Chapter 631

Chapter 631

From a young age, fairies are meticulously conditioned to keep their feelings under tight control. Because of this training, it was nearly impossible to detect any flicker of internal heat or fervor within them. Enkrid reflected on the day he officially became a knight—the same day Shinar had been deprived of one of her arms—and he remembered how perfectly still and collected her features had remained. He knew one couldn’t simply attribute that to her being older or more disciplined; it was the innate, stoic composure unique to the fairy race.

He had never forgotten the parting words she offered him then. “Keep moving forward,” she had said, or something to that effect. Regardless, these fairies operated on the same principle. They didn’t seek to prove their worth through passionate displays, but through the weight of their actions.

What did it signify when fairy knights knowingly marched into a place that guaranteed their demise? It felt like a collective act of self-destruction, a concept that didn’t traditionally fit their kind. While they weren’t always purely cold or logical, they constantly strove for that ideal, approaching every obstacle with a sense of detached analysis.

Yet, the current crisis had trapped them. They had resolved to fight, fully aware that it would cost them their lives. The entire clan was prepared for this end. To Enkrid, this simply meant they had been pushed to the absolute breaking point. Even if he hadn’t arrived, they would have descended into that cave. This was just the start of a struggle they intended to maintain until the very last of them fell.

Shinar had consented to become the demon’s bride specifically to prevent this slaughter. The Demon Realm had inflicted a tragedy upon them that was still unfolding. This battle was a way to honor those who had already perished, and a final song for those yet to die. It was a funeral march they were walking of their own volition. But if they all died and no one remained to sing their final dirge, would their resolve count for anything?

Likely not. The cries of those without power rarely force the world to change. Just as natural leaders are few and far between, it is rare for the weak to find their voice at all. And even when they do, altering the course of reality is a monumental task. This was an era governed by the edge of a blade, the spilling of blood, and the cold reality of the front lines.

An old memory, inherited from his past, drifted through his mind like a ghost. “You promised to protect us, didn’t you?” It was the voice of a grieving wife whose husband had fallen—a man whose face Enkrid could no longer see in his mind’s eye. His internal self was riddled with old wounds that couldn’t even be called scars, for they had never truly stopped bleeding.

“So, what exactly did you manage to save?” the ghost whispered.

Did the world shift just because the powerless raised their voices? No. He lacked the natural genius to impose his desires through sheer strength. Because of that limitation, there were many people he had failed to keep safe. Many things had slipped through his fingers, leaving behind a trail of regret and bitterness. And yet, he had no desire to retreat. Just because he was bleeding didn’t mean he couldn’t keep walking. Even if his legs failed him, he would drag himself forward. He would become a knight. That was his singular dream. He wanted to shield those who stood behind him, and that was the core of his ambition.

Looking at these fairies brought those buried memories back to the surface. “Not bad,” Enkrid whispered to himself. He wouldn’t want to sustain a peaceful life by shifting the entire burden of responsibility onto a single fairy like Shinar. That was the sort of metaphor a fairy might use, though such wit seemed specific to Shinar alone; the others didn’t seem inclined toward that kind of irony. Or perhaps the gravity of the situation simply left no room for humor.

“If you truly intend to go in with us, I’ll give you my thanks now,” Bran, the tree giant, said as he moved closer. His heavy, root-like feet dragged across the earth, kicking up clouds of grit. A smoldering herb stick was still clenched between his lips. “Is the smell too much for you?” he asked. His tone was unexpectedly warm, coming from a Woodguard, a race known for their lack of outward emotion.

“I can handle it. Were you planning to enter today anyway?” Enkrid asked, checking his sword belt and making sure his equipment was positioned correctly. Whether one was a common soldier or a high knight, maintaining one’s gear was the foundation of survival.

“Not necessarily today. But we would have made our move before the month was out,” Bran replied with a nod.

“Then why choose this moment?”

“A sign. Your arrival—perhaps the gods were signaling that the time has come.”

It appeared his presence wasn’t just a coincidence to them, but a sort of omen. And the fairies weren’t the only ones reacting to his arrival. Immediately after Ermen announced that the demon’s period of mercy was over—and Bran finished speaking—a pungent, rotting stench began to drift out from the cavern. A low, vibrating growl followed.

Out of the cave’s mouth, a head appeared, casting a shadow even deeper than the surrounding dark. The rest of its body stayed hidden, with only its head visible—a brown mane swirling in the air as if it were underwater.

“Prepare for combat,” Ermen commanded. Bran and several other Woodguards stepped forward to form a defensive line. To a human, these massive, sturdy beings functioned as living shields.

The sight of the floating head was brief. Soon, the entire four-legged beast emerged. It had the face of a lion, but the end of its tail was capped with the head of a serpent. That tail whipped through the air once before slamming into the ground, sending up a spray of dirt. It was a Manticore, but a variant, as his instincts immediately signaled. His intuition identified the danger, and his eyes quickly looked for the physical proof.

He noticed the venom on its claws—the tips were pitch black and coated in a thick, sticky resin that left tracks on the earth. He saw its parched, leather-like lips and lack of whiskers. It would breathe fire.

Lua Gharne had taught him that every engagement begins with careful study. He had heard similar advice while traveling to learn different styles of swordsmanship. Jaxon had also emphasized that nothing was more vital than seeing the reality of a fight before it began.

