Chapter 772

Chapter 772

Responding to her outcry, the pair of sorceresses instantly lifted their arms. With that simple motion, shadows of deepest black swirled into protective veils around them—yet Jaxon did not hesitate. To be more accurate, he had already produced the tool designed specifically to shred such a shroud. The very second the dark aegis manifested, Jaxon swept his left palm across his chest—and in a blur of motion, a compact blade had appeared in his hand. “Move through every second as fluidly as water.” This was the core tenet of harmonizing with the Blade of Coincidence. More than anything, this was a development he had anticipated. Foresight gathered from countless battles had prepared him for this exact transition. An adversary of that power level was never going to remain stationary and accept a strike without defenses. He clutched the dagger in an inverted grip, his thumb firmly pressing against the base of the pommel. It was a posture optimized for a downward thrust. He was a master of artifacts. Within the Mad Order of Knights, he was considered the most adept at manipulating relics and enchanted gear. Now, Jaxon gripped a blade—a sophisticated duplicate of the legendary Spell Breaker, engineered to disintegrate magical barriers. The steel itself was the work of a master dwarven smith, while the intricate runes etched into the metal were the craft of Esther. The handle was arched to nestle perfectly into Jaxon’s palm—another detail from the dwarf’s forge. Constructed from Valerian steel alloyed with Noirian wrought iron, it was formidable and razor-edged on its own merit, but its specialized purpose was unmistakable. His logic was instantaneous, his execution lightning-fast. Without even locking eyes with the witch of the crimson gaze, Jaxon drove the inverted blade into the magical wall. Thunk! As the metal bit into the barrier, a surge of energy radiated outward, knocking him backward. The sensation was akin to being struck by a charging bear beastman. This was the result of a reactive telekinetic enchantment that triggered upon contact, meant to repel any aggressor automatically. He could have fought the momentum with raw power, but Jaxon chose to let his frame yield, riding the energy of the push. As he was sent flying, he dropped his center of gravity into a pocket of gloom created by the flickering embers of the dying firestorm. Only at that moment did the red-eyed sorceress realize he was there. With her chin tucked, she peered upward—her expression one of pure, burning resentment. You presume to touch me? Who are you to try? Her stare screamed those questions. Suddenly, a sharp snapping noise rang out—the weapon stuck in the barrier began to splinter. What is happening? The red-eyed witch didn’t have time to process the thought. Boom! The instant she perceived the metal cracking—it detonated. It had been designed as a single-use weapon from the start. An object that brittle required a certain instability to explode under impact, but Esther had utilized her expertise to keep it just stable enough until the right moment. The detonation required two specific factors: First, the force of the strike had to exceed a set threshold. Second, it had to make contact with a structure woven from mana. Both requirements were fulfilled. While they couldn’t utilize genuine silver for the imitation, the outcome was more than effective. As the dagger blew apart, the protective wall disintegrated. There was no thunderous sound of magic failing—the dark veil simply crumbled like shattered porcelain, dissolving into the night. Splinters of the ruined blade peppered the witch’s form, but they caused no harm. Her skin, which had taken on the durability of polished gemstone, brushed the debris aside easily. However— Crack. Krkkrkrkk. A thin stiletto, held by the killer who had closed the distance unseen, tore through her throat. That killer was Jaxon—the same man who had planted the explosive blade and been thrown back by the magical recoil. He had vanished into the ink-black shadows, then lunged forward so low that his torso nearly brushed the dirt, circling behind her once more. To put it plainly: he used the repulsion to his advantage, exploited the dark, stayed close to the ground, and the moment the shield failed, he pounced to open her windpipe with a stiletto. It is easy to describe—but incredibly difficult to pull off. The entire sequence concluded before Enkrid could even take three shallow breaths after cutting through the inferno. One of the twin witches now had a head that wobbled precariously. Dark, thick fluid spilled from the jagged gash in her neck, though it didn’t spray like human blood. The viscous, tar-like substance adhered to her flesh like heavy sap. And unlike sap, the witch’s lifeblood smelled of stagnant decay. “Unleash your true form!” The clergyman bellowed upon witnessing the nearly decapitated head. The red-eyed sorceress, her throat torn open, began to produce wet, gurgling noises and monstrous shrieks—grrrrk, glaaarrgh, GYAAAAGH—as dark froth erupted from her injury. The blood spilling out began to