Chapter 635

Chapter 635

Human beings perceive, contemplate, and form conclusions based strictly on the boundaries of their personal understanding. This universal truth applied even to the arboreal race known as the Woodguard.

Bran was gripped by a sense of impending doom. To his mind, this was the most terrifying ordeal they had encountered within the maze thus far.

Enkrid, however, remained composed. He saw no utility in panic or agitation—so he felt none. He merely focused on the necessary tasks: thinking and gripping his hilt.

“A Death Knight.”

A warrior brought back to life by the corrupting influence of the Labyrinth.

Had this dark resurrection granted it power beyond its mortal life? In the metaphors of the fair folk, perhaps it had been forged into a “hardened blade of grass.”

Was this the result of a soul clinging to existence at the edge of the abyss, only to be pulled back in this form? Or had the maze simply warped and chained it to its will?

The “why” was irrelevant.

What mattered was that the entity blocking his path was a direct challenge to a knight.

Yet, was it truly a threat?

Enkrid tracked the spectral, soot-like shadows coalescing behind the fairy. He noted the placement of her feet and the subtle rotation of her wrist.

His vision translated directly into instinct. His mind accelerated.

Before the fairy could even complete the arc of her swing, Enkrid’s blade was already in position to intercept.

Clang!

Pell and Lua Gharne could barely follow the lightning-fast collision of steel. To their eyes, it appeared as though the fairy had intentionally struck a target that was already waiting for her.

This was because Enkrid had moved to block before the attack even materialized.

It was a moment born of heightened mental speed and razor-sharp perception. After that single contact, he understood even more.

“A style that favors control over flair to prioritize lethal efficiency.”

Enkrid deciphered the essence of her swordsmanship.

“Is the intent to lock the blades? A binding maneuver?”

It is often said that when a warrior swings without specific intent, they lack genuine combat seasoning. No matter how decayed the flesh or how hollow the mind, if she had been a knight in her previous life, every movement had to have a goal.

That goal was to initiate contact between their weapons.

Initially, he suspected she wanted to trap his blade—but that wasn’t quite right.

She delivered a strike and immediately retreated. Enkrid sensed a lingering residue on his Jinblade—a grime similar to soot. It was invisible to the naked eye, yet he felt its presence.

The fallen fairy—Argila—was incapable of utilizing spiritual energy. In its place, she channeled the dark, arcane power provided by the labyrinth.

The origin might be identical. Hadn’t Esther mentioned once—

“One can substitute spiritual energy with an alternative force.”

The theory and the process were secondary now.

Enkrid pushed his focus to the absolute limit and threw himself into the fray.

The next attack arrived—the momentum of the previous clash feeding into a new strike. That oversized sword, which seemed too heavy for her slender frame, descended in a precise, vertical line.

It was a movement of minimal effort—difficult to evade and even harder to parry.

Just as before, her aim wasn’t an immediate kill.

She was forcing a confrontation of steel.

She didn’t want to grapple in close quarters; she simply needed their weapons to touch.

The intent was obvious, even if the consequence remained a mystery.

The final piece of the puzzle came from the rear.

“Do not let your blades meet!”

Bran’s voice rang out. Coming from a fairy, this was a vital piece of intelligence.

The implication: the physical contact transferred the soot—a lingering curse.

A magical reaction was being set in motion. One that would empower the undead knight while weakening Enkrid.

In the gloom, no one could discern the state of his eyes. They were radiating a bright blue.

Willpower erupted from his subconscious, surging through his limbs. His thoughts moved faster than time, granting him a fleeting vision of the seconds to come.

His physical reactions rose to meet that foresight.

From that point—it was pure reflex. For someone like Pell, spotting a flaw was a natural gift.

For Enkrid, it was a meticulous craft.

He disassembled, inspected, scrutinized, and re-evaluated. He had sharpened this skill through endless training, particularly against Pell.

Now, he utilized a fragment of that very talent.

It was a clarity born of study. A technique carved into his bones by infinite repetition. The will rising from his depths allowed him to manifest it perfectly.

Chiriririring!

Enkrid gave Argila exactly what she sought.

Their swords collided—once, then six more times in a blurred sequence.

With every hit, the corruption seeped from her cursed edge onto his Jinblade. The weapon’s weight began to shift and grow.

