Chapter 773

Chapter 773

The Magic Spirit possessed the combat prowess of a seasoned knight, and within the borders of the Demon Realm, she was at the peak of her power. Much like how a forest fairy draws strength from the ancient woods, the very atmosphere of this dark territory acted as her source of vitality. This blighted earth was her sanctuary—and her hunting ground. The fallen fairy, crackling with dark electricity, felt confident that she could single-handedly tear through several of these intruders. While it was true they had managed to breach the outer fortification and slay one of the witches, engaging in direct melee was a different beast entirely. Furthermore, her true talent lay in the art of the duel. The initial shock of the assault had faded, replaced by a cold, calculating poise. Even though Shinar’s biting taunts had made her blood boil, she refused to let her focus waver. This discipline alone signaled how lethal she was. To anyone who had spent their life surviving by the edge of a blade, her stance and aura were unmistakable warnings of danger. “Leave this one to me. It is my burden to bear.” Shinar spoke firmly to her companions, claiming the duel for herself. Ragna showed no interest in interfering from the start. Both Audin and Teresa were the type to respect the resolve of an ally. Enkrid shifted his gaze from Shinar toward the witch with the sapphire eyes. Does that sorceress have a hidden card left to play? He suspected as much. Their coordinated movements and body language suggested they were hiding a final trump card. And there was no chance the Apostle would simply remain a passive observer. The Magic Spirit looked past the commoner standing before her to assess the broader conflict. The number of foes was significant. In one sector, the modified abominations were being systematically destroyed; a bear beastman was ripping through the crystal-coated golems with his bare hands, crushing the pulsing, mutated organs that spilled from their metallic shells. “The Lord’s grace is for everyone!” The beastman bellowed, his voice thick with a zealot’s frenzy. In another direction, a man moved with eerie calmness across the chaotic field, making a straight line toward the Apostle. The rest of the group was proving equally formidable. “Engaging more than three simultaneously would be reckless.” She refined her strategy: she would draw upon the surrounding mana, loose her arrows from a distance, and eliminate them one by one. Her agility was her greatest asset, second only to her swordsmanship. In a flash, the Magic Spirit prioritized her targets. “A single shot for the man hunting the Apostle, two for the rampaging beastman. Then, find the moment to execute the half-blood with the shield before circling back to finish the pair fighting the monsters.” The surviving witch would provide the necessary distraction for her to carry out this sequence. It was a plan born of logic and tactical superiority—on paper, it was flawless. However, a sound strategy does not always account for the reality of the blade. “You’re thinking too much.” Shinar noted the shifting movement of the Magic Spirit’s eyes. Even in her rage, the corrupted fairy was analytical. She was no mindless beast. What truly irritated Shinar, however, was the fact that the fairy’s attention had drifted away from her entirely. She had been dismissed as a triviality—a weed that didn’t require effort to pull. “Ah, I nearly forgot. There is still a peasant in my way.” The Magic Spirit turned her cold eyes back to Shinar. Shinar’s intuition was correct. The fallen fairy viewed her as zero threat. Though they were now fundamentally different entities, corrupted and pure fairies shared the same origin. They sprouted from the same cosmic seed. Because of this, the Magic Spirit was well aware of how helpless a fairy became when stripped of their spiritual essence. She assumed she could simply open Shinar’s throat as she moved past to her real targets. Perhaps she would even carve that insulting mouth into something unrecognizable—that tongue was far too bold for a weakling. Sensing the murderous intent, Shinar’s lips pulled into a thin, knowing smirk. The Magic Spirit wasted no more words. She lunged forward, her sword cutting a path through the air. Her footwork was blunt and her path direct, yet the sheer velocity and erratic rhythm were reminiscent of the skill Jaxon had displayed earlier. There was no vibration from her steps, no whistle of the wind against her steel. She closed the distance with a motion as fluid and unstoppable as a mountain breeze. Just as one cannot catch the wind in their palm, one could not hope to parry such a strike through strength alone. The sword descended—and the fairy of ethereal beauty