"They don’t die?"
Encrid asked.
"Yeah, they don’t. Blades can’t cut spirits. If we could use essence, it’d be simple, but essence doesn’t work here. Because of that, these things have become as dangerous as reapers."
As Bran explained, a few drowned corpses stretched their heads forward.
Their necks elongated unnaturally, as if their spines had turned elastic.
It was a grotesque trick made possible by the spirits possessing them.
Frozen patches could be seen on their bodies, suggesting the spirits had the ability to emit cold energy.
"Don’t bother asking if you can cut them with Will. That’s not going to work either."
Bran was undoubtedly the most perceptive of the Woodguards.
He answered the question Encrid was about to ask before he could voice it.
"Zero."
At Bran’s call, Zero leaped forward and sliced off one of the drowned corpse’s arms.
As Zero severed the arm, the translucent spirit hovering over the corpse extended a faint, ghostly arm of its own.
It wasn’t particularly fast, making it easy to dodge as long as one could see it.
The faint glow made it visible enough to evade.
Though the angle of the light sometimes obscured it, no fairy would fail to perceive such a threat.
Zero avoided the spectral hand and stepped back.
He had severed one arm, but the severed limb twitched a few times before the fingers dug into the ground and started crawling forward.
"See that? Cut off an arm, and it moves on its own. Cut off a leg, and it’ll move too. Burning them isn’t easy either."
This wasn’t something you’d know without experience.
It meant the fairies had previously ventured into this labyrinthine demon realm to gather intelligence.
Encrid had already deduced as much from Bran’s earlier admission that they had been here before.
Though these creatures didn’t die easily, Bran didn’t seem concerned, indicating he already knew how to deal with them.
Anticipating this, Encrid looked at Bran, who casually continued explaining.
"Behind them, there’s an orb nearby. Smash that orb, and they’ll die. While the rest of us hold them off, one of us will go for the orb."
After hearing Bran out, Encrid nodded.
It struck him as an annoyingly tedious method.
They would have to fight these creatures indefinitely until they found and destroyed the orb.
It seemed designed to drain their stamina and exhaust them.
If a demon truly resided here, it must be a cunning and manipulative creature.
"You can’t fight them without a weapon that cuts spirits. While we hold them off, Brisa will go and find the orb."
One of the fairies announced, indicating that a member of their group would take on significant risk to break through.
Brisa, a female fairy armed with a needle-like dagger, surveyed the drowned corpses.
She was likely devising the best path forward in her mind.
Just as the plan was being finalized, Pel spoke up.
"There’s no need for that."
He stepped forward, gripping his sword.
Pel wielded the Idol Slayer, a blade capable of cutting spirits and souls.
In essence, it was a nemesis to spectral enemies—nearly a cheat weapon against such foes.
"Clear the way."
Encrid instructed, and Pel stepped forward, his boots tapping lightly against the ground.
"That’s dangerous."
Brisa warned, as the entire mob of drowned corpses reacted the moment Pel advanced.
She was right—it could indeed be dangerous.
If it had been anyone other than Pel, or if his sword had been an ordinary blade, it would have been.
Without a word, Pel shifted his left foot outward and swung his sword.
In that swing, Encrid saw traces of the defensive wall Ragna had once demonstrated.
The long arc of the blade decapitated one drowned corpse, then continued slicing through the others in its path.
During their sparring sessions, Encrid had recognized Pel’s exceptional talent.
If not for Ragna, Pel’s ability would undoubtedly have stood out.
Even with Ragna around, Pel’s skill was undeniable.
It wasn’t just about copying techniques, Pel interpreted and refined them in his own way.
He also had a natural eye for exploiting an enemy’s weaknesses.
He didn’t need to think before swinging; his blade instinctively followed the optimal trajectory.
It was a gift.
The Shepherd’s Sword danced among the mass of drowned corpses, guided by the Idol Slayer.
The frozen drowned corpses were dangerous foes, stubbornly clinging to life even in death.
Even severed limbs moved independently, crawling toward their targets.