But Enkrid’s momentum never faltered.

The Jinblade was exceptionally light by design. Even with its weight doubled, it remained well within his control.

Six strikes, six parries—and then, disengaging from her massive weapon, the Jinblade grazed the neck of the fallen knight.

A precise, shining stroke. A lethal touch that left the resurrected fairy frozen.

Behind Enkrid, a fairy’s hand stopped mid-air—he had been on the verge of pulling out the Kiaos.

Drip…

Dark fluid seeped from the wound in Argila’s throat. There was little left within her, and even that soon ceased to flow.

She slumped forward, her knees hitting the stone floor with a dull thud. The soot hovering behind her flickered and dissipated into nothingness.

She did not stir. The companions watched her in a tense silence—but she remained motionless.

“Move out.”

Enkrid verified she was truly dead and spoke with a flat tone.

Spending time among the stoic fairies had influenced him—his voice sounded naturally muffled and detached. It wasn’t an act of modesty. To him, this victory wasn’t a grand achievement.

The creature that had attacked him wasn’t a complete knight. It was merely a hollow reflection of one.

Hadn’t Shinar emphasized this repeatedly?

“A fairy knight who cannot tap into spiritual energy is a contradiction. Spirit is the foundation of our race. Writing a letter without hands is impossible. If you claim you’d use your feet, I’d tell you that’s the same as writing with nothing at all.”

It was framed as a joke, yet it contained deep truth.

Enkrid had once challenged her, “Why not use your mouth?”

And Shinar had countered: “You are the type who would jam the quill into your eyelid and keep writing even if you had no mouth.”

The conversation had been so earnest it hadn’t even felt like a jest.

“How were you able to do that?”

Zero stepped forward, his curiosity piqued. Even fairies, who are raised to stifle their feelings, are still living beings. The shock in his voice was unmistakable.

“I identified a gap and I struck,” Enkrid replied, offering his usual, literal explanation. It was the most honest answer he could give.

“Tch.”

Pell made a sharp sound of disapproval.

He had observed enough of the fight to understand what had transpired—and it looked uncomfortably similar to his own methodology. Enkrid had developed a style that instinctively sought out vulnerabilities.

Had he mimicked Pell’s unique gift?

No. That wasn’t quite it.

In the Mad Squad, there were no secrets regarding technique. To withhold information was to stunt your own progress. Boundaries were meant to be surpassed.

Pell had learned that lesson by observing Enkrid. Regardless, he still felt a prickle of irritation—leading to his scoff.

“Genius.”

It was a compliment he would never utter aloud.

But Pell sensed it—his own natural talent was being overshadowed. If he truly understood the grueling “todays” Enkrid had survived to reach this level of mastery, he wouldn’t dare feel envious.

Meanwhile, Enkrid’s mind was already cataloging the experience.

“The purpose, the execution, and the regimen.”

Countless hours of combat had forged a sixth sense for flaws—an awareness beyond the physical. A martial art rooted in pure instinct.

Whether the movement was elegant, heavy, or swift—it was irrelevant. As long as the edge reached the target, the form was secondary.

The Purpose: “A blade that perceives weakness.” The Execution: “Perception and experience.” The Regimen: “Infinite combat.”

Pell possessed this naturally. Enkrid had earned it through blood. He was currently translating that raw instinct into a formal theory—a process that took only a heartbeat.

“What was that performance…”

Bran whispered as he drew near, still reeling. The other two fairies could only blink in disbelief.

Enkrid turned his gaze toward them and remarked:

“I’m not sure what you’re hiding in those cloaks. But I would prefer it if you didn’t direct it at Shinar.”

His voice was steady, but the words cut through the air.

The fairy named Arcoiris flinched visibly.

Was he aware?

Enkrid’s blue eyes fixed on him. Where Arcoiris was transparent, Enkrid possessed a terrifying intuition and a razor-sharp mind.

“We cannot permit Lady Shinar to remain as the demon’s spouse.”

He had made that statement before they entered. He had said it again once they were inside. That phrase held two possible meanings.

The first: They would liberate Shinar.

The second:

“Whatever you have hidden—it’s designed to kill her, isn’t it?”

Enkrid pushed the point.

The underlying truth: they were prepared to end her life. It was considered better to perish and return to the gods than to exist in torment as a demon’s consort.

