Chapter 843

Chapter 843

Penadex felt the sting of desperation. The very moment he invited the demon into his physical form—or rather, harnessed the fragment of essence granted by the creature—his own arm suffered a jagged tear.

Without hesitation, he lunged forward, his human limb striking out to seize the arm of his constant companion and lover. He didn’t just grab her; he buried his claws into her skin, ripping through flesh as he took hold.

“Penadex—! You treacherous filth—”

The witch who commanded serpents never finished her curse. Her vitality vanished in a heartbeat. Her tongue shriveled into her throat, and her eyes collapsed into hollow pits. She attempted a final act of defiance, trying to pull her snakes from the ether, but the reptiles barely emerged before disintegrating like scorched parchment, their remains drifting away.

The blood spilling from her torn wrist defied gravity, flowing upward along Penadex’s arm rather than pooling on the dirt. Within seconds, the snake witch was a hollow shell that hit the ground with a dull thud. Every drop of her mana and the very spark of her soul had been devoured. She was gone.

Penadex didn’t spare a second thought for the corpse. He had achieved his goal. What was a single life worth in the grand scheme? He had sacrificed hundreds in his dark pursuits, butchered his own kin, and imprisoned countless monsters and demi-humans for his whims. Had he ever shown mercy to the young, the feminine, or the elderly?

Never. To Penadex, every other soul was merely a piece of carrion. He was the apex; everyone else was debris. This was especially true of common humanity. Born of the correct lineage and blessed with innate sorcery, he believed no one stood above him.

“I am of the elite,” he muttered.

He was a natural prodigy among mages—the definition of nobility in his mind. He looked back on his life, from his first breath to this violent moment. Everything he desired had always gravity-shifted toward him. As a boy, a mere look from him could enchant anyone, regardless of gender. When he turned to the arcane, his progress was meteoric. He was a once-in-a-generation genius.

“Penadex, I despise you,” voices from his past whispered.

He fed on that spite.

“Lord Penadex, I offer you everything.”

He absorbed that worship just as hungrily. Those who possess greatness always seek the summit. He wanted to transcend the firmament itself.

“How far can a natural gift carry a man?”

He sought the very boundaries of the forbidden—a place where the sheer weight of discovery would bring a blissful death. He would walk that path alone if he had to. Penadex was a singular entity, and he was convinced he would consume all secrets to evolve into a god.

“Then why?”

His own limbs were betraying him. By making a pact with a demon, he had manifested it in this realm. Any lesser sorcerer would have been erased, their mind stolen instantly. But he was different; he could command the beast while remaining himself.

“Then why am I shaking?”

The question haunted him. Why did his chest tighten? Why did his extremities burn with ice, and why did his muscles feel like they were being crushed by iron bands while cold sweat soaked his skin? The journey through his memories felt like an eternity, yet it had only been a heartbeat in the real world.

Using the demon’s unnatural sight, Penadex glared at his foe. He saw two eyes, as piercing and blue as a glacial pool, peering out from the darkness. Above him, a blade began its descent.

“Kiiaaak!”

Penadex was paralyzed by internal conflict, but the demon within him moved. It jerked the body aside, thrashing violently to escape the strike. The hellish power took full control of Penadex’s sinews.

“Terror.”

Horror smashed into Penadex’s mind like a physical blow. He had known fear before, but never this absolute, soul-crushing dread.

“Oh—.”

The swordsman let out a soft sound of curiosity and shifted. A luminous blue meteor followed two gossamer lines of light. It was a crushing, radiant strike.

“Kiiiiii!”

The demon shrieked in shock, and Penadex felt his mind fracture. A clean slice severed one of the demon’s limbs. The arm hung momentarily in the air before dissolving into black mist and ash. The demon tried to retaliate with a spell, fueled by the very life-force of Penadex, its summoner.

However, just as the blood-magic was about to ignite, the flow of power was snuffed out. It was as if a sudden downpour had doused a growing fire.

“Greetings, demon.”

The whisper belonged to the witch. She had intervened, her mastery over the spell-world allowing her to dismantle the casting with a casual gesture. She didn’t smile.

“She’s quite enjoying this,” the dragonkin noted.

“Don’t make me stitch your lips together,” the witch snapped at him. The dragonkin merely nodded.

The demon paused, a seed of doubt planting itself in its mind. It began to wonder exactly what kind of nightmare it had been summoned into.

“A master of the blade, a dragonkin, and a witch.”

Where on earth was he?

—

“What is your station in the Demon Realm? A servant? A sentry? A janitor? I was actually curious about the rest of your title,” Rem said. The demon’s introduction had been cut short, and Rem seemed genuinely inquisitive.

Enkrid noted that his previous strike hadn’t landed exactly as he had envisioned. The demon had managed to slip away. The mage, fused with the entity emerging from his spine, was now bent into a grotesque, hunched shape. The demon used its legs to scuttle across the ground.

“That’s a repulsive look,” Enkrid remarked.

The man who was once a mage now dangled pitifully between the demon’s muscular thighs. It was a sight that required little imagination to find revolting. Enkrid dismissed the visual and focused on how the creature had evaded his blade. He noticed a shimmering ripple over the demon’s forearm—something like dark soot or ash.

“The Thornbush rampart?”

