"Father, I shall avenge you."

With that declaration, the man who had once been his tribe's prodigy shaman cut off his own fingers and laid a curse upon himself. These preparations served one purpose alone: to kill a single man.

If ordinary means would not work, he would pile one underhanded trick upon another, even rely on luck if he had to. He had made up his mind.

* * *

After visiting the Demonic Realm of Silence, they took a roundabout route a little farther south. Patches of grassland appeared here and there, along with a corresponding increase in monsters.

There were two forbidden regions in the West: the Demonic Realm of Silence and the River of Sand from Which None Returned.

The grassland before them lay unused because of its proximity to Silence. Naturally, the abundance of monsters posed no problem for this particular party. To them, it was still little more than a picnic.

Even if a Ghoul that fought like a knight appeared, they could kill it without losing so much as a limb. With Rem's help, Encrid was now capable of that.

GRRROOOAN.

Whenever a Ghoul appeared, Dunbachel would spring out to meet it.

"Hiyah!"

Sometimes, when they spotted a sizable gathering of monsters along the way, they would change course to head straight for it.

"Let's warm up a little."

At times like those, Encrid would step forward too. Rem simply watched.

'He's improved a lot.'

There was no hesitation in his advance, no mercy in his descending blade.

A charging Ratman thrust a stick it had picked up somewhere. Encrid dodged without even looking and slashed its neck with Aker in one hand.

SHICK.

The blade sliced through the monster's tough flesh in a single stroke, sending its head flying.

Behind the creature spraying black blood, another Ratman fell with a hole in its forehead. That was Spark's work, drawn before anyone noticed.

A blurred afterimage appeared in front of the Ratman with the pierced skull. It was a mirage left by Encrid's swiftly moving body. He had already moved elsewhere and was swinging his sword.

Bold, unhesitating strikes followed one after another. A vertical cut, a thrust, a kick. All within a single breath. Three movements packed into single time.

That was no easy feat either, yet he now did it quite well.

By the time the first beheaded Ratman hit the ground, six more had died. Then something like a large snake shot out of the earth.

That explained the tickling sensation beneath his feet. A sand serpent had emerged.

The large ones could form dunes as they traveled through the desert, but nothing that size would appear in this region. This one was small, then, though still as thick as a grown man's thigh. Its tail burst through the ground and tried to coil around Encrid's ankle.

He leaped forward to evade it. Before his raised foot could touch down, he steadied himself in midair and plunged Spark into a flat stretch of earth. Precisely where the sand serpent's head would be.

'How does he know its weak point?'

Rem wondered. Sand serpents fought with their heads hidden because that was their weak point. Encrid had located it in an instant and killed the creature.

Intuition? Most likely.

From a hunter's perspective, sand serpents had a habit of concealing their weak point. That was why it had attacked with only its tail exposed.

Easy if you knew, difficult if you didn't. Yet Encrid had acted without hesitation despite not knowing.

Much as Rem hated to admit it, that was thanks to the Sneaky alley cat's skills.

Rem's assessment was accurate. Encrid felt as though he could locate his enemies even with his eyes closed. His sensory arts made him aware of everything with far greater acuity than before.

Fighting Giants, killing a mage, then sparring with Rem again. Lately, he had noticed that even though he trained just as he always had, he seemed to change every day. Perhaps the best way to put it was that he could clearly feel how much he was growing.

'My sword just keeps shooting out.'

To explain it another way, his body was always at its best. He breathed easily, his arms extended freely, and each movement naturally suggested the next.

When a Ratman raised its claws to stab him, dozens of lines of attack appeared: block, cut, dodge and thrust, cleave it before it even came close, or kick it away. All Encrid had to do was choose one and move. The result was exactly what he had predicted.

It had been the same with the sand serpent. The moment its tail emerged, he had a rough sense of where its body lay hidden. He tried a thrust, and black blood welled from the hole Spark had made.

When he returned after killing that cluster of monsters, a few scattered drops of black blood were all that marked his body. He wasn't even panting. Anyone watching might have thought he had been out for a leisurely stroll.

What splashed on you?

Huh? No idea. Did something splash on me?

He looked well enough for such an exchange to have been entirely plausible, despite having just killed more than ten monsters, Ratmen included.

"This is fucking ridiculous."

Rem couldn't help smiling as he spoke.

Once they returned, he would have to recover his spells quickly, even if it meant stuffing medicinal herbs into the eldest shaman's mouth.

There was something odd about Dunbachel's gaze. She watched Encrid as though lost in thought, which was unlike her. Luagarne merely nodded.

"Enjoyment makes one forget one's limits."

She seemed to have reached a conclusion of her own.

In any event, the party kept moving. When they weren't fighting, they mostly talked. Sometimes, while Juol engrossed himself in cooking, Ayul would sit nearby and tell an interesting story.

"Sometimes groups of hunters from the continent settle in the northern part of the West. In the wastelands near the desert."

"I thought anyone who went in couldn't get out?"

