Rem crouched before the corpse, its skull split and flesh beginning to rot, and cut open its chest with a dagger. The rotten flesh tore easily, staining the blade black as it dug through. Rigor mortis had completely passed, so cutting through the flesh took little effort. Not that it would have mattered otherwise.

Inside the chest lay a heart bearing unmistakable signs of having been eaten by insects. It was riddled with gnawed holes, its black blood congealed into a gummy mass.

Well, look at this.

The Captain would return, but that was no excuse to neglect the basics of finding out what had happened. That was why Rem had opened the corpse's chest.

No one here knew it, but his understanding of spells had reached an entirely different depth. His talent had brought certain insights, but there were other influences too: what he had gained in killing the Ageless Madman, and the change in his attitude toward life after watching Encrid.

In any case, examining the traces of the spell gave him a rough understanding of the situation. More precisely, he was piecing together what his opponent had done.

'Not an ordinary spirit.'

This was a wayward path. A secret art accomplished by borrowing another being's power.

After considering several possibilities, he reached a conclusion.

'Lucky bastard.'

Rem had arrived at the same answer as Geomnarae. The weight of fate had tipped a little farther in the other side's favor.

He had discovered something else, too: the nature of that wayward path. The Cultists of the Cult of the Sacred Demonic Realm worshipped demons as gods. Priests borrowed the power of their gods, so the Cultists could presumably do the same. In other words, they prayed to the Lord of the Demonic Realm to borrow their power.

'Does that count as divine power too?'

If Audin heard that, he would call it blasphemy and leap straight up to kick him with both feet together.

An apostle's teachings, the technique of borrowing a demon's power, and a shaman of prodigious talent. Put them together, and...

'He performed the ritual by worshipping a demon as a god?'

Rem understood the principle and how events had unfolded. One man making a fucking spectacle of himself here would not have been enough. There must have been more sacrifices at the intended destination.

'Not the Demonic Realm, then.'

He nodded and murmured, "He can't have gone that far."

"And there's no way he's dead," Luagarne added beside him.

That went without saying. Perhaps fifteen days on foot at most?

They would have placed additional sacrifices at the destination, which meant they probably hadn't thrown him into the Demonic Realm. Silence was called Silence because it was quiet, but that didn't mean just anyone could enter.

Secret art of spatial transport or not, they couldn't send someone somewhere they had never been. That ruled out the Demonic Realm. Above all, Silence reacted when disturbed. The fact that nothing had happened was further evidence that he hadn't gone there.

'An art this powerful would have killed all the sacrifices.'

The worst possibility was beyond the River of Sand. Otherwise, he would find his way back from somewhere on the western plains by following the stars. That was Rem's assessment.

That night, the moons rose. Two moons shone down on the western earth, and the stars emerged in all their brilliance.

"Aren't you worried?" Luagarne asked, watching Rem.

After inspecting the corpse, he had dusted off his hands and stepped away. Now, sorting through his thoughts, he sat by the campfire slowly roasting wind rabbit meat. The slightest mistake would burn it and ruin the flavor. Getting the meat just right was crucial.

Rem answered without taking his eyes off the flames.

"If this was enough to kill him, he'd have been fucking dead ages ago."

That was true.

Encrid's disappearance had briefly rattled Luagarne, but she had calmed down now. So had Dunbachel. The moment Rem returned and said he would find his own way back, the Beastman had inwardly exclaimed, Ah, and nodded.

Rem had considered the worst himself, but he didn't believe his Captain would die from a stroke of bad luck like this. The attempt should have failed a hundred times out of a hundred. No, a thousand out of a thousand. It had only worked through an extraordinary stroke of luck.

Die over something this paltry? Ridiculous. The man had survived more brushes with death than he could count.

But what if he was dead?

An idle thought. Rem quickly shook off the negativity.

'I finally got my spells back, and you're going to pull this on me?'

He decided to wait without worrying. What would fretting change?

"Everyone just get on with your own business. You think looking will make him turn up? Besides, unless he's in the desert, he'll find his own way back."

"And if he's beyond the River of Sand?"

