Chapter 643

Chapter 643

“Do not move.” After hacking the Onekiller into fragments, Enkrid grounded his weapon, calmed his racing pulse with several deep breaths, and spoke. The surrounding witnesses held their breath in response. In truth, even without his command, they were too stunned to find their own voices. Once he had spoken, Enkrid turned his focus inward for a moment. His arms and legs shook under the strain. Every muscle fiber throbbed with agony. Despite the fact that he had funneled all his willpower into maintaining his form— It was painful. This was the unavoidable toll. The exhaustion dragging at his frame was simply the currency paid for such a monumental struggle. And only now did the nuances of Oara’s conflict, which had once eluded him, finally make sense. He now fully apprehended everything that had previously flickered by like a fleeting vision. His heart hammered with a mixture of triumph and profound fulfillment. The Wave-Stopping Sword. It was more than just a move. It was a holistic martial philosophy—a synthesis of intent, execution, and mental fortitude refined into a single vessel. He felt as though he had crossed a threshold into an entirely different realm. Vague notions and half-formed theories began to coalesce, igniting new sparks of insight. Not at this moment. He sensed instinctively—now was not the time to pursue these sudden flashes of genius. That would be a task for later. To put it another way, the seed of inspiration had already taken root. This meant it was time to address other matters. He required stillness. It wasn’t just his physical shell. Forcing his mind to accelerate and fragment his consciousness to fight in such a manner—no matter how one phrased it—was a form of psychological self-harm. Yet, regardless of his internal state, it wasn’t the hour to discuss recuperation. The Onekiller had fallen, but the demonic territory persisted. Shinar attempted to hide her restlessness, but to speak bluntly, she had already begun to shift her weight in preparation to leave. She had started to stand, but froze when Enkrid commanded her to “stay still.” The man with the dark hair and azure eyes drew closer. In this light, the aura of a madman had vanished. Like every soul he had rescued, Shinar perceived a radiance within Enkrid. With the demise of the creature that had emitted a harsh orange glow, that light had flickered out. Yet even in the oppressive, heavy gloom, Enkrid appeared to be a source of light. Snap. After two days of relentless use, the True Silver Sword had been reduced to a jagged ruin. Nothing but the grip remained intact. Enkrid rested the remains upon the scabbard and began to bind them securely with strips of cloth. Just then, the fairy Brisa raised a fresh glowing crystal and whispered. “…He succeeded.” The duel had spanned two full days. It had been taxing even to witness. The perspiration on her spine had felt as cold as blood, with moments of such intense dread they had chilled her to the marrow. She had remained mute until this point because she didn’t trust her vocal cords to hold. For forty-eight hours, it had seemed as though the man before her might collapse and perish at any second. And had he fallen, their prospects would have withered—as insignificant as the twitch of a scavenger’s tail. Even employing Khaos, slaying the Onekiller would have been a near-impossible feat. “Indeed, the victory is ours.” This confirmation came from Bran, who was likely the most stunned of them all. Despite the massive Woodguard’s declaration, Enkrid gave no sign of hearing. After stowing his ruined weapon, he walked toward Shinar. She raised her gaze from the throne of rock. With her chin elevated and her emerald eyes gleaming with an enigmatic light, she peered up at her protector. The protector spoke—or rather, posed a question. “Is your age truly four hundred and forty-eight years?” A brief pause followed. Then Shinar burst into laughter. For the first time since the days she had played with her siblings and lingered with Aden, her expression transformed into a radiant smile. “You arrogant brat.” The words were an insult, yet they were steeped in warmth. Enkrid felt a sense of quiet triumph. At last, he had managed to repay her for all the fairy-themed jests she had made at his expense. Behind him, Pell made a clicking sound with his tongue and grumbled. “That fellow is an absolute lunatic.” Upon hearing this, Lua Gharne rounded her cheeks. In human terms, it was the equivalent