Chapter 830

Chapter 830

Shinar focused on the dragonkin’s speech and parted her lips.
“He is recalibrating his syntax and practicing it.”
It appeared to be a method of retrieving an ancient memory through sheer repetition.
One might master a skill and internalize it, but if it remains unused across the ages, the fading recollections must be hauled up piece by piece. It was comparable to reheating a blunted sword in a forge to restore its sharpness.
For those burdened with immortality, such a talent was vital.
An endless existence without the mercy of forgetting would be nothing but a hellish agony.
Even among the high-ranking elder fairies who almost never appeared within the walls of Kirheis, there were individuals like this.
They had remained hidden even when a demon threatened to devour the city, not due to a lack of concern, but because they were already halfway into an eternal slumber.
On the rare occasions one of those ancients stirred, it looked exactly like what she was witnessing now.
Just as Shinar surmised, the dragonkin dredged up his old knowledge and spoke once more.
“Escape. You should flee. I shall obstruct it.”
The dull blade had found its edge. The grammar solidified, and the linguistic fragments aligned.
None of the onlookers replied to the dragonkin’s offer. Every eye turned instead toward their own leader.
Even Shinar remained still, awaiting his command.
Enkrid had only just ceased his clash with this creature. Should their duel be viewed as a dialogue of blades? Because of that exchange, he had formed his own impressions, and regardless of the dragonkin’s words, he spoke his mind.
“You are quite strange.”
They were attempting to kill one another moments ago, and now he offered to stand as a shield? He was the very one who had barred the path to the Salamander.
To dismiss it as a fleeting whim felt wrong—there was too much gravity in the man’s sword for that.
This was not a being who lived a life of deception. That was Enkrid’s assessment. His intuition wasn’t infallible, but on this specific point, he felt no doubt.
Temares concluded there was a brief window of time and addressed Enkrid.
“Is that so?”
A counter-question. Temares was aware of his own uniqueness as a dragonkin. However, at this moment, he found the man standing before him even more exceptional.
Observe that unyielding center.
Enkrid wasn’t the only warrior who had appraised his rival by crossing steel. Even more so, a dragonkin possessed an extraordinary sensory perception.
‘A rare sort of human.’
Temares viewed Enkrid with the same curiosity.
That man does not falter. He resembles a vessel at anchor without a single rope to hold it. He looks as though he could remain stationary even as the hurricane breaks.
It was a marvel. That enigma tugged at the dragonkin’s very core. A thinking being possessed of a massive dream and a titanic will—truly a mortal worth observing. He brought amusement and joy, sparking a sense of anticipation. What was this man’s purpose, and upon what foundation was this resolve constructed?
Since the moment of his birth, the dragonkin had never experienced such fascination, and a first experience is always overwhelming.
It was like giving a sugary treat to a child who had never tasted such a thing and watching the transformation of their expression.
He had encountered individuals with resolute wills before and had granted them his favor, but never anything this provocative.
It was like beholding the vast ocean after spending a lifetime staring at puddles and ponds.
Temares’s spirit swelled with such intense pleasure. Consequently, he desired all the more that this man survive.
A human capable of stirring such emotions in a dragonkin was a rarity. A total anomaly.
Regardless of whatever the yellow, slit-pupiled eye ahead was conveying, Enkrid’s mind continued to work through its own logic. One part of his consciousness was re-running the battle they had just finished.
He had two reasons for calling the opponent peculiar. One was his personality, and the other was his capability. Specifically, a capability that was evolving.
‘Was he concealing his true strength?’
A thread of logic branched out, deconstructing the encounter. Enkrid visualized the opponent’s performance. The ivory longsword had curved to deflect his strikes, and before that, he had manifested authority through word-speech.
‘No, beyond that, wasn’t his actual combat style clumsy?’
It was. There was no denying it. How could he define it more simply?
If he were to condense it into a single observation—
‘His perception of distance was constantly refining itself.’
During the opening exchange, his spacing was atrocious. He compensated for the lack of technique with terrifying physical power.
Controlling the distance is the fundamental law of combat. Whether one grips a blade in their hand or throws a punch, the principle is identical.
That specific skill of measuring the gap had transformed. Using that as the pivot, every other aspect began to shift.
‘The placement of his feet and the tension in his shoulders.’
Following the distance, his stance adjusted.
The styles were alien, but the physical mechanics adhered to the absolute logic of war. Martial arts were created to fight, to triumph, and to slay. The adversary followed that essence perfectly.
