Chapter 652

Chapter 652

The Apostle did not repeat his demand. Instead, he clenched the staff in his right hand and held out his left.

To Pell, the digital configurations were bizarre. The man pressed his thumb against his middle and ring fingers, fanned them out, twisted his wrist, and finally thrust out only his index and pinky before snapping them back into a fist.

Following these silent gestures, cryptic incantations spilled from his lips, and a viscous black essence began to seep from his fingertips.

Then, clear speech resonated from the Apostle.

“Huarin’s hound.”

Lua Gharne recognized this sorcery from previous encounters with the sect. The dark fluid expanded of its own volition, taking shape as it struck the earth on all fours.

Grrrr—

The creature tossed its head and snarled, charcoal-colored miasma venting from its jaws and swirling above its skull.

The gap in capability between a standard cultist and an Apostle of the Second Coming was vast. This summoned entity was clearly no mere cur.

“Eliminate him.”

Upon the Apostle’s order, Huarin’s hound entered the fray. It propelled itself off the dirt with a bone-shaking crack, streaking forward like a shadow in motion.

Enkrid detected the approach from his blind spot, pivoting to evade before driving his elbow into the beast’s muzzle.

Crack.

With a sharp snap, Huarin’s hound was sent tumbling backward, crashing onto its spine.

Despite the impact, it rose without a whimper, shook its head to clear the cobwebs, and bared its teeth once more. It wasn’t a lethal threat—but it was a persistent nuisance.

Meanwhile, the Apostle’s chanting remained incessant.

“Your vessel is just there. Reclaim it.”

“The murderer of your mother stands before you.”

“Listen to my plea, and etch the sacred brand upon that mortal.”

In that interval, Enkrid identified a lapse in the beast’s guard and lashed out with his blade, bisecting Huarin’s hound from top to bottom.

The creature didn’t just take damage—it was severed. It dissolved into cinders and faded away.

In that split second, the vampire’s talons lunged for his skull, but Enkrid parried them away with a heavy punch.

BOOM!

A violent detonation followed, a localized shockwave that displaced the air and whipped up a gale. The remnants of Huarin’s hound were caught in the updraft, scattering into the night.

Huarang!

The wind carried a searing heat, as if the very radiance of the crimson moon had infused it with warmth. It was unavoidable. In a skirmish where steel bit into steel without pause—despite the winter chill and the darkness—the thermal energy was immense. Sparks showered the ground; blasts thundered. It was a gala of carnage.

Naturally, at this celebration, the wine was crimson life-force, the bread was torn skin, and the chalices were carved from bone.

Gradually, a faint azure radiance, resembling cold moonlight, began to bleed from Enkrid’s steel.

Between the obsidian, whip-like blade, the scarlet hexes of the vampire, and the ethereal blue glow of Enkrid’s sword, the sky appeared as a collision of three distinct lights.

When had a clash of this magnitude last occurred?

It brought to mind the legendary duel where Oara engaged Balrog.

However, this time Enkrid occupied the center of the storm, casting off shards of pale light with every revolution of his blade—there were no idle bystanders here.

The hound that had seemed capable of weathering the first blow was gone, and the soaring wraith—an apparition one wouldn’t anticipate under a blood moon—was similarly pierced and slashed by the blue light until it evaporated.

No spirit could endure a direct hit. Yet, even if it had survived the initial strike, he would have finished it regardless. That was the sheer intensity of his momentum.

Enkrid remained silent—he lacked the breath to speak. He focused entirely on the rhythmic dance of his sword.

The Apostle likewise fell silent regarding insults, focusing entirely on his rapid-fire litany.

More profound necromantic arts flowed from his tongue, manifestations never before witnessed.

Vague silhouettes shimmered in the air, charging with phantasmal steel. Orbs of concentrated shadow streaked across the clearing.

Pell, Lua Gharne, and Zero were not merely idle spectators.

All three unsheathed their steel. Lua Gharne, specifically, felt her resolve harden.

Each time she encountered a cultist, the memory of her fallen beloved resurfaced. They were her true adversaries. Even if her rage had cooled over time, she could never show mercy or levity in their presence.

Particularly when these fanatics sought to transform the world into a nightmare realm for demons.

Permitting such a catastrophe—how could any sane person allow it? Anyone aligned with such a cause had to be utterly deranged.

“You lunatics of the cloth.”

Lua Gharne gripped the Loop Sword in one hand while uncoiling a whip in the other.

CRACK!

An energy discharge erupted from the lash as it bit into the soil. Pell unsheathed the Idol Slayer and settled into a combat stance. Zero shifted back, hesitant about his role.

