Chapter 724

Chapter 724

“A single snip of the blades is all that’s required to part a string under tension.” They claim it only takes one precisely placed pebble to unbalance a steady scale. Enkrid wondered if Drmul had anticipated this outcome before he had. Perhaps Heskal had provided counsel, or maybe it was merely a dark premonition. But if that wasn’t the case… ‘Merely two warriors and a young girl.’ Why utter those words and go to such extreme lengths to eliminate Anne? ‘If he hadn’t possessed some hidden knowledge, he wouldn’t have sought a confrontation.’ That was the logic he arrived at. Had Heskal committed his full strength from the start, rescuing Anne would have been nearly impossible. Looking back with the benefit of time, the truth became evident. Even with Ragna providing constant protection, Heskal could have exploited a moment of weakness. Yet, that opening never arrived. Tiny stones had collected on one side of the balance, and those small weights—two warriors and a girl—had been enough to tip the scales.

The vibration that followed the sight of the patriarch’s blade surged through his entire frame. Enkrid didn’t possess a natural gift for predicting how a duel would conclude, but analyzing the result afterward was never a difficult task. Alexandra had surged her Will, pushing her power, reflexes, and perception far beyond their natural boundaries. That was the catalyst for the Explosion of the Line. To explain it more clearly, it was akin to igniting a candle and maintaining the flame until the wax was entirely consumed. Conversely, Tempest had altered the fundamental form—he had detonated his Will. It was the Explosion of the Dot. A lone sword thrust that gambled everything on a single moment. This wasn’t a steady candle flame; it was the strike of a flint. A massive discharge that occurred only at the point of contact. However, its destructive potential was manifold stronger than a candle’s. It was like releasing all the potential energy of a slow-burning candle in one catastrophic blast. ‘That isn’t a technique a dying man should be performing.’ The harsh reality, momentarily pushed aside by the adrenaline, flooded back into Enkrid’s consciousness. Drmul still projected the stench of rot, even with his body nearly cleaved in two. Dark, viscous fluid leaked from his ruined innards, and the falling rain pooled within his open torso. Nevertheless, he persisted. As if to demonstrate his tenacity— “Perish.” Drmul’s left hand, still connected to the side of his body that remained intact, rose. As he moved, the words he hissed transformed into a curse, saturated with his dying resolve and sorcerous energy. A dark fog coalesced at his palm, shaping itself into a slender black cylinder before darting forward. It appeared identical to the projectiles utilized by the Scalers. No explanation was necessary—the presence of lethal poison was undeniable. Whoosh. As the summoned rod took physical form, the atmosphere was pierced by a jagged whistle. Could a mere splinter kill the head of the house? Under normal circumstances, it was doubtful. But Tempest had just executed a strike so taxing it had ruptured the capillaries in his eyes. Crimson began to leak from his sockets. And it wasn’t limited to his eyes—his nostrils, mouth, and ears all began to weep blood. Then came the incoming hex. Ragna witnessed the threat but was unable to intercept it. To be honest, it was a feat of will that he hadn’t already collapsed. Attempting to move was suicide, yet his reflexes took over—he managed to partially push himself up. However, someone else had already intervened. Enkrid. He had shaken off the combat high quickly enough to take action. He was already aware—creatures like Drmul always harbored a final desperate gambit. He had slain the One-Killer, yet nearly lost Shinar in the process. That final, frantic lunge, an attempt to fuse his very essence into her—that repulsive maneuver—how could he ever push it from his mind? No, he remained vigilant. Even though his joints and muscles screamed in agony, Enkrid stepped in front of the patriarch. In a series of deliberate, fluid motions, he forced his legs to carry him, drawing upon every remaining ounce of strength to reach Tempest just as the spell was cast. Once he was in place, he snapped his wrist, redirecting Three Iron to intercept the black rod in mid-air. Clang. The projectile shattered into fragments, raining down onto the sodden earth. He lacked the energy for a full-bodied swing—he had merely rotated his wrist, utilizing the blade’s inherent weight and the force of the spin. But it was sufficient. Only just. Had he failed to strike the center of the spell, the rod would have pierced his heart instead of splintering. ‘This frame of mine…’ His physical state was a disaster. There was no point in denying it. Even evading the previous storm of magic had pushed him to the absolute edge of his capabilities. In truth, if he hadn’t