'A sharper jawline?'
It seemed as though today's ferryman had somehow lost weight, making his features appear more refined.
However, he wasn't the type of person Enkrid could casually comment to about what he observed.
So, he simply kept his mouth shut.
As a result, silence draped over the river, with neither of them speaking. With no words exchanged, they merely observed each other through the mist. Enkrid gazed through the thin veil of black mist at the hooded figure.
The ferryman, too, remained silent.
There was no disturbance in the air, no sign of any prior movement.
And yet, without even blinking, Enkrid knew that the ferryman had suddenly appeared right before him.
It was impossible not to be startled.
That said, it wasn't something to be terrified about either. Even within his mental world, Enkrid remained unshaken. This level of composure had become second nature to him. The ferryman wordlessly extended his hand.
His palm was cracked like parched earth in a drought.
Between those cracked lines, something black seemed to writhe.
The moment Enkrid focused on that wriggling black line, he found himself no longer on the small boat floating atop the dark river.
'An illusion.'
Rather than analyze it at length, he simply recognized it at once. It was never easy to discern the ferryman's intentions.
No matter how many times they met, no matter how often they repeated this journey together, it remained the same.
But this time, the illusion unfolded before his eyes.
"Ugh."
The ground, the weather—none of it was visible.
All he could make out were blurry figures beyond the blackened haze. Yet, recognizing them wasn't difficult.
'Ragna.'
Ragna, coughing up blood, wiped his lips and lifted his head.
"You said you never refuse a fight. That includes this one, too."
Who was he speaking to?
Beyond the hazy figure, the outline of someone lying on the ground flickered in and out of sight. From the shadow alone, it was impossible to identify them.
Ragna's form wavered like smoke before vanishing entirely.
Though he had been standing right in front of Enkrid, close enough to reach out and touch, the distance between them felt strangely vast.
It was as if he were seeing and hearing everything from somewhere far, far away. Ragna disappeared, and immediately after, another figure rose from the soot-filled air.
"…Admit it. If it were me, I could have fixed everything. I won."
"You idiot, if you're dead, you lost."
"The elixir, the Panax, the Remede Omnia."
What kind of nonsense was this?
A string of incomprehensible words.
Enkrid ignored the unfamiliar terms and focused solely on the situation. Anne had been defeated by someone and was speaking on the brink of death. 'Who is she talking to?'
The opponent wasn't visible.
Their voice was indistinct, neither male nor female.
"If you're dead, you lost. You are nothing."
Anne coughed and dissolved into smoke.
Then, the smoke gathered again, forming another figure.
A middle-aged man.
His thick eyebrows contrasted against his sunken cheeks, and his body was sturdy and well-built. There was no way to gauge his aura, but his appearance alone revealed plenty.
The lack of excess flesh, the hollowed cheeks—it all indicated someone who maintained rigorous training even at his age.
'He reminds me of Graham.'
There was a lord among the Border Guard, a veteran who had never put down his sword despite his age and had risen to the rank of the highest ranking soldier.
He was the epitome of perseverance, an inspiration to all soldiers.
"There is no such thing as being too late. There is only me, who has yet to act." That was something Graham often said.
A man who had once taken Enkrid's words, interpreted them in his own way, and internalized them.
If this stranger reminded Enkrid of Graham, it was likely because they were similar. As a knight trained in sensory techniques, Enkrid's instincts were usually right.
The unfamiliar man, his expression hard, finally spoke. "Are you saying all of this is my fault?"
Another wisp of smoke rose, forming a new figure—Ragna.
His chest was stained with dried blood, and even his clean-shaven jaw was now covered in a crust of blood.
Holding his sword, he asked, "Then, are you saying it isn't?"
Perhaps the man hesitated before responding, or perhaps time itself distorted within the vision, but Enkrid perceived only a brief silence before an answer followed.
"…This was the best I could do."
"Bullshit."
Ragna responded immediately, without even taking a breath.
