Chapter 642

Chapter 642

How many times had he encountered that same visage? By now, he could likely recall every etched detail upon the Onekiller’s frame from memory. Not that such a distraction was affordable. Without the gift of innate genius, one must struggle with every fiber of their being just to catch a glimpse of the world the masters inhabit. Enkrid understood this reality more profoundly than anyone. And in this final iteration of today, despite his lack of natural brilliance, he had finally seen it—that perspective of the elite. Standing now in the shadow of Shinar’s seat, Enkrid’s gaze was fixed on the Onekiller’s lethal appendages, where blades had been fused in place of hands and feet. He tracked every microscopic twitch, and the flow of time seemed to lose its haste. Accelerated cognition. The stagnant atmosphere of the dungeon turned oppressive, and a sharp sense of irritation prickled against his skin. It would have been convenient to dampen his perceptions, but doing so would mean losing the thread of the Onekiller’s movements. He required his heightened intuition. Thus, he had to simply tolerate the mounting tension and the physical malaise. He did so without hesitation. After all, such discomfort was trivial after enduring so many repetitions. Within this expanded moment, the amber-tinted figure drew near, leaving trails of radiance behind like limbs forged from edge and light. It appeared as a mobile weapon composed of shimmering orange metal. Since the demon Onekiller was essentially a living armament, the description was literal. The elongated streaks of light flickered and diverged, only to coalesce once more as the creature closed the distance. As the luminous form came into sharp focus, a smirk touched Enkrid’s lips. “A formal greeting.” His tone was airy and lighthearted, almost joyful. The dark-haired warrior with eyes like the deep sea sprang into motion. Lua Gharne and Pell hadn’t even registered his departure—they were too slow to be startled. The fairies remained equally oblivious. Only Shinar managed a reaction, her composure momentarily shaken. Enkrid brought his blade down upon the Onekiller in a punishing vertical arc. It was a swing that traced a perfect semi-circle through the air. On the surface, it appeared to be a blunt, predictable strike—but appearances were deceiving. Shinar perceived the truth. It was far more than a simple downward blow. The arcing path of the True Silver Sword manipulated the light like a polished glass, and for a heartbeat, the image seemed to fragment into a multitude of petals, resembling a flower reaching full bloom. The blade hadn’t physically multiplied. He hadn’t spent these countless hours merely contemplating the nature of battle. This was the fruit of grueling labor. The raw desperation of every lived “today” had forced his prowess to evolve. It was a sophisticated progression of the deceptive strike—a broader, more polished iteration. As he unleashed the blow, he fragmented his murderous intent, aiming for several vitals simultaneously. If it could cause even a flicker of hesitation in his foe, it served its purpose. Against most adversaries, that would suffice. But the Onekiller was different. An entity born of pure spite and lacking human thought, the demon met violence with cold, surgical efficiency. It was immune to psychological manipulation. Despite its erratic nature, the Onekiller’s counter-strike followed the most logical path possible. Clang! The True Silver Sword collided with the amber blade in a thunderous impact. Since the Onekiller’s anatomy was metallic, it felt like two massive anvils striking one another. The resulting kinetic wave shook the cavern floor, sending plumes of grit into the air. For an instant, the sheer force of the collision vacuumed the air out of the immediate vicinity. “Exhilarating, isn’t it?” Enkrid remarked, rolling his wrist to reset his blade as he leaped backward. That exchange had vibrated through his very marrow. He had poured genuine power into that move. Directing Will through his veins was an instinctual act now—after five hundred loops, he could perform it while unconscious. Though it wasn’t a conscious choice, the strike had naturally inherited the properties of the Heart of Might and the Giant Cleave. The endless repetition had woven his various skills into a singular tapestry. That was the reason Shinar could sense a fundamental shift in him. The deceptive blade meant to cloud the mind was a clever ruse—but the actual strike, the vertical descent, was heavy and resolute. In the hierarchy of the attack, the feint was the support, while the true blow was the foundation. Even if the visual trickery suggested otherwise, that was the underlying truth. Disrupting the enemy’s concentration was a secondary benefit. It was a strike that seamlessly blended reality with hallucination. And Shinar wasn’t the only one taken aback. Crack—crunch. The internal structure of the Onekiller groaned as its lower limbs shifted configuration. Its upper blades elongated as well. It seemed the greeting had been acknowledged. That transformation indicated the monster was truly committing to the slaughter. “I’m enjoying this. How about you?” Enkrid prompted once more. The Onekiller offered no verbal retort. Naturally—demons possess no mouths for speech. “It lacks a voice and a soul,” Shinar noted. “I am aware,” Enkrid replied. He was more familiar with its nature than she was. But even without