Eternally Regressing Knight-Chapter 495 - Watering the Seeds of Growth

Chapter 495 - Watering the Seeds of Growth

"Let's summon the Grime."

On the fifteenth day since Enkrid's disappearance, Rem spoke those words.

He was already prepared to convince everyone.

Grime, aside from being the name of a hero, was also the term for a black bird born of wishes, a form of invocation.

There was a legend that, after a hero's death, they reincarnated as a black bird to protect the West.

Regardless, Rem decided it was time to take a drastic step.

What is a wish? It is an intense thought and prayer. But did such desperation truly produce miracles? Not exactly.

Summoning the bird of wishes wouldn't instantly locate Enkrid, but it could reveal whether he was alive and provide a general direction.

The problem lay in the cost—this ritual consumed precious food.

Grime, whether hero or bird, was known for its insatiable appetite. Food had to be offered as a sacrifice.

Rem thought, "It will be a harsh time if we go through with this, but we might endure."

The inevitable hardship and scarcity awaited them. Still, this had to be done. If the West owed its life to this hero, then it was only right to honor him appropriately. That was the Western way.

Before Rem could even begin to persuade, the chieftain nodded without hesitation.

"Let me explain—"

Rem started but stopped mid-sentence, confused by the sudden agreement.

"Yes. Let's summon it," said the chieftain.

Rem was taken aback.

"Bring the shaman," the chieftain commanded.

Ayul moved swiftly, followed by Juol, who had been sitting in the corner of the tent. Geonnara and Hira nodded deeply.

"I will lead the ritual myself since our head shaman is bedridden," declared Hira.

Even without her ritual tools, her eyes burned with intense resolve.

While Rem possessed exceptional talent in battle-oriented magic, his ritualistic skill was coarse at best.

Asking him to perform this delicate ceremony would be akin to making a request in an argumentative tone.

It wasn't something he could change.

This required a proper shaman, and Hira volunteered, fully aware the ceremony could leave her bedridden for at least two weeks.

Yet she showed no hesitation.

"But if we use Grime now, what will you do later?" Rem asked, feigning concern over future repercussions.

"We'll deal with that when the time comes. The Sky God will provide," the chieftain replied, his unwavering faith evident in his gaze.

A chieftain was supposed to consider the entire tribe's well-being. Was risking the tribe's safety for an outsider's life wise?

Even by the West's principles of loyalty, this seemed excessive.

Rem felt uneasy, recalling how summoning Grime had faced opposition in the past.

It had been refused during the Great Tribal War.

It was avoided when strange weather plagued the West.

The bird of wishes was a last resort.

Had they discovered some miraculous way to reduce the offering in his absence? Apparently not.

A large bonfire was lit, and offerings piled high upon it. From lucky charms to precious food supplies, all were sacrificed. The shamans knelt around the flames, beginning their chants.

"Nothing's changed," muttered Rem.

"What hasn't?" asked the chieftain, his expression calm as he watched smoke begin to rise from the bonfire.

"I mean, summoning the bird of wishes like this... Is it really okay?"

The chieftain lowered his head briefly, his own wish joining the ritual, then raised it again to meet Rem's eyes.

"When there's no other way, we must do whatever we can."

Life for life.

It was a common saying in the West. Gratitude must be repaid with gratitude, and the chieftain embodied this principle. So did the rest of the tribe.

This was, after all, what Rem wanted. Still, it felt strange to see the same people who once opposed the idea now more eager than he was.

Enkrid must have left a deep impression on them.

Not just with words like "honored hero" or "savior," but by compelling the West to stake their entire tribe on finding him.

Thick smoke rose, flames climbed higher, and soot gathered above, forming a solid shape in the sky. No one dared approach the fire. Entering the smoke meant certain death—convulsions, madness, and collapse followed by death.

No one ventured close.

Above the heads of the retreating tribespeople, the soot solidified. Fifty shamans invoked the bird of wishes.

A deep caw echoed as black smoke formed wings and a beak. It was a breathtaking sight.

