Chapter 722

Chapter 722

If a person could perceive and direct Will, could it not also be reshaped? “It is possible.” He had already felt this truth within his own frame and confirmed it through action. The pale radiance shimmering across his steel had been the manifestation of condensed Will channeled into the weapon. If such a feat could be achieved with a sword, it could be replicated with the body. He needed only to harvest his remaining Will, compress it, and set it free. With that singular focus, Ragna lashed out with Penna four times.

Ragna stood positioned ahead and slightly to the left of Enkrid as he initiated his assault. Drmul was isolated from his two subordinates, which, to a casual observer, made it appear as though Enkrid and Drmul formed one pair, while Ragna and the other two formed a separate group. Even before Ragna moved, Enkrid had been locked in frantic mental calculation. The Lua Gharne-style of tactical combat was not a matter of raw reflex. Reflex was merely Enkrid’s personal contribution. The core of tactical swordplay was the calculation of probability. “What is the path to survival?” Or— “Which maneuvers guarantee the win?” Though his expression and stance remained composed, his mind was a racing engine of logic. This theater of war was overflowing with shifting elements. Among them, a massive variable captured Enkrid’s attention. While husbanding his strength, Enkrid sat in the soaked earth to prevent the waste of even a fraction of energy. From that vantage point, he witnessed the danger closing in on Ragna. The elder with three eyes had summoned bolts of lightning with effortless motions. Simultaneously, in front of Ragna, the horned, scaly mutation reached out a hand and triggered telekinetic force. The descending deluge was seized and molded by the invisible power. Two colossal hands, constructed entirely of rainwater, began to converge on Ragna from both flanks. It was a display of telekinesis so precise it manipulated the very rain. No scaler in Enkrid’s memory possessed such overwhelming capability. While maintaining this grip, the mutated horror hoisted its left hand and lunged, bringing a heavy strike down toward Ragna. Its velocity matched the reinforced charge of a high-ranking knight. To Enkrid’s eyes, the falling limb seemed to move in slow motion. Atmospheric pressure distorted around the edge of the hand. In the heartbeat he perceived it as slow, its momentum suddenly doubled. He could no longer spare any mental capacity for logic. It was partly the suddenness of the event. It was partly his ruined physical condition. But above all—it was pure intuition. A soft murmur from the back of his mind commanded him: You cannot look away from this. An instant before the lightning could find its mark on Ragna, Enkrid’s total focus zeroed in on the young man’s blade. Luminescence clung to Ragna’s steel. Even the falling droplets of rain were sliced apart upon contact. It was Will, visibly compressed into a solid glow. Ragna struck. His opening move was a slash from the left. As Penna tore through the air, it caught the lightning, dragging the electrical discharge sideways into the mud. Then, with a seamless transition, the point of the blade shot forward. This happened exactly as the scaler-mutant’s hand descended. Ragna’s lunge pierced the limb—and continued its trajectory through the creature’s horned skull. BOOM! The roar of the lightning striking the earth drowned out the sound of tearing flesh. The two events occurred almost as one. Such was the velocity of Ragna’s execution. One strike to the side. One strike forward. It appeared as if two versions of Ragna had attacked at once—the movements were that perfect. But he was not finished. He pulled back his steel and bolted toward the three-eyed elder, swinging once more. In a flash, a multitude of defenses—sigils, charms, and protective incantations—flared into existence around the elder to preserve him. Even the eye set into his brow burned a violent red in a final desperate act. And yet—not a single barrier could halt the blade. The elder didn’t even have the chance to cry out. Ragna’s sword drew a sharp, crimson line across his throat. Having landed three strikes, Ragna launched himself once more. His frame, much like Enkrid’s before him, had been driven far beyond its breaking point. To a novice, it would have seemed like a blink-step. No trail. No delay. He bridged the gap in a heartbeat—and his final blow fell toward Drmul’s skull. However, the blade failed to find its target. CLANG! CRAAAACK! A shield. Was it misfortune? No. It was a certainty. “Sorcerers are full of tricks.” Enkrid remembered the lessons of Esther. A spiderweb of fractures spread around Drmul’s silhouette. The atmosphere itself shattered like a sheet of glass, splintering into fragments. It was the protective enchantment that had shielded Drmul for four decades—finally smashed to pieces. “Quite a feat,” Drmul whispered, brushing his hand through the air. A wave of telekinetic force slammed into Ragna’s chest. WHAM! After those four exertions, Ragna had nothing left. He was tossed aside like a discarded doll. This time, he was unable to right himself in the air and crashed into the dirt, rolling heavily. Thud. Thump. At this moment, he likely couldn’t have fended off even a minor scavenger. Yet, his fingers remained clamped tight around Penna. Collapsing there, Ragna spat out a spray of blood. He attempted to lift himself by driving Penna into the mud. His frame trembled violently. Clotted with filth and rain, his hair plastered against his face, which was now a mask of gore and grime. Blackened water—mingled with his own blood—ran down his jaw and dripped from his chin. “I have sowed the seeds of the white death in your veins. Simply stay down. You will find yourself unable to perish, even if you beg for it.” Ragna was unable to offer a retort. Blood leaked from his lips and nostrils. His gaze was vacant—perhaps he was out cold, or just clinging to the edge of consciousness. Still, he struggled to rise—leaning his weight against the ground with his weapon. Enkrid could not remain silent. “Did you witness that? A ‘mere blade-wielder’ accomplished that.” Two of your companions are carcasses. Only one of you remains. It was a