The Nameless Extra: I Proofread This World

Regarding what Calyra had asked him about forgetting something, there was indeed one thing that Evrard himself could no longer remember.

It was not something he had only noticed recently, either. He had become aware of it long ago, though even calling it a memory felt somewhat inaccurate.

After all, how could he be certain that he had forgotten something when he could not even remember what that something was?

And yet, there were moments when he knew.

Sometimes, someone close to him would say something seemingly ordinary, or act in a way that should have carried no particular significance, only for something buried deep within his mind to suddenly stir.

The sensation never lasted long.

For a fleeting moment, Evrard would feel as though he had brushed against the edge of a memory — something important, something familiar, something that should never have been forgotten in the first place.

There would be a strange certainty accompanying it, an inexplicable feeling that whatever lay hidden inside his mind had once mattered greatly to him.

But whenever he tried to reach for it, the memory would slip away.

At first, Evrard assumed that he simply could not remember clearly. Memories faded with time, after all, and even important things could become distorted after enough years had passed.

However, he soon realized that this was different.

The harder he tried to remember, the further the memory seemed to retreat. The more he focused on that strange sensation, the faster it disappeared, until even the certainty that something had been there began to fade from his thoughts.

It was almost as though his own mind was resisting him.

Eventually, Evrard came to suspect that whatever he had forgotten had not been lost naturally at all.

Something had been placed inside his mind — a mental hex, perhaps, or some other form of curse — designed not merely to erase a memory, but to prevent him from ever properly realizing that it was missing.

And that possibility troubled him far more than the forgotten memory itself.

Because if someone had gone to such lengths to ensure that he could never remember it, then there were only three questions that truly mattered.

What had been taken from him?

Who had taken it?

And why?

Evrard had not simply ignored the problem when he first became aware of it.

For a time, he had searched extensively for a way to understand what was happening to him, consulting scholars, curse-breakers, and those who possessed knowledge of mental magic.

If something had been placed inside his mind, he assumed that someone among them would eventually be able to find it.

However, none of them did.

There was no discernible curse within him, no damage to his mind, and no foreign influence that could explain why certain memories seemed to vanish whenever he came close to remembering them. As far as every examination could determine, there was nothing wrong with him at all.

Of course, that did little to explain the problem.

Evrard continued searching for some time, but there was only so much effort he could devote to something that had never caused him any apparent harm.

Whatever had been taken from his memories had remained buried for years, and aside from those occasional moments of inexplicable familiarity, it had never interfered with his life.

Eventually, he stopped looking for an answer.

Or perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that he simply allowed himself to forget that there had ever been a question in the first place.

It was because of this experience that Evrard had occasionally wondered whether Calyra suffered from something similar.

Ever since the incident in the dungeon, there had been something peculiar about her emotions. They were still there, of course, but there was a muted quality to them, as though whatever allowed a person to properly feel and express those emotions had been dulled.

At times, her reactions seemed distant even when the situation should have affected her deeply.

Evrard could not help but wonder if the mysterious condition afflicting his memories and the strange change in Calyra were somehow connected.

Then again, there were simpler explanations.

What happened in that dungeon had been enough to leave scars on anyone, and emotional detachment was hardly an unusual consequence of surviving something terrible.

Calyra might simply have changed because of what she had experienced there, with no curse or mysterious force involved at all.

There was no way for Evrard to know.

And since he possessed nothing beyond suspicion to suggest otherwise, he had never spoken of the possibility — not to Calyra, nor to anyone else.

Evrard remained silent for a moment after that. Then, looking toward his daughter, he released a faint, weary sigh.

”Honestly, Calyra... I would like to know about that as well.”

Calyra looked at him.

There was little else he could tell her. The truth was, he possessed no answer himself. Perhaps one day, they would uncover whatever had been buried from his memory.

Perhaps they never would.

Neither of them spoke afterward.

Not because the conversation had truly reached its end, but because, before either of them could say anything more, a sound suddenly thundered across the fortress.

BWOOOOOOOM—!

A deep horn blast tore through the night.

Its booming voice was so immense that it seemed to rattle the very stones beneath their feet, reverberating through the fortress walls before rolling outward across the northern land below.

Evrard’s expression changed immediately.

Calyra noticed it as well.

The faint weariness that had lingered across her father’s features disappeared in an instant, replaced by something far colder.

Something grim.

His eyes hardened as he turned toward the distant horizon.

He knew that horn.

Every soldier within Frostgrave knew it.

The next wave was coming.

Then came another blast.

BWOOOOOOOM—!

Calyra’s eyes narrowed.

Below them, the remnants of the first wave had not even been completely eradicated. Scattered groups of Voidspawns were still locked in battle throughout the defensive perimeter.

There had been no proper respite after the first assault.

The defenders had barely been given enough time to reorganize their formations, much less replace the wounded or recover from the sheer exhaustion.

And yet, the second wave had already begun.

Calyra turned toward the horizon.

At first, there was nothing to see beyond the walls of Frostgrave.

The northern plains stretched endlessly beneath the pale moonlight, dark, barren, and seemingly devoid of movement.

Then something stirred in the distance.

Shapes began to emerge from the darkness, gradually revealing the grotesque silhouettes of monsters moving across the wasteland.

Hundreds at first.

Then more followed behind them, until their numbers became impossible to count.

They poured across the plains like a vast tide, spreading from one end of the horizon to the other as the darkness seemed to come alive with their advance.

Even from atop the fortress walls, the faint tremors produced by their countless footsteps could already be felt beneath the defenders’ feet.

Evrard watched the approaching horde in silence, unable to shake the feeling that something about this wave was different.

Narrowing his eyes, Evrard slowly swept his gaze across the distant horde, searching among the countless monstrous figures advancing beneath the moonlight.

Then he saw it.

”...Damn it.”

Calyra glanced at him.

Her father rarely cursed without reason.

Following his gaze, she turned toward the front of the advancing stampede.

That was when she noticed something enormous galloping across the distant plains at the head of the horde, scattering trails of black flame beneath its hooves with every thunderous stride.

It resembled a horse, although only barely.

Much of the creature’s flesh had long since rotted away, exposing large portions of its skeletal frame beneath ragged strips of charred hide.

Black fire smoldered within its hollow ribcage and streamed from its mane and tail, yet strangely enough, those flames cast almost no light upon the northern ground.

Smoke billowed from its nostrils. A dim crimson glow burned within its hollow eye sockets, cold and malevolent against the darkness.

And seated upon its back was a knight clad entirely in black armor.

Calyra’s gaze hardened.

’It’s finally here...’

The Black Knight was coming and it was...

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[Chapter 394: Bearing the Weight of Death]

Plot Points = 233,200