Chapter 684

Chapter 684

“Hmm?” Ragna shifted his gaze upward, sensing the approaching threat. A thick haze erupted from the ground in a heartbeat, surging high and swallowing their surroundings. The heavy fog completely obscured their vision. He had encountered this phenomenon once before on a field of war: the Mist of Annihilation, a veil conjured through dark sorcery. “Get ready.” Enkrid pulled Anne close to his right side to shield her. Ragna moved into position on her other flank as well. The moment had arrived. The trap was sprung. What form would the assault take? An unforeseen beast? A hex? The vapors became so impenetrable that Anne, despite being inches away, vanished from sight. Yet, the sounds of the world still reached his ears. There were no banners in sight—it seemed this enchantment deviated from the typical tactics employed by the Dukedom of Azpen. “Front.” Grida’s voice rang out. Through some unknown method, she had sensed the opposition before Enkrid. Of his five senses, Enkrid’s touch grew unnaturally sensitive. The hair on his arms bristled as he felt a rhythmic pulse in the atmosphere. Thud, thud, thud. There was no audible noise, only the sensation of impact, as if something were striking his skin directly. Enkrid didn’t unleash a full swing with Penna—instead, he performed four precise movements, minutely adjusting his blade’s path as if sealing off corridors of air. Tang. Tang. Tang. Four strikes. Four projectiles were batted away in midair, one after the other. Had they refrained from attacking, perhaps the enemy’s position would have remained a mystery. But launching such a strike? It was a blunder. The Mist of Annihilation could not mask a presence entirely. Even so, a sense of unease lingered. “Is that the extent of it? All that secrecy for a few throwing needles?” He knew there had to be more. His intuition screamed at him. Enkrid resumed a defensive stance. Ragna, noting how Enkrid was positioned to protect Anne, gripped his own weapon tightly. “I’m moving in.” “Understood.” With those brief words, they settled their roles. Ragna advanced, hoisting his massive blade. He crouched low and launched himself off the earth. The motion started simply, but its execution was anything but. His form exploded forward, cleaving through the thick vapor. Whooom. The sheer weight of his presence seemed to compress the air. Then— Boom! The atmosphere buckled as his steel rent the fog. Ragna’s swing carried such immense force that the surrounding mist was physically blown away. Dispelling a curse with nothing but a sword? It was an impossible feat for a commoner, but it was the hallmark of a knight. As the haze momentarily parted, a decapitated head seemed to float in the empty space. Kiiiikrrrk! A head featuring a hideous, elongated snout lunged forward. The glimpse was fleeting, but the silhouette was unmistakable. “Scalers.” Grida spoke from a spot three paces to Anne’s right. She named the beast—a lizard-like creature often found prowling near the demonic realms. That subtle, cloying scent of sweetness returned. Magic. A second spell was being woven. Enkrid braced himself. A radiance ignited in the sky above. Fwoosh. It wasn’t just a light—it was a sphere of flame. It plummeted from the heavens. Once again, the target was Anne. Enkrid watched the fireball fall, anticipating the sequence. “Wizards frequently ‘stack’ their incantations in a series. Like a frost mage who layers cold until the target is buried in a tomb of ice.” That was the lesson Esther had shared when they defeated the Living Flame. Enkrid had committed her wisdom to heart. His mental processing accelerated. The descent of the fireball seemed to slow, almost hovering in the air. Within his heightened state of focus, time itself felt elastic. “If I were the one casting, I wouldn’t settle for a basic projectile.” The adversary had witnessed him slaughtering bat-like monsters earlier. Was this flame truly more dangerous? No. It moved slower than the beasts, lacked will, and fell without any sign of guided intent. “They are baiting me into cutting it.” Faster thoughts triggered faster reflexes. He swapped Penna for the Tri-Iron Sword. Shing! Clang! In a blur of motion, one weapon was housed and the other unsheathed. His speed in drawing and stowing his blade was unrivaled even among the ranks of the mad knights. Gripping Tri-Iron, he adjusted his hold, reinforcing it with both hands. The section forged of meteoric iron met the falling sun. Enkrid lashed out upward. Boom! The fireball detonated in the air, splintering into dozens of burning embers. They scattered in every direction, momentarily illuminating the dark mist. “To fight sorcery is to discard all logic.” Esther’s maxim held true. Who would have guessed a fireball would shatter like glass? But that was the nature of magic—erratic, inscrutable, the most foreign power on the continent. Had the caster been startled by that explosion? No second strike followed. A few embers fell to the earth, and then there was silence. Then came the odor. A stench of decay so pungent it felt like a physical assault on the senses. The fog tried to reform, but its cover was failing. Smack! A heavy, wet sound echoed. The mist finally began to thin. Enkrid caught sight of a scaly, reptilian humanoid hitting the dirt. It was larger than a tall man. Surrounding Ragna were four-legged lizard beasts—monstrous things large enough to swallow a person whole. Predictably, they were already corpses, butchered by the greatsword of the directionless one. Grida’s assessment had been spot on. Scalers—beasts armored in reptilian scales. Enkrid watched as the magic collapsed upon the death of a Scaler. “So the enchantment was anchored to a living vessel?” That meant the enemy party consisted of both a hidden mage and a witch. With the fog now receding, he could see them clearly. Scalers. Dozens upon dozens. The mist had merely been a curtain for their flanking maneuver. “They are predators of the shadows. They strike from the blind spot and retreat.” Magrun chimed in. Grida unsheathed her blade and surveyed the field. A quick glance suggested over a hundred of the