Chapter 761

Chapter 761

The Eroded Ones—the inhabitants of the Demon Realm—were paralyzed with dread.

Looking back at Zoraslav’s first reaction when he came forward, there hadn’t been a trace of terror. He had likely anticipated that Enkrid and his comrades would simply perish. It was difficult for them to grasp that their entire existence was being upended by a traveler who had appeared out of thin air. For generations, these villagers had probably treated every wanderer or mercenary with a veneer of kindness—not out of genuine virtue, but because they possessed neither the power nor the spirit to resist.

When a sharp edge is held to one’s throat, there is even less motivation to fight back. A single wrong move could result in a fatal sword stroke. Furthermore, they lived with the certainty that the Cleaner would eventually slaughter anyone who dared to pass through their lands. But now, that Cleaner was a corpse, the icon of the Demon God had been torn down, and the villagers themselves had been forced to bury the remains of the monsters and beasts that once swarmed the area.

Under these pressures, getting any useful information from the locals was a challenge. Even the youths were pale with fright, though given their naturally light purple complexions, it was hard to tell if they had turned blue or dark from their terror.

“Pay attention—this is a job for someone with a friendly face.”

Rem spoke with a sense of pride as he approached the trembling crowd. He claimed that a warm expression and soft words were all that was required. It was a level of confidence that felt almost like conceit.

Ting.

Ragna shifted his blade about an inch from its sheath at that remark. The idea of Rem having a “kind face” clearly grated on him, just as it did on Enkrid. Ragna shot a look at Enkrid that seemed to ask: Is it acceptable to just cut down someone who talks that much nonsense?

“It’s a decent attempt. Anyone can try,” Enkrid mused.

While not everyone would admit it, Rem was undeniably striking. He had powerful features and a singular presence—an attractiveness rooted in a certain rugged intensity. However, “kind” was not a word anyone would use to describe him.

“Pl-please… have mercy… we have no food to give,” a thin woman stammered, shielding her child.

Rem’s temper flared instantly, and his features contorted. Instead of a welcoming smile, his face took on the terrifying aspect of an angry deity.

“Eating people? My job is killing monsters who do that, and you think I’m looking for a meal?”

As Rem fumed, Enkrid stepped in to quiet him. Ragna just sighed, while Jaxon actually let out a rare, quiet laugh. Rem snapped at Jaxon next, but Enkrid managed to stabilize the situation and began asking the necessary questions himself. To everyone’s surprise, the villagers cooperated. Some of the local women even blushed during the talk, but Enkrid remained professional and soft-spoken throughout the inquiry. Despite their fear, many couldn’t help but steal glances at Enkrid’s features.

Of course, his looks weren’t the only factor. Zoraslav, the village elder, had begun to soothe his people, and Enkrid had waited for that opening before speaking. The way they looked at Enkrid was peculiar—devoid of hate, replaced instead by a strange, one-sided sense of reverence. Regardless of the cause, they were finally talking.

“Is this what they call bias?” Rem grumbled, still annoyed.

“It’s a matter of aesthetics,” Jaxon countered.

Thud!

The air crackled between them. Rem swung his heavy axe toward Jaxon, who was a few paces back. Jaxon drew his stiletto in a flash, parrying the blow at an angle that sent sparks flying. It was a perfect display of the “Sword of Coincidence,” the style Jaxon had inherited from Enkrid. He had mastered the core concepts long ago through brutal training, fending off waves of master assassins from all sides. He was now at the height of his skill.

Rem narrowed his eyes at Jaxon. “Do you actually want to die today?”

“I’m certainly not dying at your hands,” Jaxon shot back.

The two began a more frantic exchange of blows. Thud! Ting! Clang-clang-clang! Anyone standing too close would have been shredded. Pell and Rophod quickly moved the villagers to a safe distance.

“Don’t mind them. This is how they communicate,” Rophod said casually, though the sight of the duel only seemed to deepen the villagers’ horror. Still, they continued to provide Enkrid with the information he sought.

Lua Gharne watched the scene with amusement. “Truly, the ‘Demonic Charm’ is real.”

Shinar added, “Indeed. A magnetism that works even on the fae.”

Enkrid ignored the teasing and focused on the data. By nightfall, he gathered the group to summarize what he had learned.

“Enter too deep, and you’re struck by lightning.” “A sorcerer there commands dark bolts.” “Take a wrong step, and you’re locked in a crystal cell for eternity—forced to work even after your soul leaves your body.”

These were the legends the villagers lived by. To a regular person, they were terrifying ghost stories. To Enkrid, however, they sounded a bit inconsistent.

The idea of “eternal labor” seemed strange to use as a threat against people whose lives were already defined by grueling work. This village was self-reliant, which meant their days were spent in constant toil. They farmed a land that fought back, pulling “demon weeds” by hand that would otherwise drain the life from their crops. These weren’t easy plants to remove; if left alone, they turned into blood-drinking flowers. They had to hunt dangerous beasts just to survive, and they had no reliable trade routes.

