Chapter 762

Chapter 762

Yesterday evening, the Ferryman manifested within a vision and uttered: “Show some appreciation.” Or words to that effect. As was his custom, his voice was somber—reminiscent of a clouded midwinter firmament—and deeply solemn. There was a stillness to his presence, akin to the layer of dust covering a long-forgotten manor. Yet, despite this, Enkrid detected a subtle trace of playfulness lurking beneath the surface of those remarks. It was peculiar. The notion that the master of the dark river vessel could possess a sense of humor crossed his mind. Regardless of whether it was a jest or a genuine sentiment, or perhaps a blend of both, Enkrid inclined his head in a profound, sincere gesture. He performed the act with genuine courtesy and reverence. His torso aligned with the gunwale of the barge, and he lowered his head toward the deck. Splish. The vessel drifted lazily upon the river’s current. The Ferryman continued to chant melodies of misery and collapse, still yearning for Enkrid to cease his struggle and remain in this place. Yet, no matter the Ferryman’s desires, Enkrid felt he had gained significant strength from him. He held that conviction firmly. Lately, it actually seemed as though the Ferryman was acting as a benefactor. “Indeed.” He gave his affirmation without lifting his head. “Do not be so quick to agree.” The Ferryman appeared to scowl. His features remained as stolid as ever, but Enkrid sensed the irritation—not through sight, but through a spiritual connection. “Indeed.” He replied once more. “Your responses—no. Stop. Say no more.” On this occasion, the Ferryman physically moved his head from side to side. It was a slow, awkward motion, like a malfunctioning timepiece ticking out of sync. Nevertheless, the intent was unmistakable. It was a refusal that signaled: Let us conclude this line of dialogue between us. Enkrid shifted his focus upward. He was no longer pacing the shoreline as he had in previous encounters. Perhaps that explained the shift in perspective, even if the barge’s edge felt similar to the riverbank. In a way, it felt oddly comforting. That comfort stemmed from the Ferryman’s aura. In that interval, Enkrid experienced an unusual tranquility. It felt as if a communion was occurring—one devoid of spoken language or specific topics. The Ferryman’s cadence radiated that sensation, transmitted directly to Enkrid’s mind rather than through the air. “You surely don’t imagine it will be a simple matter in that place, do you?” The Ferryman inquired. It remained a marvel how he communicated without the slightest movement of his mouth. Those lips resembled a parched desert—ashen, dry, and split. A wasteland that had forgotten the touch of rain. “Do I strike you as the sort who lacks respect for the Demon Realm?” Enkrid countered, listening to the gentle rhythm of the water against the hull. Was that truly how he appeared to the Ferryman? Like a fool venturing into danger because he trivialized the threat? “You ought to be thankful I haven’t bound your mouth shut for meeting a query with another query.” The Ferryman retorted, sending the mental equivalent of a quiet, dry laugh. That, too, was meant as a joke. Enkrid peered directly into the bottomless pits that served as the Ferryman’s eyes. Rather than offering another retort, he concentrated on providing a sincere reply. He did not view the Demon Realm with arrogance. It was simply that he carried certain expectations regarding what he might discover there. That was the essence of his stance. “Yes.” He offered his confirmation with a slight bow. “The longer we converse, the more I feel I am losing the advantage.” “Is that the case?” “Be silent.” “…” The Ferryman was reminded once more that he was no match for this man in a war of words. The fellow had been difficult since their very first meeting. “The Demon Realm bears no resemblance to this realm. Your perception, your gut feelings—your physical reflexes will all undergo a change. Do not assume your primary senses or your intuition will function there as they do here.” The Ferryman delivered his warning. Providing a bit of extra “guidance” wouldn’t be out of place. He gave his lantern a single shake, then raised his free hand and pushed it forward. It was an odd movement—extending his palm flat and exerting a gentle pressure. As the lantern swayed, its glow fragmented, making the environment hazy. That palm mirrored his lips—a gray, desolate landscape, and the lines carved into the skin—whether from age or nature—looked like yawning chasms with no end. Did a moment even pass? Before he could register the shift, the Ferryman was standing directly in front of Enkrid. How did he—? It was a feat only achievable within the logic of a dream. Before his survival instincts could even trigger, the Ferryman’s hand made contact with Enkrid’s chest—and with that single motion, he sent him tumbling off the barge. The movement that had started at a distance concluded right against his skin. Stability and training meant nothing. His frame tilted backward