‘Every one of those final three strikes was lethal.’
The third in particular was one Enkrid had evaded by a mere fraction of an inch. That white, serpentine edge had targeted his forearm.
‘Parrying with the flat while simultaneously riposting.’
A perfect execution, a fraction of a beat faster than expected. He played with the rhythm and integrated complex techniques.
He was like a student who had memorized a combat manual front to back, mastered every drill in isolation, and then began to fuse them back together in real-time.
‘Is that the right way to describe him?’
He is just that odd. Where did that strangeness originate? Just as speaking seemed to be something he hadn’t done in an age, was fighting also a skill he was reclaiming? Was he in a state of martial recovery?
If that were the case—
“Let’s settle this mess and then have another bout.”
Everyone present overheard the exchange between the two, yet no one intervened.
This wasn’t the first time Enkrid had behaved this way.
He displayed interest for no obvious reason, and his potential was more than just difficult to calculate; it shifted from moment to moment. Just as Temares felt a spark of curiosity, Enkrid felt it too. He wished to plumb the depths of this dragonkin.
“I must fulfill my obligation.”
The dragonkin spoke his truth. Obligation stands above all else.
If a dragonkin lacks a duty, they have no reason to exist. To them, duty is life itself.
It is the anchor of their existence, the resolve that allows them to remain grounded in the present.
Enkrid felt a sensation akin to physical weight radiating from Temares as he spoke. Because it concerned something the creature could not abandon, the words were saturated with intent.
Of course, on the surface, his delivery was quiet and mundane. Enkrid detected the resolve buried within because his own perceptions were razor-sharp.
Enkrid could decipher the emotions of a fairy. This was simple by comparison.
Enkrid, who also found himself intrigued by the “duty” the other mentioned, asked in return:
“What sort of duty is that?”
His manner was strangely casual. In truth, even during the heat of their duel, he hadn’t sensed any malice or bloodlust. What he felt instead was only a sense of joy and friendliness—he was a fascinating individual.
If the other’s purpose was logical, wouldn’t it be worth hearing?
It was much like the moment he had accepted Dunbakel. He followed his intuition. Perhaps, deep down, he understood that the entity before him would not move with evil intent to sack the city or slaughter the innocent.
“To safeguard the entity behind me is my charge.”
The dragonkin replied. His voice was monotone.
There was no burning passion. Nor did it seem like he was driven by a specific philosophy or creed. What was visible was only a raw sense of responsibility.
‘And yet his Will is overflowing.’
He was a truly captivating foe.
The word the dragonkin chose resonated deeply. It was the very thing Enkrid always spoke of.
If the opponent spoke of duty, then he could speak of his own as well.
And if one duty clashed with another, which one should take precedence? The truth is settled by the law of the world: the words of the victor are the ones that are correct.
However, was it truly the wisest path here to strike this man down and slay the Salamander?
The thought simply lingered. Enkrid understood the mechanics of the world. There is such a thing as completion, but there is no such thing as perfection.
If you fixate on perfection, you become a prisoner of the present. If you wish to reach tomorrow, you cannot remain shackled to the concept of the perfect. But then, does a day spent merely letting events unfold have any worth?
A day lived to the absolute best of one’s ability.
Desiring such a “today,” he pondered. Seeking that best outcome, Enkrid asked:
“Safeguard?”
Who was protecting whom?
As if responding to that question, an object came hurtling from the sky. Enkrid’s internal alarm triggered. Despite not being in an active stance, his perception accelerated. An invisible force was descending.
To be precise, it wasn’t that it couldn’t be seen—he was sensing an event that had not yet fully manifested.
His physical form reacted to the presence of death, or a danger equivalent to it.
A crimson streak lashed down from the heavens. It looked as though a giant had snapped a tremendously long, impossibly thin whip. Because his reflexes had fired, Enkrid’s body left a ghost-like image as he shifted three paces to the side. The red line scorched the earth exactly where Enkrid had been standing a second before.
There was no explosion or booming sound. With a sharp hiss, it merely left a narrow fissure whose bottom was lost in shadow.
A thin veil of steam rose from the crack. Where the red line had struck, a heat so intense it distorted the atmosphere remained. A blistering gust of air brushed against Enkrid’s face.
Had it connected, it would have sliced through anything in a heartbeat.
‘Nearly as precise as Ragna’s Sunrise.’
It was both sharp and searing. Its total length could have stretched across five men standing in a row.