Should he charge in? He feared being a liability. And yet, he refused to retreat.

He had spent his existence avoiding the storm.

‘If I run every time the odds are stacked against me, I will never truly be a warrior.’

To Zero, Enkrid had always represented the defiance of limits.

Through his heightened fey senses, Zero could perceive Enkrid’s fundamental soul. He admired him. He craved that same strength.

That was Zero’s inner truth. But it didn’t change the fact that he was currently outmatched. It was wiser to remain observant for now.

He vowed to himself that if he survived this night, he would train until his final breath—until he reached the celestial flower field.

The celestial flower field—the final resting place for fairies. It was their paradise.

Its fragrance was said to be so divine that one could inhale it for eternity without ever tiring of the scent.

While Zero fortified his spirit and watched, Pell kept a sharp eye on the Apostle. Truthfully, if the situation collapsed, he was prepared to launch a desperate assault.

However, he couldn’t find a single moment of vulnerability.

Pell noted the Apostle was visibly incensed. A vessel throbbed in his temple as he continued his dark prayers.

‘Even if there isn’t a gap, perhaps I can create one.’

As he minutely adjusted his center of gravity, the Apostle’s eyes darted toward him.

Was his perception that acute? Or was it merely a highly developed survival instinct?

Regardless, it changed nothing. The Apostle effortlessly wove another hex.

“Huarin’s hunt.”

He gestured with his staff as the words left him. From its crown, black liquid coalesced and fell—transforming into more than a dozen hounds.

And they weren’t just canines. Were those spectral steeds?

Pell tightened his hold on his grip and scanned the chaos. A shift in strategy was required.

‘I need to draw some of the heat away from him.’

At this tempo, the Apostle would overwhelm Enkrid through sheer magical volume. If Pell could pose a threat from the periphery, it might provide the necessary relief.

Just as he committed to the move, the Apostle initiated a new incantation.

“Step forth, Warrior of Death.”

In times past, the Apostle was famed for mastering over a hundred distinct rituals—earning him the moniker “Collector of Spells.”

Compared to a titan like Galaph, who could supposedly grasp the flow of a river with a single palm, how wide was the chasm in power?

Without Esther’s presence, no one on this field could truly measure it.

But one fact was undeniable.

The Apostle possessed the might to engage everyone present simultaneously.

“Do you believe this crossing of paths was luck? It was not. I have anticipated this hour. Once I have ended your lives, I shall pour despair over Border Guard like a deluge. My battalions are already marching toward the city you called home. What? Do you still fail to grasp the gravity? I shall repeat it then. As many times as required.”

He was truly enraged.

Pell observed as a pale-skinned combatant materialized within the obsidian mist. It brandished a heavy, wide blade. Its eyes were voids of darkness.

A construct born of sorcery—was it a demon?

The Warrior of Death was a tool typically reserved for neutralizing mid-ranking knights. The only entity superior was the Death Knight.

Neither was simple to manifest.

Unless the practitioner sacrificed their own flesh to the deities, they required the physical remains of a skilled fighter or knight as a foundation.

The Apostle was capable of maintaining up to fifteen Warriors of Death.

Pell was unaware of those specifics—but he understood his objective.

The instant the Apostle focused on him and cast a spell, Enkrid’s gaze mirrored the movement. If this persisted, he wouldn’t be an ally—he would be an anchor.

‘These natural-born monsters… I will close the gap, no matter what it takes.’

Pell steeled his nerves, his resolve echoing Zero’s but carrying its own weight.

In any case, Pell understood his function. He had to alleviate the burden on Enkrid, who was currently balancing knight-level duels and magical bombardment.

That meant he couldn’t afford to dally with his own foes.

He regulated his lungs and narrowed his focus. The dark warrior hoisted its massive blade.

It settled into a disciplined guard—stance wide, point toward the heavens. The weapon seemed weightless in its grip. Its musculature was dense.

It was a risk, to a degree.

‘Thanks to that prick Rophod, I’ve survived gambles like this a hundred times.’

Pell possessed a particular gift. And he had been thoroughly disciplined by Enkrid throughout their journey.

He hadn’t just learned the art of the taunt.

The black steel descended in a diagonal arc. No opening was visible. The transfer of energy from the ground through the legs was flawless. It was the technique of a veteran.

The warrior’s blade seemed destined to split Pell in two.

Then Pell acted.

He lunged forward on his left leg and drove his sword in an upward trajectory.

Not a single motion was redundant. Every digit and limb was committed entirely to this one strike.