The creatures were a nightmare to face.
Burning them wasn’t a viable option either, as the spirits repelled flames, and the damp environment made starting fires difficult.
Fairies reached for the oil flasks at their waists, ready to ignite them if necessary.
These flasks contained a highly refined oil, crafted through advanced alchemy using Woodguard sap, flaxseed oil, and rare herbs.
If Krais knew about these flasks, he would have protested:
"You’re wasting that expensive stuff on monsters? Please, don’t! Let them die on their own and give the oil to me!"
But the fairies didn’t need to use them.
Pel relished the feel of the Idol Slayer in his hands as he decapitated one corpse after another.
His skill surpassed the average Junior-Knight, as it should, given his constant sparring with Encrid, Ragna, and Rem.
Daily duels with superior opponents, combined with his rivalry with Lawford, had sharpened Pel’s natural talent into a weapon of its own.
Even as a hundred drowned corpses surrounded him, Pel didn’t falter.
Each creature swarmed without hesitation, their cursed touch threatening to leave lasting wounds.
But Pel felt no fear.
His blade moved like the star of a grand ball, cutting through the enemies as if in a dance.
Thwack!
A split skull spilled viscous liquid—the remnants of a spirit’s form.
Screech!
The eerie cry of a severed specter echoed as the Idol Slayer dismantled them one by one.
For Pel, these spectral beings were the easiest enemies to face.
Easier even than slicing through swarms of blood-draining flies.
Once the corpses were dealt with, a staircase leading downward became visible.
A faded orb rolled out from among the corpses.
While Bran’s strategy had been to search for the orb amidst the chaos, it turned out one of the corpses had been holding it.
Following the original plan would have required far more time and effort.
Not that it mattered now.
"Care for a duel later?"
Zero asked Pel.
He was one of the rare fairies with a fierce competitive spirit.
While Encrid found Zero admirable, the other fairies showed no reaction to his challenge.
"You’re impressive, both you and that Frog."
Bran commented in his usual calm tone, though there was a trace of hope in his voice.
"We can’t let Lady Sinar remain the demon’s bride."
One of the male fairies declared firmly.
Encrid said nothing in response but began descending the stairs.
Unlike the uneven ground above, the staircase was neatly constructed, suggesting the touch of human, monster, or demonic hands.
"How many levels does this place have?"
"Not enough to be called a great labyrinth, but somewhere on the next floor, the demon is likely hiding."
Bran replied.
As they descended, they were greeted by smooth, rectangular walls.
The path stretched into darkness so impenetrable that even the heat-sensitive fairies couldn’t see through it.
‘Magic.’
The scent of it was unmistakable, a conclusion his instincts confirmed.
"This is the only time to rest."
Bran advised.
It wasn’t a place suited for sleep or meals, but it was better than the damp, uneven ground above.
However, the oppressive and unpleasant atmosphere had thickened, the weight pressing down on them heavier than ever.
Two of the fairies looked visibly weary, though Zero and Bran seemed unaffected.
Pel and Luagarne, of course, showed no signs of discomfort.
"This is better than going a week without sleep in the mountains during training."
Pel remarked.
His comment referred to the grueling exercises Encrid had undergone as well—Intense endurance training meant to simulate extreme exhaustion.
Audin and Rem had designed those sessions, and naturally, they endured them well.
Ragna, of course, had skipped them entirely.
"Why the hell would I?"
That was all Ragna had to say.
It was one of the signature challenges of the Border Guard: the infamous ‘Training Hell’.
Pel had passed that course with flying colors. Frogs were naturally built differently in terms of stamina.
And Encrid? He was the one who enjoyed the training the most.
So, he wasn’t particularly tired. If anything, he was just warmed up.
Still, the group rested. When physical stamina wanes, the mind suffers. Body and mind cannot be separated.
No matter how resilient the fairies' spirits might be, fatigue would eventually expose vulnerabilities.
After a short rest, the party moved forward. The corridor stretched in a straight line, leaving no chance of getting lost.
