642. Coexistence
How many times had he faced this demon?
Encrid could probably memorize every pattern and marking on its body by now—if only there was time for such idle observation.
If you’re not a genius, you have to struggle and flail just to see what they see.
Encrid knew this better than anyone. And in the previous today, despite not being a genius, he had caught a glimpse of what they saw.
From behind Sinar’s chair, Encrid’s sharp gaze locked onto the One-Killer’s legs and arms, watching the blades attached to them.
Not even the smallest movement escaped him, and as he focused, time seemed to slow.
It was the acceleration of thought.
The stale air of the labyrinth felt heavier, its unpleasantness pressing more vividly against his skin.
Adjusting his senses to dull this discomfort would have been ideal, but doing so would render him unable to face the One-Killer. His sixth sense was essential, and he couldn’t afford to suppress it. That was why he simply endured the pressure and unease, without complaint.
By now, after so many repetitions, it was hardly a challenge.
Within the slowed perception of time, the orange, glowing form of the demon streaked toward him like a drawn blade. It seemed as though the creature’s bladed limbs glowed orange as they approached.
Considering that the One-Killer’s entire body was essentially a weapon, this wasn’t far from the truth.
The streak of orange light extended like an afterimage, splitting into several parts before coming back together as the One-Killer neared.
When its glowing form came into full view, a smile spread across Encrid’s face, lighting it up with mirth.
“A greeting.”
His voice was clear and light, as if greeting an old friend. The madman with black hair and blue eyes made his move.
Neither Luagarne nor Pel could follow his movements; they couldn’t even be startled by them. The fairies were no different.
Only Sinar showed a fleeting sign of surprise.
Encrid approached the One-Killer, bringing his sword down in a vertical slash.
The blade traced a perfect arc above his head before descending.
At a glance, it seemed like a straightforward, honest strike.
But it wasn’t.
Sinar saw it clearly—it wasn’t just a simple slash.
The blade of the Silver Sword moved as if bending, scattering light in reflections as it descended. At the same time, it appeared to split into dozens of petals, like a blooming flower.
In truth, the sword hadn’t physically split.
After all, Encrid hadn’t just spent these repetitions pondering solutions or refining his thoughts. These were days of training, battles where his struggles pushed his skills to the next level.
This was an advanced and evolved form of the Deceptive Slash. As he swung his blade, he divided his killing intent, spreading it to unnerve his foe.
Would this tactic have any meaning? It might have against a typical opponent—but not the One-Killer.
Born of malice and killing intent, the demon made the most rational decisions in combat, despite its improvisational nature. It wasn’t easily deceived.
Even so, Encrid’s Silver Sword struck the glowing orange blade as if cutting through it.
Clang!
The impact between their weapons sent shockwaves rippling through the ground, accompanied by a deep, grating reverberation. Dust billowed around them as an invisible force pushed the labyrinth’s oppressive air away for a moment.
“Isn’t this fun?”
Encrid stepped back, shaking the blood and dust from his blade as he asked the question.
The force of his earlier strike left his insides trembling. He had put that much power into it. Over the course of more than 500 repetitions, Encrid had refined the use of Willpower to the point that wielding it felt second nature—even in his sleep.
Unintentionally, his strike had incorporated techniques from The Heart of Great Strength and Giant’s Strike, blending seamlessly with his own.
The repetition of today had made such hybridization a natural part of his combat style, something even Sinar could tell was different.
If the Deceptive Slash was a minor trick to rattle an opponent’s focus, then his true strikes—like the vertical slash—were meant to deliver physical devastation.
In this case, the Deceptive Slash was secondary, while the true strike was the main attack. Though at first glance it seemed the opposite, the real intent was to unsettle and then overwhelm.
The One-Killer responded, its body audibly shifting as bones realigned, altering the form of its limbs. Its legs transformed, and its arms stretched unnaturally long.
It had accepted the "greeting" fully, showing its seriousness.
Encrid found it amusing. “I’m having fun. Aren’t you?”
The One-Killer didn’t answer. Demons had no mouths, no voices.
“It has no vocal cords, no will,” Sinar remarked.
“I know,” Encrid replied. He likely understood this better than she did. But even without a mouth, the demon’s actions conveyed its intentions clearly enough—its transformations were a declaration of resolve.