taken the gamble of letting some of those spells graze him, his body would be full of holes by now. Recovering his breath, Enkrid stared ahead—only to find Drmul, clinging to life, fixating on him with a gaze full of pure malice. He could almost hear the creature’s thoughts even without his lips moving. However, Drmul did find the strength to speak. “I despise you. I loathe you.” “What is it that you find so hateful?” Enkrid inquired softly, as if he were prepared to listen to the dying monster’s final grievances. Most onlookers likely assumed the same. But Enkrid spoke once more, his tone deceptively mild— “Is it because I appear so young?” No, that wasn’t the reason. Enkrid was intentionally prodding at Drmul’s ego. It wasn’t merely for his own amusement. Not entirely. There was a cold logic behind the mockery. It was a fusion of the tactical philosophy of Lua Gharne and the underhanded tactics of Kraiss. ‘Drmul still possesses the vitality for one last strike.’ If the monster wanted to utilize that power effectively, he would need mental clarity. Therefore, it was better to keep his temper flared. Do not allow him to regain his composure. Every minor advantage was vital. Enkrid felt no remorse for it. If this weren’t the way of Lua Gharne, there would be no reason to antagonize him. He owed this mindset to the lessons Frokk had instilled in him. Furthermore, Drmul hadn’t approached them with a sense of chivalry—he had slinked through the darkness and attempted to assassinate Anne. Consequently, mocking him felt entirely earned. Drmul was at a loss for words. “You… y-you…” Had he somehow found spiritual clarity in this moment, he might have achieved transcendence. With that level of emotional detachment, even godhood wouldn’t have been out of reach. But he did not become a deity. As he realized his grand designs were crumbling, a tide of fury rose within him. His logic and his hatred merged into a single, focused objective. He no longer cared about the patriarch—he simply wanted Enkrid dead. At any cost. He would take his life. And Drmul was far from a fool. ‘No, simply killing him is insufficient.’ He wouldn’t leave Zaun unscathed either. Was Enkrid the only thorn in his side? No. The entire Zaun lineage, the warriors—they were all responsible. And then, a new realization dawned on him. ‘Heskal, you treacherous dog…’ He had been played. In hindsight, the puzzle pieces fit perfectly. Heskal hadn’t truly sought to seize divinity—his aim was the life he would lead after he had stolen it. He intended to outlive the conflict. He had unfinished business. Drmul refused to let the curtain fall the way that deceased traitor had intended. ‘I am going to die.’ Perhaps because he had spent so long cheating the grave… Drmul was certain of his impending end—and he knew exactly what he could still accomplish. His demise was a settled matter. ‘Zaun will follow me into the abyss.’ Upon his death, the dormant pathogens he had distributed would germinate instantly. The majority of Zaun would perish. The settlements of trackers, diplomats, and retirees—eight out of every ten would fall. Even Heskal had been oblivious to this contingency. Had he known, he would be screaming in the afterlife. Drmul had taken root here decades ago. He had spent much of that time in a state of hibernation, but not in these final years. He had meticulously planned for this. And that was the extent of it. ‘Then it is finished.’ That nuisance shouting in front of him—he would survive. And that would be the conclusion. ‘Will they honor him for my death?’ People had labeled Drmul a serpent his entire existence. He was consumed by jealousy. Some whispered he was a viper that had taken human form. The thought of Enkrid receiving accolades—he couldn’t endure it. The prospect of the boy surviving—it stoked his hatred. As he looked death in the face, Drmul placed his entire existence on the scale. How could he execute Enkrid and annihilate Zaun simultaneously? The situation had deviated from the plan, but his intellect remained sharp. And now, he devised a method to eliminate that loathsome brat—quickly. “I shall pass.” Drmul declared. “Even a wandering ghoul could see your time is up,” Enkrid countered. But Drmul did not rise to the bait. “Patriarch of Zaun, attend to me.” His voice resonated with a double-layered echo. Enkrid sensed this was the final gambit. No matter what incantation followed, he believed he could intercept it one more time. His physical form was pushed to the limit, but his proficiency at severing magic had sharpened thanks to Esther’s coaching—and the brutal reality of this fight. He had even gained insight from parrying the previous attack. ‘Even if fifty of those ebony rods were launched at once, I could handle it.’ He might sustain a few injuries, but as long as they were clean strikes, he wouldn’t be left a cripple. “You won’t face this on your own.” Lynox stepped forward as he spoke. Behind him stood the elite swords of Zaun—Anahera, Riley, and the others. Their determination was as unwavering as his. This conflict belonged to Zaun. They had unseheathed their blades in defense of their home. The patriarch, his sight failing, could only see the silhouette of Enkrid’s back as the dark shadows began to consume his vision. Was he losing his sight? Quite possibly. The strike he had delivered moments ago was a feat beyond even his youthful prime. He had poured his entire essence into it. Truthfully, he had accepted his death the moment he committed to the swing. Taxing his Will so severely had left his body hollow. He desired nothing more than to sit and find peace. Yet the man he had cut down refused to remain silent. Crimson fluid leaked from his ear. The world sounded distant and muffled, but he could still distinguish the words. “I am listening.” The patriarch answered, and Drmul began his malediction, his voice regaining an eerie calm. “I offer you a choice. Only two paths.” What nonsense was he spewing now? The vile creature’s deceptive tongue continued to wag. “If I concentrate the remnants of my vitality and release it, every person infected within Zaun will die. The plague seeds were intended to mature slowly, but upon my death, they will germinate and consume their hosts in a heartbeat. That is my design. However!” He paused, his volume increasing. Ragna felt a pulsing pain behind his temples. Drmul’s voice was now vibrating in layers, as if a monster with the ambitions of a god was channeling his final strength into a single, definitive hex. “In exchange, I will focus every remaining curse I possess onto that man. If I do, the plague I have planted in Zaun will dissipate.” He extended a skeletal finger and pointed directly at Enkrid. So his hatred ran that deep—he believed that killing Enkrid alone was a sufficient trade? No. Drmul understood the human heart. More than that—he knew how to pull its strings. He had utilized that very skill to turn Heskal into his instrument. Reflecting on it, he had certainly preyed on human ambition to trap him. ‘I grasp the nature of people.’ Drmul was certain. Enkrid would reject the proposition. No one desires their own end—that is an absolute truth. ‘Especially not dying for the sake of others.’ Certainly, parents might sacrifice themselves for their kin. But for complete strangers? Who would ever agree to that? His words would force the patriarch to balance the scale—the survival of Zaun or the life of an outsider. And that scale would clearly lean one way. Enkrid would fight back. And the patriarch would be forced to restrain him. ‘Even as I fade, you must continue the slaughter.’ That was the primary trap. There was a second, concealed one. What if the leadership of Zaun captured Enkrid? He claimed the seeds wouldn’t erupt—but he never promised they would vanish entirely. Even if the current plan failed, the outcome would only shift when they died—not if they died. “You truly expect us to trust your word?” Lynox interrupted. “Then behold.” Drmul gestured with his hand. A shimmering golden rectangle manifested in the air behind him, glowing characters etched into its surface. “You recognize this, surely. The Book of Binding Oaths. I shall scribe my final testament within it.” A legendary relic appeared. Whatever was written in that volume was destined to manifest. The cost? The eternal soul of the author. Myths claimed the book’s master was one of the Archdemons governing the Dark Realm. It was known as the Commandment Book of Gold. Lynox was familiar with the lore. This wasn’t just a death warrant—it was the total surrender of one’s soul. “It is the real thing. That is truly the Commandment Book.” A different voice broke the silence. Schmidt—battered and bruised but still standing—moved to the front. He was a practitioner of both the arcane and the blade. His scholarly knowledge of magic confirmed that Drmul was speaking the truth. His face showed the toll of the battle—a dark, jagged wound across his cheek. Schmidt spoke again, his tone analytical. “This isn’t a performance meant to mislead us. There is no one in Zaun with the magical expertise to fabricate this, and I wasn’t even meant to be present.” If Tempest or the others chose to disregard this… the consequences would be catastrophic. Schmidt could not allow that. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing his half-sister and his closest companion in a single stroke. “There is no deception in my claim. Believe it or not—it changes nothing. But everything I have uttered is the absolute truth.” Drmul’s voice was thick with arrogance. It was remarkably bold, considering he was on the threshold of death. The crowd behind them began to whisper—questioning the nature of the Book, its authenticity, and whether they could afford to trust a monster. But one by one, the murmurs died away. Because everything—the very weight of the air—signaled that this was the terrifying reality.