In the language of the fairies, Penna was an abbreviation. When fully translated, it meant Kiis Seko Pedna, the Feather That Cuts Everything.
Encrid swung it with just enough Will to avoid exhaustion, causing a pale blue light to emanate from the blade.
At the same time, the sword felt like it was sticking to his hand more naturally.
How could he describe this?
‘A feeling of becoming one with the sword?’
Something like that. He recalled how Rem always said his axe was like an extension of himself, and this sensation now made him think that must be what Rem meant.
Penna's blade extended smoothly, grazing the nose of the martial artist known as Mormon, right after cutting through the vampire.
A soft slicing sound was followed by the martial artist’s face being covered in blood. The sound may have been faint, but Penna’s blade was incredibly sharp, leaving a deep wound. Blood streamed down, but the martial artist flexed his facial muscles to stop the bleeding.
It was the muscle-tightening technique taught in Valaf-style martial arts. The newcomer wasn’t an ordinary opponent by any means. But even so, he was manageable.
Encrid could block, evade, and strike back with ease.
With rapid thinking and split-second decision-making, he wielded the Wave-Blocking Sword technique to defend himself. Compared to facing One-Killer, this was twice as easy.
He focused his strength, relied on the elasticity of his knees, twisted his waist, and swung the sword to scatter his attacks.
Clang!
He used the rebound force from clashing with the weapon of the one called the Black Snake to drive an elbow backward.
Thud!
The elbow connected with the martial artist’s fist. The martial artist spun his body and delivered a kick.
The leg swung like a whip, delivering a strike sharp enough to be mistaken for a slash.
Even in the stretched-out perception of time, Encrid saw the fast-moving leg and leaned backward while raising his knee and pointing his toes upward. The One-Killer would attack from any stance.
It made sense, considering its entire body was a weapon. But then Encrid thought:
‘Can’t I just do something similar?’
And just like that, the idea was put into action. Since he had trained his body using Valaf-style martial arts, he could seamlessly mix martial arts techniques when needed. His movements didn’t feel awkward.
The Wave-Blocking Sword technique wasn’t just about swinging the sword—it was more akin to an art form that trained the mind. Therefore, everything he did now fell under that technique.
Moreover, Encrid had endured over 500 cycles of fighting this way not long ago.
He could keep this up for three days. If he pushed himself, he could last for a week. Of course, that would leave him utterly drained.
As for the spells that interrupted him in between—while they weren’t exactly trivial, they were manageable compared to the Walking Fire.
In summary, this fight was very winnable.
‘Could they be fakes?’
Encrid considered the possibility as he aimed a kick at the chest of the Black Snake, Ele. Spikes emerged from the his breastplate.
Typical of someone who specialized in deceptive swordplay—they had hidden traps on their armor.
Encrid quickly adjusted, switching from a flat-footed kick to a toe strike aimed at Ele’s chin. Ele tried to dodge but ended up getting hit on the edge of his helmet.
Thud.
It wasn’t a powerful attack, but it was enough to rattle his head.
‘What a monstrous bastard.’
Ele clenched his teeth in frustration, while Encrid’s suspicions deepened.
‘These guys must be fakes, right?’
If this were truly a trap set by the cult, it wouldn’t be this easy.
Of course, they weren’t fakes. These opponents were the real deal and far from ordinary.
Even so, Encrid had underestimated his own capabilities, which allowed him to entertain such thoughts.
‘The Black Snake and the vampire both relied on unconventional techniques.’
In comparison, the martial artist, Mormon, focused on raw power and speed. His style could be considered more traditional.
Recently, combat systems had been categorized into different classifications: the Black Snake and the vampire fell under the "maintenance technique" type, while the martial artist belonged to the "trained killing technique" type.
Of course, all three had reached the level of Knights and could be considered versatile.
As one’s level increased, any deficiencies would naturally be compensated for.
Being a "trained killing type" didn’t mean they lacked maintenance or technique.
‘The ideal form is a perfect circle.’
A level where their strengths were hidden within a rounded balance.
From that perspective, Rem, Ragna, and Audin still had room for growth.
‘Beyond trained killing, maintenance, and versatility lies completion.’
There’s no such thing as perfection, but reaching a certain level could be considered a form of completion.
The vampire was flailing in three pieces on the ground, effectively dead.
Next up was the martial artist. A gap appeared, and Penna sliced across his throat. Blood spurted from the severed windpipe.
Whatever life he had lived, whatever dreams or desires had brought him here, were now lost forever.
The dead have no stories to tell.
A dark liquid, appearing black under the red moonlight, oozed and pooled on the ground.
Thud.
The martial artist collapsed, his knees hitting the ground first, followed by his head.
To everyone watching, it felt like time had slowed as his body fell in an arc.
All beginnings have an end, and the slow descent of his head eventually reached the ground.
The liquid continued to flow beneath his fallen body. Did blood darken to black as it thickened? Was this characteristic of their kind’s blood? No one knew for sure.
"My wish will be fulfilled in the end."
The Black Snake, Ele, muttered incomprehensible words and charged. Encrid could hold off three opponents, but he couldn’t afford to fight recklessly against someone putting their life on the line.
Sure, the fight seemed manageable, but any mistake or lapse in concentration would mean death for him.
That said, after facing the One-Killer demon in countless battles akin to walking a tightrope, this battle felt surprisingly manageable.
Which meant there was no room for mistakes. And even less for complacency.
Knights were monsters by nature. To ordinary people, they appeared flawless and capable of extraordinary feats. But even among Knights, Encrid’s techniques were considered highly refined.
There were no openings. Was that why he earned the nickname "The Iron-Wall Knight"?