words, the demon communicated its bloodlust clearly enough. This reconfiguration of its body was its way of announcing that the true battle had begun. Enkrid leaned into that reality. Observing the shift, he adjusted his stance by a fraction and dipped the point of his weapon. It wasn’t a threat, but a calculated adjustment—a play for tactical dominance in the coming exchange. The Onekiller lunged instantly. Boom! It propelled itself off the floor. Even within the slowed perception of time, it bridged the gap in a heartbeat. A sudden pounce powered by those “digitigrade” legs. It left a crater of shattered stone in its wake, its metallic body outstripping the very dust it kicked up. Amber arcs curved through the air like the scythes of a reaper, multiplying into dozens of cutting edges intended to shred him from every angle. Enkrid took a firm two-handed grip on his hilt and parried them in rapid succession. Clackclackclackclackclack! Now, he had to partition his consciousness. Initially, he fractured his mind into dozens of streams—matching the Onekiller’s own complexity. He fought while analyzing; he analyzed while fighting. The physical toll was immediate, a nosebleed blooming faster than it did during simple mental acceleration. The demon pressed him as if it sensed his frantic effort to transcend his own boundaries—attacking with more ferocity, more fluidity. The attempt to calculate every variable made his vision swim—yet he refused to stop. He lacked the capacity for surrender. He bore the weight. But the conclusion remained static. Through constant failure, a pattern emerged. Not all at once, but over the course of many days. I don’t need to fragment my mind so many times. The epiphany wasn’t instantaneous, but with every passing today, his efficiency sharpened. Broaden the focus for the overall rhythm. Sharpen the focus for the specific heartbeat. Though he knew labels were often useless, he found himself categorizing his progress—accelerated thought, bifurcated consciousness… The name was irrelevant—the application was everything. That was the realization he grasped. The Wave-Stopping Sword was a methodology designed for the long haul. It wasn’t about sudden explosions of force—it was about relentless continuity. A blade not intended for a single killing blow, but for the patient reception and containment of the enemy. He had trained to regulate his pulse and hoard his vitality for an endurance match. But whenever the Onekiller unleashed a sudden burst of speed, he had faltered—and met his end. I lack the vision to interpret the entire flow. That was when he opened his eyes to the cadence of the fight. The sphere of deep insight. Observing the broad landscape. Constructing the framework to keep the duel alive. Yet, he couldn’t permit the creature to land even a glancing blow. And I must also perceive the instant. The grand strategy required a partner—primal combat reflex. Living entirely in the “now” to intercept and withstand the incoming storm. That was the missing piece of the puzzle. Longevity or volatility alone provided no solution. The secret was their union. Equilibrium—that was the essence of coexistence. Maintaining a controlled spark of volatility within the shield. The path had been grueling. Even Enkrid, who lived for the struggle, had faltered—twice—to doubt his direction. The prerequisites for the Wave-Stopping Sword were finally met. Hold a measured level of explosive power. This was not a style rooted in the fundamentals of fencing. It was a technique that utilized mental acceleration and mental partitioning to squeeze every drop of potential from a warrior’s soul. He had mastered the theory and the method—and through his endless trials, he now brought it to life. A rain of shooting stars descended. The orange blades on the demon’s arms threw light in every direction. The reflected glare flared like a furnace, threatening to sear his retinas. Enkrid lowered his chin and tightened his hold on the True Silver Sword. Full sensory expansion would have cooked his brain. But by modulating that expansion, he could filter out the sensory overload. Will flooded his frame, shielding his vitals and reinforcing his blade. Clackclackclackclack! The amber meteors struck an invisible wall and dissipated into the air. With his sixth sense fully engaged, he found the breathing room to blink, easing the strain on his eyes. The Onekiller pivoted its strategy. Having failed with raw speed, it moved into a more complex offensive. It no longer relied on simple physics, but on the environment itself. It bounded across the chamber like a predatory insect—leaping off the walls and the ceiling as if they were level ground. Moving with a velocity that defied gravity, it began a three-dimensional assault, blades whirling. The meteor shower now sought his throat, his limbs, his back—every vulnerable inch. The front was no longer the only battlefield; danger arrived from every vector. I cannot keep pace with my feet alone. He moved only as much as the moment demanded. Accelerated cognition solved the puzzle and signaled the body. There was no delay—the thought and the action were one. Then, a peculiar notion surfaced in his mind. The heavy, foul air of the labyrinth pressed against him. The thickness of the atmosphere, the stench of decay—it was all so repulsive. Sunlight. As he parried strike after strike, Enkrid felt a yearning for the sun. For the touch of a cool wind. The city of the fairies was