To live was to work—building, hunting, preserving, and crafting. They had clearly mastered specific skills to survive. For instance, their leather garments were exceptionally well-made. They took the thick, stubborn hides of demonic creatures and turned them into refined, form-fitting armor. It was far superior to anything seen on the borders of the Demon Realm. The material was light and flexible, yet tough enough to deflect a blade. Enkrid, having spent years as a caravan guard, knew quality when he saw it.

Generations of survival had taught them how to tan these difficult hides. They likely traded these goods to the rare, desperate merchants who stumbled upon them. Their hands told the story—fingertips worn blunt, nails stained a deep blue from the potent herbs and juices used in their crafts. Enkrid kept these observations to himself, merely noting the reality of their struggle.

The final warning from the villagers was the most cryptic: “If you perish there, you must wear the shroud of thorns.”

“So, we have the black bolts, the glass dungeon, and the thorny burial,” Rophod noted, checking off the list.

Lua Gharne’s expression shifted with excitement. The prospect of the “mysterious” always thrilled a Frokk’s spirit, even if such curiosity often led to a swift death. Rem, having cooled his head after the spar with Jaxon, leaned in.

“What are we actually looking at?” he asked. He suspected the villagers were just repeating a tapestry of tall tales and filling in the gaps with their own nightmares. The only certainty was that nobody ever returned.

“Do you have a theory?” Pell asked, looking toward Enkrid.

They were gathered in a clearing at the edge of the settlement. There was no fire, but the twin moons provided ample light. The shadows danced across Enkrid’s face, making his blue eyes seem to glow with an inner light. Pell sensed that Enkrid wouldn’t have that look if he were completely in the dark.

Enkrid turned his gaze toward the heart of the Demon Realm. Rophod felt that Enkrid saw a world entirely different from the one they perceived. The Commander is on another level, he thought. While the rest felt an instinctive urge to run, Enkrid’s presence made that fear manageable.

“No,” Enkrid finally replied.

“…You don’t know?” Pell asked, his voice clipping short in his surprise.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Enkrid said plainly. How could he know anything for sure based on campfire stories? If there was lightning, could it even be parried? Would it just be a matter of luck and reflex?

Can I deflect a bolt of lightning? Enkrid wondered. He looked at Duskforge. The sword didn’t speak, but it was saturated with his intent. The blade gave a soft, resonant hum in his hand. Woom—

It was a confirmation.

In the silence of the night, everyone heard the sword’s vibration. Enkrid looked at his team and grinned with the pure anticipation of a child about to embark on a great adventure. His voice held more excitement than even Lua Gharne’s.

“I do know one thing, though. There are several nests inside.”

“Nests?” Ragna repeated.

“If we clear them out, the reach of the Demon Realm will recede,” Enkrid explained.

He was ready to fight whatever lay ahead. The mystery only added to the thrill. It was a pure expression of his warrior’s soul—a drive for growth that bordered on insanity. He had picked up the sword specifically to challenge the unknown. Practice was one thing, but the life-or-death application of his skills was where he truly lived.

“Impressive,” Pell whispered.

“You certainly earned the name ‘Mad Order,'” Teresa remarked, nodding. As someone with giant’s blood, the urge to fight was part of her DNA. Why fight against your nature?

“This is going to be excellent,” Teresa added.

There wasn’t a sane person in the group. Any scraps of normalcy they once had were gone now, replaced by Enkrid’s infectious madness. An owl hooted in the distance—a sound that carried a supernatural weight, causing their skin to crawl. But they welcomed the sensation. Even Roman felt a pang of jealousy that he wasn’t fully part of the upcoming fray.

The following morning, the company crossed the threshold.

Between towering, rust-colored trees that looked utterly alien, a thin trail wound its way forward—just wide enough for a small group. This was the legendary gateway to the Demon Realm. They entered just as the first light of dawn broke over the horizon.

“The atmosphere… it’s heavy. Hard to breathe,” Shinar noted.

They followed the path as it coiled deeper into the woods. Soon, the way they had come was swallowed by the strange, brownish-red timber. On closer inspection, the bark had a faint, bloody luminescence that made the dark woods pulse with a dim crimson light.

After walking for a time, Enkrid felt a shift. There was no physical wall, but the transition was more jarring than entering the Gray Forest. It felt as if unseen weights were being tied to his ankles.

Then, he stepped over an invisible line. He didn’t need a sign to know they had truly entered. The air became thick with a metallic tang, like breathing in iron filings. A normal person would have likely collapsed under the sheer pressure of the environment.

“This is incredibly foul,” Shinar remarked, her discomfort clearly peaking.

Enkrid said nothing, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. Suddenly, a tiny black speck appeared in the distance. His instincts instantly flared into a scream of warning: Move or die.

Shwaaaang!

A sound like tearing metal followed the projectile. It was moving so fast that it outran its own noise. Compared to a natural thunderclap, the sound was muted, but Enkrid’s senses caught the layered echoes of its flight. The speck elongated into a jagged streak of dark energy—black lightning that corkscrewed through the air.

It wasn’t a straight line; it moved with a fluid, wavy motion. As Enkrid’s perception slowed time, he saw it clearly: a long, lethal arrow. It was aimed perfectly at the center of his brow.

In that microsecond, his mind mapped the optimal evasion. He pivoted his entire frame, his dark green cloak whipping through the air as he drew Duskforge in a vertical arc toward the sky.