Chapter 718

Chapter 718

Heskal’s attention turned toward Ragna. Her gaze, which had been fixed on the ground, rose like a dawning sun to meet his. The intensity within her crimson eyes seemed to pierce through the surrounding gloom.

With her golden hair and blood-red irises, she was the image of a woman from the Zaun family who had once reached the absolute peak of martial prowess.

“You…”

Heskal found himself at a loss for words, but Ragna replied with a composed serenity that dominated the air between them.

“Whenever I grasp my weapon, a path reveals itself. And as you once noted—it is a simple matter to traverse that path once it is visible.”

She was echoing a sentiment from her childhood. Heskal remembered it clearly—it was the day he had first instructed her in the fundamental forms of their swordsmanship. She had practiced for a single day before declaring she no longer required his tutelage.

At that time, Heskal had decided Ragna lacked the necessary drive. In the cutthroat environment of the Zaun family, a lack of ambition was a death sentence.

Ragna Zaun had seemed to prove that theory right. She eventually abandoned the family, appearing to be a fleeting blossom that wilted among the unremarkable before ever truly flowering.

But what if that flower had survived, growing fierce and resilient in the face of peril?

The proof was standing right before him.

Whenever Ragna gripped her hilt, she saw the way forward. Forcing an adversary into a corner was second nature to her. Now, it was Heskal who found himself trapped.

Every element—the gap between them, their footing, their stances—had transformed into a boundary, and that boundary dictated the route. Heskal had followed it blindly, believing he was the one in control, only to realize he had wandered into a cage of his own making.

The initiative had shifted. It was no longer Heskal’s fight to lead; it was Ragna’s. He felt like a fly caught in a web, where any sudden movement would only tighten the silk.

It wasn’t a failure of his body, nor a lapse in his mental fortitude. He wasn’t some green recruit—he knew exactly how to wager his life in a duel.

Yet, Ragna’s blade was already positioned to end the struggle.

‘Had I completely misjudged her?’

He was utterly pinned. At this stage, there was no room for feints or clever maneuvers. His only path was a direct strike.

‘No matter how I shift, her blade will find me.’

Retreating would be a fatal error.

Then again, his remaining options weren’t much better.

If he attempted a direct counter, the concealed edge of Camouflage would likely fail to find its mark in time. He didn’t have the luxury of subtle techniques anymore.

Heskal’s only hope lay in overwhelming her with raw power. Abandoning his illusions, he committed every ounce of his strength to a fundamental, crushing blow.

Ragna adjusted her lead foot by a fraction of an inch. In that movement, the last echoes of their conversation died away.

The internal monologue following her comment about his lack of skill might have felt lengthy, but it occurred within a heartbeat.

Between Ragna’s jab at his competence and his brief reply, her stance had already pivoted. Her massive sword ground against the earth, kicking up a spray of mud as it followed the precise arc she intended. The sodden ground split open silently.

A clear, unobstructed road. Firm soil, no obstacles—the perfect terrain. That was the vision Ragna followed.

Zzzzzkk—

The air shrieked as Ragna’s steel reached Heskal’s face in an instant.

Heskal moved. With desperate intensity, he brought his sword down. In his final gamble, he focused his entire Will into Camouflage, aiming for a strike that would shatter her weapon.

His blade was a masterwork of engraving; hers was a common tool. He intended to use that superior edge to snap her steel and cut through her skull in one motion. It was his strongest possible move.

But then—Heskal saw it. A soft, milky radiance began to glow along Ragna’s blade. In that same moment, he felt the cold touch of the end.

‘Ah.’

A seasoned knight possesses an intuition for their own demise. His heightened senses allowed him to watch his own death approaching in slow motion.

In that final sliver of time, he had one last choice to make. Often, this final decision is what defines a knight’s legacy.

Those who fear the end struggle fruitlessly to flee. Those consumed by hatred attempt to take their enemy with them in a final, mutual destruction.

And then there are the rare few who make a choice governed by a different kind of conviction.

As Ragna’s greatsword collided with Heskal’s, his guard was forced back. Her edge continued its journey, carving through his left thigh and up into his torso. As his life began to fade, Heskal used his remaining vitality to wrench his body aside.

