Chapter 712

Chapter 712

Utilizing the tactical swordplay of the Lua Gharne-style, Enkrid etched myriad trajectories into the air, nullifying and recreating them in a constant cycle. “Transform my physical form into a solitary blade.” He treated tactical maneuvers as mere extensions of his swordsmanship, carving a path through the chaotic front lines. By exercising absolute self-control, he suppressed both his physical presence and his internal Will—propelling his frame forward through the sheer power of his tempered muscles alone. In this focused state, he unleashed Three Iron upon his next foe. He could have generated superior momentum by taking a broader step with his trailing foot, but the tight quarters of the melee offered no such opportunity. Instead, he maintained a compact gait, torquing his waist to funnel rotational energy into the stabbing motion. The built-up pressure within his limbs condensed and detonated forward, reinforced by his Will. The steel slid effortlessly through the creature’s plating, cleaving the jaw of the Scaler and shattering the top of its cranium. Thunk! Splk. As he retracted the weapon, a spray of gore and brain tissue followed, but the torrential downpour quickly scrubbed the blade clean. BOOOOM! A bolt of lightning detonated in the vicinity, shattering his sense of hearing. The landscape, previously defined by the rhythm of the rain, dissolved into a blinding white. For a heartbeat, the radiance stole his sight. Enkrid halted, intentionally numbing his perception. He was momentarily paralyzed. His entire field of vision vibrated as if the earth itself were convulsing. However, this pause was not a surrender to idleness. He lived every day with absolute intent, and in this crisis, he needed to compress time to its highest density. And so, he focused. “Limit all unnecessary motion.” In that flickering gap of time, he reviewed the execution of the previous beast. Had his approach to the target been too sluggish? Because of that slight delay, a young ward—one who blended the martial arts of Ail Caraz with standard fencing—had been momentarily ensnared by a telekinetic force. That brief lapse had nearly cost the youth his life. Enkrid had witnessed it—a winged Scaler plummeting from the sky, closing in on the boy. Though Riley’s thrown blade had deflected the predator, the young fighter had still sustained a gash on his arm. The wound was deceptively severe, weeping blood. It appeared the creature’s talons were laced with toxins, as the boy’s reflexes began to falter. The injury wasn’t fatal, but it meant one less capable defender was active on the field. If these small failures persisted, their defensive line would inevitably shatter. The reality was stark: “He was almost lost.” The mental image surfaced unbidden—the small body of a child lying prone in the freezing, blood-soaked mud. It hadn’t come to pass, yet the vision haunted him. It was an unacceptable outcome. Enkrid harbored no intention of allowing a single soul under his protection to perish. What was the solution? “Pose the inquiry. Discover the resolution.” This was the core philosophy of Lua Gharne-style tactical swordplay. Ssssshhhhhhhh… The rain redoubled its fury, restoring the world in shades of grey. He closed his eyes and began to see through the medium of sound. To the question of “how,” there was only a singular response: “Eliminate the margin of error.” Perfection is an impossibility, and merely reducing mistakes is insufficient. What was the next step? He had to prune his movements to save seconds, creating breathing room for his allies. How could he map the most efficient path? “Establish the coordinates.” Then, he would bridge those coordinates using the most direct line possible. It was like sprinting along the jagged lip of a precipice, operating at the very boundary of his capabilities. Crack. His joint snapped with precision, launching him off the earth. His footwear bit into the saturated ground, turning the sludge into a solid anchor point. Enkrid surged toward the first mental marker. To an observer watching from the clouds, the graceful curves of his previous movements would now appear as jagged, lightning-fast straight lines. “Ignore the irrelevant.” He would only parry, bash, or cut that which stood directly in his path. Griping Three Iron in his dominant hand and Penna in his off-hand, he glided forward with rhythmic, light contact. He absorbed the pulse of the combat through his skin. His instincts identified the next mark. He shifted his weight—driving Three Iron laterally in a casual thrust. Shunk! The sword’s point found the joint of a Scaler gripping a dark polearm. Enkrid didn’t slow down as he passed. Crack! Even a master-crafted edge does not part flesh by touch alone, particularly against the armored hide of a Scaler. Yet Enkrid drove the steel through and wrenched it. How? Through raw, unadulterated power. The action was less of a slice and more of a violent tearing. He buried the steel near the joint and ripped it sideways instead of withdrawing. The resulting injury was mangled and far more traumatizing than a surgical strike. Screeeeeee! The monster’s wail acted as a beacon, alerting nearby enemies to Enkrid’s presence—but he had already vanished from that spot. He continued his sprint, his twin blades held in a low guard. CRASHHHHH. The deluge