"He'll still find his way back."

The chieftain had asked, and Rem had answered without hesitation. If asked how, he would have to admit he didn't know. But Encrid would return. He always did.

It was faith without evidence, but some would call it trust. He would become a knight and protect everything he had said he would.

'And he needs a taste of my ancestral weapon.'

He would. Three days passed after Rem examined the corpse. Encrid did not return, and there was no trace of him.

* * *

Meditating, thinking, pondering. Occupied with those things, he found the sun had soon set. Partway through, he had tried to get his bearings from the sinking sun, but it hadn't worked at all.

What was wrong with the sky here? The bright sun was setting, yet he couldn't tell in which direction. There was no sunset glow either. The light simply faded, turning to blue twilight, then swiftly to night.

Pitch-black night over an unlit desert. With the heat gone, the land's next visitor was cold. No sooner had night fallen than the temperature plummeted.

Why was it suddenly so cold?

He thought he might freeze to death at this rate. In any case, he needed to find his way first.

Encrid looked up. Stars embroidered the night sky in brilliant white. There were so many. Far too many.

What was this now?

The westerners called this place the River of Sand from Which None Returned. They meant it literally. There was nothing here by which to get one's bearings.

"What am I supposed to call these, sky-shading stars?" Encrid muttered into empty air.

They called clouds that blocked the sun sunshade clouds, and the canyon that blocked sandstorms Sandbreak Canyon. So was this the sky-shading Star River? Something like that?

He had heard that the westerners called the river of stars in the sky the Star River. Jiba had told him that sometimes a river of multicolored stars formed in the western sky. That was what they called it.

By day, insane heat threatened to roast a man alive. By night, its opposite swept in, cold enough to freeze him to death.

Was he going to freeze here?

No sooner had the thought occurred than a gentle warmth rose from inside his clothing at his chest. In an instant, it made him forget the cold. Encrid reached inside and drew out its source.

Above the darkened sea of sand, a dagger gave off a soft red glow. It was the gift from the short-haired blond proto knight.

["It's a dagger that holds warmth."]

That was the brief explanation Hira had given him.

The heat radiating from it formed something like a thin film over his entire body, easing the cold considerably. Encrid had found warmth. The gift was doing its job.

What next? He needed to get his bearings. Did he have anything useful? Encrid took stock of his possessions.

Aker, his gladius, and Spark: his main weapons. He also had six throwing knives in the sheath strapped across his chest, a dagger hidden at his ankle, and his spider-shell breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, and shin guards.

'Lucky fish, was it?'

The preserved ration he had packed without thinking. The bracelet Jiba's mother had put on him. The horn bow made by a craftsman in Oara. The dagger that emitted warmth and light. The dagger that returned when thrown.

The last dagger had a long fuller down its center. Had they called it the Dagger of Calamity? It was a ward against misfortune, as such things were commonly known, and hadn't even been sharpened. Since the ferryman happily cooked up and gobbled down every curse, it wasn't much use.

There was nothing that could help him get his bearings right now. Blades and preserved food were all he had.

Encrid had to choose. Move or stay?

Of course, the answer was already decided. When standing still changed nothing, Encrid was the kind of man who moved.

He began walking, step by steady step. The starlight, so plentiful it seemed to pour from the sky, lit his way. All he could see was sand, but he walked diligently. He spent a full day walking like that.

Thanks to the dagger's warmth, the cold posed no threat. That was a real blessing. As he walked through the night, he tore his underclothes and wrapped the cloth roughly around his head. Otherwise, when the sun rose, it felt as though his scalp and face would cook. His face and the back of his neck were already burning.

The sun rose again.

'Walking during the day is out of the question.'

The dagger made the cold bearable, so walking at night was the right choice. Slow, long breaths. Walk only at night. He decided on that and followed through.

Was there another way? Perhaps. He could sprint with everything he had. What if he released Will through his thigh muscles and ran at speeds beyond an ordinary human? Could he escape the desert in a single burst? And if he failed?

How many Will-powered charges could he manage? Ten? Twenty? Assuming his body held up. Would that get him out of here?

