Chapter 776

Chapter 776

Rem gazed at the features of the slumbering idiot and contemplated: “A single chop would end it.” Once a warrior attains the rank of knight, their physical form undergoes a radical strengthening. The integument hardens, the skeletal structure densifies, and the pulse quickens to a rate that allows for reactions beyond the reach of normal men. This is why those who ascend to knighthood are deemed superhuman. However, such resilience does not grant immunity to decapitation. Essentially, even a knight is vulnerable to a lethal strike while asleep—particularly when they are as deeply insensate as the man lying there. Rem, observing Ragna’s death-like trance, looked away. There were moments when he truly felt the urge to kill him. “But I won’t do it this way.” Rem was a son of the West and a fighter. He was also the companion of Owl and a father. To execute a man who had collapsed from exhaustion mid-conflict with a cowardly axe blow? Perhaps in an honorable duel—but this? Even if he lived ten lifetimes, Rem would never stoop to such a low. They had infiltrated the Demon Realm, demolished a fortress rampart, razed it to the ground, and retreated. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t physically spent after such an ordeal. Rem had personally brought down three massive winged predators and had been hurled into a remote corner of the Demon Realm, where he faced a grueling struggle. The Demon Realm earned its reputation through blood. There was no shortage of horrors to validate its name. A horned, primate-like beast had stalked him more silently than an owl, closing in from the shadows. A ghoul equipped with a needle-like proboscis had lunged at him, intent on draining his life force. He had encountered others as well—unclear if they were mad cultists or simply born of nightmare. Perhaps they were abominations of human and demonic lineage. Some bore eerie sigils etched into their brows, with raw magical energy seeping from their pores. “Those bastards…” He couldn’t simply ignore them, so he engaged. Slaying and carving a path, he invoked the Wolf’s Soul to navigate back to his unit. Under the influence of the Wolf’s Soul, his perception of space became razor-sharp, and his heightened scent tracking allowed him to follow his allies’ trail. However, he was eventually waylaid by an eight-legged arachnid horror that spat silk incessantly. From an opening that looked uncomfortably like an orifice, it launched webs with the velocity of arrows. There weren’t just a few; there were easily over a hundred. He slaughtered half of them. The sheer volume made using his throwing axes impractical for every target, forcing him into close-quarters combat. They utilized the environment skillfully, ducking behind trunks and rocks—devious creatures. While it hadn’t been life-threatening, the encounter had drained a significant portion of his stamina and mana. Luckily, once half their number fell, the survivors scattered. After that, he reunited with the group. He had flung his hand axe to rescue a certain slothful comrade and finally returned to the settlement. He ate, he slept, he recuperated. He spent his waking hours stretching every tendon, deliberately tearing and mending his muscles. Despite the care, his frame remained stiff. “Not quite at peak performance yet.” He had no broken bones, but the extreme exertion had disrupted his internal equilibrium. Magic power, by its very function, placed a heavy burden on the physical vessel. He wasn’t the only one suffering. The sprite who never ceased rambling about betrothals was so pallid she looked like a ghost, and even Lua Gharne had been deprived of an arm during the skirmish. She claimed a skeletal hound-beast had torn it away. Yet, the lazy fool resting in the rear was in the worst state of all. That man had pushed his Will too far in the heat of battle and ended up semi-paralyzed. He had woken up once to gorge himself on food before falling back into a coma—at this point, not even a predator dragging him away would rouse him. “Yaaaawn.” Rem let out a weary yawn and decided to rest a while longer. Beyond the pane of the window, he spotted two idiots deep in thought. Fool Rem and fool Rophod would likely remain there until dusk before coming inside. A few local residents walked by, glancing at the pair. Lately, those stares weren’t filled with trepidation, but with profound respect. The hamlet was still. Tranquil. “Well, we did purge every monster in the vicinity.” In the distance, he could see Roman tumbling across the ground. “I can keep going, brother! I’ve still got strength!” The massive half-giantess Teresa was assisting with