The soot-bound bird hovered in the sky briefly before vanishing. That was enough.

"He's alive!" Hira exclaimed, before collapsing.

The bird flew for three days, consuming all the tribe's food.

"There!" Hira shouted, pointing as she fainted.

Rem followed her finger, looking toward the direction she indicated—not the deadly Sand River but slightly to its east.

"What could possibly allow someone to survive the heart of the desert?"

Rem's mind raced.

He knew the desert, not enough to roam freely, but enough to cross its deadly expanse.

Some small tribes even lived near the desert's heart.

But escaping the center alive? That was another matter entirely.

"Luck must be clinging to him like a second skin," thought Rem, realizing the bird had pinpointed the direction.

Rem sighed, "There goes my chance to become a legend myself."

"What nonsense are you muttering now?" Ayul scowled.

"Nothing. We'd better prepare to welcome him back," Rem replied.

He began walking in the direction the bird had shown.

Enkrid, if he had indeed escaped, would likely be near death.

Over a hundred Westerners followed Rem.

"This is too many," Rem grumbled.

"We're all worried," someone replied.

"As his future wife, I can't stay behind!" another declared.

"I can help if you're in spiritual danger."

"I just want to follow."

Jiba's mother, Jiba herself, an unnamed shaman, and even a warrior who was just decent at fighting.

Every one of them did as they pleased.

"Demonic charisma, huh."

Luagarne mumbled beside him.

At one time, Enkrid was called the Unit Commander of Demonic Charisma.

Everyone seemed mesmerized by Enkrid back then.

Here, too, the room was full of people under his spell.

In a way, it was to be expected.

Remembering and honoring those who fought for them was a Western tradition.

But now they heard that the one who had saved them from threats and crises was himself in danger.

How could they just sit idly by?

"I don't know either. Let's just go with him."

Rem spoke and led the way.

***

"It was isolation," the ferryman said.

Enkrid blinked. He instinctively knew it was a dream, though the setting felt different.

Was it a reflection of the ferryman's desire to torment him until the very end?

Instead of the black river, everything was filled with sand.

It was the river of sand he had seen when dying. Sand stretched endlessly in every direction, and a small ferry swayed as it scattered the grains.

Was he supposed to be terrified at the sight of sand? Feel as if he were reliving a nightmare?

But Enkrid felt nothing.

A violet lamp cast its light over the sand, held by the ferryman, who spoke again.

"You walked so well."

Today's ferryman seemed unusually solemn.

Had he lived so long that his personality fragmented, or was he simply eccentric?

Whoosh.

The sand scattered, and the ferry swayed.

It was then that Enkrid realized he was sitting on a stone chair with a backrest.

The ferryman was seated in the same kind of chair. A stone table lay between them, and they sat opposite each other.

The ferryman's cracked gray skin and violet eyes were locked on Enkrid.

Had he asked how well he walked? Of course, he walked well. Why wouldn't he?

"Despite having nothing to protect."

"I did have something."

Enkrid interrupted the ferryman's words.

The violet eyes stared at him intently.

The ferryman's gaze felt deeper and heavier, but Enkrid didn't shy away.

Before, looking into the ferryman's eyes had made him feel a strange dizziness, but now he felt calm.

Was he getting used to it?

Perhaps.

"I protected myself by never stopping."

It was the simple truth. He hadn't attached any specific purpose to walking, but over time, that thought took hold.

Isolation, loneliness—those weren't the important things.

So, was there a meaning to this journey?

Wouldn't it be easier to endure and settle for less hardship?

Then why walk at all?

Why?

Because living uncomfortably was better than dying comfortably.

He'd arrived at his own answer. It wasn't a profound revelation—just his usual line of thought.

It wasn't the source of his will or anything lofty.

If he'd wanted to give a simple answer, he could have just said, "I walked."

The steps he took to escape the sand were all for himself.

Enkrid spoke, and after a brief silence, the ferryman muttered:

"...A path to protect yourself."

To Enkrid, the ferryman's voice sounded as if it came from a great distance.