had her silhouette split down the middle. But there was no impact. Only a fading image. The figure darting to the side was Shinar. Her smile remained etched on her face as she retaliated with her Leaf Blade. It was the legendary Sword of the Four Seasons. The steel transitioned from the bloom of spring to the heat of summer, through the harvest of autumn, until it finally settled in the chill of winter. The spring-like leaf hardened and narrowed, becoming a piercing needle—the cold, sharp essence of the dead of winter. Such a feat was only possible because the steel was saturated with spiritual energy. The weapon in Shinar’s grip had transformed completely, its slender frame becoming a long, lethal Needle. This needle shot forward, aiming directly for the Magic Spirit’s heart. The corrupted fairy raised her dark, mottled blade horizontally to intercept the thrust. Tchk— A sharp, metallic note rang out as Shinar held her lunge. The Magic Spirit’s sword caught the needle just below her own chin, her eyes locked onto Shinar’s. The malice in her pupils had transformed into a primal, predatory hunger—a desperate need to shred and consume. Vile, dark energy seeped from her eyes like smoke. Simultaneously, a vibrant emerald glow ignited in Shinar’s gaze, surging down the length of her needle-sword. A crisp, natural aroma of fresh grass and forest earth began to cut through the heavy, metallic stench of the Demon Realm. “……” The Magic Spirit’s eyes grew wide. For the first time, her composure cracked into genuine shock. Shinar’s voice was a low, melodic whisper. “You truly thought I would walk into this place defenseless? My name is Shinar Kirheis. For every spirit of the woods, I will take the life of the one who turned their back on our blood.” As the two blades ground against one another, Shinar savored the flow of the forest’s power through her steel. She was far from unprepared. She had simply been hoarding her strength until the moment it was truly needed. She had stored the concentrated essence of her home within her weapon long before they crossed the border. When she had leaned her head against Enkrid, complaining of the migraines caused by the foul air, it wasn’t a total fabrication. “Playing the victim…” In the distance, Enkrid was likely reaching that exact conclusion. “She hid all that power and still pretended to be dying?” The thought crossed his mind more than once. Given how much Shinar had complained until this moment, he couldn’t help it. She had been acting less like a venerable, centuries-old fairy and more like a petulant child. Yet, seeing her now, she didn’t just look healthy. She looked radiant and lethal. Soon, the clashing of their distinct blades—one of light, one of shadow—began to create a rhythmic symphony of violence. Two streaks of color danced and collided across the field. Thunk. The sound was muffled, but the pressure behind it was immense. A localized hurricane erupted between them. A bizarre wind, smelling of both fresh pine and rotting blood, whipped through the clearing. Watching from the periphery, Enkrid sensed that Shinar was not in danger of losing. Of course, every duel is a gamble until the final breath is drawn—raw talent doesn’t always dictate the winner. Nevertheless, Enkrid had faith in her. He honored her desire to settle this grudge personally. High above, the glowing embers that had lit the sky began to fade. The flickering radiance died out. And just as the final spark vanished— “I WILL CONSUME YOU ALL!” The remaining witch let out a piercing howl. The loss of her red-eyed companion had driven the blue-eyed witch into a hysterical rage. Her hands moved in frantic patterns as she tried to lock onto Jaxon’s position. With every frantic gesture, crushing telekinetic force and razor-sharp gusts of wind tore through the air. Jaxon adhered to the fundamental strategy of fighting a mage: move fast and break their line of sight. He moved in a jagged, unpredictable pattern, sprinting with such intensity that the ground seemed to smoke beneath his boots. But the witch was persistent. Instead of trying to track his physical form with her eyes, she blanketed the entire zone in a wide-range hex. “No bird flies alone in a sky full of shadows.” This wasn’t an invocation of an outside entity; it was a spell of pure creation. As the magic took hold, Jaxon realized that stealth was no longer an option. He could try to hide, but the environment itself was now a snare. “No point in playing hide and seek anymore.” The witch’s incantation had filled the air with a microscopic, shimmering dust—any physical movement left a clear wake. Despite his mastery of presence concealment, he was still made of flesh and bone; he couldn’t phase through the particles. Jaxon