It felt familiar. The creature had wrapped its limb in a protective layer of spirits, which had caused Enkrid’s sword to slide off course. Of course, Enkrid had only been probing the enemy’s defenses. He hadn’t put his full weight behind the blow. He was testing the waters, moving with a level of confidence that everyone—including the demon—could sense. This swordsman was far too calm.

“What are you?” the demon hissed.

It abandoned its boastful introduction. The two eyes on the head protruding from its back darted frantically, looking like they might burst from their sockets. It was a sight designed to induce madness in a normal human.

“Ugh, how nauseating,” Rem said, completely unfazed. No one here was intimidated by a mere manifestation of the Demon Realm. These were Balrog slayers.

“I have the urge to crush him,” Ragna added.

Penadex, swinging limply between the demon’s legs, lifted his head like a cornered rodent, looking for an exit.

“Penadex, is this the glory you sought?” Esther asked, her voice dripping with loathing.

The dragonkin added, “Do you feel it? The fear of being erased?” He recognized the look of absolute terror that often preceded death.

“Kwaaak!”

The demon let out a piercing howl, trying to scream away its own cowardice.

“I am the commander of ten thousand wraith—”

Boom!

A sudden force shattered the air and slammed into the demon’s skull. Its face was partially crushed by the impact, spraying black ichor. The demon tried to shield its head and start another incantation, but a single word cut through the chaos.

“Halt,” the dragonkin commanded, using Dragon Speech to lock the demon’s tongue.

“I lead a legion… I rule ten thousand wraiths,” the demon stammered. It had never expected to be bullied this way upon entering the mortal plane.

“Demon, fight! Kill them!” Penadex shrieked from his undignified position.

“Quiet, worm,” the demon snarled. This disaster was the mage’s fault for picking a fight with the wrong people. Being a master of bargains, the demon realized his existence was at stake.

“Do you truly wish to challenge the Lord of a Hundred Thousand Wraiths?”

Enkrid didn’t need to think. He knew that name. It was the same entity that had manifested when Count Molsen perished.

“I am the Lord of a Hundred Thousand Wraiths.”

The demon spoke the title with weight. It was likely one of the six lords mentioned by previous enemies.

“By all means, call him here,” Enkrid challenged.

The demon went silent, stunned by the response.

“Hurry up and kill them!” Penadex yelled again.

“Maybe we should just lop that extra bit off,” Rem suggested, gesturing to the mage.

“Should I?” the dragonkin asked.

“They’re joined at the soul now. Cutting him off won’t change the outcome,” Esther noted clinically.

“Still, it’s an eyesore,” Ragna said, resting Sunrise on his shoulder.

Jaxon had silently moved behind the creature, contemplating whether to carve Penadex away from the demon’s legs.

The mage continued to flail, his mind clearly broken. Watching him, Esther felt a strange lack of emotion. These were the people—Astrail—who had hounded her for decades, killed her mentor, and forced her to take on a deadly curse. She had spent years trying to build a spell-world strong enough to destroy them.

She had fought so hard, relying only on her own grit. What had it gotten her? A curse and a meeting with Enkrid. It felt like a cruel joke by the Lady of Fortune. It was only here, with him, that she had finally fixed her magic.

“The heart was the missing piece,” she realized. A heart that values others.

“Love? Me?” She almost laughed at the thought. The Witch of Strife talking about affection was absurd, yet she couldn’t deny that caring for another had expanded her power.

“Penadex, you fool,” Esther said.

Was this the end of the road for those who abandoned their humanity? To become a parasite on a demon? It was an insulting conclusion to her years of suffering.

“That’s all you are,” Rem agreed.

Esther made a mental note to curse the barbarian later.

“My master is a vampire, a high noble of the Demon Realm,” the demon said, trying to negotiate. “If you slay me, you earn his eternal hatred.”

Enkrid, much like he had done with the One-Killer, ignored the threat entirely.

“So be it,” he said, raising Dawn Tempering.

He saw the spectral armor and the way the demon tried to warp his senses. But Enkrid had fought a Balrog; he understood the unique essence of these creatures. He stepped forward and swung.

The demon made a final stand, sharpening a cluster of spirits at its fingers and lunging. Enkrid’s blade met the strike with a heavy *Tung*.

His Will-forged steel pushed through. He didn’t care about the consequences; he only cared about his path. With a sudden burst of speed, he executed a vertical strike followed by an immediate upward slash.

The demon was split perfectly in two, starting from the crotch. Black blood flooded the ground as the creature dissolved into ash. In the swirling dust, a new face appeared—the true Lord of a Hundred Thousand Wraiths, sensing the death of his servant.

“The Lord of a Hundred Thousand Wraiths… you again?” the entity said, remembering Enkrid perfectly.

“We meet once more,” Enkrid replied.

The Lord of a Hundred Thousand Wraiths looked at the witch and the others, recalling how Count Molsen had also fallen to them. He didn’t bother with curses this time.

“You’ve cost me two good limbs now. Enough,” the Lord said. Then, just before vanishing, he added, “Consider joining my ranks. I would treat you better than this world does.”

The voice faded into the wind like a casual farewell between acquaintances. Even Rem was stunned by how businesslike the exchange was. The demon was gone, and the clearing fell silent.