Chapter 653

Chapter 653

In the language of the fairies, the name Penna was a mere contraction. Its complete designation was Kiis Seko Fedna—which translated to “the blade that severs all reality.”

Enkrid gripped the hilt, channeling just enough of his Will to keep himself steady, and a faint cerulean radiance shimmered along the metal. Simultaneously, the weapon seemed to fuse more tightly with his palm. He struggled to find the right term for this sensation. Was it a sense of total synchronization?

That seemed the most accurate description. He recalled Rem frequently mentioning that his axe felt like a natural limb—perhaps this was the phenomenon he had described.

The elongated edge of Penna swept across the bridge of the martial artist Molmon’s nose, having only just tasted the blood of the vampire. A quiet tearing sound followed as crimson droplets sprayed across the man’s features. It was a subtle noise, yet Penna’s edge was of such extraordinary keenness that it carved a significant furrow in the flesh.

As the blood surged, the martial artist flexed his facial muscles with precision to stem the flow. This was a specific physiological control technique rooted in Balrafian martial arts. It was evident that this newcomer was no novice brawler. Even so, he was within Enkrid’s ability to handle.

Enkrid found he could parry, evade, and counter with relative ease. Utilizing his heightened cognitive speed and mental partitioning, he activated the Wavebreaker Sword to push back the onslaught. In comparison to his life-or-death struggle with the One-Killer, this engagement felt twice as manageable.

He tightened his frame, allowing his joints to cushion the momentum, pivoted his core, and sent his blade whistling through the air in a broad arc.

CLANG!

Leveraging the shockwave from his collision with the weapon of the man known as Black Serpent, he drove his elbow backward with lethal intent.

THUD!

The blow connected squarely with the martial artist’s knuckles. In response, the man rotated his body to deliver a fierce kick. His leg snapped out like a whip—a strike so precise it felt as though a blade were slicing through the air.

Even within his distorted perception of time, Enkrid tracked the incoming limb. He arched his back, lifting his knee and tensing his toes. He remembered how the One-Killer could strike from any conceivable angle. That monster’s entire being had been a weapon—and Enkrid realized he could emulate that.

Could I not achieve the same?

The thought immediately manifested as movement. His physique had been tempered by Balrafian martial arts. If the situation demanded it, he could integrate hand-to-hand strikes seamlessly. His stance remained unbroken. Wavebreaker Swordsmanship was not merely a set of sword forms; it was a mental architecture. By that logic, these unarmed strikes were still part of the Wavebreaker discipline.

Furthermore, Enkrid had endured over five hundred days of such intensity in the recent past. He could maintain this pace for three more days without pause. If he truly exerted himself, he might last a week, though the fatigue would be immense.

As for the occasional magical interruptions? They were annoying, certainly, but compared to the horrors of Walking Fire, they were child’s play.

The conclusion was obvious—this was a battle he could win.

Are these opponents even the real thing?

Enkrid pondered this as he launched a kick toward Black Serpent Ele’s midsection. Suddenly, lethal spikes erupted from the man’s chest plate. It was a classic trick for a master of deceptive fencing—he had modified his gear with a hidden trap.

Enkrid instantly shifted his strike from a flat-footed blow to a piercing upward thrust with his toes. As Ele moved to avoid the strike, Enkrid’s helmet slammed into him.

Thunk.

It wasn’t a finishing blow, but it was enough to jar the man’s senses.

What an absolute monster, Ele thought, gritting his teeth in frustration. Meanwhile, Enkrid’s internal skepticism persisted.

They have to be pretenders, right?

Had the cult actually orchestrated an ambush, it wouldn’t be this lackluster. Yet, they weren’t imposters. They were the genuine articles, and they were far from weak. The current state of the battle was simply a result of Enkrid’s own growth.

Enkrid failed to grasp how much he had evolved. That lack of self-awareness allowed him the luxury of such doubts. The vampire and the Black Serpent were unorthodox fighters. The martial artist, by contrast, was a more traditional combatant relying on raw power and velocity.

In Enkrid’s newly categorized combat system, the vampire and Black Serpent were Sustained-Art Types, while the martial artist fit the profile of a Forged-Finisher Type. Given that all three possessed the prowess of a knight, they were likely Versatile Types. At higher echelons of skill, warriors naturally began to shore up their deficiencies. Even a Finisher Type would possess respectable technique and endurance.

The ultimate goal was the perfect circle—a state where all strengths are harmonized and vulnerabilities are nonexistent. In that sense, Rem, Ragna, and Audin still had a path to travel. Beyond the categories of Finisher, Sustainer, and Versatile lay the Complete Type. Perfection was an impossibility, but at a specific threshold, a warrior could be deemed complete.