They were discussing the outsiders who lived near the desert.

"That's why they stay on the outskirts."

"Greed brings trouble. Crawl into the desert, and you might come back out as a skeleton soldier. It's a long way from here, though," Rem added.

Juol apparently knew the story too. Stir-frying barley, oats, and thinly sliced salted meat in oil in a large pot, he said, "The hunters come for jewel-tailed lizards and jewel-eared foxes. Those creatures sometimes venture to the desert's edge, so the hunters wait there to catch them."

Encrid had never heard of these animals. The West was home to many unusual creatures, and the ones Juol described were among them.

Apparently, they had jewels on their bodies: on the lizards' tails and the foxes' outer ears. They lived in the desert because they ate sand.

He also said that every one of them feared water, though touching it wouldn't kill them. They were quite vicious, but if a hunt failed, a single splash from a waterskin would send them running.

Catch one, and you earned a few jewels. Fail, and your life was rarely in danger. So what did it take?

"Respecting the boundary. The boundary. You don't go wandering farther in. You stay put and wait."

"You need luck on your side. Waiting doesn't guarantee you'll see one."

"Luck, nothing. Understanding their habits comes first."

Rem, Juol, and Ayul each offered a slightly different answer, in that order. Still, Encrid thought he understood the gist.

A hunter needed intelligence, preparation, and patience to catch them. Luck played a part too.

But how many of those who came all the way to the West for jewel-tailed lizards or jewel-eared foxes were skilled hunters? Criminals, fugitives, deserters, men hounded by gambling debts. Apparently, all sorts of people came charging in to try their hand at hunting.

Naturally, idiots cropped up from time to time. Juol said that once, an entire mercenary corps that had come to catch foxes apparently lost its mind, came down into the West, and attacked a tribe.

SSSSIZZLE.

Juol jerked the pot up and down. The salted meat and grains, cooked just right, rose in a smooth arc before falling back inside. The motion sent a rich, savory fragrance wafting through the air.

Like a good listener, Encrid prompted him between tosses.

"What happened to them? That smells incredible."

"You can look forward to it. Fried barley, a specialty of the West. As for them, what do you think? We killed about half, and the rest ran. Probably ended up as monster food somewhere."

Sometimes, very rarely, sensible hunters would wait patiently, obtain jewels, and go home. But it didn't sound easy. Nor were the jewels they gained worth some life-changing fortune.

'Would Krais put together a whole company of hunters and come straight here if he heard about this?'

Probably not. Krais hated leaving things to chance. If he pursued those jeweled animals anyway, he would first study their habits and find a method, then act with luck removed from the equation as much as possible.

What about Encrid himself? He wouldn't hunt them. There were other ways to earn Krona. It was merely a story to pass the time.

SSSIZZLE.

Steam rose from the pot. The West's specialty, fried barley, was ready.

It contained wild barley, oats, and assorted dried vegetables, seasoned with finely chopped salted meat. Its flavor went without saying.

He shoveled a heaping mouthful into his mouth, and the barley grains bounced between his teeth. When he caught them and chewed, a rich nuttiness filled his mouth, with the herbal fragrance and saltiness blending perfectly.

Before he knew it, Encrid had raised his thumb.

"High praise indeed."

Juol's face lit with a satisfied smile.

The party returned to the tribe, clearing away monsters as needed along the way.

"You're back."

The chieftain was the first to welcome them.

They resumed their usual routines after returning. Two days later, Rem came to see Encrid.

"I'll be off, then. Stay out of trouble."

"Never thought I'd live to hear that from you."

"Things'll get interesting when I'm back."

Rem smiled and turned away.

What exactly were spells? Encrid didn't know. But one thing was certain. Ragna had reached the realm of knights first, but Rem would attain a similar level of skill.

"I hear you could die if it goes wrong?"

The greater the talent, the greater the chance of death. That was how spells worked, he had heard. Ayul had told him. At the question directed at his back, Rem turned only his head.

"Think I'm going to die?"

"No."

The answer came immediately.

Rem left with a chuckle at that answer. Encrid smiled too and returned to what he had been doing: swinging his sword, moving his body, and sparring now and then.

"Don't you get bored?"

One of the twins asked from beside him.

The other was unconscious. Since they usually took turns completing a single sentence, Encrid had wondered if one would speak only half a sentence with the other knocked out. Apparently not.

He responded to the twin's question with one of his own.

"Of what?"

"Training."

"Why would this be boring?"

There was no reasoning with this man. The twin shut his mouth.

Encrid let the question go in one ear and out the other, savoring his anticipation. Just as he had learned something from Ragna, he would be able to learn something from Rem. The prospect set his heart racing.

Ayul stopped by to tell him it would take about fifteen days for Rem to emerge. Encrid didn't think that was very long.

In the meantime, the fugitive members of the fortune-teller tribe were captured, and a young shaman rescued a pitiable man unable to walk from his own tribe. The cannibals had apparently been keeping him as food.

