Chapter 723

Chapter 723

His jaw hung open instinctively; he simply couldn’t help the reaction.

He was a man imprisoned by a hex that forced him to relive the same twenty-four hours repeatedly. As those cycles accumulated, they reached into the hundreds. If one were to tally the total count, it wouldn’t be in the hundreds but the thousands. Therefore, stating he had “barely” managed was only a statement of fact. Had a witness like Sagong, who grasped the weight of his ordeal, seen this, he would have surrendered a nod of profound understanding. It was entirely reasonable.

Naturally, anyone ignorant of his private hell would view the remark through a completely different lens. In a crisis like this, he chose to taunt him? That was the inevitable conclusion for an observer. The lone word “barely” felt mundane to Enkrid, yet it radiated outward with a staggering gravity to everyone else.

The layered, booming voice that had just commanded the very rainfall to submit in reverence had painted Drmul as a creature from a higher plane. He had exuded a terrifying, unreachable glory that seemed impossible to challenge. Yet, with that single jab—”barely”—he was stripped of his divinity and reduced once more to a wretched spirit inhabiting a decaying husk, a freak sustained only by sorcery and elixirs. Worse still, he showed the fragility of a petty soul who allowed a simple insult to get under his skin.

“…I must concede, you possess a remarkable gift for irritation, thing,” Drmul hissed at Enkrid.

“I am merely a common sellsword,” Enkrid answered, hoisting Three Iron. His arm ascended at a measured pace, the tip of the blade angling toward the flank. He then continued: “Together, that makes two common sellswords.”

The sound of falling water—Shwaa—was the only reply as silence fell over the group. To hurl such a challenge at this specific moment was nothing short of miraculous.

KWA-RRUNG!

The sky itself seemed to roar in astonishment at Enkrid’s audacity, casting down a violent bolt of lightning. A blinding flash of ivory light washed over the landscape before being swallowed by the dark. His shadow fanned out in four distinct directions from his feet, only to pull back into his frame as the radiance failed and the gloom reclaimed the world. Throughout the display, Enkrid’s stance never wavered.

“Honestly, you aren’t called a lunatic for nothing,” Lynox breathed, his voice thick with admiration.

Enkrid felt the urge to argue. Receiving such a compliment from a man who had just joked about limiting himself to three swords after the loss of an arm felt surreal. But before he could retort, the family head moved to the forefront and spoke.

“It is my turn, Enkrid of Border Guard.”

The family head stood before the beast with skin like charred obsidian, his frame riddled with injuries, yet he still projected a suffocating, heavy aura. He wasn’t merely a powerful man—he was a blade. He was a colossal greatsword given human shape. That weapon now leveled forward, and there was no mystery regarding its target.

“Take heart. You have Lynox the human shield at your side,” Lynox added playfully.

“You mentioned that another person’s day feels ten times as long for you, didn’t you?” Enkrid cut in, tossing the question out before Drmul could give an answer. “Is that the reason you look so withered before your time?”

At this point, he was essentially gambling with his life just to deliver a burn. His delivery carried the weight of a grand legend, but the substance was pure venom. It was a masterpiece of provocation. Did he truly just call him “prematurely aged”?

“And here I am with a baby face,” Lynox remarked, clicking his tongue at Enkrid’s boldness.

“You wretched cur. I want to tear the life from your limbs,” Drmul snarled, his voice saturated with pure malice.

In all his long years of life, there had been those who looked down on him—but it had been an eternity since he had been addressed with such casual disrespect. Or had it ever happened? He wouldn’t share his history, but he had spent decades in a deep slumber. Both before and after his awakening, he had been flanked only by those who groveled.

“Oh, heavens!” “Oh, great master who shall ascend as the deity of the Demon Realm!”

The solitary individual who had never cringed in his presence was Heskal. Yet Heskal hadn’t approached out of bravery—only out of a desire for profit. Even Heskal, instead of remaining loyal, had attempted to establish a new Zaun alongside others. This realization burned within Drmul. Pursuing godhood does not inherently make one magnanimous, and Drmul was far from it. He never permitted those who offended him to continue breathing.

Even with Heskal, a man he never fully relied upon, he had placed a golden geas upon his heart. In the end, Heskal had made a choice that defied logic. Loyalty and confidence were alien concepts to Drmul; he had never placed his faith in anyone. He was a small-minded man, and now, he was a small-minded horror.

“You are going to perish.”

Drmul extended a finger toward Enkrid. His rotting flesh was mottled with patches of stone-hard, black skin, creating a sight of pure revulsion.

“What did I do wrong?” Enkrid asked, feigning a wounded tone.

Being the target of murderous intent was a familiar sensation. He wasn’t truly bothered—but that effortless composure made his words all the more galling.

“Let us pray we never meet as foes,” Lynox whispered again, stunned.