Watching the demon’s shifting form, Encrid adjusted his stance, lowering the tip of his blade slightly. It wasn’t a threat, but rather a signal—an assertion of control in their tactical exchange.
The One-Killer immediately reacted.
Boom!
It leapt, its reversed-joint-like legs propelling it forward with terrifying speed. Despite the slowed perception of time, the demon was upon him in the blink of an eye.
The ground exploded beneath its feet, sending shards of stone flying like a fountain. Yet the One-Killer was faster than the debris, already in Encrid’s face.
Its orange blades curved and twisted like streaks of light, splitting into dozens of phantom slashes that targeted every part of Encrid’s body, from his head to his feet.
Encrid split his focus, gripping a blade in each hand and parrying each strike individually.
Clang-clang-clang!
Here, the division of thought came into play.
At first, he tried splitting his focus into dozens of threads, mimicking the One-Killer’s overwhelming speed.
As he fought, he calculated; as he calculated, he fought. This relentless effort caused his nose to bleed even faster than before.
It was as if the demon knew he was straining to break through his limits, taunting him with increasingly dynamic movements.
But Encrid didn’t give up. He endured.
And though he eventually failed, there was revelation in that failure.
“I don’t need to divide my focus into so many threads.”
It didn’t happen all at once, but over many iterations, he grew more adept.
“Focus broadly on the flow, narrowly on the moment.”
Though he hated naming techniques, he found himself assigning terms like Accelerated Thinking and Division of Thought anyway.
“It’s not the definition that matters—it’s the application.”
The answer became clear:
Wave-Blocking Swordsmanship was a style designed for prolonged combat. It emphasized endurance over explosive power—not a strike to finish a fight in one blow, but a method to persist and wear down the enemy.
Through steady breathing and measured effort, Encrid trained himself to endure long battles. But when the One-Killer unleashed an accelerated flurry of strikes, he failed to keep up and died.
He lacked the ability to see the whole picture.
From that failure, he learned to see the flow—the realm of insight. He began to look farther and longer, building strategies for sustained combat.
At the same time, he realized he couldn’t afford even the smallest wound from the demon’s blade.
“Focus narrowly on the moment.”
With this, he trained his combat instincts to counter in the present, responding to immediate threats.
From these insights came another realization:
“Endurance or explosiveness isn’t the answer. I must balance them.”
Balance—coexistence—was the key.
Training for Wave-Blocking Swordsmanship was complete. It wasn’t about refining fundamentals, but accelerating and dividing thought to make full use of his abilities.
The One-Killer launched another storm of orange meteors, its blades scattering light in all directions like a supernova.
Encrid adjusted his senses, selectively dulling his perception of harmful stimuli to avoid overwhelming himself.
Willpower coursed through his body, shielding his organs and empowering his blade.
Clang-clang-clang!
The orange meteors failed to strike their mark, deflecting into the void.
Utilizing his sixth sense, Encrid could even afford to blink, easing the strain on his eyes.
The One-Killer shifted its tactics again. Its evolving limbs were joined by a transformation in its strategy.
Not Merely Relying on Physical Ability, But Expanding Utility
The One-Killer began kicking off in all directions, leaping through the air as though it had turned into a giant grasshopper. With a boom, it launched itself into the void, using walls and ceilings as though they were solid ground.
It initiated three-dimensional maneuvers at terrifying speed, slashing its arms in wide arcs.
What had once been a frontal meteor shower now targeted everything—head, neck, arms, legs, back, thighs—no part of Encrid’s body was safe. The attack range expanded to encompass every angle, above, below, and all around.
“I can’t keep up with my feet alone.”
It wasn’t about moving constantly but moving precisely when needed. High-speed thinking sought the solution and handed it to combat intuition—not that it truly “handed” anything over. It all happened simultaneously.
And then, an unexpected thought seeped into Encrid’s mind.
The oppressive pressure of the Demon Realm weighed on his shoulders. The density of the air, its foul scent, everything felt suffocating.
“Sunlight.”
As Encrid blocked and parried the incoming attacks, he found himself longing for sunlight. He wanted to feel a cool breeze.
The fairy city was always filled with the scent of grass, the fragrance of flowers wafting through the air.
“It’s a good place.”
Simply imagining the sunlight and wind, that sense of something good, allowed Encrid to momentarily forget the pressure bearing down on him.
It was only possible because his divided thoughts gave him room to think this way.