Not a chance. He had to walk as far and as long as possible, conserving his strength. Saving his energy was the right choice.

As stray thoughts crept in, Encrid looked around. People said an ordinary person died after three days without water, but that varied from one person to the next.

He had excellent stamina and extraordinary endurance. He never overexerted himself or broke into a reckless run. He walked calmly, preserving as much strength and moisture as he could.

After ten days of walking with no clear destination, something changed. He saw what looked like a mound of sand, but something about it felt wrong. When he stopped before it, something sharp and pointed shot toward him with a swish. He drew Aker and struck it aside with a pushing motion.

CLANG!

It was a tail. More precisely, it belonged to a scorpion-like monster. The creature burst from the sand in a spray. Monster or demonic beast, by now he was glad to see anything at all.

In an instant, Encrid saw countless lines of attack. He could charge and slash downward, or dodge and thrust with Spark. But all of those would consume his strength.

With that thought, he flicked his left hand. A dagger had already found its way into his grip, and it whistled through the air to pierce the scorpion's head.

THWACK!

The hard shell shattered, sending black lumps flying from inside. Had it evolved that way to live in the desert? Those black lumps were its blood. Solid instead of liquid.

Not that he could have drunk monster blood anyway, but the sight only made him thirstier.

'I'm thirsty.'

His skin felt dry and brittle too.

When he extended his hand, the dagger slowly flew back. His fingertips felt as though they were holding a taut thread. Pulling on it a little brought the dagger back faster. As he caught it with a light smack, he thought what an excellent weapon it was. It was a shame he hadn't used it sooner.

He adjusted the equipment disturbed by his throw. The bow on his back wasn't heavy, but it was cumbersome. He wondered why he had brought it out for his morning training. Why bring it when he hadn't even intended to practice archery?

One monster. That was all. He kept walking afterward. He slept in short stretches, sometimes finding a sand mound where he could rest during the day.

Since he had killed the monster, he stripped off its shell and used his bow as a pole to fashion a makeshift sunshade. Carrying it like this, he no longer regretted bringing the bow. The horn bow weathered heat and cold without trouble.

'Though Spark or the gladius would probably work too.'

Even so, he didn't discard any equipment.

After roughly twelve days without a sip of water, his urine came out black and foul-smelling. Dark urine: one of the signs of dehydration. His skin was no longer merely dry. When pressed with a finger, it failed to spring back properly.

His armor felt heavy, but discarding it would make the daytime heat even harder to bear. He was thirsty. The thirst seemed to squeeze his very heart.

His lips split and peeled. Strips of skin began coming away too, like bark stripped from wood with a plane. Having endured the merciless heat and cold for over ten days, his body cried out in pain.

'Like a snake shedding its skin.'

He stopped walking as the thought passed through his mind. His head spun.

"Remain alone, with no one beside you. Learn what solitude is. Tremble in anguish. This is the today you have chosen."

The ferryman spoke from far away. No rippling river, no boat, no lamp. Only his words reached Encrid.

Too weak to speak, Encrid merely listened, then opened his eyes. And began walking again.

Even gauging how much time had passed was difficult. Dizziness, headaches, anguish, pain, one after another. It felt like wandering without purpose. He knew neither the way nor his direction.

Perhaps he would have to wander this desert forever, dying again and again. That was what the ferryman wanted. Encrid knew it all, but simply kept walking.

Proto knight or knight, a human was still human. Without food and water, they died all the same. Even then, Encrid made no attempt to sate his hunger. His preserved food was essentially salted fish. Eating salt would only make him thirstier. Knowing that, he endured. His patience was extraordinary.

People supposedly saw mirages while wandering the desert, but Encrid didn't even see those. His innate endurance refused to let illusions intrude upon his vision.

He walked and walked. How many times had he pushed past what felt like his limit?

'Hot.'

Sunlight slipping through the monster shell seemed to tear into his head and split it open. He lost consciousness.

And so today began to repeat. He had died walking. He hadn't even collapsed. Enduring to the very end, he had died on his feet. It was the combined result of his patience, his trained body, and his unbroken determination.