his drills. Audin stood nearby, wearing the grin of a satisfied fiend. “Tormenting folks while smiling—that’s a true demon for you.” Roman gritted his teeth, several boulders balanced precariously on his shoulders. He struggled to speak. “I’m finished.” “No, you aren’t. And stay quiet, brother. Breathing out through the mouth weakens your stability.” Demon Audin brushed off the complaint without a second thought. It seemed they were enjoying themselves. Rem turned his gaze from the window back to the interior. He lifted his right foot to head toward his cot—but stopped dead. His hand instinctively moved to the throwing axe fixed to his belt. The weapon had detected a presence saturated with homicidal intent and reacted. “When—?” A fleeting question flashed in his mind, but there was no window for contemplation. Creaaaak. The sole entrance to the room swung open. From the threshold emerged a literal wave of ink-black gloom—not a figure of speech, but a tangible, roiling dark vapor that flowed across the floorboards. It was high noon. The sky was bright. Not a single cloud. Yet, as the door opened, a shroud of darkness descended as if night had arrived. The atmosphere turned suffocating—as if they had been instantly transported back to the heart of the Demon Realm. “If you’re visiting, a knock is customary.” Rem spoke as he unsheathed his throwing axe and launched it. The motion of his arm was a blur, leaving no trace in the air. BOOM—a violent crack of displaced air echoed as the axe spun in a lethal arc. His speed was immense—before the final word had left his mouth, the circular blade was already whistling toward the intruder’s head. The figure shrouded in black mist raised an object on their left arm, intercepting the rotating axe with a fluid upward sweep. It was a shield—a kite shield, broad at the top and narrow at the base—firmly attached to the left forearm. CRACK! KRRRRRRRRRRK! Rem’s projectile slammed into the metal, deflected at a steep angle and sent spinning into the distance. A deep furrow was carved into the shield’s face, and the axe disappeared into the horizon like a falling star. A gaping hole was left in the woodwork above the door. “That was one of my favorites…” Rem noted, keeping his eyes locked forward. He wouldn’t be getting that one back. The black vapor continued to saturate the room, save for the area around the shield and left arm. As the fog began to dissipate, a helm became visible—its faceplate clamped shut. The space behind the slit was an impenetrable void. Clink. The individual was encased entirely in plate. There was no aura of life emanating from him—he appeared to be nothing more than an empty suit of armor propelled by its own volition. From the joints to the fingertips, every piece of steel was masterfully fitted. The quality was undeniable. The blade stayed in its scabbard. The shield remained raised. Then, the figure slowly lifted his right hand—and flicked up the visor. Thunk. With a metallic snap, a face was revealed that Rem did not anticipate. “Phew, that’s restrictive. Since you aren’t wearing a helm, I’ll show my face too. I can’t remove the whole thing, though—it’s essentially fused to my body now. I’ll let you decide. Shall we duel with my face hidden? Or shown?” Rem narrowed his gaze, scrutinizing the man. Who is this freak? Pell and Rophod, who had been right outside, were gone. The window was now obstructed by a crude, jagged stone wall. Within the house, only he and the sleeping idiot remained. This was an artificial reality. Through the open visor, a mess of curly golden hair tumbled out. The man was conventionally attractive. Not quite Enkrid’s equal, but handsome enough to draw eyes in any crowd. “Suit yourself,” Rem answered with cold indifference. If no explanations were forthcoming, he would focus on the fight. “Then I’ll leave it up.” The man grinned. The edges of his mouth curled with blatant self-assurance. Thunk. He dropped his massive shield until the pointed tip bit into the floor. The plaster tiles shattered under the impact. The weight of that shield was clearly supernatural. Maintaining that stance, he tilted his head back, making a show of looking behind Rem. Given the room’s size, it was a useless gesture—purely theatrical and mocking. Beaming, the golden-haired man inquired in a velvet, cordial tone: “I’m only here for one life. If you just leave the guy behind you, I’ll let you walk away. What do you think?” Rem was not at full strength. And the man before him felt more lethal than any beast he had encountered in the Demon Realm. How did he compare to that Lord or Apostle of Red Foot? Rem had delivered the finishing strike in that