shifted his focus entirely to high-speed evasion. He did not hesitate. When a group of armored skeletons blocked his path, he shattered their joints with precision, kicked the remains away, and continued weaving through the magical bombardment. Suddenly, a blinding light gathered in the witch’s palm. Sensing a lethal strike, Jaxon snatched a nearby skeletal guard and dropped into a roll, using the undead soldier as a makeshift pavise. A beam of searing light erupted, leaving a white-hot trail in his vision and vaporizing the monster he held. BOOM! Shards of calcified bone rained down from the explosion. As the debris settled, Enkrid made his move. There had been no verbal plan between him and Jaxon, but their shared history on the battlefield allowed for perfect synergy. While Jaxon drew the witch’s fury and focus toward the front, Enkrid moved toward her blind spot with silent, measured steps. It was a textbook pincer. “The timing is perfect.” He and Jaxon had her trapped between two lethal points. Her concentration was beginning to fracture. Enkrid felt strong. His body was free of major wounds, and his mental fortitude—his Will—had stabilized. He wasn’t at a hundred percent, perhaps, but Enkrid had lived a life of hardship, eating iron and sleeping on the cold earth. He knew a fundamental truth: Your current state is always your peak. A warrior cannot wait for a full meal and a soft bed before a life-or-death struggle. You must convince yourself that this very second is the height of your power. That was the lesson carved into his soul through the use of Krona—to listen, to adapt, and to survive. That singular belief caused his Will to burn brighter. The fact that a knight’s conviction could physically empower their Will was proof of the heart’s influence over reality. His arm was still pulsing with heat and a dull ache, but he dismissed it as a mere sign that he was ready for more. “How… HOW DARE YOU… YOU FILTHY CREATURES!” The blue-eyed witch screamed, her mind clearly splintering, her limbs flailing. Then, with a sudden, jarring shift, her voice became monotone and icy as she began a new chant. It was as if she were two people sharing one skin. “Hounds of Fuarin.” This erratic oscillation between madness and cold professionalism only made her more terrifying. A localized gale rose from her feet, whipping her hair upward and bloating her robes with air. As she extended her hands, a thick, tar-like substance leaked from her fingers. From the soil itself, shadowy canines began to manifest. They were magical constructs forged from soot and hate. Enkrid recognized the spell. Perhaps he had seen it in the western territories? It was a favorite among the darker cults, and she performed it with terrifying efficiency. The only variation here was the deep, bloody-crimson tint to the shadows, giving the beasts a more feral, primal appearance. Enkrid remained unmoved. Why should he fear them? His path was simple: move forward, strike, and destroy. The conjured beasts lunged with jaws of darkness, and Enkrid’s blade met them in a blur of motion. He carved through the air with fluid, effortless strikes. Anything touched by his dawn-forged steel disintegrated into ash instantly. Realizing she couldn’t win with shadows, the witch pivoted to raw physical force. She reached toward the crumbling ruins of the fortress, levitating a massive slab of stone and hurling it toward Enkrid. The problem was simple. Compared to the black lightning he had dealt with earlier, the boulder was moving in slow motion. He had successfully parried lightning; dodging a rock was child’s play. Enkrid stepped lightly to the side, braced his weight, and used the flat of his hand to guide the boulder’s momentum away from him. The massive stone plowed through a group of wingless, dog-faced chimeras, crushing nearly a dozen of them as it tumbled away. “SKREEEE!” The witch shrieked, her head snapping back and forth in a frantic search for an escape. But she was trapped. As Enkrid closed in, methodically dismantling her spells, Jaxon’s silent throwing blades began to whistle through her guard the moment she faltered. No matter what arcane trick she attempted against the two men closing in from both sides, she could not halt their approach. Left with no other choice, she followed the path of her fallen sister and began to undergo a horrific metamorphosis. Crack—! Her skeletal structure groaned and snapped as her body expanded. A fountain of black, frothing gore burst from her torso, and six additional limbs tore through the fabric of her back. Each of these new hands began to weave complex signs in a rapid, synchronized ritual. It was no longer a simple hex—it was a high-level summoning designed to channel the raw essence of a demon.