Chapter 775

Chapter 775

“This is nonsensical.” In a vision of sleep, a man appeared and unveiled the history of his existence. He had kidnapped human beings, subjected them to heinous trials, and applied the dark insights gained to reconstruct his own physical form. Through these means, he had managed to endure for two centuries. To summarize his path—he was a parasite who ruthlessly spent the lives of others to prolong his own. There was little else worth noting about such a man. “Ah, Red Foot.” The figure in the dream whispered the name. Then, resembling a sheet of parchment saturated and shredded by a heavy tide, his form disintegrated and was carried away by the flow. Enkrid blinked his eyes. The space previously occupied by the man was now merely the wooden railing of a modest ferry boat. The vessel’s pilot let out a sharp, clicking laugh. It wasn’t a sound produced by a throat—it was a vibration planted directly into Enkrid’s consciousness. Essentially, the boatman had gone out of his way to ensure Enkrid perceived his mockery. The individual perishing in the vision was the Apostle of Red Foot, implying that what Enkrid currently witnessed was likely an illusion crafted by the ferryman. “You have a morbid sense of entertainment. Is that the message you’re trying to convey?” Enkrid spoke with a flat tone while observing the fading image, but the boatman didn’t seem offended by the remark. He simply repeated that clicking laughter—click, click, click—and then addressed him. “Are you aware of the consequences of executing one of their apostles within the boundaries of the Demon Realm?” The ferryman posed the question. To Enkrid’s ears, much of the dialogue was cryptic. The ferryman made no concessions for Enkrid’s lack of context. He merely spoke his mind. “They are aware of you now.” A splash echoed. The ferryman, perched on the swaying edge of the boat, felt like a stranger. Enkrid tilted his head slightly as he observed him, unsure if the man was ridiculing him or just emphasizing his own amusement. Enkrid was no simpleton. Based on the pilot’s warnings, his own recent deeds, and his prior encounters, he pieced together the gravity of the statement. Who were “they”? An apostle is a servant. A being who offers worship and labor to a higher power. Audin had previously identified himself as the Apostle of the God of War. In that case, what did “Red Foot” signify? ‘The Six Demons.’ It was logical to assume that Red Foot was one of the Six Demons presiding over the Demon Realm. Under normal circumstances, he should have been paralyzed by dread. The Master of the Thornbush Castle had barely reached two hundred years, yet no one could even calculate how long these demons had stalked the earth. If entities of that caliber were now hunting him, a rising sense of panic would be expected. Naturally, Enkrid felt nothing of the sort. “It seems I’ve finally lived up to the title of Demon Star.” He offered a dry jest and shook himself free from the dream. “Madman.” The strange boatman threw a curse at his back, but Enkrid took no offense. His surroundings dissolved into a blur as the physical world surged forward to claim him. Enkrid opened his eyes, sat upright, and began to recount the previous night’s events in his mind. ‘We made our return to the City of the Ingested.’ The moment the townspeople laid eyes on Enkrid, they either collapsed in tears or fell into frantic prayer. “O, Great Demon God!” A few, swept up in a fervor, took it upon themselves to label Enkrid a deity, a title that Lua Gharne found distasteful and immediately sought to correct. “He is no demon god. He is the Demon Star. Or, if you prefer, the One Who Enchants All.” Several locals, withered by the heavy presence Frokk radiated, repeated the phrase like dutiful students. “The One Who Enchants All…” It felt like a poorly written play. While Enkrid didn’t make a scene, Frokk looked immensely satisfied, her cheeks puffed out with pride. As they moved toward the heart of the settlement, they found a life-sized monument, roughly Enkrid’s size, being carved out of stone. “What is the purpose of that?” Enkrid paused, pointing at the work. Zoraslav, who was managing the village’s affairs, lowered his head in a respectful bow. “We are fashioning this to pay tribute to the Knight of the End and the Armistice.” The people here possessed remarkable talent with their hands. Their expertise in tanning the hides of monsters and beasts translated perfectly into the art of carving. It wasn’t the masterpiece of a professional, but the devotion poured into the stone was undeniable. “…Why haven’t they made one for me?” Rem, observing the statue, muttered a complaint. Ragna, still weary from the wounds sustained while fighting the Apostle, showed zero curiosity and headed straight for the village hall that served as their bunkhouse. “Not bad at all.” Jaxon lingered to inspect the sculpture, offering a professional critique. He possessed a sharp eye for the value of art. The intelligence network was also highly skilled in the trade of black-market relics, and as the leader of the world’s most prominent assassination and information guild, Jaxon had naturally cultivated a sophisticated palette. “It isn’t a holy icon, but if it provides these people with