lizard-heads were closing in. The smell of rot persisted, powerful enough to drown out the previous sweetness of the arcane. “What is this disgusting stench?” “Scalers aren’t known for such a foul odor…” Both Grida and Magrun noted the discrepancy. “It is the Plague Bride.” Anne spoke up now that she could see. she had identified the more peculiar entities standing amongst the Scalers. “They spread pestilence through a mere touch. Do not let them near you.” One of the creatures was already charging toward Ragna. Its bare feet were a sickly, mottled grey. It was draped in what might have once been a tattered gown. Its hair was a mess of tangled tufts, and its face featured empty, dark pits where eyes should be. Emerald bile leaked from its nostrils. It was a vision of horror. It was the kind of nightmare one hoped never to encounter, regardless of the light. Screeech! The Plague Bride wailed as it pounced at Ragna, its ragged dress billowing. Calling the garment a “dress” felt like a travesty, but Anne’s identification was correct—it was a construct summoned by a practitioner of the dark arts. Ragna, however, rejected its presence without a second thought. He stepped to the side, crushed a Scaler’s head with his hilt, and then sliced the Bride in two with a clean stroke. Slash! It tore apart like rotted cloth, severed from its chest down to its hip. But then the remains knitted back together. It rose once more. “Standard strikes won’t work—here, use this!” Anne lifted her left leg for balance and whipped an object with her right hand. Shhk! Ragna, holding his massive sword in his left hand, caught the projectile mid-flight. It was a small glass container plugged with cork. “If the situation turns dire, shatter it and coat your steel!” As she returned to her stance, Enkrid couldn’t help but comment. “Where did you learn to throw like that? Is marksmanship a requirement for alchemy?” “Hardly. It’s just a skill I learned playing with the street urchins.” Children of the streets were quick studies. Survival often required the ability to knock a bird down with a well-aimed stone. “For you.” Anne tossed Enkrid a similar vial. A golden, honey-like liquid swirled within. “I am a practitioner of the divine, but I am an alchemist first. Monsters of that sort do not frighten me.” Sacred power was the traditional foil to spirits—but alchemy was the most efficient way to slaughter them. Or so went the old sayings of the continent. Enkrid emptied the golden liquid onto the surface of Tri-Iron. It flowed across the metal, then solidified like hardened syrup, wrapping the blade in a shimmering, amber coat. “I’m prepared.” Grida remarked, pulling a small leather bag from her belt. She tore the string with her teeth and dusted her weapon with a fine, pearlescent powder. Magrun took a vial of the amber fluid from Anne. Ragna, his sword now treated, swung again to rebuff the Bride’s second attempt. This time, he delivered a horizontal cleave, cutting the entity in half. Thunk! A dull sound followed—and the divided spirit was cleansed. Spirits, being echoes of malice and shadow, dissolved into nothingness when purified. The Plague Bride crumbled into ash and faded away. Hissssssss! As the spirit fell, the remaining Scalers hissed in unison—a sound that seemed to warp the air and cloud the senses. “They are using the noise to mask their movements.” Grida explained, recalling her past skirmishes with Scalers near the demonic borders. She was well aware of how tedious they could be. It was no mystery why that region was called the graveyard of knights. It was crawling with such nuisances. Individually they weren’t lethal, but they were relentlessly frustrating. They lived for the backstab and possessed the intellect to coordinate. Hah! Grida gave a sharp cry, cutting down three that had tried to creep behind her. Her sword moved in sharp, jagged patterns, ending them before they could strike. “Thinking of running off?” As she shifted her stance, Enkrid scanned the chaotic scene. “Assuming the witch is already dealt with…” Was the wizard still lurking, searching for a gap in their defense? Or had they retreated to safety already? The stench of the Plague Bride had even covered the flowery scent of the arcane. “Could they know I track them by smell?” No—that was unlikely. It would be too convenient. “Even a master of magic cannot perceive how I see the world.” No incantation could read a soul’s perception. That was a law. Esther had taught him the boundaries of what spells could achieve. “I will assume the mage is still present.” Regardless, carving through these beasts was simple work. Crack, slice, crunch! Enkrid struck out at a target three steps away. Tri-Iron carved a beautiful line through the air, splitting a Scaler’s face. Its serpent-like tongue dangled, and its slitted eyes lost their glow. He felt the blade hit the bone—and he also sensed the creature was feigning its demise. “Deceptive little wretches.” Grida hissed. Enkrid flipped his sword into a reverse grip and drove it downward. The pretender had no chance to move. Just as the spark of life returned to its eyes, Tri-Iron pierced its skull. He pulled the steel back, leaving a trail of dark ichor and grey matter. “Terrifying,” Anne whispered. It was a fair reaction. The surviving Scalers and eight more Brides were all fixated on her. “Don’t be concerned. Lady Tri-Iron, dressed in her amber finery, will keep you safe.” Enkrid spoke with a deliberate lightness to calm her nerves. “…You refer to your sword as a lady?” “For today, she is. She’s wearing a beautiful dress, after all.” “So the gender is flexible?” “Such is the perk of a genderless blade.” He held up the amber-tinted sword. Dark blood still slid down the glowing edge. “You are truly mad.” Anne’s lips quirked. It was a quiet murmur, but everyone heard it. Enkrid chose to overlook her small defiance. She was clearly just frightened and speaking without thinking. “Shall we take the lead in this dance, milady?” Enkrid prompted once more. “Oh, for the love of the gods, just get on with the fighting!” Anne had pushed past her terror—and had finally joined the ranks of the encouraged.