It was deep and vast. If he hadn’t moved, he would have surrendered a limb. Naturally, no one else was struck by that elongated lash.
While the group watched, stunned, they wondered what this phenomenon could be.
Finding the origin of the whip wasn’t difficult. It had snapped out from the center of a swirling mass of fire-clouds that had somehow descended lower and drifted closer to the party.
“The tongue.”
The dragonkin spoke with brevity, and Enkrid caught the meaning instantly.
“You are telling me this is the tongue of the Salamander?”
He looked at the scorched earth and inquired. The dragonkin gave a nod. He still didn’t grasp the specifics of what the creature meant by “safeguarding.”
But Enkrid understood at least one truth.
“As long as I refrain from killing it, everything is fine, yes?”
The dragonkin had urged them to retreat and, during their fight, had turned his back to split the fire and shield the group. Enkrid pieced the situation together through instinct.
The other was shielding the Salamander while simultaneously preventing that sphere of flame from obliterating everything in the vicinity.
To the query born from that realization, the dragonkin responded:
“Correct.”
Then what the dragonkin intended to do now—was it a form of correction? He could sense it was something of that nature.
‘An incredibly stubborn child who refuses to listen.’
Was he going to use force because sometimes a lesson requires a blow?
“In that case, let’s handle this together.”
Enkrid offered a temporary pact. The dragonkin gave his assent. This man’s intent was as transparent as could be. A fairy who was incapable of falsehood wouldn’t side with him without reason.
“Are we not going to eliminate him and proceed?”
Rem asked from the rear.
By “eliminate,” he clearly referred to the dragonkin. His name was Temares, was it not? The dragonkin had reached a state where he recognized names just by hearing them whispered.
If Enkrid desired it, defeating the dragonkin was not an impossibility. If even one member of the squad assisted, the battle would conclude quickly.
“Everyone, assume combat positions.”
Enkrid bypassed the suggestion and gave his order. The fascinating thing was that not a single person showed a hint of defiance. Back when he commanded the Mad Platoon, these were the people who followed his most stubborn whims without question.
It was no different now.
They did not cross-examine their captain’s choices. They simply performed their roles.
In reality, if the situation turned sour, they were confident they could neutralize a dragonkin and even slay the Salamander; that was the level of self-assurance they possessed.

—

The spirit of fire that had hijacked the Salamander’s consciousness mocked them.
‘If I cannot consume it, I will ensure no one else does.’
Among the practitioners of the Demon Realm, this was a feat only he could achieve.
To rouse a Salamander that had drifted into a state of hibernation or lethargy.
He planned to incinerate every single one of those who had earned his displeasure. If a portion of the world turned to ash in the process, it was of no consequence to him.
Other powers that held sway over this land would surely protest, but he would merely brush them aside.
Now that the Salamander had unsealed its eyes, this territory would likely be devastated for a long time—perhaps forever.
‘Even so, life always finds a way back eventually.’
In the wake of a Salamander’s burning, a new vitality eventually emerges. For he held the power of rebirth.
In the interim, countless lives would be extinguished by flame.
The spirit of heat laughed, despite being nothing more than a manifestation of will.
“Perish, all of you.”
He channeled his intent to provoke the Salamander. Distress, agony, and suffering flowed through his will and into the beast’s frame.
That process brought him immense satisfaction.
The spirit of heat knew that if he didn’t temper this joy, he might fail in his ultimate goal.
‘How could I ever abandon this.’
It was intoxicating. If he were a mortal, his eyes would have fluttered with a pleasure far exceeding any physical intimacy.
“Now, perish, every one of you.”
Let’s add a bit more flavor to this. Layer on the wails, the trauma, and the agony of the humans—that is the proper way.
Since pure intent cannot fully dominate the Salamander, he simply watched, savoring the image of the mythic beast that had just lashed out with its heat-tongue and was now beginning to swing its two front limbs.
The possessing intent saw them as legs, but those suffering on the ground below would perceive them as something else entirely.
The Salamander’s front limbs were effectively massive spheres of fire, designed to crush and vaporize those gathered beneath them.
‘How exactly will you burn?’
Unfortunately for the demon, his dark hopes were not fulfilled.
A flash of sapphire light erupted and carved one of the fire-masses into nothingness, while on the opposite side, a surge of white radiance held firm against the inferno without breaking, until the flames flickered out.
‘What?’
The Salamander’s two massive feet were forced backward exactly where they stood.