of a suppressed giggle. “That is exactly who you are.” Setting aside the shattered True Silver Sword, Enkrid unsheathed Sparks and began to hack at the rear of the stone throne. Sparks already bore a prominent fissure. It would not endure much longer. Thud! Crack! After enduring countless repetitions of today, he was well aware that the chair was a living entity. His order to “stay still” had been a request for her to wait while he dismantled the seat. While Shinar remained motionless, Enkrid carved through the stone chair without mercy. He severed something resembling a network of veins within the rock, causing a discharge of fluid. It was a murky, greenish-black substance—a cross between gore and slime. “A seat designed to siphon vitality,” Shinar remarked. Fibers remained embedded in her back, but the link had been broken. “They claimed it was a demon of courtship, but I suppose it failed to steal my innocence. I’ve missed my window to avoid being a lifelong maiden.” “I appreciate the rescue, but I will repeat myself. Whether one is human, fairy, dwarf, or beast-kin—belittling a woman’s age is a disgrace.” “Well, I have always been a disgraceful individual.” Their exchange was playful, yet an unusual tension lingered between them. Once he had cleared away the remaining fibers, Enkrid reached out a hand. Shinar grasped it. He gave a firm pull, and she stood up. Lightheaded, she stumbled—and fell forward against him. Thump. The small fairy’s frame collapsed into his hold. Enkrid supported her gently with a single arm. “What are you doing?” she murmured from against his chest. “Esther clung to me for a whole day, but for you, this small gesture should suffice.” At those words, she pulled away from his embrace. Despite the surrounding dungeon, she carried the scent of meadows and blossoms. Even after she moved back, her aroma lingered, teasing his senses. If Esther put him in mind of the midnight sky, Shinar’s fragrance felt like the soul of a deep wood. Enkrid brushed his palms together and spoke. “This doesn’t feel like the conclusion. Wouldn’t you agree?” The demon of this maze had reportedly split its essence in half. One half had been stationed here to defend. What had become of the other? Shinar possessed the answer. “Was that a premonition? Or do you possess secret knowledge?” she inquired. Naturally, it was based on the information he had stitched together over his many repetitions. “Merely a guess.” “If that is purely instinct, then the lady of fortune has truly blessed you. Yes. This is not the end.” Shinar confirmed that the ordeal was ongoing. “What remains?” Bran asked, moving closer. To him, this felt more like a fever dream than a real day. He was so rattled he hadn’t even managed to spark a pipe yet. The other fairies shared his state of mind. At that point, Arcoiris stepped in and meticulously cleared the last of the fibers from Shinar’s skin. It should have been agonizing, but Shinar stayed composed. Fairies, accustomed to centuries of emotional suppression, often found it difficult to show what they felt. Regardless, everyone present was visibly moved. They had brought down a demon. That fact alone made their spirits surge. Having watched the conflict in a state of heightened awareness for two days, they had momentarily pushed past their exhaustion. “The demon of this labyrinth was divided,” Shinar clarified, gesturing behind her. They were at the terminus of the main corridor. From this point, three additional passages branched deeper into the dark. “One half became a warrior to guard this threshold. The other… is likely a nursery intended to devour the city.” A demon that generates horrors? Yes, such entities were known to exist. Places that qualify as genuine demon realms often house such creators—and the sentinels that protect them. The Onekiller had served as that sentinel. This maze could be viewed as a sister to the demon realm beneath the city of Oara. While that place held a fragment of Balrog, this one contained a man-eating horror and the spirits of fairies. Where Shinar guided them—there, they beheld the primary mass. A gargantuan mound of flesh. There was no other description for it. It was massive enough to gulp down a person in one bite. Its core rhythmically pulsed open, exposing a sickening slurry of tissue, clotted blood, and shards of bone. “A demon that spawns monsters. It is vulnerable to flame,” Shinar noted. Fairies were far from stupid. Neither Shinar nor the rest of her kin. If the