"Then what’s your gain?"
Encrid asked in return.
"The position of the next Commander of the Holy Knights."
It was indeed a tangible reward. The man’s eyes gleamed with ambition. Such a person was bound to be present in a place like this.
Of course, not everyone in the Gray Holy Army shared this attitude.
Even Azratic, for instance, had demonstrated his brilliant white radiance earlier.
Among them were also martyrs who mistook distorted beliefs for true faith.
The actions initiated by Muel were clearly foolish. A new God? It sounded like the logic of a heretical child of ghouls.
So, a typical believer would say:
"A Gray God? Does that mean you want to become a fallen heretic? Is it strange that this sounds like you’re siding with cultists?"
Thus, those who gathered under Muel’s words should have been similar, but they weren’t entirely so.
Even within the confines of a church, which was essentially a microcosm of society, people influenced and relied on one another.
Some had been swept up by the atmosphere, others drawn in by their peers.
There were also those who, having spent their lives refining their minds or training their bodies, were ignorant of the world.
Their naivety made them easier to deceive.
And some among them sincerely believed that what they were doing was right.
Not because they worshipped the Gray God, but because they believed Muel’s words that the current events were divine revelations in another form.
Muel used lies to deceive people.
So, was it wrong? Then who would judge him for it?
Hadn’t the bishops of the past done the same? Were all the Popes of history spotless?
Even so, there were those who revered them.
Prophet Overdeer, who had recently risen to prominence, had served under one of the most corrupt Popes during his youth.
However, the man standing before Encrid was someone who pursued his gains with ruthless precision.
As his words made clear:
"I have surpassed Sir Azratic and every Knight here. I am the strongest in this place."
He was also arrogant. He didn’t even offer his name, smiling as if his victory was guaranteed.
He seemed to enjoy hearing himself talk, as he rambled on at length before finally falling silent.
He lowered his halberd.
The fact that he could hold the weight of the weapon one-handed was a testament to his strength.
The axe-like blade, tipped with a sharp spearhead, pointed at Encrid’s chest.
The sheer invisible pressure seemed to weigh on his shoulders, but Encrid shrugged it off with ease.
The first lesson in Will was rejection.
From fighting Rem, Encrid had naturally learned some of the characteristics of spell power.
Will, being an invisible, intangible force, could be shaped and wielded with practice.
The halberd seemed to coil around him like chains, but Encrid’s mental blade cut through them.
In a brief exchange of invisible attacks and defenses, both hands and feet remained still.
Only those who had awakened to Will and learned to wield it could perceive this spectacle.
The man’s words, as he lowered his halberd, were clear.
He declared himself the strongest in the room—a fact, as he had defeated Azratic.
Every Knight present acknowledged it.
To Encrid, this was an unexpected but thrilling challenge.
And so, he was delighted.
"I guess I’m a bit lucky."
Encrid responded honestly to the man’s statement.
"Fool."
The Knight sneered, then moved as if folding space itself, charging forward.
For someone wielding such a heavy weapon, his movements were unnaturally swift.
But it wasn’t a sneak attack or anything clever.
His motions were entirely predictable.
Encrid swung the silver blade given to him by Eitri in a diagonal slash.
Clang!
The blade struck the shaft of the halberd just below its head, but it didn’t snap.
The resistance in his grip confirmed it, an enchanted weapon.
Its hardness was on another level.
Yet, oddly, the force imbued in the weapon felt lackluster.
Encrid, despite his excitement for a strong opponent, didn’t feel the need to put his life on the line in this fight.
Parrying the halberd, Encrid split his Will, channeling its energy into his sword.
If he could unleash a burst of Will, he could divide it even more easily.
It had taken rigorous training and persistent effort, but it was now second nature.
The silver blade accelerated, his movements interwoven with techniques he had learned and mastered.
Among them was the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique.
"Using such petty tricks?"
His opponent, frustrated by the deception, snarled as veins bulged on his forehead.