The vampire lay in three separate pieces—effectively neutralized.

The martial artist was the next target. Spotting a momentary lapse, Penna carved a path across his throat. The windpipe was sliced open, and a geyser of blood erupted toward the sky. Whatever history he had, whatever ambitions or yearnings brought him to this moment, they were silenced forever. The dead hold no council.

Under the crimson moon, the dark fluid turned even more obsidian as it pooled on the stone. With a heavy sound, the man’s knees struck the ground first, followed by his torso. To the observers, his collapse seemed to happen in slow motion. Every beginning finds its conclusion. His head finally slumped against the earth.

The dark pool continued to expand. Does red turn to black when it reaches a certain depth? Like the darkness in their own veins? It was a question without an answer.

“In the end, my desire will be realized.”

Black Serpent Ele charged, hissing words that were barely coherent. Though Enkrid could hold three opponents at bay, he could not afford to be careless against a man who had discarded his will to live for a final strike. It was a winnable engagement—but a single lapse in concentration would result in his own demise.

However, having survived the constant pressure of the demon One-Killer, facing three foes felt manageable. Mistakes were not an option, and neither was overconfidence.

Knights were often viewed as supernatural entities, capable of performing flawlessly in the eyes of common men. Yet even these enemies were stunned by the mechanical precision of Enkrid’s movements. He left no openings. Perhaps that was why the title Ironwall Knight was so fitting. Even Ele found himself accepting that reputation as fact.

CLANG! CLANG-CLANG!

Enkrid parried the whip-like extensions of the enemy’s blade with Penna and shifted his weight to the left. The sword, undulating like a dark viper, pursued him. The deflected metal snapped back, aiming for the base of Enkrid’s skull. It truly mimicked the strike of a serpent in mid-flight.

Enkrid surged backward, dug his thumb into the earth to anchor a pivot, and snapped into a reverse dash. The sheer speed of the maneuver created a lingering afterimage. In reality, he had already closed the distance, sprinting toward the center of the elongated blade and grinding Penna against its side.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!

A shower of sparks erupted as he moved. Enkrid’s footwork outpaced the retraction of the enemy’s steel. A streak of pale blue light climbed the length of the black serpent. Ultimately, the viper missed its mark—and Enkrid’s Penna found Ele’s throat.

Squelch!

A sharp, clean sound echoed through the air. The strike was so rapid that it left only a microscopic line across the neck; the head remained perched on the shoulders for a moment. The blade was so fine it had simply glided through the flesh and bone.

“Rot in hell, all of you.”

Ele spat out a final curse. Bloody tears began to leak from the thin line on his neck. Soon, his head shifted, and the droplets turned into a crimson deluge. Had it been anything other than a decapitation—perhaps a fountain in a town square—it might have been seen as a work of art.

No one would ever know the story of the man who lost his wife at nineteen and his child at twenty-two, leading him to a path of absolute misanthropy. That man had been the Apostle of Rebirth—Black Serpent Ele. As the light faded, Ele felt himself plummeting into an infinite void. His family was not waiting for him. He had embraced the blood of demons for the sake of vengeance. He knew his soul belonged in the abyss.

“…Quite a remarkable performance.”

The figure holding the staff halted his incantations and spoke. Surveying the aftermath, the Apostle of Rebirth sounded devoid of shock, replaced by a haunting serenity.

“Was my assessment flawed? Were my numbers incorrect? Or is this simply the whims of a cruel deity? I cannot grasp the logic, but questions are useless now.”

“Do you intend to fight?”

“I am the last one standing. I have no other choice.”

The apostle was a master of the arcane and a formidable physical combatant. Yet, in Enkrid’s estimation, he was an Incomplete Circle. Even a perfect circle could be pierced by a sufficiently sharp needle. That was Enkrid’s philosophy. Defining a system always provided the spark for the next evolution of his style.

In the heat of battle, Enkrid began to visualize a new form of combat. It was a nebulous concept for now—but it was a start. It might vanish before it could be mastered, but it existed nonetheless.

The apostle had intended to be their doom, but destiny refused him.

Tap. Snap!

He had exhausted more than half of his magical reserves, yet not a single spell had found its mark. Even the sphere of black energy that reduced all matter to ash had been cleaved in two by Enkrid’s steel.

“Victory will be ours in the end,” the apostle claimed.

Stab. Slash.