continued to wash over his steel and his skin. Because of the rain, he didn’t need to pause to clean the gore from his kit. Perhaps it was a result of his heightened state—or merely the gale—but it felt as though the wind was whistling through his very bones, providing a bizarre sensation of relief. “Perhaps I only feel this way because I am finally taking action.” Regardless of the philosophy, his limbs remained in constant motion. Clack, ping, thud, splk. To an outsider, it was a cacophony of violence. To Enkrid, it was a sequence of sensory data. He navigated by the choir of battle, felling unnatural horrors one after another. This solitary effort began to shift the tides of the engagement. Could one man truly alter the course of a surging river? If a person spent a lifetime laying stones and dredging the bed, they might eventually change its path. Such individuals did exist in history. It was a task of years or decades. But a knight was a walking disaster. He could reshape the flow of a conflict in the blink of an eye. Much like a tremor creates new valleys—so too could a knight redefine reality. Enkrid was doing exactly that. Sssaaaaaaaaak! The serpentine entity hovering in the clouds let out a piercing cry. The sound saturated the entire zone. Even Enkrid’s pulse synchronized with the vibration. “The aura of a high-tier predator.” The mere sound triggered a primal shiver, a physiological urge to flee—his skin crawled. It was a baseless dread. A formless horror meant to trigger a reaction in every fiber of his being. It demanded submission through terror. Naturally, Enkrid remained unmoved. And the veterans here were too seasoned to break under such a simple display—though the psychological weight was palpable. Right on cue, Riley’s voice cut through the chaos from the rear—thick with fury. Enkrid tracked him through sound. Even across the distance, his perception held firm. This was the strength of his sound-based vision. It had its limitations—the world was devoid of color. One couldn’t see the flush of a face or the specific hue of a bruise. But such details were easily filled in by his mind’s eye. “Anyone redlining—catch your breath!” Riley likely had the veins in his neck straining as he barked orders. “WOOOOHOO!” Anahera’s voice echoed from another sector. These were the warriors preventing the monster hordes from overrunning them. They were at their limit. “Save your vitality for the climax.” In this regard, Riley proved to be a masterful second-in-command. Competing on a single good leg meant his energy reserves depleted faster than his peers. Even in this debut of true warfare, he understood—maintaining a frantic pace was a death sentence. He fought with calculated conservation. “Wait.” Enkrid didn’t break his stride or look up—but he sensed it. A pinpoint focus. An aura saturated with malice and intent to kill. From deep within the monochromatic storm, the creature acting as the lynchpin for the ritual was watching him. The stare of Medusa. Even without direct eye contact, the weight of her attention was undeniable. “A horror that only a knight would have the courage to face.” That was why her mere presence could paralyze an army. Elder monsters naturally projected a fear similar to a knight’s aura. They sowed panic in anything they considered prey. Like a creature mesmerized by a predator—so were men and other sentient beings. The wail of the serpent above was likely an extension of Medusa’s psychological warfare. In the Demon Realm, such terrors were commonplace. That was why civilization had never tamed the Demon Realm—only survived its edges. Was he afraid? Not in the slightest. He intended to face every nightmare within that realm eventually. If the path were simple, it wouldn’t qualify as a dream. Enkrid’s aspirations were always forged in difficulty. They always appeared suicidal. “I will strike them all down.” This blunt, singular objective left no room for doubt or hesitation. Suddenly, the brilliance of Heskal’s mind occurred to him again. Rather than wasting Medusa in the thick of the fight, using her as the battery for the ritual—that was a stroke of genius. A far more effective use of resources. A strategy designed to bleed their resolve dry. Indeed—Heskal remained as formidable as ever. How many lives had Enkrid claimed by now? The tally was lost. He cut and lunged, thinning the herd with surgical precision rather than flashy displays of power—just a quiet, relentless culling through disciplined Will. His current sphere of awareness was double what his eyes could have provided. This allowed him to interpret the enemy’s intent before his reflexes even had to react. “They are capable.” Someone had been monitoring his progress and had prepared a snare. As he darted between the points he had mapped, he detected eight snipers with projectiles trained exclusively on him—despite the gale, their arrows hung in the air with a dark, oily sheen. Among them stood a single ‘human’ figure in a helm—his plates shimmering softly despite the gloom, crafted from a material that was both thin and radiant. By all appearances, he was the target who had walked directly into the waiting web. The fact that his auditory perception had only just detected them suggested the trap had been laid with great care. Perhaps it was intentional. Perhaps not. But the design felt purposeful.