Then the voice faded further, the sand transformed into black water, and the ferry dispersed like smoke.

Enkrid felt himself floating, rising upward toward a light.

Droplets of water fell, trickling through the light.

A searing pain began, as if a plow had scraped his throat.

The brightness made him shut his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, he was awake.

"Awake, are you?"

A face came into view, and Enkrid felt the burning pain in his throat. Yet he had to speak.

"Still dreaming?"

His voice was as rough as his aching throat.

Was this still part of the ferryman's trickery?

Had the environment shifted again, just like the sand river in the dream?

Reality still felt distant and surreal.

"I was just as surprised, Captain."

The person speaking triggered a memory in Enkrid's mind—one of his former subordinates.

Enri, a plains hunter who had retired to start a life with a widowed florist.

Some memories were too vivid to fade.

"What are you doing here?"

His words were short.

Speaking felt more exhausting than swinging a sword for three days straight.

The scorching desert heat and cold nights had drained his stamina relentlessly, the sweat loss leading to dehydration.

Even knights would be risking suicide if they entered the Western desert unprepared.

Sure, a skilled knight might survive, but even then, the desert could kill them.

For Enri, deserts were places where even knights met their end.

Yet somehow, out of that very desert, Enkrid had emerged, half-dead.

"If I started explaining why I'm here, it'd fill two books."

Enkrid nodded faintly and immediately passed out.

Enri, seeing his captain collapse, fetched water and tidied the area.

They were in a village near an oasis on the desert's edge.

The low walls reflected the fact that this area was free of most monsters and beasts.

Criminals and hunters gathered in this place.

Enri's reason for being here was simple: Krona.

After being rejected by the florist, he had briefly worked as a caravan guard.

His archery skills, cautious nature, and reliability had earned him a good reputation.

With time, he developed an eye for trade routes and heard stories about the West.

They said a few gemstones could change your fortune.

Could that be true?

Of course, stories tend to get exaggerated the more they're passed along.

Still, after much inquiry, he concluded that while fortunes weren't guaranteed, obtaining rare gems or Western goods through hunting could provide enough capital for business.

So he had invested all his savings into buying a Belopter and ventured here.

Enri wasn't one to rely on sheer luck. He had studied animal behavior and prepared extensively.

He was determined to start anew, maybe even fulfill his dream of forming a trading caravan.

That was when he stumbled upon Enkrid.

It was a place where skeletal monsters frequently appeared, born from the deaths of adventurers and treasure hunters who had ventured unprepared into the desert.

Amidst it all, Enkrid emerged.

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At first, Enri thought he might be a monster himself.

The hollow eyes and withered appearance resembled a mummified corpse.

But his eyes—sharp and vivid blue—had life.

"What on earth happened here?"

Despite his confusion, Enri didn't hesitate to abandon his search for a rare fox gemstone to save Enkrid.

One look into those eyes, and he recognized him instantly.

The equipment and demeanor had changed, but it was unmistakable.

Sometimes, a single encounter leaves a lasting imprint, unforgettable for life.

Why save him?

His body moved before his mind could reason it out.

Once upon a time, this man had saved Enri's life, and he owed him a debt.

There were no regrets.

Two days later, Enkrid opened his eyes again.

By then, Rem and the Westerners had arrived at the small oasis village.

"I thought you were dead," someone remarked.

Enkrid, whose throat had improved, replied:

"Nearly was."

In truth, he had died countless times, but they wouldn't know that. To them, he seemed like someone blessed by fortune itself.

"Oh, honorable lucky hero!"

The chieftain gave him the bizarre nickname. Enkrid didn't take it seriously.

He simply reflected on what he had realized during his solitary journey.

Isolation, loneliness—those were mere words. The ferryman had urged him to walk in solitude, yet out of habit, he had treated it like training.

When he woke, he realized that something had shifted.

Through the knight's strike and his experiences, a new understanding had emerged.

How would he walk the path of a knight?

The answer had become clear.

Clearer than ever before.

Wandering the desert had made it so.

The experience was like watering the seeds of growth within him.

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