no relief.

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