His face was covered in pockmarks, every finger but the thumb had been cut from his left hand, and his speech was slurred. He had no great shamanic talent either, but his devotion to caring for the sick was extraordinary.

His own disability seemed to give him an understanding of others' suffering.

By tending those still afflicted with the purple demonic human's curse, the man came to share Encrid's barracks. Always crawling along the ground, he announced his presence with a peculiar sound.

SHHH, SHHHH, SHHHHH.

It was the sound of him crawling across the floor, pushing himself along with both arms.

It was the fifth day after Rem had left for the sacred grounds. Encrid was practicing the Isolation Technique before dawn. He had woken earlier than usual. It was so early that neither Luagarne nor Dunbachel was up, leaving him alone.

As he moved, he was absorbed in a thought.

'If curses are useless against me, does that mean spells no longer work on my body?'

Could he let his guard down against shamans, then? Probably not. But curses didn't work. He understood that now. And that knowledge created a small opening in his defenses.

"Curses don't work on you. I saw that."

It was the man who couldn't walk.

Encrid hadn't paid him much attention, but he noticed the change in the man's speech. The slurring was gone.

Aker hung at Encrid's waist, and he wore his armor. He was fully equipped. Why? There was no particular reason.

He could train without his gear, but today he had chosen to wear it. A thought had occurred to him that morning: comfort was a compromise, and steady training and repetition were what gave him the strength to advance into tomorrow.

He had concluded that checking his equipment was part of that too, so that was what he had done. He had even fastened the bow he had received as a gift to his belt. He had yet to give it a proper try, and simply carrying it around had seemed pointless.

That was bad luck for his opponent. Encrid would have been a problem even unarmed, and here he was wearing armor too.

He saw dozens of lines of attack, and could tell that the man's disability was real. Moreover, the man was within his sword's reach, close enough to cut down in less than a breath if Encrid chose.

"Immune to curses. My natural enemy."

The man spoke again. Meeting his eyes, Encrid thought he recognized him. Their encounter had been brief, but the fellow he had last attacked with a dagger after killing the apostle had left a strong impression.

It was him.

Who had they said he was, from the fortune-teller tribe? Ah, the greatest talent since Rem?

Geomnarae had called it a terrible shame, and Hira had described him as the fortune-teller tribe's greatest misfortune. A prodigy shaman, perhaps even more gifted than Rem. A westerner too young to be called a young man.

His hair was greasy from inadequate washing, crust clung to his eyes, and he seemed to have left a front tooth behind somewhere.

Had the dagger Encrid threw cost him his legs too? Had he simply cut them off because he could no longer move them anyway? It looked that way. He was a wretched sight.

He smiled. It revealed not joy but a kind of madness, a madness steeped in hatred. It looked as though someone had poured boiling water into his eyes. Bubbling steam made of hatred rose within them.

His voice was the same, filled with anguish so deep it seemed to tear his guts apart.

"Did you think I had no other way if curses didn't work?"

He continued with a strained, false chuckle that concealed his torment.

"This is a secret art I created by sacrificing everything. My future. My soul."

Why did this remind Encrid of the Fairy assassin's attack back in Border Guard? He hadn't let his guard down then, either, yet that dagger had found an opening. This felt much the same.

"I offer my past, my present, and my future."

The man spoke and reached out. Something like a thread emerged from his fingertips and touched Encrid's body. There was no threat or killing intent, so he could have ignored it, but his sword lashed out reflexively.

Just as he had known it would, his sword reached the man within a single breath and split his head.

CRACK.

Still reaching out, the man's skull opened vertically. Encrid saw blood, brains, and pieces of cleaved skull spill down. Then his vision went black.

He resisted closing his eyes, but his surroundings began to spin. The world, the sky and the earth, turned upside down.

He felt himself lift and float. He had never experienced anything like it except when a blow sent him flying. At the end of that floating sensation, light burst and scattered before his eyes, forcing them shut.

The first thing he felt was scorching heat. Sunlight unlike that of Oara, unlike the gentle sunshine of the West. It felt hot enough to cook his flesh.

When he opened his eyes, the world was yellow. The sky stretched high above him, and there was nothing but sand all around.

The only unusual sights were three desiccated corpses kneeling in three directions around him. He didn't need to look to know. He sensed no life in them. They were already dead.

One of Encrid's strengths was his ability to grasp a situation quickly. He reviewed what had happened. How had it come to this?

For now, one thing was certain. He had learned another lesson from this: never let his guard down, not for a moment.

They said a sharp dagger could pierce even a body clad in plate armor. That seemed to describe his situation.

He looked around. Nothing but sand. Undulating sand, sand piled into mounds, sand shimmering with heat haze. Only one thing came to mind.

Had they called it the River of Sand from Which None Returned?

This had been his enemy's last resort. Not a curse, but a secret art, accomplished by a prodigy shaman who had abandoned his own life and sacrificed those of his companions as well.

Since curses wouldn't work, he had sent Encrid into the desert instead. Judging by the circumstances, that seemed to be what had happened.