What must be done—deflect the incoming attack.
The moment he perceived and recognized it, his body reacted on its own. There was no need for calculation. His opponent’s swordplay was not about complex strategies but about committing everything to a single decisive strike.
With his accelerated thought process, time around him seemed to stretch.
Encrid saw the attack aimed at him—a long, piercing weapon, a rapier. The stabbing technique reeked of Jaxon’s influence.
Recognizing this, he pressed his right big toe firmly into the ground, then drew Penna and swung.
The transmission of power from his ankle to his waist to his hands was twice as fast as before.
His knee bounced as he pushed forward, stabilizing his shoulder, elbow, and wrist to ensure they remained locked in place.
A Middle Sword Thrust, emphasizing power over speed—it was a technique feared for its ability to pierce through anything unless blocked with great precision, earning it the name Battering Ram Thrust.
Like a siege weapon crashing through a fortress gate, his blade shot forward.
When a sword with absurd cutting power combined with technique, it created something akin to magic.
Chik! Sguk!
The iron spike was severed in the middle, and the head of the attacker emerging from the dirt was cleaved in two.
The sheer force of Encrid’s movement stirred the wind at his feet, and the sparks from his sword, sliced mid-air, rode the gusts, rising like a small tornado before vanishing.
To an unknowing observer, it might have looked as if he had conjured a swirling storm of embers.
With a single strike, he not only blocked the ambush but also cut through the weapon and killed its wielder.
It was a perfect harmony of technique and strength—one that could easily be mistaken for magic.
Encrid finished his slash and flicked his sword, sending blood splattering onto the ground.
When he looked at Penna, there wasn’t a single drop of blood clinging to the blade.
It was said that the sword’s keen edge remained pristine even without oiling.
Even so, he recalled that it was best to clean it with a special oil mixture, made from Woodguard’s sap and Camellia flower oil, every six months.
When he had decided to do so, the fairy Rafrathio had personally given him a batch of the oil.
It was not just a good sword, it was a treasure.
“A fine weapon.”
The first to speak was the man holding the staff.
Encrid flicked his sword again and turned to face him.
Though the ambush had targeted all of them, neither Luagarne nor Pel had been the type to die so easily.
As expected, both had successfully repelled the attack.
Luagarne had used her forearm as a shield, leaving a hole in her flesh, but for a Frog, this was a successful defense.
Pel had instinctively bent backward, drew his sword, and deflected the attack.
Encrid heard a soft clang, the sound of Pel knocking away the incoming blade.
Zero, startled, had leaped backward, his swift fairy reflexes saving him.
His golden hair fluttered in the air.
A shallow cut marked his forehead, but if he had been even a moment slower, his head might have been punctured, leaving new holes where his eyes, nose, and ears should have been.
If Zero had been in true mortal danger, Encrid would have chosen to block the attack instead of killing his own assailant. But he had judged that Zero would manage.
“Ma…”
The cultist with the staff tried to say something, but Encrid acted first.
It was a brief moment where everyone was hesitating, looking for an opening—a moment where thought itself could be disrupted.
Encrid’s left hand brushed against his chest before extending forward.
A strange sound echoed in response to his movement.
Puuuuuuu!
He had thrown a modified Whistle Dagger—a weapon he had adjusted for personal use because he could never quite get the hang of Silent Daggers.
To enhance its lethality, he had added a blade to it, and now he was considering renaming it.
Perhaps Horn Dagger would be more fitting.
Pwah! Pwah!
It wasn’t just the sound—it was the power behind it.
Encrid was never one to be idle.
Beyond just training his swordsmanship, he constantly refined and practiced the skills he had learned.
This throwing technique was based on what he had learned from Jaxon.
The daggers he had just thrown tore through three ambushers rising from the dirt.
They didn’t just lodge into their heads—they outright exploded them.
He had used three of the six daggers he had requested Eitri to forge for him.
Now, only three remained.
‘The only sword left is Penna.’
His True Silver Sword and Ember were both lost. Penna, though slightly shorter, was still formidable.
‘But that doesn’t mean I’m at a disadvantage.’
Encrid remained calm, assessing the situation. There was no need to panic.
He widened his stance, took his position, and raised his sword.
When he held Penna vertically, the crimson moonlight split around its blade.
Under the glow of Twin Moons, the man with the staff tapped the ground again— Tak.
“I’ll ask one last time. Would you consider switching sides? A talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted here.”
“And who exactly are you?”
Encrid’s posture remained unshaken as he asked the question.
He showed no signs of fear or uncertainty.
The most surprised person was Luagarne.