He had unmasked their intent. Not through deep deduction, but because it was glaringly obvious. These weren’t fairies who had survived the harsh complexities of the outside world. They were incapable of deception.

Arcoiris remained silent. It was a tactical choice. Silence was a better shield than a clumsy lie. But his gaze and his stance betrayed everything.

“It was plain to see. And knowing it doesn’t change our path,” Lua Gharne finally noted. Whether her words were intended as comfort or not, the fairies seemed to settle slightly.

“…We should pause for a moment.”

Bran eventually suggested.

The straight nature of the hall allowed them the luxury of stopping whenever they chose. This explained how they had managed to navigate this far in previous attempts.

Enkrid sat upon the stone, staring into the dense obsidian void ahead. He could feel it.

“Turn back. Try again another time.”

The darkness seemed to breathe those words. Its hostility was a physical weight.

It didn’t matter if this was a conflict, a search-and-rescue, or something else entirely. No matter the goal, this hallway was designed to erode the resolve of anyone who walked it. It always provided an escape—a chance to flee.

Those whose determination wavered would retreat. Sensing their own weakness, some would run.

If this were a traditional war, and the Labyrinth and the fairy realm were rival nations—

“One is consuming the other.”

The fairies had already lost their protectors. Many had perished in these halls. The maze had feasted on their bodies and spirits, growing more formidable with every death.

Had they committed their full strength at the very beginning, they might have eradicated it—even at a high cost.

“Then the Demon of Courtship would never have manifested.”

But the fairies had sought a way to triumph without loss. Time slipped away. They failed repeatedly. The labyrinth transformed into a permanent, lethal fixture. By the time they resolved to destroy it—it had already evolved beyond their reach.

A relentless, hovering malice.

The demon’s shadow was felt just beneath the surface. Its craving for a fairy bride was merely a reflection of its hunger for the entire city. It sought to break free of the maze and spill out into the world.

“The birth of an expansive Labyrinth.”

If the city were to fall, that would be its destiny.

Elvenheim—the human name for the lands of the fair folk. What would it be called once it was transformed into a maze?

“The Elven Tomb?”

Enkrid shut his eyes. He wasn’t exhausted, yet he found himself drifting into sleep instantly.

Was this the influence of the Ferryman? Or simply his anatomy demanding a reprieve before the final trial? He couldn’t be sure.

But in the dreamscape, the Ferryman appeared. Holding a glowing violet lantern on his swaying vessel, he spoke:

“You don’t require my words, yet I shall offer a piece of advice.”

“Advice?” Enkrid asked, tilting his head.

“Abandon the Frokk, the humans, and these fairies—and save yourself.”

The Ferryman chuckled, a dark cruelty coloring his grin.

Enkrid offered no reply.

He snapped his eyes open. Only a second or two had passed in the waking world.

He consumed a portion of dried meat. The fairies stuck to their rations of fruit and greens. Then, the march resumed.

In that brief interval—what had Bran and his kin concluded?

A new, strange warmth began to radiate from the fairies.

“Slayer of Demons.” “We hold you in high regard, sir.”

It wasn’t just in their expressions—the words were actually spoken. Even Zero seemed overwhelmed by his feelings.

“Rescue the demon, and rescue our sovereign.”

Enkrid had nearly overlooked a detail—

He was aware of Shinar’s identity. Her complete title: Shinar Kirheiss.

“Elvenheim” was the generic human term. But every fairy settlement had its own specific name. Frequently, they were named after the presiding lineage.

The city Enkrid had entered was known as Kirheiss. Even in places governed by councils, the founding family held a symbolic—and often authoritative—position.

The bloodline of royalty.

Shinar was the final scion of her house. She was the queen of this domain.

“The most startling part is that it wasn’t a piece of fairy wit.”

Enkrid remarked.

“I beg your pardon?” Brisa asked.

“It’s nothing.”

A queen. There was nothing more shocking than that realization.

No further monsters obstructed their path. The hallway eventually opened up into a massive, hollowed-out chamber. There were no more routes forward—and though there were openings in the walls, they were unnecessary.

They had arrived at the heart.

Their objective was directly in front of them.

“Shinar.”

Shinar Kirheiss—the woman once titled the Golden Witch—was sitting with her hands resting in her lap, perched upon a throne crafted from bone.