Enkrid didn’t bother to engage with the rhetoric. He lunged forward and tore through the man’s throat. The blood spraying from the wound mingled with the red moonlight. It was a deep, vivid crimson. Despite his allegiance, the man was human. Pledging oneself to a dark god did not change one’s biology.

The severed head hit the dirt with a sickening thud. The eerie red light of the moon still washed over the battlefield, but the threats had been eliminated. The undead remnants summoned by the apostle dissolved into mist the moment his life ended. Some wandering spirits attempted to lash out in their final moments, but Lua Gharne’s whip and Zero’s blade silenced them instantly.

“Well, it seems my tactics were insufficient.”

The decapitated head spoke, despite being separated from its lungs. The Apostle of Rebirth was demonstrating one last macabre trick, attempting to talk with only his head.

“…Are you cursed with immortality?”

Enkrid raised his sword, wondering if the head needed to be rendered into mincemeat. The head responded quickly.

“No, death is coming for me. I’ll be gone by sunrise. This moonlight is the only thing providing me with enough power to linger.”

It didn’t seem to be a deception.

“Mutilating me further won’t change the outcome. If you have a change of heart and wish to save me, you’d need the blood of ten virgins to reattach my neck… though I doubt that’s on your agenda.”

“If I wanted you alive, I wouldn’t have cut your head off.”

“True. Besides, it’s a finicky ritual. Common blood doesn’t cut it. Perhaps a saint’s blood would suffice…”

He’s making jokes now?

“Should I just crush him with my whip?” Lua Gharne asked with a cold smile.

“I can cleave it. Are we worried about a death curse?” Peld asked, moving closer.

“I’m happy to do it,” Zero added.

“Everyone is so eager to harass a dying old man. Have some pity. It’s an ordeal just to speak with the mana I have left.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Just some final thoughts and a suggestion. My regrets are my own, so let’s move to the proposal—join us.”

“My whip, then—” Lua Gharne began.

The reality was that the apostle was on the brink of total collapse. He had only a few sentences remaining. He could have attempted a final curse, but he knew Enkrid would just parry it. Leaving a parting message was his only remaining option.

“You are fighting a war that cannot be won. There is no logic in dying for a lost cause.”

Even as a mere head, his words carried a strange gravity. He lacked the raw magnetism of Crang, but he was a persuasive speaker. This apostle had once been a brilliant tactician in his era. He had sided with the dark powers and become an Apostle of Rebirth under the Demon Sanctuary Church—yet regardless of his morality, one could not deny his natural charisma.

A twisted faith does not negate a man’s talents. Character and ability are not always aligned. Similarly, walking a moral path does not guarantee a happy ending. Enkrid looked down at the head in silence. The apostle spoke again.

“Eventually, you will fall to our blades.”

That was a possibility. Enkrid sensed no lie in the man’s prediction. But Enkrid hadn’t taken up this fight because he was certain of victory. It was a path he had traveled through blood and dirt, despite his lack of innate genius.

He fought for a world where a mother could raise her child in a city free of shadows. Where a humble vendor could share a piece of fruit with a neighbor. Where a retired tavern maid could find rest in her twilight years. Where a simple soldier could sleep soundly, believing in his child’s future.

That was the world he envisioned. That was why he held the sword. That was why he sang. The ballad of the knight who would end the war had only just begun.

“That is irrelevant.”

Enkrid neutralized the apostle’s verbal curse with a simple statement of his own. He didn’t even need to analyze the man’s intent. It was a natural rejection.

“…You are choosing to fight a battle you know is lost?”

That is your perspective. Enkrid didn’t offer a cliché about the unpredictability of war. Instead, he spoke from the core of his conviction.

“I will fight until the battle is won.”

“…I understand.”

Standing behind him, Peld felt a moment of profound clarity. The apostle looked at the man he considered a lunatic and uttered his final words.

“It is a shame I will not see the kingdom we envisioned.”

He remained a devoted servant of his cause until the end. But now that he was dead, his dreams were meaningless. The head fell silent. The red moon sank below the horizon, plunging the world into a pre-dawn shadow. It was the hour known in the west as Urquiora—the twilight before the morning.

And after that twilight, the sun always returns. A cool, blue light washed over the landscape, followed by the first rays of the sun. The world was bathed in light, as if the night’s violence had never occurred.

“Beautiful morning,” Lua Gharne remarked.

As the group began to clear the remains, a few fairies—drawn by the lingering dark energy—approached. They were experts in sensing the flow of the natural world.

“What occurred here? An ambush?” one of them asked, eyes scanning the carnage. He was a veteran traveler and their designated guide for the trek ahead.