Chapter 639

Chapter 639

The demon known as Onekiller increased the gap between them—a mere two paces. It was a distance neither too great nor too small, perhaps providing just enough time for a single, shallow inhalation. Yet, once the metal began to clash, even that brief moment would become a luxury. Enkrid made no attempt to close the distance or pursue. Instead, he utilized the brief reprieve Onekiller provided with calculated precision. He posed internal queries and searched for the solutions, reevaluating the battlefield through his gut instincts and extracting necessary data from the vast archive of his past combat. While such a process would be arduous to explain or execute under normal circumstances, his heightened mental state allowed him to process everything in a heartbeat.

The first inquiry was internal. “Is a reprieve necessary right now?” It was a moment of self-scrutiny, a tactic to view his own condition with cold detachment. “Rest would be welcome.” He was far from his peak performance, having lacked any real recovery time. However, it wasn’t a desperate situation. “This state is sufficient.” Having verified his status, he moved to the next step. “Evaluate the terrain before engaging. Avoid reckless charges.” Those were the instructions of Kraiss. Enkrid filtered Kraiss’s teachings, keeping only what served his immediate purpose. “Scan the environment before the strike.” Though Kraiss likely meant something else, the interpretation of wisdom was flexible. If it provided an edge, it was valid. He took it a step further—utility was the only metric that mattered. This philosophy mirrored the teachings of Lua Gharne, who insisted that environmental variables should never be overlooked. In truth, he had already cataloged the surroundings before Onekiller had even materialized. “Firm stone beneath. A dense, suffocating atmosphere. The crushing weight of the Demon Realm. Scattered remains of previous beasts. Dark ichor staining the floor. The arena is vast and unobstructed, resembling a massive stone colosseum. The only potential complications—” Shinar, the winged sprites, Frokk, and a lone human. They weren’t viable tools for combat. Furthermore, if Onekiller shifted its malice toward them, he would be forced to play the role of protector. “Every factor is a burden.” Indeed, the deck was stacked against him. Perhaps that was why a sense of grim delight began to stir within him. Enkrid let out a spontaneous, soft laugh. To any observer, he would have appeared deranged, but to Enkrid, the reaction was purely logical. For a man consumed by the art of the blade and the pursuit of mastery, such a daunting challenge was the ultimate thrill. “Confrontations that seem impossible should only be initiated once the scales have been tilted.” This was the wisdom of Abnaier. “Establish your leverage before the first blow.” Manufacturing a clear advantage in this moment was a tall order. Therefore, the strategy shifted to minimizing his handicaps. Abnaier had also advised: “Exactly. When all else fails, seize any possible scrap of an edge you can find.” It was a piece of advice tailored for Enkrid’s specific brand of problem-solving. His mind raced, weighing daring gambits against measured caution, pulling the required tools from his mental library. “Perhaps a psychological provocation…” He dismissed the thought. This adversary lacked any emotional anchor. It appeared even more hollow and devoid of sentiment than the Ferryman. A taunt would simply fall on deaf ears.

Onekiller initiated its movement. Its luminous orange form skimmed across the stone, its footing shifting with subtle grace as it lowered the bladed appendages that served as arms. To a novice, the movement might have seemed erratic, but Enkrid recognized the underlying intent. If a gale were forged into a weapon for the sole intent of snaring a flickering flame, it would move just like this. He sharpened his focus, attempting to distill the essence of the creature into a single concept. “A masterfully crafted blade.” That was the impression it gave because of what it represented: an absolute, undiluted intent to slaughter. It was “blind” in the sense that it lacked personal vendetta; it simply existed to terminate life. It was a roaming vessel of murder—a tool with its own agency. Once Enkrid defined its nature, he could anticipate its rhythm. “It will slice, impale, and destroy whatever crosses its path.” It wouldn’t matter who the victim was. With the definition set and his memories guiding him, his next move was clear.

A heavy thud echoed. Enkrid executed a movement that seemed purposeless, slamming his foot into the ground. The stone buckled under the force, spiderwebbing outward as a plume of grit rose into the air. “Focus on me, you monster.” He accompanied the words with a phantom strike, his sheer willpower manifesting as a crushing wave of fake momentum. Even a creature of the abyss could not dismiss such a concentrated presence. He dipped the point of his true silver sword, leveling it at the demon. Through his speech, his stance, and his radiating will, he commanded: Look at me. Direct your malice toward me. Make me your sole universe.