seethe and bubble. Jaxon had noted her condition before the first strike—he had seen her retch that black bile earlier. In other words, he had engaged her fully aware she was no longer human. Thus, as he sliced her neck, he unsheathed three additional daggers and buried them in her frame—one in the gut, one in the base of the skull, and one in the leg. The fluid motion made it look as though he were merely adjusting her attire or catching her as she fell. Jaxon was dancing. It was a brutal, close-quarters execution style he had never revealed, not even in practice. The opening movement—he seized the hilts protruding from her abdomen and head and yanked. Rrrrrk. While not possessing the overwhelming power of Audin or Enkrid, Jaxon had honed his physical strength to a high degree. And he knew exactly how to infuse that strength with Will. The sunk blades traced dark furrows across her skin. From these new openings, the resin-like blood poured. He didn’t pull the knives free entirely. After dragging them about a hand’s width, he left them embedded. Typically, this combat art required withdrawing the blade to strike anew—but he had pivoted his strategy. Simply put, he lacked the window of time to retract them. Out of the bubbling dark foam, a gnarled limb tore through—a hand emerging directly from the ruined neck. It swept toward Jaxon’s throat, its talons elongated like steel spikes, sharp enough to shred plate mail. The red-eyed witch was certain those nails could rend enchanted metal—provided they found their mark. Jaxon let go of two daggers and dipped beneath the swing—an act that displayed his incredible reflexes. Evading at such a lethal distance was pure instinct. The talons tore through nothing but empty air. Jaxon’s hand shot toward the dagger buried in her thigh. He was already positioned low, almost pressed against her limb. This time, he didn’t use an inverted grip—he used a hammer grip. Squeezing the hilt with all his might, Jaxon treated the witch as a central axis and whipped around in a full revolution. The transition was as rapid as a rodent darting from a hawk. An afterimage seemed to encircle her before vanishing. Skrkk. The blade ground through her thigh, carving through tissue and unleashing a spray of blood—her leg was now hanging by a thread. He tore the knife from the first leg and immediately sank it into the second. As the injuries accumulated, more grotesque limbs sprouted from the witch—extra hands, feet, and jagged tusks. Her resemblance to a human had totally evaporated. But Jaxon persisted. His rhythmic slaughter continued—clutching, tearing, slicing, and piercing. He mutilated the mutating sorceress, who was now a fountain of black gore, while standing right in her path. Before the witch could finish her grotesque metamorphosis, her head had been severed, her limbs shredded, and her viscera partially exposed. At the conclusion of that violent choreography, the red-eyed witch was a broken, lighter shell of a corpse. Only a single limb remained functional—her left hand, with but two fingers left, dragging her broken form across the stones. “Sa…” Whatever plea or curse she intended to utter died in her throat. Crack. Jaxon pulled out a final blade as long as his forearm and hammered it into the back of her skull—anchoring her to the floor like a grave marker. Her disgusting mouth had already been torn away and had reformed on her spine. Now, Jaxon’s steel had pinned that secondary mouth shut. The rows of jagged, overlapping teeth confirmed one last time that she was a monster. And with that, the first witch expired. “Ahhhhhh!” The observing priest cried out in horror, and the massive figure in crystal plating began to advance with heavy, rhythmic thuds. A Death Knight—a synthetic warrior created from a twisted corpse. To a commoner, it was a death sentence. To others, a creature of nightmares. But its targets were Ragna, Pell, Rophod, Audin, Teresa, and Lua Gharne. “We just have to dismantle them, then?” Pell remarked as he glided forward, his movements effortless. He was already hoisting his blade, prepared to strike—employing the spiraling force technique he had spent a lifetime perfecting. The crystal-clad knight exhibited the power of a true knight, bolstered by its unnatural constitution. The thundering beast suddenly blurred, turning into a streak of light as it charged—a jarring burst of speed. Pell, who had stepped into its path, brought his sword down just as the creature leaped. He synchronized with the sudden change in rhythm, pulling his sword into a downward arc with accelerated force. Crunch! The most terrifying aspect of these crystal-armored abominations was their refusal to slow down even as their outer shells shattered. As Pell’s Idol Slayer cleaved through the monster’s skull and sank into its ribs, the essence within nearly vanished into the blade. Even so, the crystal longsword held by the creature whistled toward Pell’s throat—a lethally fast counter. Diving away from such a strike after committing to a heavy blow was nearly impossible. Pell instinctively tucked his chin and shoulders. If the hit