Chapter 771

Chapter 771

The apostle didn’t view the situation as a total catastrophe yet, but seeing the massive barrier pulverized made it undeniable that these intruders were a genuine threat. With a sharp motion of his hand, two women with luminous, haunting eyes stepped out from his shadow.

“That marks the second time this structure has been breached since its creation,” one of them remarked. She stood to the left of Enkrid, her sockets filled with what looked like polished blue gemstones. There were no pupils or irises, only a solid, stony surface that emitted a rhythmic, flickering azure light. To describe them might sound poetic, but the reality was grotesque. If she had done this to herself for aesthetics, it was a sign of true insanity.

Enkrid evaluated the pressure emanating from the pair.

‘Witches.’

His instinct was correct. They were clearly the source of the dark legends surrounding the Crystal Prison. It wasn’t just their eyes; patches of their skin shimmered like mineral deposits. The tales of prisoners being “crystalized” likely meant they ended up as the macabre playthings of these two.

While the wall of agonizing spirits in thorny shrouds had been cleared, the primary threats remained: the wielder of black lightning, the warden of this Crystal Prison, and the mastermind behind the entire operation.

“I’ve decided to add you to my collection,” the woman with red-stone eyes declared. She had been silent until now, her gaze fixed hungrily on Enkrid. She clearly found him fascinating.

A heavy silence followed. Usually, Shinar would have lashed out at such a comment, but her hand stayed gripped on her Leaf Blade, her focus entirely locked onto the magic spirit. Rophod, finding the quiet tension unbearable, couldn’t help but chime in.

“A beauty that even charms hags,” he joked.

Every head turned toward him. The collective look on their faces screamed: What is wrong with you?

“…Are you trying to fill the role of the idiot now that the barbarian isn’t here?” Pell hissed.

Rophod clamped his mouth shut, regretting the impulse. There was no sense in giving them more ammunition to mock him later.

Enkrid merely blinked. Charmed? He had no idea what they were talking about and had never laid eyes on these women before. Turning back to the red-eyed witch, he gave a flat response.

“…I’ll decline.”

“That’s fine. I’ll see you later anyway,” she replied with chilling certainty.

“Who managed it the first time?” Lua Gharne asked suddenly. Her curiosity was piqued by the mention of a previous breach. The idea that someone else had once toppled this wall caused Frokk to speak up in surprise.

The castellan shot a murderous look at Frokk and made a dismissive gesture, silently promising to execute him later. As he moved his hand, a grating sound—like a blade being sharpened—echoed from behind the magic spirit. A construct resembling a golem, clad in dark crystal plate and wielding a crystalline sword, emerged. The material was a murky, bottomless black. It was the same entity that had intercepted Enkrid’s spear earlier. Up close, it was clear the armor wasn’t metal, but solid crystal. It was smaller than Audin, but its posture suggested a deadly agility.

“Drunk on your own perceived power, you’ve come here only to find your graves,” the castellan sneered.

Instead of a verbal retort, Enkrid swung Duskforge through the empty air. To a bystander, it would have looked like a senseless flail, but the people present were far from ordinary. Every one of them sensed that the blade had connected with something unseen.

Ping.

The sound didn’t travel through the air, but the blue-eyed witch felt the vibration deep in her soul.

“You did that?” she whispered.

She had just attempted to weave a silent hex, but it had been severed before it could manifest. A single physical swing had neutralized it. It defied all logic. A sword should only cut physical matter; a spell disruption usually required another sorcerer or a powerful artifact. She tried to convince herself it was a fluke.

“Mine as well,” her red-eyed companion noted.

Enkrid shifted his weight and slashed upward with the weapon he had just lowered. In that instant, the flow of magical energy was snapped. It wasn’t that the mana had been destabilized or interfered with—the spell itself had been cut in half. The concept was preposterous.

‘And yet, that’s exactly what happened,’ the blue-eyed witch realized.

Enkrid, meanwhile, was focused on his own progress. It’s becoming more natural, he thought. His memories of cutting through the eternal flames of the looping fire and his training with Esther were all merging. He was learning to treat the invisible threads of magic as physical targets.

Jaxon, always the most perceptive to subtle shifts, asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Did you actually cut the magic?”

“Yeah,” Enkrid replied shortly.

“…No way…” the blue-eyed witch hissed.