The smoke scattered, and before Enkrid knew it, he was back on the boat. The ferryman, now holding a lamp, had turned his back on him.
"Why did you show me this?" Enkrid asked.
The ferryman turned his head slightly.
Through the gap in his hood, his face was as pitch-black as when Enkrid had first seen him today.
No eyes, no features—just darkness.
Then, rather than a voice, a single thread of meaning brushed against Enkrid's forehead. It was not words, but something conveyed directly into his mind.
"You remember this. Don't forget."
And then he woke up.
He was surrounded by dim darkness. A different texture, a different hue. Reality.
"Had a nightmare?"
A voice drew his attention downward.
At the entrance of the tent, Magrun stood.
The early evening light framed his silhouette, the deepening twilight casting a pale blue sky behind him.
His shadow stretched across the ground, reaching all the way to Enkrid's feet.
"Not a nightmare."
Enkrid answered as he got up.
The ferryman's intentions were still as difficult to read as ever.
A walking fire and something different—that had been a warning. The last time had been interference.
It was called advice, but had the ferryman ever once said exactly what Enkrid wanted to hear? Ah, but then again, real advice is rarely what the listener wants.
Perhaps that made the ferryman an excellent advisor. A passing thought.
A joke he couldn't share with anyone.
But setting jokes aside, what exactly was this?
The ferryman had merely shown him a few people and let him hear a few words. Not a single word had come from his own lips.
Even the last thing he said had felt oddly different from his usual way of conveying meaning.
"Nothing happened, right?"
"So far."
Enkrid asked, and Magrun answered. The attacks wouldn't end with just one.
Magrun had already reached that conclusion. Truthfully, everyone shared the same thought. Enkrid was no exception.
"You look like you just had a chat with a 'thoughtful scholar.'" Magrun noted the change in Enkrid's expression after waking.
"What?"
"It's an old imperial joke."
"What kind of joke?"
As Enkrid stretched his stiff body, Magrun crouched at the entrance of the tent, resting his chin on his hand.
He hesitated, wondering where to start—whether this was even worth explaining at all. But in the end, Magrun dismissed the thought.
If someone wanted to understand, they'd just have to listen.
"Well, it's just one of those trivial remarks, you know? Explaining it makes it sound even more ridiculous, but scholars—well, they always think they're wise, and they love the sound of their own voices, never caring how their words affect others. Some of the more tactful ones start with a joke to ease tensions and soften the mood before slipping in what they actually want to say, making the listener overthink things. That's basically it. When I say 'tactful,' I mean they just loosen the atmosphere—ultimately, they still speak in ways only they can understand. And now that I'm explaining it, it sounds really strange."
"Yeah, it does sound strange."
"Well, in the Empire, people just understand it right away. Not my fault."
"I never said it was."
With that, Enkrid stepped outside.
Nearby, Ragna was staring blankly at the sky, while Odincar stood beside him, absentmindedly stroking his mane.
Anne was right next to Ragna, and Grida was gazing at the stars, trying to determine their path. "It won't rain," Grida remarked upon sensing their presence.
Enkrid glanced up at the sky and nodded in agreement before turning to Anne. "Anne, did you get any sleep?"
"No."
He didn't ask why.
She had spent the night drenched in the blood of beasts, fully aware that both monsters and beasts were after her.
Under such circumstances, only the lunatic knights would be able to sleep soundly.
"Try to get some rest at night. I doubt we'll be slowing down our march."
"Understood."
It wouldn't be easy, but Anne wasn't foolish enough to complain under these circumstances. "Let's stay another day," Grida suggested.
Rather than setting out at night, they might as well take an extra day to recover. That had been the plan from the start.
Grida lit a campfire while Enkrid retrieved their preserved rations.
He added water to a pot, tossing in some dried meat and vegetables to make a simple stew.
He also chewed through a few pieces of pemmican—though Krais had supposedly improved the taste, it was still just barely edible survival food.
To that, he added a special "knightly ration."
