Chapter 721

Chapter 721

Ragna found the situation rather humorous. By playing along with Enkrid’s lead, he could consider his primary mission accomplished. ‘As long as they are fixated on us, Anne remains safe.’ That had been a driving factor in focusing on the Medusa. With a legendary titan collapsing after a frantic exchange of steel, would anyone honestly waste resources to hunt down a girl quietly grinding plants in the background? They wouldn’t even have the opportunity. That was his design. Ultimately, this deranged strategy served as a shield for Anne. It was a plan so reckless only a lunatic would conceive it—but it was effective. Currently, not a single foe was concerned with the girl. The sight of just two warriors—a scene that belonged in a heroic ballad—had caused the enemies’ expressions to turn grim and dark. Of course, their features were already quite morbid, making it difficult for a normal human to spot the change. ‘If I am convinced it’s true, then it is.’ Satisfied, Ragna concluded his internal monologue. The priority now was surviving the coming onslaught. “Do you have anything left?” Ragna murmured. Enkrid squeezed his hand into a fist and released it before answering. “I’m about as useful as a gentle Rem.” It wasn’t a formal signal, but it functioned as one. Ragna grasped the meaning immediately. There was no such thing as a gentle Rem. It meant Enkrid was at his limit, likely operating at less than half his capacity. Reflecting on the moment Enkrid had decapitated the Medusa, that assessment made sense. He had looked momentarily dazed. “That was a clumsy maneuver.” “It was your mother’s technique.” “I meant it was clumsily reckless.” Even though she was his adoptive mother, Ragna wouldn’t dare insult her memory directly. He quickly rephrased his critique, gave a small shrug, and moved to stand in front of Enkrid. “Once we return, I’ll tell everyone how I protected my injured captain.” “Are you going to skip the part where we killed the Medusa?” “Isn’t it the narrator’s privilege to decide where the story begins?” Drmul, observing their casual banter, found the pair intriguing. Were they truly devoid of fear? Or had they simply resigned themselves to their fate? If it were the latter, he felt compelled to speak. “You might desire death, but you will not be granted that mercy.” His tone was level, but emanating from a decaying cadaver, it should have been bone-chilling. However, if the audience remained unmoved, the intended effect was lost. “I agree. I don’t plan on dying either,” Enkrid shot back instantly. “That isn’t what I implied…” “We aren’t here for a social visit, so why the chatter? Spare me.” He cut Drmul off without hesitation. Such audacity earned him the internal title of “Knight of the Sharp Tongue.” His delivery and confidence were a perfect match. Ragna found himself genuinely impressed. Anyone capable of understanding language would find their patience shredded by this man. As expected— “Eliminate them,” Drmul spat. His rotting eyelids twitched, and the blackened, tumor-like mass of flesh that served as his brow began to vibrate with rage. At his signal, his apprentice lifted his right hand. That previous dark cluster had been his handiwork. This was the individual with the third eye embedded in his forehead. Ragna had a basic grasp of how to engage casters, a skill he’d picked up from Enkrid. The rule was simple: strike the mage before the spell manifests. It was a straightforward concept, so he moved to execute it. He anchored his foot, hoisted his massive blade, and brought it down with force. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t his fastest move. But by the standards of a knight, it was swift—and to an elderly man with three eyes, it would appear as a blur. He lunged forward with the downward strike. Advancing as he swung, Ragna knew the exact reach of his steel without a second thought. The rhythm and the path were perfect—his sword was destined to cleave the old man’s skull and reveal the rot within. However, just as his weight shifted and the edge descended, a massive force slammed into his chest. Thud! Ragna was lifted nearly two feet off the ground and sent flying backward. Not a great distance, but enough to break his momentum. He instinctively contorted his body mid-air to disperse the energy and soften the landing. “My vision perceives the fundamental laws of nature. Did you think a common swordsman could bypass my sight?” the triple-eyed sorcerer boasted. Enkrid watched with silent admiration. ‘He used the term “common swordsman” again.’ One would think the man would be more cautious after being mocked. Regardless, the elder’s casting speed was incredible. There had been no verbal incantation, making it impossible to predict the timing. “You are both painfully uneducated. You don’t even comprehend the hierarchy of sorcery—charging in with blades like children.” It was a prime opportunity for a villainous monologue, and Drmul couldn’t pass it up. Enkrid suspected this was exactly how he behaved while teaching alchemy—completely unbearable. While Drmul spoke, Ragna lunged with a thrust of his greatsword. The target wasn’t armored; a deep puncture should have been fatal. But the result was different. Whoosh! A wall of black soot exploded in Ragna’s path. The soot coalesced into dozens of spectral limbs and armaments—blades, pikes, and mallets—all forming a barricade. Ragna transitioned from the thrust into a whirlwind of slashes. His sword moved with such velocity that it dragged the rain along with it, creating a localized tempest with every swing. The shadowy limbs and weapons shattered as if they were solid matter, crumbling under the fury of the blade. Boom! Clang! Crack! Through the chaos, Ragna used his greatsword to parry a heavy blow aimed at his leg. Kkkkrrrrrk! The unseen weapon was only visible because of the displaced rain. It was a blade of pressurized air. A deep score appeared on his greatsword, and a piece of his knee guard was ripped away. Without the armor, he would have been crippled. Yet, Ragna simply reset his footing and raised his weapon once more. “You persistent insect!” the three-eyed elder roared. Thunder echoed as he thrust his palm forward. White electricity branched out like skeletal fingers and raced toward them. Ragna tossed his greatsword upward to eye level and leaped back. KA-BOOM! The lightning slammed into the steel, blasting the weapon far out of reach. Seeing this, Drmul went back to his lecture. “The