The family head hoisted his blade, his expression devoid of any humor. Zaun had been fractured into warring cliques for a long time. They had spent decades forced into a cycle of suspicion, exile, and constant testing. The family head despised that reality. And now, the catalyst who had forced them into those roles stood directly in front of him. Heskal hadn’t been the primary source of the rot. This monster was. He saw it clearly now.

“I should have hunted you down and ended this long ago,” the family head murmured, drawing Drmul’s focus.

“Such arrogance, you insect.”

It had taken more than ten years to finally stand before the one who had unleashed plagues and maledictions. In truth, Drmul had only been active for a short period; his subordinates had functioned in his stead. Without the intervention of Heskal, he would likely still be languishing in a state of suspended animation.

“I woke a century before the stars intended.”

It was irrelevant. Waking early changed nothing. He had already tasted the fringes of divinity. The small fry who populated the lake of Zaun were beneath his notice. Even though he knew his physical vessel wasn’t yet complete, he had set his plans in motion. The time for instruction was over; now was the era of retribution.

Ebony vapor billowed from his palms, and from the muck beneath, clusters of thrashing vermin began to swarm. Each insect was as large as a man’s hand; their bite would be far worse than a simple sting. Enkrid tightened his grip on his sword. Lynox held his ground beside him, despite having only one arm. Then, from the darkness behind them, more figures drew near.

There was no need to look back; these weren’t predators. A voice echoed out:

“Anahera has arrived.”

The most striking of the giants limped toward them, her helmet discarded and her voice steady. “I forged my blade for a day such as this. I will lend my strength.”

Following her was a man who also moved with a heavy limp. It was Anahera and Riley of the giants.

“Is that the wretch?” “You’ve already dealt with Heskal?” “Is Ragna gone? Impossible. He can’t fall until I best him.”

More masters of the blade from Zaun began to congregate.

“If you should fall, I am next in line,” Alexandra said, leaning heavily against Odin Kar for support.

“Don’t fret. I have you, Alex,” Odin Kar said, fighting to suppress the fury rising within him. In a brief window of time, he had matured. He used to be reckless during sparring, but his tenure with the Border Guard had tempered that flaw.

The warriors of Zaun united to safeguard their homeland. Their collective power was also far beyond what Drmul had anticipated. Even though he had destroyed Medusa and the enchanted serpent, he hadn’t expected the people of Zaun to remain standing.

Still, Drmul remained unconcerned. He stood alone now, but that was no obstacle. Heskal and his so-called students were nothing more than implements. He would ascend to godhood and forge a new Demon Realm on this soil. Every soul across the continent and the empire would bow to him. As a deity, he would dictate the new laws of existence.

“Shield the family head,” Enkrid commanded by instinct. Without wasting a second, he began barking directions: “Move to Anahera’s flank! Kal, protect the rear. Riley, take point with the others. Eradicate every bug!”

With a few sharp motions from Drmul, vermin rained from the clouds, and from the earth rose golems constructed of dark soil. Their fists were the size of human skulls.

Was this to be another protracted struggle? No. It didn’t seem likely.

The family head produced a small bottle, emptied its contents into his throat, and gulped it down. He then let his sword hang low and regulated his breathing.

“Is he taking medicine at a time like this?”

It was the concoction Anne had provided. It was designed to numb physical agony, even if only for a short duration. The family head consumed it now. That meant he had been doing battle with a shattered body this entire time. Why? For this specific moment. This singular window of opportunity. The family head—a master of grand strategy—had been biding his time. Even without a rational explanation, Enkrid could feel a shift in the atmosphere surrounding the man.

Meanwhile, Drmul called forth more vermin, constructs, flying spirits, and unleashed a wave of sickness. The black fog he exhaled was pure toxin—death in gaseous form. Breathing it would lead to tumors or permanent loss of sight. The warriors of Zaun stepped back slightly, fighting a holding action. They dodged the fog and hacked through the insects. They circled the golems, severing their legs to halt their advance, and continued to strike as the earth regenerated.

The skirmish was underway. And the family head stood as motionless as a cadaver before slowly raising his low-held sword to eye level. Seeing this, Drmul swung both arms, launching a sphere of black liquid. It was roughly the size of a human head. No one wanted to discover what would happen if it shattered.

“Intercept it.”

The family head’s lips barely moved. Enkrid didn’t fully grasp the intent, but he obeyed the command. He could perceive the underlying geometry of magic. That was how he had previously sliced through moving flames. He had honed that skill even further through his sessions with Esther.

A spell.

Tracking its internal flow, he unsheathed his blade and struck. Shifting his weight to his back foot, Three Iron sliced through the dark mass with a wet puk sound. It split into two halves and hit the mud, dissolving into the earth. It was a power borrowed from the lord of sulfur, which incinerates everything it touches. Yet it failed here. The heart of the enchantment, the magical framework, had been cut.