Upon seeing the staff and the man’s attire, she neither puffed her cheeks nor made her usual expressions, she simply glared.
“Could it be…?”
She asked hesitantly.
Pel scowled, gripping the handle of Idol Slayer.
Zero’s breathing was slow and shallow, as if he was forcing himself to remain composed.
The black-armored Knight’s presence had been pressing down on them this entire time.
It felt like they had stepped back into the Labyrinth, the heart of the Demon Realm itself.
This pressure, this intimidation, was something only Knights could exude.
“Your suspicions are correct.”
The staff-wielding man nodded.
Encrid stared at him blankly, prompting him to elaborate.
“I am an Apostle of Rebirth Cult.”
In the Cult of the Sacred Demon Realm, the title Apostle was given to those with exceptional talents.
It also referred to those who had awakened their abilities after encountering one of the Six Demons.
This man was one of the First Apostles, belonging to the latter category.
In short, he was the one who had been pulling the strings behind all the cultists until now.
He was the one who had sent the Apostle of Curses.
He was the one who had directed the Gold Arts Sorcerer, who controlled the Walking Fire.
“A charm strong enough to enthrall even cultists.”
Pel muttered instinctively, having honed his skills in provocation lately.
“Is that right?”
Encrid replied, causing Pel to smirk.
The situation was dire, but there was no reason to shrink back.
If today was his day to die, then so be it.
If he had feared death, he wouldn’t have picked up a sword in the first place.
The Shepherds of the Wilderness grow up chatting with ghosts and playing tag with monsters.
If fear of death meant failing to do what must be done, then one could never even begin the life of a shepherd.
“So, isn’t it?”
Pel responded boldly, unwavering.
To Encrid, Pel’s greatest talent was his boldness.
It suited his disposition perfectly.
He didn’t envy it, though.
The Apostle’s remark about wasted talent was simply laughable.
“Why don’t you go call a ghoul ‘mom’ and beg for more milk? There’s no way in hell I’m switching sides.”
Encrid’s response was unexpected, and outright vulgar.
The Apostle furrowed his brow, frowning involuntarily.
What did he just say?
Pel felt something explode in his mind upon hearing those words.
What is provocation? It is stimulation. It is about making the opponent react.
'The key is to read the atmosphere and throw out something completely unexpected.'
Encrid knew how to twist words to taunt his enemies, but this time, he had gone for a direct insult.
Yes, now he understood. The goal was to rattle the opponent, disrupt their composure—not just to throw around curses.
Pel was thrilled and immediately wanted to put this newfound knowledge to use.
"Look at his face. He’s been weaned off milk for years. And yet, imagining him begging for it—ugh."
Though he couldn't quite mimic a gagging sound, he opened his mouth as if to vomit. He had, without a doubt, hit the right note.
"…A lunatic, indeed."
The Apostle muttered under his breath.
The Sacred Cult of the Demon Realm was, of course, based in the Demon Realm itself. This man was merely a regional commander sent out on assignment.
Even so, seeing an Apostle, someone who had been personally taught by a demon—lose his temper over a few words was undeniably satisfying.
Luagarne’s cheeks puffed up. Frog let out a deep, croaking laugh.
"Still, I will give you one last chance. Ele."
At the Apostle’s words, the black-armored Knight moved.
No—just as movement registered in their minds, a black line had already been drawn above Encrid’s head.
A slash through the cracks of time itself, cutting through accelerated thought.
Encrid raised Penna, the sword gifted by the fairies—and struck upward.
Clang!
A moment ago, he had sliced through a pike with ease.
But this time, his sword was stopped.
The black blade trembled in the air before splitting into three afterimages.
'A feint—created by shaking the wrist around the ankle as a pivot.'
The technique became clear to him instantly, and with it, the countermeasure.
The enemy wielded a deceptive sword style.
Without hesitation, Encrid instinctively split his thoughts and executed Wave-Blocking Swordsmanship.
Tatatang!
Swords clashed, sending sharp echoes ringing through the air.
As the ringing spread, a powerful gust of wind blew between them.
Through the embers, Encrid’s blue eyes gleamed with intensity.
The black-armored Knight was formidable as well. Though his helmet’s visor was lowered, his cold, piercing blue gaze shone through the slits.
In a flash, dozens of attacks and counters were exchanged. Amidst the flurry, the Apostle spoke, neither too fast nor too slow.
“Do you believe you live according to your own will? Do you think this world is fair? All humans are equal before the Demon Realm. If you understood our ideology, you would see the truth.”
As he spoke, Ele’s sword split into three once more—but this time, instead of simply multiplying, it suddenly extended in length.