While he was analyzing the Manticore, the fairies struck first. Though he thought the tree giant was just acting as a shield, several fairies suddenly sprinted up his back. The giant lowered his stance to provide a better platform. With great agility, eight fairies took positions on his shoulders and head, drawing their bows in unison.

Their muscles tensed and their fingers grew pale from the pressure of the bowstrings. They all took aim with perfect focus. The giant crouched, the fairies climbed and aimed, and without a single word of command, they released their arrows together. Though they had mentioned that even the children were forced to fletch arrows due to the crisis, the quality of the projectiles was undeniable—they were sturdy and well-made.

The bowstrings snapped, and eight arrows whistled through the air as a single unit. Enkrid’s perception slowed, allowing him to track every path. Two were aimed at the eyes, two at the shoulder joints, and the remaining four at the tail. It was a masterclass in coordination.

The Manticore’s counter was effortless. It shut its eyes, shifted its weight, and swatted its tail. Its skin was simply too dense for the arrows to find purchase.

“I summon the Spirit of Wind,” one of the archers chanted. According to what Esther had explained, this was a common invocation for them. Fairies were naturally gifted at drawing power from other realms. A localized gale began to swirl around the archer, snapping her green attire in the wind.

“Ops, Vigor, Inhabito,” a Dryas whispered from below, reaching out a hand. Enkrid didn’t know the language, but the intent was clear. A soft green radiance gathered at the archer’s fingertips, coating the arrow. Empowered by the wind, she drew her string back effortlessly and loosed the shot.

The arrow tore through the air with the sound of a hurricane, heading straight for the monster’s brow at a speed far beyond any mundane bow. Enkrid’s insight told him the shot was unavoidable. The wind spirit had given it enough force to shatter the creature’s skull. The fairies must have felt a spark of hope, though their faces remained masks of restraint.

That hope was quickly extinguished. The arrow came to a dead stop just an inch away from the Manticore’s head.

“Telekinesis,” Ermen said, his voice flat despite the grim development. He was likely shocked internally, but his fairy discipline kept it from his voice.

The Manticore snorted, and a blast of red fire erupted from its nostrils, turning the arrow to ash instantly. The burnt remains fell into the dirt as the smell of charred wood mixed with the cave’s rot.

Then, the eight fairies carrying swords stepped forward.

“I would have liked to see it at least once before the end,” one said.

“I agree,” another replied.

Enkrid didn’t know what they were referring to. Among them was the tall fairy who had spoken to him about honor; he carried a wide naide. While the naide was commonly known as the “Spring Blade,” each warrior’s weapon was slightly different. One even carried a long, single-edged saber.

The Manticore ignored them completely, radiating the supreme confidence of an apex predator. It possessed mental powers, fire breath, and venom. It was a perfect sentinel for a demon. This single creature was likely enough to slaughter every fairy present. They weren’t stupid; they had used their best magic and life-infused attacks, and it hadn’t mattered.

“At least three of us will fall here,” said Frokk, whose role was to analyze the battlefield and the enemy’s strength.

“Should I step in?” Pell asked.

“No,” Enkrid answered, moving to the front. The Manticore had actually been focused on him for some time. Even as the fairies approached, its predatory instincts recognized Enkrid as the true threat.

Enkrid walked with a slow, deliberate pace that mirrored the fairies’ own quiet grace. He drew his True Silver Blade, and the metal caught the dim light, casting a gentle golden radiance into the foul air.

“Get out of the way, beast,” he said, passing through the line of fairies. No one tried to hold him back. In their desperation, they were willing to accept any help offered.

He wondered why Shinar hadn’t asked him for help directly. He suspected she didn’t want him to inherit the demon’s curse, or perhaps she didn’t think he could handle the horrors inside. Maybe it was a lack of faith, or a cold calculation. Or maybe she was simply terrified for his safety. He might be able to slay the demon, but he might also fail and die, ending his dream before it truly began.

“If I take this on by myself, won’t that suffice?” a phantom version of Shinar seemed to ask. But he didn’t know her real thoughts.

“There is someone I have to see inside. Move,” he commanded.

His voice was thick with the power of his Will. The Manticore didn’t speak his language, but it recoiled from his presence and actually moved aside. Realizing its own fear, the beast opened its jaws in a panicked, defensive roar. It followed the roar with a massive fireball.

Compared to the walking fire Enkrid had faced before, this was nothing. The golden glow of the True Silver Blade sliced through the heat. The flames hissed and vanished, crushed by his willpower. The creature tried to grip his body with telekinesis, but his Will of Rejection broke the hold with sheer mental force.

Finally, the beast lunged with its venomous claws. It was a wild, desperate attack—nothing compared to the Four Seasons swordplay Shinar had used against him. Enkrid’s blade moved with superior speed and precision, cutting through the monster from its head to its tail. He even severed the snake-tail as it tried to strike one last time.

What the fairies had attempted with arrows, Enkrid achieved with his steel. In the past, such a feat would have been impossible for him. But now, he possessed the skill.

The Manticore fell apart, its dark blood forming a foul pool as its remains settled on the ground.

“Incredible,” Ermen remarked. His voice was still characteristically dry, but a faint trace of wonder had finally managed to slip through his fairy exterior.