In a typical duel, a knight has the edge due to their speed and focus. However, mages hold the advantage when they can control the environment. This was their home turf, filled with hidden conduits and catalysts buried in the earth. The loss of the spirit wall didn’t bother them; that wall was an external gift, not their own power. Without it cluttering the area, their own mana flowed more freely. The conditions were perfect for them.

“Red Foot!” the red-eyed one screamed, her suspicion turning into a desperate need to prove him a fraud. Cutting spells? Impossible.

She refused to believe the conversation between the swordsman and his companion. She invoked the name of her patron demon and unleashed a torrent of mana. Throughout the grounds, buried artifacts hummed in response. The ground vibrated violently as a massive magical seal formed above the group’s heads. A crimson light pulsed within the circle.

KWAANG.

The sound was deafening. It was Flame Lightning—a forbidden art. It wasn’t a natural phenomenon but a concentrated blast of destruction that required horrific sacrifices. To cast it now, the red-eyed witch had exhausted three of her most precious focus items, which crumbled into dust instantly. She had spent her reserves without hesitation.

But the destruction she expected never came.

“…Ah.”

A soft, terrified gasp escaped her. Beneath her leather bindings, her magically hardened chest heaved. She was feeling something she hadn’t experienced in years: genuine, cold-blooded fear.

Just before the heavens fractured and the red light descended, the group moved to react. They all knew the basics of fighting casters: if a spell is coming, move out of the blast zone.

But Flame Lightning was designed to negate that. While a spell like Walking Fire was a slow burn, this was an instantaneous execution. Its fuel was the life force of a spiritual medium—a “mana battery”—whose soul was incinerated to provide the speed. It was too fast for even the quickest knight to outrun. The witch had played her best card immediately, knowing that holding back against a threat like Enkrid was a death sentence.

Enkrid’s mind entered a state of accelerated perception before the witch even finished her incantation. His Will took over. He remembered Esther’s lessons.

“Every spell has a tell. A shout, a gesture, or a shift in the mana. If you can read the flow, you can see the strike before it exists.”

She had taught him that magic was just another form of combat. A swordsman reads a shoulder twitch or a gaze; a mage-slayer reads the intent in the atmosphere. Enkrid’s senses fused into a single point of focus. He saw a black line twisting in the air, a precursor to the bolt that would soon pierce the sky and rain down.

He moved before the first syllable was fully formed. In this slowed reality, her voice was a distorted, dragging drone. Initially, he prepared to dodge. It was the logical choice. But as he began to move, Duskforge vibrated against his palm.

The blade seemed to challenge him. Dodge? Why?

Enkrid paused. If he dodged, the lightning would hit the ground and explode, likely killing his allies in the blast radius. He had learned how to slice through the Walking Fire. What made this any different?

‘Nothing.’

His resolve hardened. As the witch finished her cry, Enkrid stepped forward, anchoring his left foot into the dirt. His eyes, burning with Will, locked onto the descending crimson bolt. It was a jagged, violent mass of energy. To anyone else, it was a blurred streak of death; to him, it was a physical object.

Enkrid poured everything into the sword and swung.

To the red-eyed witch, the motion was a blur. One moment the lightning was falling, and the next, the man was standing with his sword lowered, the air behind him whistling.

KWAARRRRRR.

The Flame Lightning was cleaved in two. The halves diverted, scattering harmlessly into the sky. Red sparks, each the size of a fist, rained down like a grim celebration. Above the dark landscape of the Demon Realm, it looked as if a great red sun had shattered. The thunderous echo rumbled on, but the danger was over.

A man had cut a spell out of the air.

The witch stared at him, paralyzed. He was silent, standing like a statue, but the aura around him was suffocating. She felt as though his next swing would erase her very soul. That terror caused her mana to backfire. The energy she had tried to channel recoiled into her own body.

“Urgh.”

She spat out a mouthful of dark, viscous blood.

Steam rose from Enkrid’s skin. He didn’t move. He had pushed his Will to the limit twice now—once to breach the wall and once to shatter the lightning. He needed a moment to recover his breath.

In that opening, Jaxon lunged. Mages were formidable from a distance, but they were vulnerable when closed upon.

The navy-skinned fairy spirit was the first to react. “Behind you!” she shrieked, as Jaxon blurred toward them.