calculated insult. “You are all consistently mad,” Drmul answered. There was a trace of irritation, but zero alarm. Why? Because the two who had fallen were irrelevant to his designs. His only concern was the divine. His ascension into this realm. “Step forward. I still have breath in me,” Enkrid declared. Observing Ragna’s struggle and persistence sparked a burning heat in his heart. He desired to slice through the decaying remains standing before him. So be it. He reached for Three Iron— And then Ragna’s voice croaked out. “Bring it on. I’ll handle you.” The exact meaning of the words was irrelevant. The defiance behind them was unmistakable. Even in a daze, his spirit burned bright. Enkrid gritted his teeth. His perceptions were too blunted to notice a new arrival. “That is enough. My son.” A silhouette blocked the falling rain over Ragna. The man walking forward was Tempest Zaun. Ragna’s father. He rested a hand upon his son’s shoulder. “It concludes here.” His tone was devoid of sentiment. It was merely a statement of fact. Lynox approached at his side, grumbling about the state of his back. Enkrid nearly questioned why they had come so soon, why they hadn’t waited for the dawn as arranged—but the words died in his throat. This element, which he had factored in, had not arrived late after all. And now, he was speechless. Neither man appeared unharmed. Especially Lynox. His left arm was gone. Catching Enkrid’s look, the veteran warrior who had served Zaun smirked and remarked: “Looks like I’ll have to manage with only three blades from here on.” He had once wielded six using both limbs. Now, only one arm remained. Yet, he found room for a joke. Could it be restored? Not unless Seiki brokered some impossible pact with the deities she had abandoned. “I… I…” Ragna kept stammering, oblivious to the hand resting on him. Everyone had witnessed his deeds. The three-eyed elder was headless. The horned, chimeric monster had a tunnel through her skull. After skewering her with Penna, Ragna had rotated the steel, mangling the interior. The exit wound was ragged—torn apart as if by a blunt instrument. In short: she was finished. He had slain two—and nearly claimed the third. Drmul had watched the newcomers approach—but he remained indifferent. “You survived. Somehow. Did Heskal fail his duty? Or did you simply surpass my expectations?” Drmul did not show fear—he showed fascination. To display such power… Every asset he had readied now lay dead in the mud. He had prepared caskets for them, but had not anticipated this outcome. It was truly surprising. And for that reason—he felt a spark of joy. This, perhaps, would be his final bit of fun before attaining godhood. He glared down at the survivors. His stature had increased. Now, his head stood two full heights above Enkrid’s. Charred bone poked through his rotting skin like a framework, bracing his gargantuan shape. Thick, pulsing veins throbbed between those bones, adding durability to the structure. “You shall all be transformed. I will grant you a new existence by saturating you with the divine.” One might have thought someone had requested such a gift. “You,” the head of the family spoke. He walked forward, dismissing whatever Drmul was preaching. The growing size was startling—but clearly meant nothing to him. He too was marked by gashes. The cuts did not bleed; instead, they had turned black. Tainted. He advanced with heavy, certain strides. Ten steps or fewer. If he charged now and swung his massive sword, Drmul’s throat would be within his arc. Meanwhile, Drmul’s neck stretched out in a grotesque fashion, his chin tilting up as he looked down upon them. “You are even more repulsive than I pictured,” Tempest Zaun remarked. Behind him, Lynox gave a firm nod. “Truly, he is.” Drmul peered down at those who stood against him. “You allowed that boy to endure. I should have finished him earlier, after all.” No one could make sense of Drmul’s logic or his movements. And he had no desire for them to. A deity does not require the understanding of its subjects. Regardless, he declared: “Why do these miserable, flailing things fight back so desperately?” Even if they could not comprehend, surely his magnificence, his trials, deserved an audience. That, after all, was not simple understanding—it was scripture. “There was a period when a soul-collector spoke to me. Yes, a long time ago. I developed a very unique elixir back then. It allowed me to exist within a different flow of time.” He spoke as if delivering a sermon. “What do you imagine happens if one day becomes twice as long for me?” Drmul had always possessed uncommon skill—but he craved more. He immersed himself in alchemy, eventually crossing into the realm of high sorcery. In that journey, he set foot in the Demon Realm. He observed the Empire. He pried into the continent’s deepest mysteries. Only then did he grasp his true ambition: To reach divinity. “That elixir was merely a minor byproduct of my investigations into eternal life and the state of undeath.” His decaying mouth pulled back into a grin—bits of flesh falling to the ground. It was a nauseating sight. Now his skin glittered like a jewel—slick and rigid. But it was not transparent. It was like a gem choked with sewage. “Attend. These are the opening lines of my holy decree.” Drmul’s voice began to layer upon itself, creating an echo. To Enkrid, it felt exactly like standing before a demon. A creature with a motive and a worldview so foreign it felt inherently wrong—completely at odds with humanity or nature. A suffocating weight descended upon the area. Even the falling rain seemed to be ignored by the senses. A sense of dominance—or perhaps a gravitational pull. it pulled in all focus. After fully seizing the field, Drmul chanted the first line of his gospel with his rotting tongue: “One day for the rest was ten for me. And I survived over a hundred of those days. This is the method by which the common exceeds the extraordinary. The start of a man who rose above demons to become a god!” The layered voice made the heart shudder. Even the atmosphere seemed to buckle before his words, as if dropping to its knees in worship. In that instant, Enkrid whispered, almost without thinking— “Barely?” The word was soft. But it was heard by everyone.