Feigning exhaustion with labored breaths, Encrid lured him into overextending.
The flow of divine energy coursing through the man’s body faltered.
He was skilled in the use of divine energy and techniques, but that was the extent of it.
He lacked the mastery of Rem, the power of Ragna, and the finesse of Oara.
Even compared to the Knight Encrid had faced during the Battle of Aspen, this opponent felt lacking.
In truth, his raw skill would have been overwhelming had they met before Encrid encountered Walking Fire.
But now, Encrid felt confident he wouldn’t have lost, even then.
"Defend yourself!"
The Knight unleashed his signature move, a powerful, downward strike that twisted his entire body.
It was akin to a hidden trump card.
Unlike most Knights who preferred sustained battles over singularly devastating strikes, this man broke convention.
The axe blade of his halberd swung in a wide arc, descending from an angle outside Encrid’s perception, as if striking from his blind spot.
It felt like a bolt of lightning falling from the heavens.
But Encrid had anticipated it even before the attack began.
Before the Knight shouted, his body language telegraphed his intentions.
The way he tightened his grip, adjusted his arm’s angle, and positioned the halberd—all these cues fell within Encrid’s insight.
With Focus Point activated, his thoughts accelerated. Encrid knew exactly what to do in that sliver of time.
Will, being an intangible force, wasn’t limited by physical speed.
He already knew how to unleash it in an instant, pouring it out all at once.
A skill that had once been challenging was now as simple as emptying a cup of water in a single motion.
Chiiiiing!
The silver blade hummed with resonance, its vibrations coursing through his body.
Despite not being an enchanted weapon, the blade seemed to possess a will of its own.
It urged him to cut, refusing to yield.
Stepping forward with his left foot, Encrid bent his knee before straightening it.
There was no evasion.
He didn’t dismiss the skill of a Knight motivated by profit, but the weight imbued in the halberd felt insubstantial.
While the halberd appeared physically heavier, the true weight lay in Encrid’s silver blade.
With movements that seemed light and agile, Encrid’s strike carried a staggering weight.
Crash! Crack!
His soaring blade split the descending axe blade of the halberd.
In a swift follow-through, Encrid stepped forward, employing Oara’s fluid sword technique.
The silver arc cleaved through the axe blade and reached the Knight’s head, striking the crown and slicing downward.
The extended slash, lengthened by precise footwork, outdistanced the halberd’s range.
The result was a clean, diagonal cut that opened the Knight’s skull.
Blood and brain matter trickled down his temples and forehead.
The interior of his exposed skull was horrifyingly visible.
With his final breath, the Knight spoke:
"What… is this?"
Unblinking, he stared at his own state, realizing he was dying.
A Knight’s honed instincts told him the truth.
At the brink of death, resentment surged.
"I trained my whole life. Can’t I expect a little reward for that?"
Living like a monk didn’t necessarily make one pure.
Becoming a Knight didn’t mean every Knight bore lofty ideals.
Knighthood required a mix of talent, effort, and luck.
But a light heart makes for a light Will.
That much was clear to Encrid.
Though both were Knights, the difference in the weight of their Wills was undeniable.
As his body fell forward, his light heart made his body just as light in death.
For Encrid, this fight against a Knight had been relatively easy.
* * *
Rem thought Encrid had a knack for finding suitable opponents.
He also considered everyone around him to be lunatics, laughing as they fought.
"Why are you laughing, you crazy axe-wielder?"
Lost in thought, Rem heard the voice of the opponent lying at his feet.
"Was I laughing?"
Rem asked in return.
"You’re insane."
Those were the man’s final words, uttered as blood poured from his wounds.
He had endured long, healing himself with gray divine light.
Divine Power, by nature, was suited for long endurance.
Rem’s opponent, bearing the name of one of the Apostles of Abundance, had been no exception.
He had relied on his holy light for defense, exhausting his foes while healing his own minor injuries.