uncontrollably. Below him waited the river. Murky, infinite, and terrifying water. But just as he was about to submerge, Enkrid hooked his lower legs against the barge’s side and tightened his core, pinning himself in place. The physical conditioning of the waking world had translated into his ethereal form. His falling body came to a sudden, jarring halt. In truth, his mid-air stop looked more like a supernatural feat than the Ferryman’s initial shove. He gripped with his toes, engaged his calves, thighs, and glutes, and made his spine as rigid as a bar of iron. Through that effort, he remained suspended at a sharp angle. The dark voids of the Ferryman’s eyes grew wide. Were those black pits reflecting shock? No mental message followed, leaving Enkrid to speculate. However, within the Ferryman’s gaze, violet embers sparked. Perhaps it wasn’t shock, but rather annoyance. That seemed plausible. “You are resisting?” The Ferryman asked. “Does it look like I’m doing anything else?” Enkrid challenged. “Release your hold.” The Ferryman’s eyes suggested frustration, yet his tone held an underlying softness. Enkrid was fully aware that even if he plunged into these depths, it was merely a dreamscape. “Go.” The Ferryman commanded. Enkrid released the tension in his muscles. His strength faded, and his body plummeted backward exactly as the Ferryman had intended. Splash. He sank into the obsidian depths. Enkrid felt a soft jolt against his back as the liquid rose to meet him. Naturally, breathing was impossible—but the river did not feel like water; it clung to him with the crushing weight of liquid lead. It was too dense to be called a liquid. Even when he forced his eyelids open, he met only total darkness; nothing could be discerned. Then, the Ferryman’s voice resonated through the gloom. “Adjust.” Enkrid didn’t bother to ask why he was being subjected to this. There was no point in questioning the Ferryman’s erratic behavior. He understood that arguing with human whims was usually fruitless—arguing with this entity was even more so. In reality, this was less of a dream and more of an agonizing trial. Drowning and struggling for air could hardly be classified as a “pleasant” slumber. I cannot draw breath, yet I suspect I won’t perish. Enkrid maintained his composure and began to move through the heavy, metallic fluid. Regardless of its weight, he had to attempt to reach the surface. He kicked and fought against the pressure with every ounce of his will. How much time had slipped away? To him, it felt as though he had been battling the depths for months on end. Finally, his fingers managed to catch the edge of the barge—and even the very air felt like a foreign substance to him. That was the extent of his immersion. He was immortal in this space, but that didn’t diminish the horror of the suffocation. The crushing force was constant, and surviving it was an exhausting feat. Mentally drained, he heard the Ferryman speak once more: “That is the nature of the atmosphere in the Demon Realm.” It was time for their meeting to end. The Ferryman’s image started to fray, crumbling away like falling sand. Just before he returned to the waking world, Enkrid witnessed a multitude of overlapping faces flicker across the Ferryman’s features. The blurring particles of sand shifted into various expressions. One version of the Ferryman looked enraged. Another seemed detached. One was laughing, while another was sobbing. For a moment, it appeared as though two Ferrymen were engaged in a struggle with one another. A war within himself? That thought crossed his mind—and then he opened his eyes. That had been his vision from the night before. And the moment he crossed the threshold into the Demon Realm, Enkrid understood that the Ferryman had provided him with vital preparation. Because of that ordeal, even as his perceptions warped and his limbs felt heavier than lead, his body still obeyed him. Pivoting on his left heel, Duskforge whipped upward toward the dark sky and met the approaching bolt of energy. A jagged, vibrating streak of obsidian lightning raced toward the group—and now its true nature was revealed. It was a projectile. Longer than a standard arrow, tipped with a head as black as the void. Clang! It wasn’t just the tip; the entire shaft had been crafted from metal. At that magnitude, it was essentially a small bolt from a siege engine. The projectile Enkrid parried with Duskforge was knocked off course, crashing into the earth with a violent boom. It wasn’t a simple impact; it was an explosion. The ground erupted as if a real lightning strike had occurred. He had successfully intercepted it, but he hadn’t neutralized the kinetic energy. That was the cause of the secondary blast. An arrow infused with Will—or something of that nature. He could deduce that much from a single encounter. The entire party recoiled. Enkrid’s hand throbbed with the vibration. This was comparable to stopping a ballista bolt with a handheld sword. He briefly worried if his weapon had sustained damage. But there was no window for