His reaction was timed perfectly with the impact of her steel.

The energy he had hoarded for a final killing blow was instead diverted into a desperate, evasive twist.

He moved just as his body was about to be split in two.

‘Avoid the heart…’

CRUNCH—

BOOOOOM.

He swung with such ferocity that the sonic boom trailed behind, striking the empty air where her blade had just passed.

Skin ripped; blood erupted.

Though he gripped his sword until the end, Heskal’s arm was thrown upward as he collapsed. Even in his fall, he looked as though he were trying to maintain a combat stance.

Ragna spoke, her voice carrying a hint of confusion.

“Why?”

The wound ran from his thigh to his shoulder. It was a mortal blow. Her question wasn’t about the lethality of the strike, but the nature of his last move.

He’d had a window—a single, fleeting chance to strike her down with him. Instead, he had chosen to twist away.

“Khuk!”

Heskal spat out a mouthful of gore, though it was a mere fraction of the torrent escaping his torso. The volume of blood was so great that the heavy rain couldn’t wash the crimson stains from the earth. His internal organs were exposed to the open air for the first and last time.

“Stay back.”

Using the last of his Will, he forced the command from his lungs. Instinctively, Ragna gave him space.

They were positioned near a reserve battalion of monstrous creatures.

Whether they had been watching the duel or waiting for an opening, hundreds of beasts had congregated nearby. Ragna pulled her sword back and retreated in a single, powerful leap.

She cleared twenty paces, putting significant distance between them.

A moment later, she turned back to witness Heskal’s body detonate.

Pop—

The sound was surprisingly muffled.

However, the impact was catastrophic. The monsters in the immediate vicinity were caught in the blast.

SKREEEEEEE!

A chorus of agony rose from the pack of Scalers.

As Heskal expired, his blood sprayed outward like a mist. Every creature touched by the droplets collapsed instantly, their eyes rolling back in death.

He had been carrying a potent toxin within his veins, designed to trigger upon his passing.

The reason he had warned Ragna to move remained an enigma.

Regardless, that was a puzzle for another time. Ragna turned her back on the scene. Heskal was gone.

Was the task finished?

No. She had never been lost. It was Heskal who had been mistaken about her direction.

With her true objective always in her sights, how could she have strayed?

Her target remained the monstrous woman with the crown of serpents.

Heskal had been a mere detour. Ragna set back out on her path.

Shhhh—

The gale had subsided slightly, but the rain showed no signs of stopping.

The deluge washed the remnants of bone and viscera from Enkrid’s blade, thinning the dark ichor until it disappeared into the mud.

Following the fall of Panito, several Scalers with mental talents tried a coordinated assault—using telekinetic pressure to launch their blackened claws like projectiles.

The nails, dark as ink, were clearly saturated with venom. Each beast unleashed a volley of nearly half a dozen.

Guided by psychic force, the nails meandered through the rain like vipers, banking through the air to find Enkrid.

He didn’t need to see them; he tracked them by the sound of the wind being displaced. That was more than enough.

He evaded the volleys at the last second, swatting the remaining nails aside with his Tri-Iron Sword.

One stray nail looped back toward his blind spot. Enkrid didn’t wait; he lunged forward, cleaving through the skulls of three charging monsters in rapid succession.

The telekinetic grip faltered, and the nail fell harmlessly to the ground.

More bizarre specimens emerged—creatures that seemed engineered for specific roles. One fired projectile claws, while another ruptured its own flesh to spray caustic blood.

He decapitated them all.

He could sidestep arrows and deflect sprays. His powerful legs and conditioned joints provided the necessary burst of speed, while his muscle memory allowed him to pivot in any direction.

When he moved fast enough to blur the vision of even a Scaler, their psychic tricks became irrelevant.

As he systematically dismantled the swarm, his mind began to analyze the situation.

‘Are they annoying? Certainly. But they aren’t a true threat.’

His mind went back to the ghoul, Jericks—or perhaps it was Jeris?

The entity from Oara had been a unique, formidable adversary, a monster with a name worth remembering.

Compared to that encounter, these creatures were simple.

‘Once you neutralize the psychic element, they fall apart.’

Even if he were caught by their powers, he could overpower them with physical strength. He just had to stay clear of the poisoned claws.