"Well, thanks for the compliment."
Rem picked up his axe. Calling upon his divine possession had left his body sore.
The Knight, despite his best efforts to endure, had been overwhelmed by Rem’s relentless axe strikes.
Looking around, Rem saw that the tide of battle was turning decisively in their favor.
The fights against the Knights had ended in resounding victories.
Among them, Rem noticed Audin locked in combat.
‘That guy.’
The radiant figure, Rem thought, would be a challenging opponent.
Though Rem didn’t think Audin would lose, it would certainly be a tough fight.
The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon.
"This is…"
Muel was at a loss for words, utterly stunned.
"What do we do?"
His adjutant and disciple asked.
A man who usually moved with the ease of a shadow now looked visibly shaken.
Muel spotted the woman standing before the barricades.
She was a witch clad in nothing but a black robe, even in this cold.
Muel himself was knowledgeable in spells, but he couldn’t imagine replicating her feats.
This was why Muel hadn’t supported his priests’ spells earlier, he couldn’t compete.
The colossal man wielding a greatsword had paralyzed the entire army with fear.
The Knights he had trusted were falling one by one.
The Mad Knights Order was infamous across the continent, but their full strength was not widely known.
One had to face them to truly understand.
Muel realized that now.
‘Why are such powerful forces wandering around like this?’
His mind raced, his thoughts in disarray.
"Apostle!"
His disciple called out again. Muel had ordered him to address him as Pope, but the old title slipped out.
"Advance. Everyone, advance!"
Muel muttered.
"Advance! Advance!"
His muttering grew louder as he began casting a divine spell.
It was a contingency he had prepared.
Veterans who had fought against the Holy Nation spoke of the terrifying aspect of their divine army: The soldiers would keep fighting even with severed arms and legs, embodying fanaticism.
It was a berserker army made to forget fear, a spell that made enemies appear as demons to its adherents.
Under its influence, the soldiers would become martyrs, ready to die for their God.
"Lord, grant me your strength. Lend me your power."
Muel began chanting fervently.
At that moment, two groups approached from different directions.
They were far enough away that Jaxon, Sinar, and others had already noticed their approach.
Even Encrid, who had finished his fight, was aware.
Some soldiers on both sides also sensed the incoming forces.
Muel and those in his center finally noticed the two approaching armies.
Both were of substantial size.
One bore the symbol of the Holy Nation: a winged spear, representing divine judgment on the battlefield.
Even the Gray Holy Army carried makeshift flags depicting gray spears, but now the original had arrived.
The other flag was black with diagonal stripes.
The nameless crusader in Noah’s monastery recognized it instantly.
The Holy Nation would bring nothing but loss, whether they won or not.
Even victory would label them as demon-possessed heretics.
While Encrid didn’t care about such things, he remained wary of the armies that could soon turn hostile.
Muel, too, saw the approaching forces and halted his spell.
From both sides, individuals emerged and sprinted toward the battlefield.
The one from the Holy Nation was a familiar face.
The other was recognized by the nameless crusader.
"The Commander? Why?"
He murmured in astonishment.
The striped banner belonged to the Cult Extermination Order.
In other words, the crusader’s own comrades.
They had likely come to punish those who had betrayed their duty.
"Stop!"
The figure from the Cult Extermination Order shouted as he ran.
"You’re late!"
"Commander!"
The nameless crusader ran to greet him.
As Encrid observed, he immediately felt the difference in weight compared to his previous opponent.
The man’s face and cheeks were riddled with scars.
Meanwhile, the figure from the Holy Nation also reached the battlefield.
The familiar face? It was none other than Prophet Overdeer.
As the armies confronted each other, two representatives from each side stepped forward.
Encrid remained indifferent to being labeled a demon and was prepared to fight if they turned hostile.
His resolve was unchanged.
As everyone stood still, exchanging glances, Overdeer was the first to speak.
"Fools."
His voice brimmed with anger.
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