It was a blend of dried meat, fish, and fruit ground into powder.
When mixed with water, it provided significantly more calories than pemmican. Taste?
That wasn't the priority.
It was a combat ration, nothing more.
Had they not anticipated battle, they might have hunted for a more decent meal, but that wasn't an option right now.
Soldiers fight better when properly fed, and knights were no exception. As he ate, Enkrid considered the choices available to them.
The simplest option was to return to the city. 'We haven't gone that far.'
They had come on horseback, so they could return just as easily.
The second option was to send Anne back before continuing forward. 'If Anne is the target, Border Guard would be safer.'
The city had Esther.
With her there, amateur mages wouldn't stand a chance. There were also more allies stationed there.
'But Anne wouldn't want that.'
The third option was to bring reinforcements.
It would delay their plans, but it was the safest route.
If Jaxen had been with them last night, they wouldn't have been able to escape so easily. His detection and tracking skills were unparalleled—few could avoid his gaze.
The fourth option was to press on as they were, dealing with whatever lay ahead. He doubted he'd pick any of the first three options.
They all involved significant delays.
The real issue was that they didn't fully understand the enemy's intent. But they had at least one clue:
'If they were truly after Anne, they would've made another move by now.' But the enemy had done nothing.
They simply let them be.
Which meant their goal might just be to stall them.
Would it be better to increase their marching speed? 'That's not so simple.'
He scratched his chin, contemplating.
Even if Ragna carried Anne on his back, it would be difficult. Anne wasn't a knight—she wouldn't hold up well under such strain. And Ragna couldn't sprint indefinitely.
The key to effective marching wasn't just moving as fast as possible, but maintaining combat readiness while minimizing risks.
Even if they took turns carrying Anne and used their full strength to charge ahead, their stamina would drain too quickly.
Even if Anne endured it, there would still be problems.
"This kind of fight is a pain, isn't it?"
Ragna suddenly spoke beside him.
Enkrid answered reflexively, speaking exactly what was on his mind. It was the usual way the lunatic knights conversed—raw, unfiltered. Rem, Ragna, Audin, Jaxen, and Krais had all spoken like this for years.
That was why they never felt the need to show Enkrid pointless hostility from the start.
"Doesn't matter. I never refuse a fight."
The moment he said it, Enkrid flinched, staring into the campfire. A brief shiver ran down his spine.
Slowly, he lifted his head, gazing into the darkness.
The cause of his unease was the vision the Ferryman had shown him in his dream.
"I don't mind either," Ragna said, matching his tone.
It sounded sincere.
And Enkrid wondered— 'The future?'
Had the Ferryman shown him not yesterday or today, but tomorrow? Or had he revealed the 'present' Enkrid was about to be trapped in?
Just as before, the Ferryman had shown him fragmented glimpses of what was to come, like a dream.
They hadn't always come true exactly as seen, but something close to them always did. This time, however, he had simply shown Enkrid the future without a single word.
What was his intent? Enkrid didn't know.
But he did know one thing—
Overthinking was the worst thing he could do right now. So what was the next step?
The answer was simple: sort through his options and start with the easiest one. What could be done within the manageable range at this moment?
Enkrid's gaze landed on Odincar.
His face showed signs of tension and anxiety.
Even while eating, he continuously displayed discomfort.
A fifth option had just come to mind, following the fourth one. 'Split the group.'
Odincar was a formidable fighter, someone even Enkrid couldn't easily guarantee victory against if he fought for his life.
He also knew the way back to Yohan, and his instincts were clearly urging him to return.
"Let's send Odincar ahead."
After reaching this conclusion, Enkrid spoke.
Grida and Magrun looked at him. "Is that not an option?"
When he asked again, the two exchanged glances.
Meanwhile, Odincar, who had been staring blankly, suddenly had a spark in his eyes. With a sharp clap of his hands, he said,
"Right, that's an option too. You always do enjoy making unexpected moves. Alright, I'll go ahead."