“I thought the reports said he was merely at the level of a standard knight?” The protégé of Drmul possessed a monstrous eye grafted into his brow—through it, he could follow Enkrid’s blurring form. Heskal lacked such an organ and couldn’t track Enkrid’s precise essence. However, he was a master of deduction. The moment Enkrid disappeared into the fray, high-value monsters began to fall. Connecting the dots was simple. From a distance, the layout of the struggle was much clearer. “At the base, you see only the trunk. From the ridge, you see the entire woods.” A common laborer only needs to fell the tree in front of him. A steward of the land watches the whole grove—removing only what is necessary. In this context, Heskal was the steward. “I am taken aback myself.” “The situation is deviating from our simulations.” “Our opponent is Zaun. It is only natural they possess such capabilities.” “It doesn’t appear to be Zaun’s doing, does it?” That realization made it even more startling. The fact that the contagion—virulent enough to be a death sentence—hadn’t crippled them yet was equally impressive. “Border Guard Enkrid. Your prowess is remarkable.” To Heskal, that was the primary variable. He could have voiced his respect, but he remained externally composed: “I have a contingency. It was designed for Lynox, but it will serve.” Heskal remarked. The eye in the apprentice’s forehead pulsed, refocusing. The gaze shifted toward the patriarch of the family and Alexandra. “Are you simply going to abandon them?” The question was blunt, but Heskal grasped the subtext. This entire theater of war had been painted within his mind first. “They haven’t been pushed to the breaking point yet. Those who should be incapacitated by the plague are still fighting.” “That sounds like heresy. Are you questioning the divine?” “Not at all.” He had expected Zaun to be resilient. Even after the assassination of Milescia to prevent this outcome—they persisted. Plans rarely survive contact with reality in their entirety. If it were easy, the elaborate setup wouldn’t have been necessary. “This is merely the opening act.” With those words, Heskal glanced at the heavens. The heavy clouds and stinging rain made vision nearly impossible. Without a grafted eye, the sky was a wall of shadow. Perhaps that was for the best. “Huuuh.” Despite his claim that this was just the beginning, a heavy breath escaped Heskal. There was a trace of regret in that breath, though Drmul’s apprentice likely missed it. His eye was supernatural, but his ears remained those of a mortal. The apprentice was a stationary observer. Others would have to execute the next phase. Though a portion of his mental map was cluttered, the objective remained clear. Heskal saw the road ahead. The destination was unchanged. He would emerge victorious. “Do you seek the path to the divine? Then remain steadfast, Heskal of Zaun.” “I am aware.” Heskal took a step forward. It was time for his personal intervention. “Instruct your master to release what he has prepared.” “A single Death Knight could finish that family head and his entourage.” “That is your assessment. I am the architect of this engagement.” Andante had been resurrected as a knight. That might be sufficient to deal with Alex. Or it might not. “If you fail, even with your master’s protection, you will not survive the fallout.” “If we face defeat and I am left alive, I shall provide my own execution. Do not fret.” He was entirely serious. Heskal approached everything with absolute sincerity. He had learned that trait from the family patriarch himself. “Whatever your task, perform it with your whole heart.” Even in an act of betrayal—one must be sincere. The philosophy and lifestyle of the family head had been the foundation for his own martial path. Even his feints were delivered with genuine intent. He didn’t truly expect his sword to reach the patriarch. So where should his focus lie? The target was obvious. “I ask for your forgiveness.” If he eliminated Ragna—the wayward son who had returned—then the patriarch’s stoic resolve might finally shatter. That emotional break would cloud his logic and provide the opening they needed. As four monstrosities moved to pin down the family head, Heskal began his approach toward Ragna. At that exact moment, Ragna also began to walk forward.