The demon complied instantly, drawn in by the gravity of his resolve. Its killing intent narrowed to a needlepoint, locking onto Enkrid with terrifying focus. It was a sensation that bypassed the five senses, registering only on a primal level—like an arrow drawn to its limit and aimed squarely at the center of his brow. A small, genuine smile touched Enkrid’s lips, born from a rush of pure, unadulterated excitement that had no room for darkness. “The leverage I needed.” He had ensured the enemy’s gaze would not wander. That singular achievement neutralized his disadvantages. He could now shield his companions while the duel raged. He was satisfied that his gambit had paid off, but he was even more invigorated by the fact that the demon recognized him as a worthy equal. A foe of this caliber could not afford to look away. This was the validation of every hour of training and every drop of sweat. The joy was so intense it felt as if his very consciousness might dissolve in the pleasure of it.

An explosion of sound followed. As his legs coiled to spring, the demon surged forward, bringing its blade down with lethal force. Despite the thick air, the weapon descended toward his skull. Sensing the trajectory, he parried. The sound of the impact seemed to precede the meeting of the blades. Insight flooded Enkrid’s mind, showing him the sequence before it unfolded. The demon’s right limb had struck, but its left was already transitioning into a piercing thrust. Enkrid pivoted his left foot outward in a half-rotation—a feat of flexibility beyond the reach of a normal man. Even though the stance appeared broken, his equilibrium remained flawless. The result was a swaying, fluid dodge that allowed the strike to pass by him like a banner snapping in a gale.

But he wasn’t merely retreating. In the midst of the evasion, he lunged with his left hand, a spark igniting and driving toward the demon’s throat. A sharp clang echoed as the attack was parried. In the narrow space between them, steel, murderous intent, and pure spite caught fire. The rhythm of strikes and counters became a continuous stream. Metallic clatters rang out in rapid succession. Flashes of light illuminated the air as the true silver and the spark met the orange glow of the demon’s weapons, clashing and breaking away like lovers caught in a violent, agonizing embrace. Enkrid’s mind continued to fire at an accelerated rate. “No flaws in its defense.” Predicting its next action was nearly impossible because it operated on raw instinct rather than thought. It was immune to mental manipulation. Even drawing a single drop of its essence was a monumental task. Yet, the demon fared no better against him; he remained untouched. To an observer, the fight would have looked like a display of dark magic—movements that defied human anatomy and strikes powered by impossible leverage. “Remarkable…” It wasn’t a knight, yet it possessed a level of combat prowess that rivaled the greatest of them. The thrill was overwhelming.

After nearly two hundred exchanges of steel—a sequence that felt like an eternity but lasted only seconds—Enkrid saw his opening. He moved for the finishing blow. Onekiller utilized a cross-step, sweeping its left blade in a wide arc while launching an asynchronous thrust with the right. It was a pattern reminiscent of a Valen-style duet, a form Enkrid knew well. He feigned a standard parry, then deliberately shattered the cadence of the duel.

It began when he appeared to block with the spark in his left hand, only to let the weapon fall away entirely, forcing a momentary lapse in the demon’s processing speed. It was a move born of insanity—a total rejection of tactical logic. Who would voluntarily disarm themselves and attempt to seize a blade with their bare skin? But the demon, a being of pure, rational lethality, operated on a rigid logic. Against such a creature, madness was the only true weapon. It was a choice born of his accelerated thinking—not a perfect solution, but an effective one.

