Chapter 12 - The Ferryman
The frog reflected on the scene captured by his eyes.
"I thought he'd win."
He was a guy Frog had trained himself, someone with considerable talent.
Though his personality was unpleasant, that wasn't Frog's concern.
A soldier trained specifically in thrusting techniques, he had decent potential.
He wasn't the kind to die on such a minor battlefield.
Had he been left to his own devices, he might have at least reached the skill level of a company commander.
Frog pondered the reason for the soldier's death.
"Was it lack of experience?"
No, that couldn't be it.
He had trained plenty of soldiers using similar methods before.
This guy shouldn't have died so easily.
"Was it because of a bad opponent?"
In that case, it was just bad luck—Lady Luck had turned her back on him.
The frog chuckled with a guttural grruk-grruk sound.
"Luck is a skill, too."
When Frog entered the allied camp, his adjutant approached.
"I've been looking for you, General."
"Ah, is that so?"
"Did you venture into enemy territory?"
"I just went out for a bit of fun."
"You seem to be in good spirits."
"I saw someone who got stabbed to death there."
For Frog, the word heart was taboo.
Just seeing someone die from a wound to the heart was enough to make him sick.
But here he was, laughing about it.
The adjutant wondered if something was wrong with the general's head.
Yet he refrained from questioning it.
An experienced soldier like Frog might occasionally utter the word heart.
And the Frog standing before him was a seasoned military man.
If he wanted, he could easily say the word without hesitation.
Thus, it wasn't surprising that Frog could laugh after witnessing such a death.
More precisely, Frog laughed when he saw something even more intriguing than death by a stab to the heart.
"You must've seen something interesting."
"Well, just a curious fellow."
It wasn't likely an ally.
If it were, Frog would've brought him over long ago.
Frog shrugged it off and strode forward.
His soles were thick and tough, rendering boots unnecessary.
Some Frogs even embedded nails into their soles for better grip, but Frog wasn't fond of such practices.
With proper training and skill, slippery soles could become a weapon.
"He mimicked the thrust."
It wasn't talent—it was sheer effort.
Frog could assess an opponent's mastery of techniques just by observing them.
He had seen that soldier thrust and had immediately understood.
"A skill tempered and refined through countless trials."
It wasn't just learned—it was a survival technique, honed under life-threatening circumstances.
Not a matter of talent, but relentless effort.
"He had minimal talent."
Luck might pile up dozens, even hundreds of times, but surviving to that extent seemed implausible.
Even if the rest of his skills were subpar, his thrust was passable.
But how?
"With such meager skill?"
Had he repeatedly survived on the battlefield?
To learn like that—to risk death and emerge alive—was proof of facing countless stronger foes.
How was that possible?
It wasn't.
That's why it intrigued Frog.
"It'd be nice to see him again."
But Frog doubted that would happen.
Lady Luck was unfair.
She was a blatant favoritist, granting fortune to some while depriving others.
And even luck had its limits.
"He must've used up a lifetime's worth of luck."
There'd be no next time.
Not that he'd die today—Frog had kicked him, and he somehow managed to defend himself.
Plus, the two who came to his aid suggested he wouldn't die on this battlefield.
Still, his survival wouldn't last long.
Facing stronger opponents might improve his skills, but only if he had hundreds of lives to spare.
"General."
"Let's eat."
Frog set aside his thoughts about the man and shifted focus.
It was time to eat and strategize.
The golden-haired adjutant nodded at Frog's words.
"Understood, sir. I'll prepare the meal."
***
A ferryman came into view.
Enkrid became aware that he was seated in a small boat.
"A dream?"
This had happened once before—a long time ago.
When was it?
"When I first woke up again."
A ferryman without a mouth.
A voice filled with curiosity.
Faint memories stirred.
"Back then..."
He'd dismissed it as a meaningless dream.
What significance could a ferryman in a dream hold?
"You made it through another day, huh?"
The ferryman spoke.
As before, Enkrid couldn't respond.
It seemed all he could do was listen.
"Though you have eyes, you cannot see; though you have a mouth, you cannot speak; though you have ears, you cannot hear properly."
The ferryman's words carried a melodic rhythm.
Enkrid couldn't even blink.
His senses and body were beyond his control.
"What can you do now?"
If this was a dream, shouldn't he be able to cast spells or something?
It felt like a dream, but it wasn't.
Realizing this, Enkrid understood that listening was all he could do.
"Can you endure? Will you continue, even as walls stand before you?"
The words made no sense.
Hadn't the ferryman just said he couldn't properly hear?
"You can't even hear my name yet."
Enkrid stared at the ferryman.
A blurry image formed through a black haze, like morning dew obscuring his vision.
Everything was dark.
At first, Enkrid thought the ferryman merely lacked a mouth.
But there was nothing—just darkness.
"What you hear now is merely my whim and goodwill."
The ferryman chuckled. It wasn't visible, but Enkrid somehow knew he was laughing.
'So what's the point of all this?'
"Child, nothing is over yet, and you cannot escape. The 'walls' before you will remain, becoming your destiny."
The word wall felt strange.
What the ferryman actually said sounded different, yet it registered as wall.
What was this?
"Can you survive?"
Nonsense.
"Of course I will."
Wait—he could speak now?
There was no time to question it.
The ferryman seemed more surprised than Enkrid.
"You..."
The ferryman muttered something before Enkrid's consciousness began to fade.
Splash.
The small boat vanished.
Enkrid sank into deep waters.
Beyond the black haze, a will—rather than words—was conveyed.
"You won't remember this. But."