a moment of serenity, then it serves a purpose.” “Indeed.” Audin and Teresa added their own brief words of approval. Truthfully, Enkrid didn’t find the gesture unpleasant, but there was a certain… weight to the way the villagers watched him. The source of that peculiar atmosphere became evident later that night—when he heard a young child humming a familiar tune. “Sing that melody once more.” It was a song where the terms “end” and “armistice” seemed to mean the same thing. It was a tune Enkrid had cherished since his youth. “Why are there two different sets of words for it?” In response to his casual inquiry, the child—showing a blend of wonder and trepidation—gave an explanation. To achieve true stillness, the world as they know it must cease—therefore, the end. When he pressed for a definition of that “world,” the child confessed they didn’t truly understand it. Processing this in his own mind, Enkrid realized: for these people, the misery and hopelessness that defined their lives was their entire world, and finishing that world was the “end” they prayed for. ‘Guide the world to its conclusion.’ To stop the slaughter—that was the armistice. Perhaps that was their logic. They had arrived back from the conflict within the Demon Realm in the early hours of the morning. The group had bypassed a meal, scrubbed away the grime, and collapsed into sleep. Now, they had woken up fully restored. Enkrid cleared his mind of stray thoughts and stepped out into the air, performing his routine stretches. Because of the brutal fighting the day before, he chose a gentle regimen of flexibility rather than his usual grueling drills. The movement stirred his appetite. His stomach let out a low growl, and near the doorway of the hall, he noticed a woven basket packed with various fruits. He quieted his hunger with apples, a few strange, hard-skinned fruits, and a long, doughy piece of bread. While eating, he felt a presence at his back. “You’re awake.” The dawn had not yet broken. The sky was thick with heavy clouds today, suggesting the sun would remain hidden. Even so, the atmosphere was far brighter than the suffocating air of the Demon Realm. The possessor of those striking green eyes—Shinar, the elf of ethereal beauty—appeared more wan than usual. She looked like someone who had only just survived a terrifying sickness. ‘That makes sense.’ Before Ragna had finished the Apostle, Shinar had engaged the Magic Spirit. That entity had fought with both blade and bow. When that curved, obsidian edge met skin, it didn’t just cut; it shredded. It had been coated in a toxin as well—the slightest graze caused the meat to turn. Shinar’s bared arm was the evidence. The jagged wound was stained black. Although it had begun to scab over, it was far from a healthy recovery. ‘Regardless, Shinar was the victor.’ How? Enkrid had witnessed the entire sequence. The Magic Spirit had unleashed every ounce of her power—the force they referred to as Will or Magicka. Her blade had pulsed with a sinister, ash-colored light, a testament to the fact that surviving for centuries in the Demon Realm was a feat of true strength. By comparison, the energy flowing through Shinar’s Leaf-Winter Blade had seemed fragile. If the opponent held a polished broadsword, Shinar’s weapon was more like a slender needle. ‘And yet…’ She was the one left standing. Shinar had demonstrated a style of movement that seemed to mimic a localized cyclone—then delivered a freezing blow. By using her own energy to disorient the enemy’s perceptions, she had found the Magic Spirit’s heart with her steel. That was the moment her arm had been gashed open. ‘It looked remarkably like Jaxon’s Lethal Thrust.’ Elves, who are conditioned from birth to master and stifle their emotions, are experts at vanishing into their environment. She was skilled at moving without sound or leaving a trail. ‘She merged elven finesse with Jaxon’s lethality.’ Shinar watched Enkrid with a steady, tranquil gaze. She understood this erratic man. She knew exactly what would capture his focus. “Umbra-Akleus. In the common tongue, it is called the ‘Shade Needle.’” She provided the name of the style she had employed. Enkrid’s expression brightened. Just as she thought—he had been dying to know. As she spoke, Shinar moved her damaged arm into what little light there was so he could inspect it, then asked: “Before I pass away, would you be willing to grant me a single favor?” Shinar questioned. Enkrid, however, was still busy analyzing the fight he had watched her perform. The Magic Spirit’s weapon—the blade of Black Lightning—was cruel. There was no counter to it other than a perfect assassination. As Enkrid had visualized, the enemy held the tactical advantage. Of course, having the upper hand didn’t guarantee the win. Shinar had hunted for that one tiny opening. She had flared her energy as if preparing for an honest clash, baiting the enemy with a false move and mental stress—then buried her blade in the chest. She had clearly integrated Enkrid’s own traditional swordsmanship into her movements. The reason Black Lightning had been deceived so easily was the sheer absurdity of an elf fighting with such deceit. Elves are not known for falsehoods, after all. However—they are quite capable of bending the