Chapter 754

Chapter 754

Enkrid shifted his attention between the villagers greeting him and those lingering in the distance. Their complexions held a distinct violet hue, and their gazes were largely a translucent brown. “I am Zoraslav. If you would follow me, please.” The man, Zoraslav, gestured for them to follow toward a circular-roofed structure positioned in the heart of the settlement. As they walked, faces emerged from doorways with the skittishness of startled rodents or inquisitive felines, eyes fluttering or necks pulling back into shadows as the group passed. It was a reaction typical of any isolated community encountering outsiders. It was, fundamentally, a human reaction. The building Zoraslav led them to was constructed of masonry and plaster. It appeared to function as a dual-purpose town hall and sanctuary. It stood as the solitary edifice capable of holding a group larger than ten. “We wish to provide a meal, though I cannot promise it will agree with your palates.” A woman emerged from the shadows behind him. “Greetings. Our home has rarely played host to such a large assembly.” Guided by this woman—whose grace and features were striking enough to be deemed a classic beauty—they were ushered into a chamber that served as both a reception room and a refectory. They took seats around a heavy table on dark, handcrafted wooden chairs. The atmosphere was devoid of hostility. It was a sentiment shared by the entire party. The table was set with modest tools amidst equally humble surroundings. Jaxon took a moment to scent and sample the dishes before giving a sharp nod. It was clean. Shinar and Lua Gharne, having biological requirements that differed from the rest, declined the meal, but the others began to eat. The fare consisted of a hearty stew made of tubers and meat, accompanied by a dense, nutty loaf of bread. After they had finished eating and rested for several hours, Rem surveyed their environment and whispered: “This feels somewhat uncomfortable.” The meaning behind his comment was clear to those listening. They were known to revere a Demon God—yet these individuals appeared far too mundane to be put to the blade. That was the conflict Rem was voicing. Shinar’s brow twitched with a faint tension—a movement so slight it was nearly imperceptible. She was always sensitive to the atmospheric shifts whenever they entered the Demon Realm. This village carried that same weight. Enkrid felt the resonance as well. It wasn’t as suffocating as the depths of the Demon Realm, but… The air carried a distinct corruption. For Shinar, the sensation triggered grim recollections of her time held captive in a demonic den. It was only natural for her to be on edge. However, she was no common fairy and maintained her composure with discipline. “My betrothed, stay by my side.” She offered nothing more than that. Enkrid, recognizing the unease in her heart, complied—keeping close to her as they moved through the space. Roman rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the party members. “I warned you things weren’t as they seemed… but seeing it is another thing, isn’t it? I felt the same shock.” Enkrid gave a silent nod. The sentiment was mirrored in the expressions of the others. Though they had only been present for half a day, the evidence was clear: It was an ordinary life. There were anomalies, certainly—but in the rhythms of eating, drinking, laboring, and resting, the village operated like any other. Further in, they had established farmland where various staples grew. Adjacent to these were orchards where blue-skinned fruits were being gathered. The produce was strange to the eye, but— It was nourishment nonetheless. The most jarring aspect was their devotion. The residents paused for prayer three times daily. Their focus? The monument at the center, dedicated to the Demon God. “Let us give thanks.” As evening approached, they would drop to their knees before the idol of the Demon God in the square—pressing their faces into the earth wherever they happened to be standing. Those inside their dwellings stepped out to participate. Only the infirm and the coughing remained indoors to rest. There was no visible sign of force. No one was being coerced into the ritual. There was no need to ask why they chose this deity. And observing the way they performed the rites—it didn’t even look like fervent devotion. It looked like a routine chore. “They are a strange lot,” Lua Gharne remarked, a muscle in her cheek twitching. This location didn’t even qualify as the border of the Demon Realm. It was more accurate to call it the Demon Realm’s front porch. That reality carried a heavy implication: A simple wooden palisade wouldn’t be enough to keep a community alive here. This was a territory where nightmares and predatory beasts would wander freely, viewing anything within as a larder. The region was known to be haunted by several notorious wandering monsters—creatures that were notoriously difficult to slay. “Divine safety from the Demon God…” Enkrid murmured. That was the core of it. This was a refuge for those who had traded worship for survival under the shadow of the Demon God. Their purple-tinted skin was likely a physical manifestation of that bargain. Rophod scanned the settlement and mused, “When animals are warped by demonic presence, we call them monsters. If it happens to humans, are they to be called demonkin?” It was a fitting label for those touched by magi.