fight, but he hadn’t witnessed the entire battle, so he lacked a benchmark. Regardless, the reality was that he was weakened, and the enemy’s true ceiling was impossible to pinpoint. Rem might seem like a hothead who abandoned reason for bloodlust, but he was actually quite capable of clinical assessment. If he weren’t, he never would have survived as a hunter of nobility. Even his decision to kill a noble and accept the resulting price on his head had been a weighed choice. Now, that same analytical mind provided a verdict: a confrontation here was a losing game. Tight quarters. An unconscious burden to protect. The stranger’s nonchalance only amplified the tension. He had even raised his visor before the clash. He was not someone to take lightly. But should he save himself by betraying his subordinate? Should he abandon a frail, barely conscious comrade to save his own skin? Such a thought didn’t even register as an option. “Tch. That lazy bastard. Sleeps through everything.” Rem grumbled, then shifted his axe slightly, holding it before his face as he raised his voice: “Hey. Do you have any idea who I am?” The man, still wearing his grin, answered: “No clue.” Rem smirked back and declared: “Then pay attention. I am none other than Rem, the Vice-Captain of the Mad Order of Knights.” Behind him, Ragna twitched slightly in his slumber. He was still mending from the duel with the Apostle of Red Foot, where he had strained his depleted Will into Sunrise for one last strike. He appeared to be in a deep rest, but it was the kind of exhaustion that only occurs when the well is dry. He could force himself to wake—but he couldn’t fight. So he remained still. In a sense, the way he had given everything and collapsed showed a total lack of concern for what came next. Ragna had faith in Enkrid. …Perhaps not so much in Rem. The corner of Rem’s mouth twitched upward. “A vice-captain doesn’t just hand over his men, you damn ghost.” Rem was a fighter and a shaman of the Western lands. He detected a faint, acrid odor coming from the intruder. This being—it wasn’t human. That was Rem’s instinctual verdict. “Vice-captain? Mad Order?” The armored entity seemed unfamiliar with the name. Still smiling, he cocked his head and hoisted the shield from the floor. Then he unsheathed his blade. Srrrrk. The steel, drawn slowly, shimmered with a silver light that didn’t fight the darkness but seemed to flow with it. That was the impression it left on Rem. The sword was shorter and broader than a standard knightly sword. It looked like a Gladius, similar to the one Enkrid used to carry, though the edge was more linear. Optimized for stabbing, effective behind a shield, and heavy enough to crush with a flat strike. “So that’s the path you choose? Both of you will perish?” The man asked. “No. I’m saying I’m going to kill you.” Rem snapped back instantly. “Ah, I see.” The blond man raised his shield, dominating the narrow room. The aura he emitted churned the air into a gale. His killing intent took physical form. Accompanied by the dark vapor, that pressure condensed—the smoke coalescing into a shape that manifested his power. It resembled a massive block of iron, a flawless cube that appeared impervious to any blade. That crushing, metallic weight flooded the village hall. The cubic smoke bore down like a heavy gravity. Rem tightened his grip on the axe. A burden behind him. A confined space. Zero advantages. Only hurdles. The solution was straightforward: eliminate the hurdles, forge an advantage. And so, he acted. Just as Enkrid had impacted Rem, the members of the Mad Order of Knights constantly shaped one another. Rem had always possessed a sharp tactical mind. Now, he utilized a touch of Enkrid’s disciplined martial logic—borrowed from Lua Gharne’s strategic sword arts. “Look behind you!” He roared, as if an attacker had materialized behind the man. “…You expect me to fall for that?” The golden-haired phantom sneered and dismissed the trick. Rem hadn’t intended to deceive him. He only wanted to disrupt his focus—even for a microsecond. In that split second, Rem pitched his axe straight up. BOOM! The ascending axe demolished the ceiling of the hall. Rubble cascaded down. Heavy, charred beams. Stones set in mortar. Ancient dust that had hardened over years. It collapsed like a mountain slide. He had targeted the structural center of the roof—bringing the entire thing down. As the debris fell like rain, Rem lunged forward, hoisted Ragna onto his shoulders, and prepared to move. “Tsk, annoying…” The man whispered, watching Rem’s agile maneuver. Then he began a slow, rhythmic walk. After all, there was no exit for them to find.