As they proceeded, the darkness began to recede slightly, and monsters appeared.
"Trolls."
Pel commented.
Before he even finished speaking, Encrid grabbed a troll’s neck and ripped out its spine.
In the same instant, he decapitated another troll swinging a club at his side.
It was over in a flash.
The corridor was wide enough to swing a sword freely, which worked to their advantage.
The faint light from the glowing stone barely illuminated the path ahead and behind them, while shadows shifted ominously to their sides.
Occasionally, black smudges, like soot, would lurch out of the darkness.
Zero spotted one and immediately called out, "Wraith."
Before the warning could fully sink in, Pel’s sword cleaved through the wraith.
Further ahead, petrifying cockatrices and basilisks also appeared.
Yet, for monsters, they seemed strangely underwhelming.
It felt like they’d been fighting nonstop for what could have been an entire day.
"Are they manufacturing monsters somewhere?"
Pel muttered, his voice laced with a mix of fatigue and growing boredom.
That boredom, however, quickly dissipated.
A lone figure blocked their path.
The creature stood motionless, like a suit of armor left on a stand.
It wore black armor with a helmet whose visor revealed wriggling maggots and dull, lifeless eyes.
Judging by its decayed appearance, it was undeniably dead.
The hollow, black eyes and rotting flesh left no room for doubt.
Its lanky frame stood out, as did the massive, heavy sword it held.
The weapon’s tip rested against the ground, its blade a dull, reddish-brown.
Instead of reflecting the light from the glowing stone, the blade seemed to absorb it, casting jagged, irregular shadows on the ground.
"Arzhila?"
Zero recognized it immediately.
It was a tragic and unfortunate existence, bound to the labyrinth even in death.
Encrid, however, didn’t have the luxury of listening to Zero or Bran’s explanation.
Creaaak!
The creature’s head tilted unnaturally to one side.
There was no murderous intent, but its movements and presence were clear indicators of danger.
Encrid crossed his steps and moved forward.
Sching!
The silver blade of his sword was drawn, scattering light in stark contrast to the darkness around the creature’s weapon.
Why did he step in?
His instincts told him this was not an enemy he could leave to anyone else.
Dark smudges swirled behind the undead figure as it lunged forward.
Scrraatch!
Its blade dragged against the ground, then swung upward in a powerful arc.
Bran recognized the weapon and its wielder’s deadly potential.
He shouted urgently,
"Dodge it!"
What he truly wanted to convey was far more specific:
"Do not clash blades with it!"
* * *
Bran had watched Encrid throughout their journey and had allowed himself a glimmer of hope.
This man was a formidable warrior. His reputation as a ‘demon slayer’ was no empty boast.
Even so, Bran had not discounted the need for the tools they had prepared.
‘The suppression of essence doesn’t mean we can’t use it entirely.’
While essence projection was suppressed, pre-refined essence remained usable.
The fairies had not entered the labyrinth unprepared.
They had brought their ultimate weapon: a refined essence gem shaped like a fruit, known as Kiaos.
In common language, it was called The Final Dance.
Consuming it meant certain death, but it would allow the user to unleash their essence in a devastating burst before they died.
This was the fairies’ secret trump card.
In Bran’s judgment, this was the moment to use it.
Their opponent was Arzhila, a Fairy Knight who had ventured into the labyrinth in the past.
The sword she wielded was a cursed blade.
Every clash with her sword increased its opponent’s weight twofold.
This was the masterpiece of a genius Fairy Knight, forged through essence and Will.
How the labyrinth had ensnared and bound Arzhila in this state was unknown to Bran.
What he did know, however, was simple:
‘Clashing blades means defeat.’
Thud!
Before Bran could finish shouting his warning, steel met steel with a resounding clang.
He yelled again, "Don’t lock blades with her!"
Encrid was already defending against Arzhila’s rapid, relentless strikes.
Though Bran couldn’t fully comprehend what he was witnessing, one thing was certain: if they stood idle, annihilation was inevitable.
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