The question remained—what was their responsibility toward this place? As it stood, these people were merely… existing. “Leave them be. They are just trying to endure, like any other soul.” To serve a Demon God was the ultimate blasphemy. Yet, surprisingly, Audin was the first to advocate for non-interference. “Hah… In my younger days, I would have claimed we had to purge the corruption with holy light and cleanse this place with flame. But I have changed. I have learned to have some regard for the lives people are forced to lead.” A faint, pale radiance shimmered in Audin’s eyes—the manifestation of sacred power reacting to his thoughts. Enkrid looked him in the eye and nodded. “Then we will leave them in peace.” They were humans attempting to survive. They knelt to the Demon God because it was the price of their continued existence. Zoraslav would periodically check in to clarify their way of life. “It is the truth. We are granted safety because of our service to the Demon God. If you ask if our hearts are in it… that is a complex question.” Was it a matter of fanatical belief? No. What was it then? “Persistence.” They prayed because it served a function. He then added: “We find peace in this arrangement. Even if it requires living on the edge of darkness and bowing to its master.” The small community was unified in this philosophy. There was no internal conflict—anyone who couldn’t reconcile with the life had already been cast out, sacrificed, or met their end. So—was execution the answer? No, that wasn’t the solution. If this was the existence they had claimed for themselves, they would be permitted to keep it. Enkrid was self-aware. He wasn’t a man of many words or a savior. He was a man of the blade. Consequently—if he didn’t intend to strike them down, the only logical path was to do nothing. Zoraslav, acting as the village head, spoke with a voice stripped of bias. “Let me be direct: are you here to deliver judgment? Do you look upon us as monsters?” To Zoraslav, this band of travelers was a walking catastrophe. Warriors, a Frokk, and fairies. What else would the followers of a Demon God expect from such visitors? The tension of that reality hung on his question. Enkrid examined his own conscience: Are they truly evil? It wasn’t a question with a simple answer. Enkrid understood better than most that the world isn’t painted in black and white. One man’s virtue is another’s sin. A savior to some is a butcher to others. Yet, that didn’t mean he would hesitate to draw his weapon just to stay ‘good.’ He simply wished to maintain his integrity—for his own sake and for others. They had mapped out their own lives. Enkrid decided to honor that choice. “We are not here for that purpose.” Upon hearing the denial, a smile touched Zoraslav’s face. Enkrid had witnessed people giving up parts of their very souls to the Demon God. He respected their will—but he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the life they had truly desired. Regardless—was there any aid he could offer them at this moment? That was a thought for another time. Zoraslav provided the group with quarters. The following morning, Ragna announced he required fresh air and departed. Rophod went with him. “You shouldn’t wander off alone.” “And why is that?” Ragna’s tone was icy. From the rear, Rem spoke up. “Are you actually asking that?” “If I already know the answer, why bother asking? It’s basic logic, you brute.” Enkrid remained a silent observer of their bickering. Rem looked toward him. “…I’m being serious. Can’t we just leave that guy in a hole somewhere? Having to track him down constantly is more trouble than he’s worth.” He was at least partially in earnest. Later that day, Ragna and Rophod came back after purging a section of the nearby Demon Realm. They had engaged entities known as the Drowned—bloated, aquatic horrors and ghouls—commanded by a distorted demon capable of sorcery. “Those creatures have been nesting there since the previous year. They’ve been an incessant threat, watching our borders and waiting for anyone to slip up so they could drag them away.” Zoraslav’s gratitude was evident. Rophod recounted how the demon had summoned arcs of electricity from its fingertips—until Ragna’s blade suddenly erupted in a brilliant flare, reducing the creature to cinders. “I am becoming accustomed to it.” Ragna remarked with total indifference. A knight—a talent of immense proportions—armed not just with an enchanted blade, but a relic passed down through bloodlines. It was a predictable outcome, yet not one to be taken lightly. “Our resources are thin, but…” Zoraslav prepared a sheep for them. Indeed, they kept livestock. A fair number, actually. Actual animals. Not mutated beasts. That evening, the party sat down to a meal of roasted lamb. “This location would serve well as a base,” Lua Gharne noted after surveying the surrounding geography. What was their primary objective again? To thin out the minor pockets of the Demon Realm and eliminate wandering threats. Balrog was one such target—too slippery to corner. They would need to entice him using a Serenade of Temptation. And this village’s placement made it a perfect staging ground. Enkrid nodded and began a slow patrol of the perimeter. As he walked, the visions from his dreams over the last two nights began to resurface. The sound of rhythmic waves and the sight of a ferry growing larger. Clatter. Stone shifted beneath his boots, and water rushed over them. Even though he was standing on a vessel, it felt like walking the length of a riverbank. “Let’s stroll for a moment.” The ferryman, as composed as ever, raised a lantern and spoke. Enkrid moved alongside him—keeping a distance of precisely three and a half steps. The ferryman’s tone was lighter and more fragile than before. “So. You have walked through the village. What is your assessment?” It was a casual inquiry, a dialogue between two travelers. Much like their previous encounter. “Did you take note of those who bow to the Demon God? Did you see the marks of what they’ve surrendered?” The ferryman pressed further. The motive behind the questions was transparent. He wasn’t trying to hide it, and Enkrid was perceptive enough to catch the drift. Recognizing this, the ferryman moved to the heart of the matter. “Are these the sorts of people you intend to shield?” Are they worth saving—or do they deserve the sword? Where does the boundary of morality lie? Which road are you following? Can every soul that bows to the Demon God be dismissed as wicked? It was a moment for grim reflection and difficult choices. The ferryman couldn’t see the definitive future—but he had seen the countless ways it could splinter. He watched the potential paths for Enkrid. In one branch, Enkrid slaughters every inhabitant of the village. Roman, witnessing the act, points a finger in accusation. “You butchered people. They were just people.” Enkrid hesitates. Was this the path of righteousness? In another branch, Enkrid spares the villagers. But as the years pass, they find they have no choice but to feed on human life to stay alive. The conclusion is the same. These are people who traded their future just to survive the sunset. An act anyone might commit. Sacrificing tomorrow for a chance at today. Caught between these two fates, the ferryman asked: “Which ending do you truly desire? Is there even such a thing as a ‘correct path’ in this world?” Enkrid saw it then—the ferryman’s trial was far from over. “What has you so preoccupied?” Shinar’s voice broke the trance. Enkrid blinked, focusing on the fairy and her ethereal beauty. Was the ferryman a woman as well? Looking at Shinar made the thought cross his mind. Then the next inquiry surfaced—natural and unprompted. “Your homeland changed after the migration. Your entire way of living shifted. Were you… truly alright with that?” The fairy community had started engaging in commerce with humans, even exchanging secrets of craft and knowledge. It was a question he had never thought to ask her until now. Shinar gave a rare, genuine smile. The edges of her green eyes softened. Her golden hair moved gently in the breeze. “A fairy’s home is wherever her people are found.” It was a simple truth. Enkrid turned the ferryman’s question over in his mind once more. What is the path I am seeking?