was inevitable, he would mitigate the impact. It was a frantic calculation—but it proved unnecessary. He was not fighting this battle alone. Clang! The sword of dwarven origin, once praised as a masterpiece by its creator, clashed with the crystal blade. Rophod had lunged with his sword like a spear to catch the blow. The crystal edge, hitting the flat of Rophod’s steel, ground to a halt. Rophod felt the vibration rattle the bones in his arm. He had been forced to rely on sheer physical endurance to stop the momentum. Had he attempted to deflect it, Pell would have walked away with a gruesome new wound across his neck. “You’re in my debt,” Rophod noted. Pell straightened his posture and wrenched his weapon free. The crystal plating that had served as a temporary sheath for his blade fell away, the shards clattering to the floor. Whatever life force had inhabited the shell was gone. The crystal armor reverted to dull stone, rolling aimlessly on the ground. Pell glanced at the rubble and whispered, “I’ll disregard what you claimed before.” Rophod caught the meaning instantly. “As a formal vow?” “I give you my word.” “Excellent. We’re square.” Rophod had previously made the foolish claim that even hags could be seduced by his supernatural charm—and now Pell was agreeing to drop the subject. If Pell had decided to keep that mistake alive, Rophod would have been reminded of it for months. Or perhaps longer—he likely would have brought it up whenever Rophod was trying to look impressive. It was a fair price for a single sword swing. More crystal-armored knights appeared. By a quick count, there were more than ten. In truth, these weren’t authentic Death Knights. They were scavenged bodies enhanced with trapped spirits and saturated in alchemical brews. However, Enkrid and his companions had no way of knowing their origin. They only knew these were dangerous adversaries. “That blade!” The Apostle of Red Foot shrieked again, his shock renewed—this time by the properties of Pell’s sword. A weapon that could execute spirits? It seemed tailored to exploit the fundamental flaw of the crystal-armored warriors. His bewilderment was fleeting. The Apostle still had his mission. “Every one of you, attack!” At his command, a wave of abominations flooded forward like a breaking dam. Some moved in isolation, others in groups of thirty or more. Lua Gharne observed the tide and gripped her searing whip and ringed sword—one in each hand—before lashing out. The crystal knights were formidable—but these new arrivals were uniquely repulsive. A giant with three arms, a troll with tusks growing from its midsection—these were aberrations even she had never encountered. There was even a three-legged ghoul that struggled with its own gait, hopping awkwardly while lifting one limb. What in the world are these monstrosities? The thought crossed her mind, but she couldn’t dwell on it. They weren’t even particularly fascinating. These were the private curiosities the Apostle had stashed within Thornbriar Fortress. Now, they were simply more targets to be eliminated. While Lua Gharne engaged the hoard, Shinar positioned herself in front of the Magic Spirit, as though she had picked her target from the start. The Magic Spirit rested her greatbow on the earth and unsheathed a blade. Schrkkk. Ting. As the metal slid free, the ring on the hilt chimed against the scabbard, signaling the weapon’s arrival. It resembled a massive needle—but the point was hooked, intended to rip through flesh. Because of its unique design, the ring on the sheath had to be struck to release it. Even during the draw, the blade required a forward jerk at the final moment—which the Magic Spirit performed while she spoke. “Have you come to serve as fodder for the abyss, you primitive, low-born creature?” The Magic Spirit could boast all she liked—but she had picked the wrong person to taunt. Shinar, who claimed to be Enkrid’s betrothed, was a fairy who had spent a lifetime by his side. With a composed expression, the fairy replied. “…Fodder? Me?” Fairies are famously incapable of falsehood—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be incredibly cutting. Shinar gave a small shrug—a movement that felt slightly foreign to her—then gestured with an open hand toward the battlefield, as if saying, Just look. If you possessed any perception, you’d see who was in control. So, who is actually going to be the meat for the demons? That was the silent implication. The fact that she remained silent and let the enemy’s mind fill in the blanks? That was a stroke of psychological genius. “Meeeee?” The way the Magic Spirit hissed the word showed the taunt had landed. Shinar added one final jab. “Wouldn’t it be more precise to say you’ll end up as manure? Or perhaps not even that—more like demon droppings. You half-grown, rotten sprout of a woman.” Shinar had perfected the art of weaving human insults into her melodic fairy tongue. It was entirely unexpected coming from a fairy—and that shock made the insult cut twice as deep. The Magic Spirit’s blue-tinted face went completely still. She was vibrating with fury.