A faint chuckle.
The ferryman continued.
"You're an amusing one."
And with that, it ended.
Enkrid sank deeper into the abyss, losing consciousness as he descended into the profound darkness.
***
"…Who is the hero of this battlefield?"
"Cypress!"
"Who is the master of this battlefield?"
"Cypress!"
"Who races toward tomorrow?"
"Cypess!"
"Who delivers the judgment?"
It was a song—lively rhythm, robust voices, a cadence perfectly in sync.
A military song?
No, it wasn't.
Since joining this unit, Enkrid had learned a few military songs, but this wasn't one of them.
What they taught here weren't songs, but chants meant to inspire—a rhythmic rallying cry.
"We will win!
Blessed by the sun that never sets!
Empowered by the divine!"
That sort of thing.
No melody, just shouts that doubled as a roar.
But this—this had melody and rhythm.
And it sounded oddly familiar.
The bard's song.
Not all bards are the same.
Some align themselves with a cause, joining armies to boost morale.
This must have been one of those instances.
Who would write a hymn praising Cypress otherwise?
The bard probably hadn't even met the knight called Cypress.
"Awake yet?"
A voice pulled Enkrid's attention.
He turned to see Rem.
His side throbbed violently.
When he raised a hand to touch it, Rem swatted it away.
"Relax. It's not broken, just bruised. Your head, though? Took quite the shaking. Now, how many fingers am I holding up?"
Rem wiggled a few fingers in front of his face.
"Go eat dirt."
Enkrid struggled to make sense of everything.
'Today' was over.
Acknowledging that was disorienting enough. Rem's teasing was hard to entertain.
"See? Still dazed. I'm Rem—your eternal companion."
"Crazy bastard."
"Forget me already? That's harsh, captain."
Enkrid closed his eyes briefly and opened them again.
The day was done, meaning a night had passed.
His thoughts were scattered.
His dreams, chaotic.
Wasn't I told I wouldn't remember them?
Yet they remained, vivid and haunting.
Black water, a tiny boat, and a faceless ferryman.
Even the ferryman's words lingered in his mind.
They felt distant, like events from long ago.
Enkrid's memory had always been sharp since childhood.
He remembered it all.
"I haven't forgotten—noble killer."
Recalling one of Rem's old nicknames made him grin.
"Shh, that's a secret!"
The banter ceased, Rem giving a mock glare.
His eyes asked why Enkrid brought that up.
Shaking off his lingering disorientation, Enkrid focused.
First thing's first.
"What happened to me?"
Only then did Rem get serious, explaining.
The death of the stabbing pervert.
Enkrid's suddenly improved skills.
And the Frog.
A Frog intervened?
After years as a mercenary, it was his first time seeing one in person.
And certainly his first time being struck by one.
He was lucky his ribs weren't entirely shattered.
What would happen if you faced a Frog on the battlefield?
"Run."
"Hide."
"Die."
Three seasoned mercenaries, three different answers.
But the conclusion was the same.
If you couldn't run or hide, you died.
That's how dangerous and fearsome Frogs were.
All combat races were like that.
Giants, dragonkin, faeries—each naturally superior to humans.
But when it came to reaching the level of knights, humans led the numbers.
That's why humanity dominated this continent.
"After that, I carried you out of the battlefield myself. Through hell, no less. Nearly died doing it."
If it had truly been life-threatening, Rem wouldn't be bragging.
"I owe you one."
"Good. Ten shifts washing dishes should cover it."
This guy.
Enkrid sighed inwardly but nodded.
When their conversation ended, Enkrid told Rem to leave.
But Rem lingered, still smiling as usual.
"Practicing alone, huh? When I wasn't looking?"
What was he on about now?
"Your heart—it's ripened."
What?
"Think I wouldn't recognize my own teachings?"
Ah!
Enkrid realized Rem had been watching him.
Of course, he'd been watching.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have arrived in time to help.
"Something like that. A few brushes with death, and I just… got it."
He'd rehearsed plausible excuses dozens of times.
This one was the most convincing—and true, in part.
He left out how close he came to actually dying.
"Well done."
Rem finally stood.
"Rest up. You need to heal before there's a 'next time.'"
Enkrid glanced around.
He was in the medical tent, surrounded by other wounded soldiers.
He tried to sit up but was stopped by a soldier with a weak, raspy voice.
"Don't move yet. You'll make it worse. Your head took a hard hit."
Ordinary soldiers didn't often get medical attention.
If a comrade skilled with herbs wasn't nearby, you were on your own—or dead.
I made it to the medical tent somehow.
How didn't matter for now.
He could find out later.
What mattered was—
I survived today.
A new day had begun.
At the tent's entrance, light seeped through the gaps.
It wasn't sunlight.
The flickering glow of torches and moving shadows.
The bard's song continued outside.
"Who is the hero?"
"Cypress!"
The soldiers' voices echoed in response.
He survived today.
He lived to see tomorrow.
Though unconscious all morning and afternoon, waking only in the evening.
"Just a day?"
He asked the attendant medic.
"A day? No, it's been two."
The shock must have been worse than he thought.
Enkrid closed his eyes.
Regardless, surviving today was what mattered.
He had defeated that spearman.
He had won—by skill.
Enkrid's thoughts drifted back to the ferryman.
He replayed the words, mulling them over.
He couldn't help it.
The ferryman had said it would repeat.
Which meant—
If I die, today starts over.
The ferryman had delivered it like a sentence.
But—
Why does the ferryman consider it a punishment?
To Enkrid, it wasn't a penalty.
It was a reward.