Onekiller hadn’t been there, they would have possessed the means to destroy it. Enkrid’s intervention wouldn’t have been mandatory. Arcoiris withdrew a verdant gem from his garments. “A crystal saturated with pure essence is known as Khaos. This particular one has been distilled,” Bran clarified for Enkrid. “What is its function?” “This holds the forest’s vitality that we have painstakingly collected for years. Ignite it—and everything goes.” As he spoke, Bran struck his flint and finally lit a pipe. Drawing a breath, he blew out a cloud of heavy smoke. Shinar spoke as she watched the smoke rise. “You may put out the pipe now, Bran.” Bran had been her mentor. And the mentor of her sisters. The demon had arrived with a false warmth, then incinerated the city. For Shinar, fire was the ultimate symbol of horror and grief. Bran had smoked ever since. He did it to help her drown out those memories. A wood giant who handled fire was a rarity. Outside of Bran, it was perhaps unheard of. It had been a desperate gesture to liberate her from her night-terrors. Even with fire-resistant skin, Woodguards were still susceptible to burning. “I’ve grown too fond of it to stop now,” Bran answered without emotion. A quiet conversation—yet deep feelings moved beneath the surface. Years of being tethered to a monster were finally coming to a close. “I shall remain here,” Arcoiris stated with a steady expression. If he were human, this would be viewed as a moment of tragic heroism. Someone was required to trigger the distilled Khaos—the condensed spirit of the woods. Lua Gharne puffed out her cheeks and walked forward. “Can we not simply toss it and flee?” “Every demonic domain functions differently, but in this maze, that entity is the core. When it expires, the entire structure will give way.” Arcoiris’s voice was level, yet resolute. When fairies expressed themselves, it was usually in the form of a sacred oath. That thing had likely been the source of the manticores and the drowned ones. While they spoke, the mass of tissue pulsed and attempted to disgorge something. A deformed limb poked out, clawing at the ground. Dark, bruised spots. Elongated talons. The hand of a nightmare. “Truly revolting,” Pell hissed, and with a swift motion, lopped it off. Swish! The edge of the Idol Slayer cut through it effortlessly. No cry followed. The thing had not yet grown a throat to scream with. Even the demon must have felt the approaching end. Had it failed to foresee that its martial half would fall? Evidently not—no fresh abominations surged out to intercept them. Only the sickening pile of meat, frantically trying to assemble a defender. Black blood crawled over its bulging arteries. It was attempting to build—but ruin always travels faster than construction. Even after forty-eight hours of battle, their legs had not entirely failed them. They still had the strength to run. The others had not been on the front lines—they had energy to spare. “Lua?” Enkrid looked toward the jewel, calling her name. The subtle meaning in his voice was clear to her. A perceptive one, that Frokk—she grasped the intent immediately. If she secured it to her whip and launched it, the range would be far greater. “It should be possible. If it detonates upon contact, I can supplement it with a magical burst as well.” Lua Gharne began to unspool her whip. It was an enchanted tool. Secure, rotate, hurl—it was a simple sequence. “I still have a few cards to play. There is no need for your martyrdom, Arcoiris,” Bran said, persisting in his persuasion. “We must ensure its total eradication,” Arcoiris countered, shaking his head. He was immovable. It was a fixation born from years of suffering. If there was even a shred of a possibility that the demon might endure, he could not leave it to chance. “If it survives the blast, we will return and finish it ourselves. Birthing another Onekiller won’t happen overnight.” Enkrid chimed in. Just because a sacrifice was the most certain path didn’t mean it was the superior one. “Then let us proceed with that.” Arcoiris shifted his stance instantly. Enkrid had been preparing a long argument—but he went silent. That was surprisingly easy. Not even a small child would be that compliant. Wait—are small children even known for being compliant? “Let’s go,” Bran said, pivoting away. Shinar followed his lead. Lua Gharne began to gauge the distance for her throw, and when she reached for the Khaos, Arcoiris paused. It was the culmination of years of secret