inspection. The archer responsible for that shot wouldn’t stop at just one. “Get ready!” Jaxon growled. That was all the warning needed. The group sprang into action. Enkrid, utilizing the breathing techniques he had honed with the Ferryman, regulated his oxygen. The others took their own defensive measures. Rophod dove behind a massive trunk. Pell huddled behind him. “What the hell are you doing?” “Using you as cover.” “You crazy son of a—” Ignoring their bickering, Teresa hoisted her shield. That bulwark was plated in high-grade black steel and reinforced with the pelt of a manticore—the very beast Audin had slain in the past. She could stop a blow with pure strength, but she could also divert it. The second one of those electrified bolts hit her shield, she was prepared to slide the momentum away. Absorb half, deflect the rest. It was a difficult maneuver, but Teresa possessed the necessary talent. A soft radiance enveloped Audin’s frame. It wasn’t the complete Holy Light Armor, but he had summoned enough divine energy to make his body glow. Whatever the threat, he was ready to intercept and nullify it. If a warrior could call upon Holy Light Armor, creating a Holy Shield was a simple task. It was merely a matter of condensing the holy essence. Compared to the Will-infused strikes Ragna had demonstrated previously, this was a much more direct process. One simply had to congregate the light. Of course, this was only feasible because Audin practiced the compression of divine power daily and could manifest Holy Light Armor at a moment’s notice. Expecting Teresa to perform the same feat was unrealistic. Lua Gharne and Shinar repositioned themselves behind Enkrid. Shinar was a being of the fae—and such creatures thrived on the vitality of a forest. To her, this environment felt like a fish trying to breathe in mud. In a vibrant, living woodland, the fairies would have been formidable. But here, that natural resonance was non-existent. The Demon Realm was poison to the fae. Lua Gharne also recognized that her own powers were insufficient to halt that lightning. Her choice was immediate and instinctive. Stand behind the person capable of holding the line. That person was Enkrid. Consequently, both Shinar and Lua Gharne sought safety in his shadow. Rem and Ragna, however, remained where they stood—gazing forward. Their perceptions might have been dampened. The weight of the air was suffocating. But so long as they remained focused, an arrow like the first one wouldn’t find them unprepared. The entire group reacted as a single unit. Predictably, more projectiles arrived. Enkrid’s hearing picked up two distinct whistling sounds in the distance—one following the other almost instantly. Two bolts, directed at the two most prominent figures. Two bolts, aimed directly at Rem and Ragna. Enkrid saw it coming. And so did Rem. Rem’s arm blurred. The axe strike—the move Enkrid called his “flash,” the core of his refined combat style—was derived from this very motion. He swung his axe on a diagonal path, catching the arrow with the edge of the metal to redirect it. To a casual observer, it looked like a simple, powerful swing. In reality, he was guiding the force away—not trying to stop it dead. Clang! Sparks erupted from Rem’s weapon. Even with a near-perfect deflection, the shock that traveled into his hand was immense. It felt like trying to parry a falling cliffside. That was the weight of the strike. Ragna mimicked Rem’s strategy. He was certainly familiar with the concept of the Flowing Blade. He held his massive sword Sunrise in a vertical guard like a wall, letting the arrow’s power slide off the flat of the steel. CLANG! The distinction was clear: Rem used the fluidity of his wrist to redirect the energy, while Ragna used the broad surface of his heavy weapon and used his entire body to absorb the impact point. The difference in the ringing metal told the story. Both men were showered in sparks. The two projectiles shot past them and vanished into the woods behind. BOOM! BOOM! The following explosions provided a vivid demonstration of the power behind those shots. They tore into the earth and shattered ancient trees. It was exactly like being bombarded by massive spears. “Will-infused… They’ve packed the shaft with Will.” Rem flexed his axe-hand as he spoke. He was acknowledging the same reality Enkrid had already grasped. “And?” Ragna replied with a cold tone. “Just making sure you knew, you lazy oaf.” “They are straight ahead. I’m moving to the front.” “Think you’re being clever? Should we take a casual stroll across the world? No—since we’re starting here, I guess it’s a Demon Realm Expedition. Ha, that might actually be entertaining.” Enkrid had heard the launch, seen the path, and blocked the hit—he knew exactly where they were. Yes, they were straight ahead. Beyond that barrier of tightly packed timber—where the shades of crimson and dark rust merged like dried blood on wood. The arrows had been launched from beyond that natural fortification. A wall of trees so dense it functioned as a fortress.