The demon’s logic wasn’t shattered, but it was slowed. Enkrid clamped his gloved hand onto the incoming blade. The sound of metal grinding against metal filled the air as his gauntlet was torn apart, and the demon’s thrust buried itself in his midsection. At the final moment, he shifted his torso just enough to ensure the blade missed his vitals. Simultaneously, his true silver sword bypassed the horizontal guard and tore through the demon’s neck. Impact. A clean cut. The sound of yielding flesh. It happened in the blink of an eye. “We are perfectly matched.” In a rematch, the outcome would be a coin toss. That was why seizing the momentum was everything. “The advantage is mine.” He had reclaimed the lead. By choosing the moment of mutual sacrifice, he had imposed his will upon the fight. He understood that when skill is equal, a demon splitting its focus between two weapons cannot withstand the full, concentrated force of a true silver blade. And in that moment of shared carnage—his sword in the demon’s throat and its steel in his gut—he had an epiphany: against a foe of this magnitude, wielding two blades was actually a limitation. The demon was proof. “If it had utilized only one arm with that much power…” He would have been defeated. This meant their skills weren’t just equal; the demon might have actually been his superior. Regardless, the victory was his.

“This isn’t the end!” Shinar’s voice cut through the air, sharp and desperate. The decapitated Onekiller drove its remaining blade downward with mindless force. Enkrid threw himself backward by reflex. The steel slid out of his stomach with a sickening sound, followed by a torrent of blood. “I can survive this.” The bleeding was heavy, meaning his time was limited, but a swift conclusion to the fight would see him through. He could use the internal muscle manipulation Audin had taught him to slow the hemorrhaging. He could still stand. He had to.

But then, an alien sensation took hold. Enkrid felt an icy chill radiating from the puncture in his abdomen. He couldn’t tell if it was a toxin, but something was systematically invading his veins, spreading through his body with terrifying speed. It was like cold water hitting an empty stomach, touching every nerve and shutting it down. The transformation became visible; his eyes felt as though they were simmering, and his vision was flooded with a deep, bloody crimson. “Enki!” Lua Gharne’s scream echoed. He heard the rasp of Pell’s sword leaving its sheath and the frantic fluttering of the sprites, but his sight failed him. Everything vanished into a void of black. “But why?” “Oh, you poor demon… you only needed to draw blood once, didn’t you?” It was Shinar’s voice. She had realized the demon’s true nature. The realization clicked into place within Enkrid’s accelerated mind. Onekiller didn’t need a decapitating blow. A single scratch was a death sentence. Even losing its head was irrelevant; it wouldn’t perish from such a wound. Enkrid finally grasped the demon’s true power. “A single touch is absolute.” The substance in his veins felt like a poison, but it was likely something more fundamental. No mundane toxin could dismantle a body this efficiently. “So that’s why it carried two blades.” One was never enough for the hidden weapons it likely kept within its form. His train of thought stalled. A fluid began to leak from his eyes, and a sudden, agonizing pressure gripped his skull, as if it were being crushed in a vice. Then, the world went dark.

Death loomed. It felt like being cast into a deep well of thick, black oil. He was sinking into the River of Death. There was a soft splash. The guardian of that realm awaited. The Ferryman didn’t offer a traditional smile, but Enkrid sensed a mock amusement in his presence. The Ferryman spoke: “Greetings, captive. I suspect you’ll find this particular cage quite entertaining.” Enkrid couldn’t disagree. He gave a slight, involuntary nod. He saw no path forward; the obstacle before him was immense, dark, and seemingly insurmountable. Yet, that was the very source of his agreement. The more impossible the barrier, the more divine the joy in breaking it. “There’s nothing left to discuss.” Enkrid’s answer didn’t startle the Ferryman, who had expected nothing less. “Excellent. Then go back and repeat the cycle, as you always do.” There was no need for further words. The Ferryman made a dismissive motion with his hand—a sign to depart.

Enkrid transitioned from the violet glow of the underworld back to the waking world. Today would start anew. He was once again an inmate in the demon’s prison. He regained consciousness at the moment just before they encountered Shinar, when the party had stopped for a brief rest before the hallway where they waited. He realized now that the Ferryman had likely curated this specific moment as the anchor for the day. Whether it was a choice or a trap mattered little to Enkrid. If he were the type of man to surrender to a bleak situation, he wouldn’t have survived this long. He was indifferent to whatever games the Ferryman played. If the circumstances were unchangeable, worrying was a waste of energy. Thus, as the cycle began again, he remained steady. “Move out.” Enkrid stepped into the fresh “today,” his spirit as unshaken as it had been the time before.