“He severed the spell?” Drmul was stunned, and with good reason. The lines of mana had been sliced with surgical precision. A mere human warrior was capable of this? “How dare you—”

Drmul launched five more dark orbs and called up chains of vapor from his rear that lashed out in every direction. The chains slithered with the silence of vipers, scraping against the dirt, attempting to snare Enkrid’s ankles. Enkrid cleaved through the five orbs in rapid succession. Once you identified the structure, cutting them was manageable. They were sluggish and followed linear paths, making them easier to hit than a melon thrown by Rem.

The chains were no different. He identified the stress points where their energy was concentrated and moved swiftly to sever them. He twisted away, kicked out to gain a second, and dragged Three Iron along the ground. His entire frame was screaming. His head felt like it would split.

“Thin and elongated.”

Having utilized Explosion before, he now understood how to draw out his Will in fine threads through extreme focus. Managing his Will was now twice as intuitive as it had been. He had hoped to mimic Ragna’s feat, but at this moment, maintaining a steady rhythm with his blade was his priority.

“Ha!” Drmul snarled.

Everything was falling apart because of that one man. Enkrid’s mouth moved. He looked as if he were about to speak. Was he finally at the end of his tether? Ready to surrender? Blood leaked from his nostrils. He was far from healthy. Drmul watched him intently, waiting for the words. Enkrid gulped down the copper-tasting blood in his throat and spoke.

An orator should always adjust his message for his audience, and in that regard, Enkrid was a virtuoso. He spoke in a crisp voice, just loud enough for Drmul to catch: “How does it feel? That just two swordsmen and a young girl have reduced you to this?”

Did he actually say that right now?

“KIAAAAH!!” Drmul shrieked.

His indignation erupted. The variety of spells he unleashed tripled. Dark spheres. Iron chains. Obsidian hands clawing up from the dirt. Some of the falling rain turned black, shifting into the shapes of wolves. Static electricity danced between them. Enkrid evaded it all through sheer desperation, cutting down any enchantment that drew near the family head. He tumbled through the mud, drenched and filthy, as fragments of broken elfbone armor fell from his clothes.

Sodden, covered in grime, looking like a rat pulled from a well—yet his azure eyes never flickered in the dark. And just as it appeared he had reached his breaking point—the family head lunged toward Drmul.

In that split second, what had Drmul relied upon? His magical barriers? But there is a fundamental law of the world: faith is destined to be betrayed. Isn’t that the lesson of the holy texts? That out of a hundred followers, there is always one who turns on the master. And interestingly, that story appears in every holy book, even in the ancient myths.

“Ah—”

Against all odds, Ragna had regained consciousness and let out a sharp breath. Enkrid also watched the scene unfold. He lacked the energy to move another inch and leaned on Three Iron as it bit into the ground. Rain lashed his eyes, but he refused to blink.

The family head—Tempest Zaun—hurled himself forward and swung. Just one blow. He poured every ounce of himself into that slash: his decades of mastery, his hours of practice, even his potential future. Brilliance erupted from his sword. It was Will—not the holy light of Audin, but a unique phenomenon. The light coiled around the steel and tore through the fabric of the world.

A blade that could sever all things. One could sense it simply by witnessing the act. The sword ripped through Drmul’s shields and entered at the shoulder, exiting on a diagonal path that cleaved his torso in two. To the naked eye, it looked like pure radiance bisecting the shape of a nightmare.

As this happened, Enkrid felt the Will screaming and exploding within the family head. It wasn’t just his heightened senses; any warrior of knightly caliber would have sensed it. Will was abstract and invisible—but it could be felt. And in this moment, it could even be seen. Beyond that, the family head’s Will caused the environment to react—much like an invisible breeze ruffling one’s hair.

Explosion.

He had detonated his Will. However, it was distinct from the way Alexandra performed it. Through a combination of experience, gut feeling, and theory, Enkrid understood.

Explosion of the Dot.

Alexandra spread her timing throughout a fight—Explosion of the Line. The family head, by contrast, funneled every scrap of power into a single, devastating impact. A sword technique designed to commit everything to one motion. That had to be his ultimate trump card. And that trump card had finally ended the long horror of Zaun.

Dark blood saturated the earth. The rain began to fade, and even the howling wind fell silent. Drmul stared down at his bisected frame. Rotting organs began to slide out.

“…Why?” he whispered.

The megalomaniac who claimed to be a god was gone. In his place was only a pathetic man who had tried to cheat the grave. And Enkrid, replaying that singular strike from the family head in his mind, felt a tremor of awe race through his nerves. To be completely honest, he had believed that if he staked his life on the line, he might win.

“I could never have parried that.”

Just observing the strike sent a freezing chill into his brain.

“The world is a massive place.”

And that was what made it exciting. Enkrid let a smile touch his face as he observed the family head’s Will and his blade. Drmul happened to catch his gaze—and saw that grin. Pure, unadulterated hatred filled his dying heart.