Encrid himself wasn't certain he had died.

'Is this the same today?'

After seeing nothing but sand day after day, he couldn't tell whether today had repeated or another day had simply passed in pain. He had indeed died of exhaustion while walking, but recognizing that was another matter.

The ferryman appeared a few more times. Sometimes he cackled; sometimes he spoke with pity.

"Give up. Then you can rest."

At some point, he stopped appearing.

Then Encrid heard a hallucinated voice.

"Hey, I still can't talk properly. If you've got any Will left, put some more in."

He thought that was what it meant. It was hard to understand.

His mind hazy, Encrid walked by instinct.

'This way today.'

What did it mean that even the finest guides wouldn't enter this land? It meant trying to find a way was pointless. Though he thought he had heard there were a few guides who traveled only the desert. He vaguely remembered hearing something like that.

One day, a sandstorm swept him up and killed him. Days of dying from exhaustion repeated. Then he saw a great river barring his way. A river of sand.

'So this is the River of Sand.'

Too weak to speak, he kept his mouth shut and repeated the words inwardly. The desert was simply a desert. The River of Sand from Which None Returned referred to a vast, long stretch of quicksand. Enter it, and you died.

He died of exhaustion while searching for a way across. After that death, he changed direction. Unable to leave markers, he walked using the shadow of his scorpion-shell shade to estimate his direction.

After the River of Sand from Which None Returned, he found a cliff. Even in perfect health, he wouldn't have dared try to cross that terrain.

Searching for another route there, he succumbed to exhaustion. This time, he died on one knee, gasping for breath. Sometimes his throat split and bled. He almost welcomed those moments for the moisture they brought. But that, too, was a sign of death.

He wandered and wandered again. He had no idea how many times he had died, or how many todays he had spent lost. Living hurt. Dying hurt too. The thirst could well have eaten away at his mind. Constant headaches and dizziness made time difficult to measure.

The ferryman deliberately stayed away. Encrid died in isolation. Yet he never stopped walking, day after day.

Even walking was difficult, so he roused his determination. His muscles alone could no longer carry him, so he called on his Will.

'Legs, let's walk.'

Body, hold on.

When Will coursed through his body and lent strength to his toes, he could take at least one more step. And so he learned to endure a little longer.

One day, after walking and walking, he saw a faint shape. It was a rattling skeleton monster. Beside it stood a large-eared fox with gleaming stones attached to its outer ears. A jewel-eared fox.

CLATTER!

He saw the skeleton take a step. Encrid's lips were shriveled dry, his cheeks shockingly hollow, the skin beneath his eyes black. Even so, he gripped his sword. It was an automatic reflex at the sight of a monster. Did he have the strength to swing it? He didn't know.

The ferryman watched it all. And as he watched, he thought.

Was every today a crisis? An endless succession of anguish? That depended on the person. He knew that too.

Had he thought Encrid would give up because there was no one to cheer him on, no one to protect, because he was isolated and alone? That wasn't how it worked. The human under the curse, Encrid, did not walk for the sake of encouragement. He walked for what he believed in.

Violet light shone from the ferryman's eyes. Encrid hadn't been able to count, but the ferryman knew this was his thirtieth today. Only thirty repetitions.

Because he would not break, isolation and solitude were simply things to get through. Because his mind did not collapse, a mere thirty todays were enough. That determination had brought him luck.

"How fortunate you are."

The ferryman's words lingered faintly in Encrid's ears. Luck did not flow in only one direction.

For instance, the bracelet from Jiba's mother had kept away the desert's bloodsucking insects. And a connection forged in the past now became an arrow that saved him.

WHIZZ. THWACK!

An arrow flew in and shattered the skeleton's head. Luck had turned, changing direction.

"Captain?"

Encrid thought the voice sounded a little familiar.

Then his vision reeled again. The Will he had been forcing awake began breaking off in fits and starts. At the same time, strength drained from his entire body and the world began to spin. He knew this point from countless repeated todays. He was losing consciousness.

The thread he had strained so desperately to hold was snapping. If that voice calling him Captain was a hallucination, today would repeat again.