initial rank is the Watcher—those who have only just glimpsed the veil. Following that is the Speaker—those who call upon external entities and recite incantations.” He seemed desperate to prove that defiance was useless. With a lazy wave of his withered hand, a putrid scent filled the air. Enkrid instinctively covered his nose. Apparently, the odor didn’t originate from Drmul, but from the three-eyed monstrosity. Drmul continued his haughty explanation to the two “fools.” Enkrid couldn’t be certain of the man’s motivations, but his tone suggested he truly enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Had he traveled the land teaching alchemy just to feed his ego? Enkrid felt he finally understood Drmul’s core—a mix of luck and keen observation. “And what follows the Speaker?” Drmul asked rhetorically. Meanwhile, Ragna had charged in with bare hands, only to be intercepted by a construct of black stone, forcing him to retreat. The golem was the elder’s latest creation. Ragna ignored the talking. Enkrid, however, played the part of the listener. “Unlike my rebellious friend, I’m an attentive pupil. Do go on, Master Drmul, the famed alchemist.” He spoke with a layer of exaggerated reverence. The Lua Gharne combat style had its advantages—it was perfect for stalling while nursing an injury. With the Medusa defeated, Enkrid tilted his head back and acted fascinated. Drmul found the attitude grating but his urge to pontificate won out. “Next is the Possessor—those who command their own internal magical domain.” Thud! A loud impact sounded nearby. Ragna was locked in combat with the golem. In terms of pure physical fluidity, Rem was superior—but for sheer technical combat skill, no one in the Mad Platoon could match Audin. Still, in a raw fistfight, Enkrid was sure he could handle Ragna. That didn’t mean Ragna was struggling. After absorbing a few blows, he found a gap and shattered the golem’s skull—parrying a series of punches before launching into the air to drive a knee into its jaw. By sheer fortune, the creature’s power source was in its head, and it went limp. Ragna hit the deck and immediately rolled to the side. BOOM! An explosion incinerated the ground he had occupied a second before, the flames flickering briefly before the downpour killed them. “Huff, huff…” Ragna was breathing heavily—his stamina was flagging. “Like a bug. A mere, tiny bug,” the three-eyed elder sneered, emphasizing the word “mere.” Drmul’s voice grew softer, looking satisfied. “The Possessor becomes consumed by the thrill of power, entering a state known as Immoderantia. Beyond that is Vilith—the Realizer. They project their internal world into reality. And beyond that, do you know what remains?” A dramatic pause followed. The man really had the soul of a performer. Not that anyone would pay to see a performance by a walking corpse. “Tacitus—the Silent One. A rank where one exists above the laws of the physical world. Such a mage no longer needs to speak to command reality.” Enkrid realized that despite Drmul’s arrogance, he was an effective educator. He might be petty, but his curriculum was thorough. Even now, he was defining every term and building a logical progression. It was almost respectable. There were city instructors who could learn a thing or two from him. “Most teachers just tell you to ‘feel it’ and leave it at that.” “My student has achieved the rank of the Silent One,” Drmul concluded. So the apprentice was a caster who could manifest spells without words. Ragna, retreating toward Enkrid, called out. “Still feeling docile?” Explosions tore up the earth in his wake. “I’m starting to get annoyed, but I can keep going,” Enkrid answered. He was conscious of his remaining strength—he had a few meaningful strikes left at most. He had to make them perfect. Could he kill that freak? There was only one way to find out. “Finish it.” At Drmul’s command, the three-eyed elder raised his hand. A woman nearby began to transform; horns burst from her scalp, scales covered her limbs, and her face elongated into a snout. “Look upon this! When I ascend to godhood, this form shall dominate the world!” She was a grotesque hybrid of human and dragon-kin. Screeeeech. She let out a piercing cry, then slumped her head as her arms dangled. Huff. Huff. Huff. Her chest expanded violently with every breath. The sheer presence she radiated was overwhelming—beast or chimera, it didn’t matter. She shifted, her eyes locking onto them as she tilted her head. A look from below—a crushing weight of invisible force. Telekinesis. “It feels like being held down by a hundred soldiers,” the elder remarked. If this was just the residual pressure, the full force would be devastating. Ragna reached out his hand to the side. “If we don’t play this right, we both die.” “Then who’s going to tell the story of the brave subordinate protecting the captain?” Enkrid countered. “You’ll have to do it.” Enkrid passed Penna back to him. “If I’m the only survivor, Anne will likely poison my dinner.” “…I suppose we have no choice then.” The humor was a mask; the threat was absolute. Could he relax because the day would just reset anyway? No—Enkrid refused to entertain that weakness. If he wanted a lazy life, he wouldn’t have fought this hard. The words of the ferryman returned to him—luck is a finite resource. ‘If it seems impossible, make it possible.’ Hardening his resolve, Enkrid forced his Will through his battered frame. If this was the end, he would perform his final dance of blades. Ragna gripped Penna, regulating his breath. How many times had he fought with the burden of another’s life on his shoulders? The man he had to keep alive was standing right behind him. He stared at the beast and the sorcerer beyond her. “No one behind me is going to die today.” He would learn, once again, the art of fighting while protecting. He would take what he observed from Enkrid and forge it into his own style. Ragna was a natural. He had watched Enkrid closely. He had a rough understanding of his foster mother’s techniques. He had applied those lessons when he crushed the golem’s skull. Now, he added his own personal flair. If he slipped up—he was dead. But was death the real concern? No—fulfilling his purpose was all that mattered. In this moment, Ragna’s only desire was to shield those at his back. Was that too grand a dream? Then he would relish the challenge. “This is interesting,” he noted. He stole Enkrid’s favorite phrase. “Hey, that’s my line,” Enkrid complained.