Willpower—the strength of one’s resolve—rises from the depths of the mind and influences the body. His arms and legs moved more lightly.
One stream of thought recognized this, while the other seamlessly carried out and executed those movements.
Each divided thought served its role.
The One-Killer’s attacks were relentless and sharp. From an outsider’s perspective, it looked as if Encrid was barely managing to block them, teetering on the edge. But in truth, this was an extraordinary feat.
“What… what kind of madness is this?” Sinar muttered, astonished. She wasn’t the only one.
Encrid deflected blade after blade. The One-Killer’s deadly strikes swiped futilely through the air.
Time passed.
Encrid didn’t lose focus on himself or the present. He remained anchored in the now.
The Wave-Blocking Swordsmanship, a style designed to block even waves, neutralized all the One-Killer’s attacks.
At one point, the demon targeted Pel, but Encrid intercepted the blade as if he had been waiting for it.
Blocking wasn’t just about holding your ground with a sword like a shield. Counterattacks were also a part of defense—a fundamental principle he had learned long before becoming the reckless Squad Leader he once was. He learned it, trained it, and now, he used it.
Another day passed.
Clang! Clang-clang-clang!
To be precise, he spent an entire day blocking attacks. Balancing explosiveness and endurance, his sword style neither killed the One-Killer nor allowed himself to die.
“Ah…”
During that time, Encrid occasionally found himself drunk on exhilaration.
“To master a sword style is to open a new world.”
He had once heard someone say that. Back then, it had been nothing more than a passing remark, far removed from both the speaker and the listener.
After all, the person who said it had been a mere sword instructor in a small town—at best, a low-ranking mercenary.
Surely, he hadn’t been talking about knightly techniques.
But now, Encrid remembered those words, and they resonated deeply.
After enduring for an entire day, Encrid mixed meaningless movements into his Wave-Blocking Swordsmanship—raising his left foot and shaking it, sticking out his tongue, or spinning in place.
Blocking alone wouldn’t end the fight. This was the solution he had found.
The One-Killer was a demon stripped of reason, operating entirely on rational combat instincts. As such, even meaningless actions would compel it to assign meaning, overloading its calculations.
He knew this strategy worked—he’d tested it several times before.
“An opening.”
Seizing the brief opening, Encrid swung his sword.
Slash!
A part of the demon’s forearm was sliced. It wasn’t a significant wound—barely the size of a fingernail—but black blood splattered, and a small piece of flesh was severed.
The wound quickly sealed as orange light spread across the gash, mending it.
This was the beginning.
To sever the demon’s throat or dismember its arm, Encrid would have to abandon the Wave-Blocking Swordsmanship—but that would make it harder to block the One-Killer’s attacks.
If his sword style was a shield, he expanded its coverage slightly, integrating new techniques. He blended the rigid structure of Wave-Blocking Swordsmanship with his own improvisations.
From mastery to application, he had completed an entire system within a single day.
“Genius,” Pel muttered, catching a glimpse of Encrid’s progress.
“Not just any genius,” he added with a sigh.
Of course, it was a misunderstanding. The result had been built through the compounding efforts of countless todays, stacked upon each other.
The demon’s flesh peeled away layer by layer, revealing the orange glow beneath as it was gradually reduced to pieces.
The One-Killer was dying—or rather, being dismantled piece by piece.
After enduring an entire day without rest, anyone else would have collapsed where they stood.
Two days passed. Without sleep or respite, the intense battle raged on.
By dividing his thoughts, Encrid reduced the strain on his body. With high-speed thinking and Willpower, he no longer needed to push his body beyond its limits.
The result was inevitable.
The being with no mouth and no vocal cords could not speak. Instead, it admitted its defeat as its body was reduced to severed hands, arms, legs, feet, and fingers—all dismembered.
This wasn’t a dramatic, single-stroke victory. Encrid knew that.
But to the onlookers, it might have seemed that way.
Pel thought that even if someone asked him to explain what had happened, he wouldn’t be able to.
Encrid had simply endured, peeling away the demon’s flesh one layer at a time until it was reduced to pieces and destroyed.
That was all.
The One-Killer lay on the ground. Encrid had won.
“…Now all that’s left is the wedding ceremony,” Sinar said.
“I told you, I’m not doing that,” Encrid retorted immediately, his gaze fixed on the fairies.
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