truth. Shinar had announced she would fight, and she had shown her intent by venting her energy. She hadn’t technically told a single lie. It was a masterclass in justification. The performance worked. She had carved a path that would have sent Lua Gharne—who couldn’t stand the sight of hearts—into a panicked state. In the final heartbeat, the Magic Spirit had attempted to draw upon the Apostle’s strength, her body bulging with unnatural muscle. But her prayer went unanswered. The energy that had pierced her chest sliced through every muscle fiber in her body simultaneously. It was over in a flash. From the beginning, it was a duel destined to be decided in a single pulse—and the elf came out on top. “Decaying vegetables belong in the dirt,” Shinar had remarked. But Black Lightning hadn’t gone quietly into the void. “Whore.” With one last, desperate effort, she had lashed out and cut Shinar’s forearm. Had Shinar been a fraction slower, her head would have been taken off. Returning to the present—Shinar looked full of longing. Surely, the final request of a dying elf should be honored? That was the plea in her eyes. Enkrid met her gaze directly. Deep within those emerald pupils, there was a genuine yearning. For an elf to show that much vulnerability—it had to be an extraordinary occasion. “Let us marry.” The final wish of a dying elf—isn’t that something one should fulfill? That’s likely what any observer would conclude. Without anyone realizing it, the rest of the party had stirred and were either listening in secret or watching openly from the hall. The one watching most shamelessly, naturally, was Rem. “Did you use the waters from the Dryas tribe and the salve Bran provided?” Enkrid inquired. “…I did.” Shinar’s answer was slightly delayed, though she remained calm. Poise was the hallmark of her people. “You’re acting as if your end is near. Exactly how much longer do you have to live?” Enkrid was well aware that elves were masters of misdirection. His style of combat was designed specifically to find the cracks in a person’s resolve—and he was the one who created that style. After a short beat— “Hmph.” The elf made a small sound of irritation—a gesture that felt strangely out of character for her. “Absolutely impenetrable.” Lua Gharne gave a nod of respect as she spoke. From start to finish, she found everything about the man remarkable. Rem let out a quiet laugh at the exchange. Ragna was still lost in sleep, while Pell and Rophod hadn’t bothered to pay attention. They also knew the elf—specifically Shinar—very well. Her phrasing of “before I die” wasn’t a lie in the technical sense. But in terms of actual longevity, she would likely outlive Enkrid by a century. “A pity.” Shinar clicked her tongue as she said it. Enkrid concluded that this elf went to absurd lengths just to deliver a joke. Was it truly worth that much effort? The thought drifted through his mind. The team ended up staying in the settlement for two more days. “You’re telling me you leveled a fortress inside the Demon Realm and made it back?” During that interval, Roman nearly collapsed from the shock of hearing their tale. That night, with his hunger satisfied, Enkrid was practicing his swings while lost in thought—only to find himself completely turned around. I’m the one who’s lost? He wasn’t Ragna. How could he lose his way just on the outskirts of the village? It was impossible—or so he told himself. Then how did this happen? Scanning his surroundings, he saw that the land was entirely foreign. It wasn’t a narrow path, but walls had sprouted up on both sides. Based on their texture, the hard-packed earth looked like solid stone. These barriers stretched out like a grand hallway, eventually curving at a corner about twenty paces ahead. Just past that bend, a shadow lengthened—and a figure stepped into the path. “Ah, a visitor.” The man spoke. It was a face Enkrid didn’t recognize. He wore oversized garments and had narrow eyes. The billowing sleeves and loose tailoring completely masked his physical build. Two short blades had materialized in the man’s hanging hands. It was a feat worthy of a stage performer. He had been concealing the steel within his sleeves and produced them so fluidly that one would miss it without prior knowledge. He also carried a sword at his hip, but those sleeves had been hiding more than just metal. Enkrid had once practiced techniques of a similar nature. “Hide Knife.” A man named Torres from the Border Guard had utilized a similar method. The moment the stranger finished his sentence, his body seemed to flicker—and then he surged forward, appearing instantly in front of Enkrid. The two short swords lunged straight for Enkrid’s vital organs. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in the assault—only pure malice and cold, efficient steel. Enkrid, the moment he perceived the man, interpreted his intent. No—he sensed it. And having sensed it, he acted. With a rising arch, Duskforge in his grip carved a vertical path, aiming to cleave the man’s torso in half. In the end, both of them only managed to cut through the air where the other had been. From that single clash, Enkrid knew: this was no amateur duelist. No—this was a true warrior, one steeped in the Imperial traditions of Valmung.