labor—if this failed, they could not replicate it. Enkrid had been pondering if he could simply dismantle the demon with strikes infused with Will. Judging by the resistance of the Onekiller, it would take months. Even then, he would have to mince it perpetually—and the Onekiller had continued to struggle even when torn apart. At this moment, however, he was far too exhausted. “Give it to her. If it fails, I’ll simply have to work hard for a few months.” Enkrid spoke with a casual air. Once again, Arcoiris complied without delay. He primed the crystal and passed it over. “Take it.” Lua Gharne accepted it, bound it to the end of her whip, and began to swing it in wide arcs. “You remind me of Rem,” Enkrid remarked. The sight of her rotating the whip above her head mirrored Rem’s technique with a sling. “Is that an invitation to a duel?” Lua Gharne asked, arching an eyebrow. Was this man preoccupied with combat even now? “No. Just an observation.” “Ah, so it wasn’t an affront then.” Lua Gharne smirked and triggered the enchantments on her weapon. A crimson light spiraled—blazes of fire ignited. Whoosh! A fire intended for the demon who brought a deceptive warmth, then scorched their lives. If there was any justice in the world, the demon born of fire would perish by it. The flames licked around the Khaos—snap!—fracturing the gem’s casing. Lua Gharne launched it. The whip snapped straight as the emerald stone shot through the air. Thud! The concentrated power slammed into the center of the fleshy mass. “We must depart now,” Shinar urged. It might have appeared that she had been idle all day—but she had been bled of her essence, rendering her unable to fight within the confines of the maze. She began to fall behind. Enkrid picked her up without a second thought. Bran moved efficiently, despite his size. He was remarkably swift for a giant. The others were equally fleet of foot. Enkrid glanced back one last time. A verdant explosion erupted—the light rolled forward like a tidal wave. The condensed essence was systematically unmaking the demon. Rrrrrumble… The labyrinth began to disintegrate. Enkrid, despite having experienced hundreds of repetitions, found himself disoriented—he hadn’t committed the layout of the tunnels to memory. He faltered. Pell sprinted past him and shouted, “Follow me. What, are you trying to mimic Ragna now?” Enkrid couldn’t stop his thoughts from spilling out. “We duel once we are outside.” Crash! Stone and dirt rained down from the ceiling. Pell flashed a grin and accelerated. When they arrived at the portal, no sunlight greeted them. The exit itself had been an illusion born of magic. As had the entirety of the maze. It was of no consequence. They simply needed to charge through it. Pell and Zero leaped out first. Enkrid followed close behind. Leave my prize behind! A fading ember—or perhaps the demon’s dying impulse—lunged at him. A blade of fire descended from the ceiling of the archway, missing him by mere inches. There was no malice. No warning sign. He didn’t detect it in time. His mental fatigue had slowed his reactions. The final blow was aimed directly at the top of Shinar’s head. Enkrid’s perception splintered. Accelerated cognition turned the world into a series of still images. Insight predicted the disaster. Too late. He was carrying Shinar—he couldn’t raise a defense. But should he give up? Never. Without a thought, Enkrid reached for the small knife at his waist and flipped it upward. A toss without a true aim—just a snap of the wrists. He hadn’t drawn Aitri’s dagger during the entire fight. Would Aitri feel slighted? That thought had been lingering in his mind—and now, it steered his fingers. The blade spun up, bounced off Enkrid’s own shoulder, and changed its trajectory. Clang! It collided with the descending fire-blade. The strike intended for Shinar’s skull sliced across Enkrid’s cheek instead. Slice. A minor wound. The instant it made contact, he realized—this edge was identical to the Onekiller’s. From his face, a wave of agony radiated. A profound lethargy washed over him. And then—everything went dark. The light failed. Time drifted away, unmeasurable. The first sensation he regained was a gentle rocking. Sway— Then he realized his surroundings. A river of ink. A tide flowing like the road to the land of the dead. A solitary silhouette stood upon a vessel, holding a lantern of violet light. The boatman had arrived, as he always did. And for the very first time, his features were visible.