While Enkrid had been noting Pell’s latent potential, Pell had been absorbing every lesson.

What Pell executed now was Enkrid’s hallmark—“full-force slash.”

His steel tore through the Warrior of Death from groin to cranium. The opponent’s blade met only empty air.

Pell followed through with the step, freezing in a high-recovery pose.

For a heartbeat, it appeared as though the red moon itself had been cleaved behind his silhouette.

Survival in this theater required more than just mastery.

His blade made a statement: the environment had evolved—and he had evolved with it.

“Huff.”

As he regained his breath and looked forward, he saw the Apostle’s mouth set in a grim line.

Should he mock him? “I didn’t quite catch that. Want to say it again?”

But he sensed that words would no longer penetrate the man’s ego. So Pell remained quiet, sword at the ready.

“Molmon.”

The Apostle spoke the name. At the command, the man standing beside him—his sleeves and shins bound with cordage—stepped out.

Pell assumed he would be the next target.

‘Yet another one?’

He was mistaken. The figure moved toward Enkrid.

The mere resonance of his footfalls signaled to Pell—this individual was on another level.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact source of the danger—but he felt it. His gut screamed at him.

‘If he had targeted me, I wouldn’t have lasted a moment.’

Three of them now. All converging on Enkrid.

Could Enkrid possibly withstand them all?

“Fine. We shall play it this way. We will observe from the sidelines. But our shadows must not remain still. Arise, Sham.”

The Apostle beckoned four more Warriors of Death—one for Lua Gharne, one for Zero, and two for Pell.

Then he reanimated eleven additional cadavers—all set upon Enkrid.

They weren’t uniform in power, but each was at least equivalent to a mid-tier knight.

They couldn’t serve as living shields—but as necrotic barriers, they could drown Enkrid in numbers.

Facing three knight-tier adversaries, unrelenting magic, and now a dozen restless dead.

“Perhaps we should have summoned some help?”

Pell whispered to himself.

Had they been overconfident? Should they have anticipated the cultist’s total commitment?

Had Kraiss overlooked something?

If so, this would be their final resting place.

The look in the Apostle’s eyes toward Enkrid confirmed it—retreat was a fantasy.

‘Three of them are true knights.’

Once more, the reality sank in—he was operating in a different league now.

The Black Snake, Ele. The vampire. The final combatant. All knight-class.

The last warrior balled his fists and sprinted forward. While the first two employed chaotic styles, this one was clinical and traditional.

Now that two undead occupied him, Pell couldn’t commit to another high-risk strike. He had to play for time.

Lua Gharne was forced to fight while keeping Zero within her sphere of protection.

Her hatred for the sect didn’t outweigh her duty to her companion.

She had gained much from Enkrid’s tutelage. Including the instinct to guard others.

Zero’s face grew somber. He detested being a liability—yet he was trapped in that role.

He bit his tongue and moved his dagger with every ounce of speed he possessed.

If Enkrid fell, they would all follow.

It was only a matter of minutes.

This tenuous standoff couldn’t be sustained.

And yet—they were holding the line with surprising tenacity.

Was the Goddess of Balance intervening?

Or was it the Goddess of Fortune?

“Damn… truly.”

Lua Gharne breathed out. Her tone was laced with shock.

Pell, entangled with two warriors while tracking Enkrid’s progress, shared the sentiment.

But if Lua Gharne had perceived something specific to warrant that remark—Pell was still in the dark.

If he had more leisure, he might have tilted his head or tried to engage his attackers in a futile debate.

“Hey, how long do you reckon you could stand against three knights?”

Even if just to hear his own voice.

The Idol Slayer could banish ghosts—but it didn’t immediately halt the Warriors of Death. That realization had been teeth-grittingly annoying.

But all that irritation evaporated in a heartbeat.

All eyes gravitated toward the epicenter of Enkrid’s struggle.

The impossible was taking place.

“…What in the world is that?”

The cult’s heart lay in the Demon Realm. But they wouldn’t manage this territory with incompetence.

The Apostle of the Second Coming had the prowess to duel a knight. Each of the three subordinates under him was a knight-killer in their own right.

And yet, no.

He watched as Enkrid’s steel tore through the vampire.

GRAAAAAAH!

The azure light shredded the vampire’s form three times over.

The crimson moon usually bolstered the denizens of the Demon Realm.

In this moment, the Vampire Apostle should have been capable of matching Enkrid blow for blow.

Instead, his severed limbs were tumbling across the earth, discarded like trash.

‘Is this an illusion?’

That was the only thought remaining in the Apostle’s mind.