always perfumed with the scent of meadows and blossoms, regardless of where one stood. A truly exquisite place. By simply visualizing the light and the breeze—focusing on those remnants of beauty—Enkrid managed to temporarily tune out the crushing weight of his surroundings. Because his mind was partitioned, he had the luxury for such daydreaming. Will is essentially desire—an intent born in the spirit that dictates the flesh. His limbs began to move with newfound grace. One facet of his consciousness understood the mechanics. The other facet performed the dance. His divided thoughts executed their roles perfectly. The Onekiller’s strikes were savage and precise. To a bystander, it looked as though Enkrid was a hair’s breadth from disaster. But that was exactly what made the display so incredible. “You are achieving the impossible,” Shinar whispered. She was genuinely stunned. And she wasn’t the only witness. One edge after another was swatted aside. The demon’s lethal maneuvers were reduced to harmless gestures. The hours ticked away. Enkrid remained centered. He did not lose himself to the trance of battle. He stayed anchored in the present. The Wave-Stopping Sword caught every single intent the Onekiller threw at him. At one point, the monster attempted to lunge at Pell. It was a wasted effort. Enkrid severed the blade-arm mid-swing, acting as if he had anticipated the move from the start. Defense wasn’t merely hiding behind a shield. The act of attacking was itself a wall. He had mastered that principle long before he had ever led the Mad Squad. He had the knowledge, and he applied it without reservation. A full day passed. Clack! Clackclackclackclack! He spent an entire twenty-four hours simply holding the line. The sword of coexistence—of the burst and the endurance—hadn’t ended the Onekiller yet. But it had rendered Enkrid immortal in this space. Ah… Somewhere within that marathon, Enkrid had been washed over by a wave of pure elation. “To perfect a sword style is to unlock a new world.” He remembered those words from a past life. At the time, he had dismissed them as poetic fluff. Neither the man who said it nor the Enkrid of that time had been anywhere near such a peak. That man had been a simple village instructor—a mercenary of little renown. Certainly, when he spoke of a “sword technique,” he wasn’t referring to the high arts of the knighthood. And yet, Enkrid remembered. And now, the words echoed with profound truth. After surviving for a complete day. He began to weave seemingly pointless movements into the rhythm of the Wave-Stopping Sword. Raising a foot high, a flick of the tongue, an unnecessary pirouette. Pure defense would never win the war. This was the strategy he had developed. The Onekiller lacked a human brain—but it operated on high-level logic. Consequently, it would try to find the tactical significance in even his most absurd actions. That search would overtax its processing. He had tested this theory before—he knew the logic would fail. A crack in the defense. Enkrid drove his blade through the lapse. Rip! A fragment of the demon’s arm was torn away. The wound was minor. Just a sliver of dark matter no larger than a nail, accompanied by a spurt of obsidian ichor. It mended almost instantly, amber light knitting the surface back together. But the seal had been broken. To strike at its vitals, he would have to abandon the Wave-Stopping Sword. But to do so was to invite death. If the sword was a shield, he would simply grow the shield. He divided his mind further, layering in his own deceptive flourishes. One could say he had grafted his own identity—the Enkrid-style—onto the foundational art. He moved from simple competence to creative application. All within the span of a single day. “A prodigy,” Pell muttered, catching a glimpse of the internal alchemy with his own gifted eyes. “Not merely a prodigy…” He corrected himself. But Pell was mistaken. This wasn’t the result of a lucky birth—it was the accumulation of hundreds upon hundreds of “todays” stacked atop one another. The demon’s form began to disintegrate further, orange patches straining as more pieces of its anatomy were shorn off. The monster was failing. Or more accurately—it was being systematically dismantled. A full day had elapsed. The kind of duration that would leave any normal man collapsing from exhaustion. Then the second day dawned. No respite. No sleep. The violent struggle raged on. The partitioning of his mind reduced the physical burden. He no longer needed to redline his body with constant mental acceleration and total Will. The efficiency was absolute. The creature, devoid of a voice, had no way to cry out. Instead, through the loss of its wrists, its limbs, its joints, and its extremities—it signaled its surrender to the inevitable. It wasn’t a cinematic, one-hit kill. Enkrid understood that. But to those watching, it likely seemed miraculous. Pell felt as though he was witnessing a battle that defied any rational explanation. Enkrid had simply outlasted it. He had peeled the demon like a piece of fruit. He carved it away, bit by bit, until there was nothing left to sustain it. That was the end. The Onekiller slumped to the floor, lifeless. Enkrid stood as the victor. “…Now, we have only to arrange the nuptials,” Shinar deadpanned. “I’ve told you already, that is not happening,” Enkrid shot back, his eyes snapping toward the fairy. A classic fairy jest—and Enkrid met it with a blunt refusal.