With a metallic ping, the blade stretched outward, revealing thin wires connecting the segments.
It was a pre-planned maneuver. It seemed impossible for Encrid to evade—he had just leaped backward to dodge an earlier attack.
To make matters worse, Ele’s left hand had already extended, ensnaring Encrid’s wrist with a strange cord.
For a moment, the scene painted a picture of inevitable disaster.
The cloth binding his wrist was meant to immobilize his hand, while the segmented blade was poised to tear through his chest.
But that never happened.
Encrid completely ignored the cord wrapped around his wrist and pulled Penna back, striking at the middle section of the segmented blade.
Clang!
A bright burst of sparks erupted, and the sword that had been about to pierce his chest veered off course.
The longer a weapon, the more unwieldy its trajectory.
Applying force to the middle of the blade disrupted its balance, altering its direction.
“My name is Black Snake!”
Ele shouted, growing more excited as the battle raged on.
His sword, his imprinted weapon, seemed to be his signature technique.
Screech!
His blade fragmented into multiple segments once again, stretching further. It was like a whip made of blades.
But at times, it reverted to a solid sword, then back to a whip—its unpredictability made it difficult to counter.
Yet—
Clang! Clang! Bang!
Encrid held his ground effortlessly.
It looked dangerous, yet he never seemed truly at risk.
To an outsider, this battle was completely unreadable.
If Luagarne could see it, so could the Apostle.
‘Didn’t he barely manage to defeat Hatun?’
The Apostle thought, bewildered.
Even if he had won comfortably, this shouldn’t have been possible.
In terms of raw combat prowess, Black Snake Ele was the strongest warrior in the Apostle’s district.
In a fight to the death, even he wasn’t sure if he could defeat Ele.
And yet, Encrid was holding his own. Holding his own quite well, in fact.
‘Good thing I prepared for this.’
If one were to describe the First Apostle’s temperament, it would be similar to Ermen or Krais.
He had anticipated that Ele might fail to subdue Encrid.
And so, the Apostle spoke again.
“Levantine.”
One of the robed figures stepped forward.
His loose sleeves made his attire seem unsuitable for combat.
“May I have a drink first?”
“Do as you please.”
A cryptic exchange.
Levantine’s lips twisted unnaturally into a grotesque grin.
From between his stretched jaws, sharp fangs protruded. It was a sickening sight.
Saliva dripped between his fangs, revealing his gums, while black veins pulsed across his bloodshot eyes.
“I am Levantine, Noble of the Night.”
As he spoke, he lunged forward.
Encrid, unfazed, casually swung his sword in the direction of the incoming attack.
Penna cut through Levantine’s robes.
Rip!
The fabric split cleanly in half.
But Levantine was gone.
Instead, a mist dissipated into the air and rose upward.
The Demon Realm was home to vampires, a race that survived by consuming human blood.
Levantine was one of them.
He wasn’t a Knight, but even Ele wouldn’t dare to guarantee a victory against him.
He was a warrior handpicked by the First Apostle himself.
Mid-air, Levantine reformed into human shape and extended his hand.
His palm split open, spilling inky black blood, which coalesced into a jagged projectile before launching forward.
Thud!
Encrid pivoted on his left foot, spinning like a top as he swung his blade.
The black-blood arrow shattered against the edge of his sword.
And in the same motion—
Clang!
He deflected another strike from Ele’s segmented sword.
It looked as if he had barely reacted in time.
“Damn it.”
Pel muttered under his breath.
He had been waiting for a chance to intervene, but the opportunity never came.
Watching from a distance, he suspected that the man standing behind the two combatants was just as dangerous.
At this rate, wouldn’t Encrid eventually be overwhelmed?
Determined to find a way in, Pel tightened his grip on his sword.
Luagarne, too, focused intently.
Zero, on the other hand, didn’t even dare to try stepping in.
And then, the Apostle spoke once more.
“Become equal before the Demon Realm. Become a pillar of this greater world. This is your fate.”
It was as if he were delivering a sermon, refusing to stop speaking.
“I will grant you the chance to restart your unfortunate destiny!”
His cultist voice echoed powerfully, laced with an unnatural force.
Clang!
Another clash of swords.
Bang!
The burst of black vampire blood.
Between the sounds of battle, Encrid responded.
“What?”
Smack! Clang!
“Didn’t catch that. Say it again.”
“Ah.”
Pel let out a breath of admiration.
Sometimes, simple words—not insults, could unravel an opponent’s composure just as effectively.
That realization led him into an entirely new world of understanding.
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