The truth of this horde was becoming clear. It wasn’t about who they were, but what they were meant for.

‘Chimeras. They are designed to drain my endurance.’

These weren’t natural monsters; they were the products of a laboratory.

After scanning the pile of carcasses, Enkrid rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension.

Legend says a knight can hold off a thousand foes.

But that feat requires specific circumstances—time, and equipment that minimizes the drain on one’s Will and energy.

Swinging a sword isn’t enough to kill; it requires intent and effort.

A knight’s peak performance has its limits. While those skilled in managing their resources can endure longer—

‘Every knight fights in their own way.’

Some prefer explosive bursts of violence followed by rest. Others maintain a steady, grinding pace.

Enkrid wasn’t at his best. His muscles felt heavy, and his clothes were soaked through with rain and sweat. Yet, the fight pushed on. He had already neutralized a significant number.

It was only natural to feel the weight of the battle.

Detecting a presence behind him, Enkrid opened his eyes. The rain had briefly slowed. Alexandra had once referred to this specific storm cloud as the Black Egg. Because it remained stationary, this was likely just a temporary lull in the center.

Opening his eyes meant contending with the Medusa’s curse, which gnawed at his Will, but he felt this arrival warranted a proper greeting.

Recognizing the figure, he spoke.

“You took your time, Ragna.”

“You were waiting?”

“I was hoping.”

In truth, he had expected that either he would find her after dealing with the clan leader, or she would eventually make her way to him.

There were still far too many enemies for him to be content just fighting whatever crossed his path.

Besides, Ragna wasn’t the type to sit still; she would go looking for a target to vent her frustrations on.

She spoke again.

“Heskal tried to stop me.”

“Tried?”

“I finished him.”

“Is that so?”

Between the clan leader, Alexandra, Lynox, and Heskal—it was likely that none of them had truly grasped the depth of Ragna’s ability.

But Enkrid had a fair idea.

Neither Heskal nor a handful of monsters were going to keep her down.

“Heskal wasn’t exactly a pushover, was he?”

“He managed to clip my shoulder.”

“Did you use the tonic Anne provided?”

“There wasn’t any poison to worry about.”

Despite the grim surroundings, they spoke with the casual ease of two people discussing the weather.

In the shadows, a few monsters continued to prowl, gathering their courage.

Enkrid sensed more arrivals—individuals who were clearly trained in the art of stealth.

He had heard the Hunter’s Village was populated by such types.

That settlement was composed of those who still clung to the ghosts of Zaun—remnants who couldn’t let go of the past.

Mercenaries, headhunters—people who lived and died by their blades.

They were outsiders who had never truly been integrated into the family.

In such a place, loyalty was a flexible concept.

Ching.

Enkrid returned the Tri-Iron Sword to its rest for a moment.

‘Keep it together, Samcheol.’

He had a feeling Aitri might have been holding back when he claimed the blade wasn’t engraved.

The True Silver edge felt capable of severing anything. Its Black Gold core felt heavy enough to crush any defense.

The way the weapon seemed to hum in his hand felt like more than just a trick of his mind.

“Let’s move.”

Enkrid’s voice was steady.

It would have been poetic if the sun had broken through the clouds, but he knew better.

This storm was slated to last for at least another three days.

There would be breaks and quiet moments, but the chaos was far from over.

Ragna understood what her captain was sensing. She felt the need to comment.

“You see it too? You truly have the instincts of a guide, Captain. I’m certain of it.”

“…Being told that is almost as annoying as being compared to Rem.”

“…What?”

Ragna tilted her head, clearly lost.

“Be quiet and stay close. It’s time to show them what a pair of simple swordsmen can accomplish.”

To an observer, it might have sounded like he was nursing a grudge.

“What can two mere blades and a little girl hope to achieve?”

Those were the words of Drmul, the prophet of the false god—and they clearly still sat heavy on Enkrid’s heart.

But Ragna didn’t see it as pettiness. It was only right to answer such a challenge.

She hadn’t forgotten those words either.

“Let’s go.”

Ragna and Enkrid walked forward in unison.

Their destination: the breathtaking beauty from the abyss with the hair of serpents, waiting for them in the distance.