Chapter 651

Chapter 651

The objective was straightforward—repel whatever was thrown his way. The moment the threat registered in his mind, Enkrid’s muscles reacted through sheer memory. Logic had no place here. He didn’t waste focus on his rival’s potential follow-up; instead, he committed his entire being to this single collision. His heightened perception slowed the world around him into a crawling stillness. Enkrid identified the incoming hazard: a slender, piercing spike—a rapier. The stabbing motion carried the distinct, aggressive signature of Jaxon. Recognizing the form, he dug his right toe into the dirt and unsheathed Penna in a fluid arc. The surge of power traveling from his foundation through his core to his grip was twice as rapid as his previous best. He sprang from his knee, channeled the momentum, and braced his shoulder, elbow, and wrist into a rigid line to eliminate any tremor. The incoming attack was a heavy thrust, favoring raw kinetic energy over mere quickness—a strike often likened to a battering ram meant to shatter fortifications. True to its reputation, the blade surged forward with the momentum of a siege engine hitting a gate. When that specialized technique met a legendary blade of impossible sharpness, the result was a feat of wonder. Chik! Skrrt! The metal skewer was snapped in mid-flight, and the hidden assailant’s head was severed the instant he erupted from the dirt. A sudden draft swirled from beneath Enkrid’s boots, and embers hissed from the fractured steel, spiraling upward like a pillar of fire before vanishing. To a casual observer, it would have appeared as though he had conjured a localized storm of sparks with a single motion. He hadn’t merely parried; he had destroyed the weapon and executed its wielder in one heartbeat. It was a fusion of physical power and technical mastery so seamless it bordered on the supernatural. Enkrid finished the arc and flicked his wrist. The crimson clinging to Penna was cast off onto the earth. Inspecting the steel, he found it perfectly clean. It seemed the rumors were true—the blade maintained its pristine edge even without constant maintenance. Regardless, he recalled being told that a biannual treatment was ideal—a specific blend of Woodguard sap and Camellia oil. Upon his agreement to maintain it, the fairy Lephratio had personally gifted him a bottle of that very mixture. This wasn’t just a high-quality tool; it was a relic of supreme value. “A remarkable piece of craftsmanship.” The compliment originated from the man clutching the polearm who had initiated the confrontation. Enkrid cleared the last of the Gore and looked toward his companions. While the ambush had been wide-reaching, Lua Gharne and Pell were far too capable to fall to such basic tactics. Just as he suspected, both had weathered the storm. Lua Gharne had used her forearm as a makeshift barricade; though it had been pierced, her Frokk physiology made it a calculated sacrifice. Pell had performed a sharp evasive lean, drawing his own steel to counter-strike. Enkrid detected a faint, heavy vibration through the ground—the sound of Pell’s sword turning the blow aside. Zero had scrambled back in a panic, preserved only by his nimble fairy-like agility. His blonde locks danced in the wind. A thin red line traced his brow, but a fraction of a second later, and the blade would have carved a path through his skull. Naturally, had Zero been truly unable to survive, Enkrid would have prioritized the boy’s safety over the kill. However, he had correctly surmised that Zero could endure. “Ma—” The polearm-wielding zealot began to speak, but Enkrid preempted him. The air was thick with the hesitation of a standoff—a perfect window where focus often wavers. Enkrid’s left hand blurred across his chest and snapped forward. A peculiar whistle accompanied the motion. Fwooooo! He had launched a modified Whistle Dagger. He had found the standard Silent Dagger lacked the proper weight, so he had overhauled the design for his own hands. He had added extra edges to ensure it was lethal, and was considering a more aggressive name for it. It no longer whistled; it sounded more like a blaring war-horn. Bwa-bwak! The sound was a testament to the force behind the throw. Enkrid was never idle. Outside of his primary swordplay, he was a relentless student of every combat art he encountered. Utilizing the projectile form he’d studied under Jaxon, the blades found three more enemies emerging from the earth. The daggers didn’t just find their marks—they shattered their targets’ heads upon impact. Three of the six specialized tools Aitri had forged for him were now spent. ‘Only Penna is left.’ True Blade was gone, as was his spark-tempered sword. Penna was slightly shorter than what he preferred for a primary weapon. ‘No matter. It isn’t a handicap.’ Enkrid processed the tactical landscape with cold precision. There was no room for alarm. He adjusted his footing into a wider stance and brought his blade up. As he held Penna in a vertical guard, the moonlight—now stained a deep crimson—seemed to split around the edge of the sword. The twin moons cast long shadows across the terrain. Standing before the group, the man with the polearm tapped the earth once more with a heavy tak. “This is the last time I will ask. Will you depart? It would be a tragedy to see such skill extinguished here.” “And who are you supposed to be?” Enkrid’s voice was devoid of any sentiment. He betrayed neither fear nor doubt. Lua Gharne, however, looked genuinely stunned. Observing the man’s weapon and his distinctive attire, her usual annoyance vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused stare. “Is it possible…?” Lua Gharne trailed off. Pell knit his brows, his palm tightening on the grip of the Idol Slayer. Zero focused on his breathing, trying to steady his nerves. Since the start of the encounter, the warrior clad in dark plate armor had been radiating a pressure that felt like a physical weight. It was reminiscent of the suffocating air within the Demon Realm’s heart. It was an overwhelming presence—the unmistakable aura of a master knight. “Your suspicion is correct.” The leader inclined his head toward Lua Gharne. As Enkrid watched with a neutral expression, the man identified himself. “I am the Apostle of the Second Coming.” Within the hierarchy of the Demon Realm’s faith, an “Apostle” was a title reserved for those of Peerless capability— Specifically, those who had gained transcendence after a direct encounter with one of the six ruling demons. This individual was the latter. To put it plainly, he was likely the mastermind behind every cultist activity they had encountered thus far. He was the one who had dispatched the Apostle of Curses; even the sorcerer who commanded Walking Fire had moved at his whim. “Even zealots can be seduced by that foul demonic influence, it seems.” Pell, who had been practicing the art of the insult lately, let out a sharp remark. “Is that what you believe?” Enkrid asked, and Pell gave a knowing grin. He felt the danger, but he refused to shrink away from it. If this was his time to fall, then so be it. A man who feared the end had no business holding a blade. A shepherd of the wilderness spends his days speaking with the dead and competing with monsters. That was the life of a nomad of the wastes. If the threat of death paralyzed you, you wouldn’t survive the first day. “So, you’re claiming it’s not?” Pell shot back, maintaining his composure. To Enkrid, Pell’s most valuable trait was that unshakable nerve. It complemented his nature perfectly. While Enkrid didn’t feel envy, he respected the power inherent in that confidence. The Apostle’s suggestion that their deaths would be a “waste” now seemed like a joke. “Why don’t you go find a corpse to call ‘mother’ and ask for a bottle? What kind of ‘turning back’ are you talking about?” Enkrid spoke directly to the Apostle. The words were sudden—and incredibly foul. The Apostle’s brow twitched at the slur, likely the first he had ever received. His composure fractured before he could catch it. What had he just heard? Pell, hearing the insult, felt a spark of inspiration. What was the point of a taunt? To provoke. To disrupt the enemy’s mental equilibrium. ‘You have to read the moment and say the one thing they can’t ignore.’ Enkrid was usually subtle with his mockery, but this was a frontal assault—raw and jagged. It was clear now. The objective was to unbalance the foe and shatter their calm. It wasn’t about the profanity—it was about the wound. Pell was elated. He joined in immediately. “Let’s see that face of yours. You’re decades past the cradle. A grown man begging for milk? Pathetic.” He didn’t quite land the theatrical gag he intended, but his aim was true. “…They call you madmen for a reason,” the Apostle hissed. The heart of the Church of the Demon Realm was centered in the Realm itself, and this man was their regional governor. To have someone of his standing, trained by demons, rattled by a few crude jests—wasn’t that a win in itself? Lua Gharne puffed her cheeks out. The Frokk let out a wet, rhythmic laugh. “Regardless, I shall offer one final mercy. Ele.” At the Apostle’s command, the black-armored knight struck. No—by the time they registered the movement, a void of darkness had already been carved through the air above Enkrid. It was a tear in reality—a slash that ignored the slowing of time. Enkrid brought the fairy-tempered Penna upward to meet it. Clang! While he had shattered the previous sword with ease, this one held firm. The dark blade vibrated against his own, suddenly blurring into a trio of images. ‘A ghost-image produced by a snap of the wrist starting from the ankles.’ The mechanics of the strike were instantly transparent to him, and the solution followed. The opponent relied on visual deception. Enkrid instinctively partitioned his mind and initiated the Wave-Blocking Sword Technique. Tatatang! The sound of steel on steel rang out in a rapid-fire cadence. A gale erupted between the combatants. In the center of the flying sparks, Enkrid’s azure eyes burned with focus. The knight in black was a formidable foe. Through the narrow slit of his helmet, a similar blue light flickered. Countless exchanges occurred in a blur. During the chaos, the Apostle continued to speak, his voice measured and steady. “Do you truly think you are the master of your own fate? Do you believe the world cares for justice? In the eyes of the Demon Realm, all are equal. If you embraced our truth, you would see the light.” As he preached, Ele’s sword split into three again—but this time, the metal elongated. Ting! The segments separated, connected by a hidden, flexible link. It was a calculated trap. Enkrid appeared to be caught. Hadn’t he just moved to retreat? Furthermore, the enemy had managed to loop a strange cord around Enkrid’s wrist with his free hand. It looked like the end. With his arm bound and the segmented blade racing for his heart, there was no escape. But the end didn’t come. Enkrid ignored the binding on his wrist and yanked Penna back, striking the exact center of the extended blade. Bang! A massive spray of sparks erupted, and the blade meant for his chest was knocked wide. Extending a weapon always introduces a point of structural weakness. By striking the pivot point, the entire trajectory is ruined. “I am known as the Black Snake!” Ele roared, his voice thick with adrenaline. He lashed out with his weapon—clearly his primary soul-bound tool. Chwarararak! The sword disintegrated into its segments again, stretching out into a bladed whip. It transitioned seamlessly between a rigid sword and a flexible lash. Its erratic nature made it nearly impossible to predict—and yet— Tadang! Clang! Enkrid remained unmoved. The situation looked dire to an outsider, but he was in no real peril. It was a duel where the surface appearance hid the true balance of power. Lua Gharne saw it. As did the Apostle. ‘Didn’t he struggle against Hatun?’ The Apostle mused. Even if Enkrid had won that fight, this performance was irrational. In terms of sheer combat prowess, the Black Snake Ele was the undisputed champion of his territory. In a duel to the death, the Apostle himself wasn’t certain he could win. Yet Enkrid was holding his own. Not just surviving—he was thriving. ‘It is fortunate I came prepared.’ The Second Apostle was a man of cold calculation, much like Ermen or Kraiss. He had already planned for the eventuality that even Ele might meet his match. The Apostle spoke a name. “Levantine.” A figure in flowing, loose robes stepped out. His attire seemed entirely impractical for a fight. “May I have a taste?” “Do as you wish.” The exchange was chilling. Levantine’s mouth stretched into a grotesque, jagged grin. Between his wide-set lips, a sharp fang poked through. Drool pooled between his teeth. His gums were bared in a feral snarl, and dark capillaries burst within his eyes. “I am Levantine, a Noble of the Night.” With that declaration, he blurred forward. Enkrid sent a casual horizontal slash toward the man’s incoming path. Penna tore through the fabric of the robe. Pic! The clothing was shredded, but Levantine dissolved into a dark fog and billowed upward. Vampires—a predatory race that fed on the living—dwelt within the Demon Realm. Levantine was one of their kin. He wasn’t a knight, but even Ele couldn’t claim superiority over him. This was the elite force the Apostle had meticulously assembled. Levantine solidified in midair and thrust out a hand. His palm tore open. Dark blood spilled out, hardening into an arrow of shadow, and hissed toward Enkrid. Thunk! Enkrid pivoted on his heel, rotating with the precision of a dancer, and swung. The blood-arrow shattered on contact. Bang! Ele’s follow-up was parried in the same motion. He appeared to be working at his absolute limit to handle both attackers simultaneously. “Damn it,” Pell whispered. He was looking for any gap to jump in, but the intensity of the fight kept him pinned. He realized the man standing in the rear was likely just as lethal as the two currently engaged. At this rate, Enkrid’s stamina would surely fail him. He gripped his sword, ready to throw himself into the fray, but the rhythm of the battle offered no entry point. Lua Gharne was equally tense. Zero didn’t even breathe. Through the clash of steel, the Apostle’s voice rose again. “Join the ranks of those who find equality in the Demon Realm. Become a foundation for a new world. This is your purpose.” The sermon continued unabated. “I offer you the chance to rewrite your miserable story!” The cultist’s voice carried a supernatural weight. Bang! Steel met steel. Boom! The vampire’s blood-arts exploded. And in the middle of the storm, Enkrid spoke. “What was that?” Thump! Tadang! “I missed that. Run it by me again.” “Ah.” Pell let out a breath of pure respect. Sometimes, you didn’t need a curse to break a man—just a well-placed act of indifference did the trick. He had just witnessed a new level of psychological warfare.