Even Ele, who was now attacking, couldn’t help but acknowledge this.
Bang! Bang!
Encrid deflected the elongated blade of the Black Snake with Penna and leaped to the left, but the serpentine blade followed him like a real snake.
The Black Snake’s weapon twisted midair and aimed for the back of Encrid’s head. It genuinely looked like a snake lunging to bite.
Encrid, moving backward, pressed his thumb against the ground and reversed direction. The abrupt motion created an illusion as if his body had momentarily continued in the original direction.
But in reality, he had already changed course and was sprinting forward, Penna poised to intercept the enemy’s blade.
Sparks flew as he sprinted forward.
The comet-like pale blue glow climbed along the Black Snake’s weapon. The Black Snake failed to achieve its goal, and Encrid’s Penna sliced cleanly through Ele’s neck.
Slash!
The sound of the cut was clean and sharp. The strike was so swift that only a thin line marked the severed neck; the head didn’t even fly off.
Penna’s blade was sharp enough to leave only a faint incision as it passed through.
"Just die already, you bastard."
Even in death, Ele cursed, tears of blood trickling from his neck.
Soon, his neck slipped, and instead of a few drops of blood, a torrent gushed out. If it had been water from a city fountain instead of blood from a severed neck, it would’ve been a magnificent sight.
What no one could have known was that this man had lost his wife at 19 and his daughter at 22. By 29, he had come to hate the human race as a whole. His name was Ele, the Black Snake.
Ele, as he lay dying, felt as though he were sinking into a dark pit. His wife and daughter were not there. He had willingly shared the demon’s blood to exact revenge on the world.
Thus, the place he was destined for was beside the demon.
"Truly remarkable."
The man holding the staff said as he stopped chanting his spells. Now that the battle’s outcome had been decided, the Apostle of Rebirth spoke with a calm tone, as though he was no longer surprised.
"Did I underestimate you? Or was my calculation off? Or perhaps, is this some kind of divine joke? There are too many mysteries to comprehend, but questioning them won’t change the result."
"Are you going to attack?"
"There’s only me left, but yes, I suppose I must."
The Apostle was a spell collector with exceptional physical abilities. But as Encrid would describe it, he was an incomplete circle.
‘A round circle can still be pierced by a sharp spike.’
That was Encrid’s thought. When a system was established, it often led to inspiration for the next form of swordsmanship.
Encrid was already envisioning a new form of sword technique as he fought.
The meaning had only just emerged, but this was where it all began. It could just as easily vanish into nothing, though.
The Apostle had hoped to become their misfortune, but that wish went unfulfilled.
Clack, clack!
He had used more than half of the spells at his disposal, and none of them had worked.
Even the black sphere spell that was supposed to turn anything it touched into dust had been cut by Encrid’s sword.
"In the end, we will be victorious."
The Apostle said.
Thump.
Encrid only half-listened as he thrust his sword into the Apostle’s neck and slashed.
The blood flowing from the wound mingled with the moonlight, bright red. Though he was a cultist, this man had been human.
Worshiping a god of the Demon Realm didn’t mean he had become a different species.
The severed head hit the ground with a thud and rolled away.
The ominous red moonlight still bathed the land, but the enemies were no more.
All traces of the necromantic magic summoned by the Apostle vanished the moment their caster died.
Some spirits, seizing the opportunity to go on a rampage, tried to act out but were quickly subdued by Luagarne’s whip and Zero’s sword.
"Hah, I see my approach was flawed."
The severed head spoke, even without a body attached. The Apostle of Rebirth was displaying a bizarre trick as he tried to continue the conversation.
"…Are you some kind of immortal?"
Would cutting the head into eight pieces keep him alive?
As Encrid raised his sword to strike again, the head hurriedly opened its mouth.
"No, I’ll be dead soon. At best, I might last until morning. The red moonlight is only prolonging my life by strengthening my magic."
Was he lying? It didn’t seem like it.
"Even if you split my head, it won’t make a difference, will it? If you feel any pity and want to save me, you could bring five virgin men and five virgin women, spill their blood over my body, and reattach my head. But I doubt you’d be willing to do that."
"If I were willing, I wouldn’t have cut your head off in the first place."
"Actually, even that wouldn’t work. The blood from sexual activity doesn’t change anything. Unless, of course, you could find the blood of a dragon."
A joke at a time like this?
"Shall I crush you with my whip?"
Luagarne offered kindly.
"I can split him myself. Are you worried about curses?"
Pel added.
"If that’s the concern, I can do it too."
Zero chimed in.
"Why are you all so eager to kill this old body? Show some mercy. Ugh, it’s exhausting just gathering the magic to speak."
"Is there something you want to say?"
"I have regrets and a proposal. The regrets are personal and can be dismissed, but the proposal remains. You should change sides."
"Let me use my whip."
Luagarne threatened, preparing to lash out.
In truth, the Apostle was barely hanging on. He didn’t have the strength to say much more.
He could have used the last of his strength to cast a curse, but he had tried that already and knew it wouldn’t work. His best option was to leave them with a few parting words.
"You’re fighting a battle you can’t win. Isn’t it better to side with the victor?"
Even without a body, the weight behind his words was undeniable. He wasn’t as charismatic as Krang, but he was a skilled orator.
The Apostle had once been a prominent figure in his era.
He had aligned himself with the Demon Realm and followed the doctrines of the Cult of the Demon Realm Sanctuary, becoming an Apostle of Rebirth. Whether right or wrong, it couldn’t be denied that he had led a remarkable life.
A misguided belief system didn’t diminish individual talent.
Similarly, morality didn’t always align with skill, nor did walking the righteous path guarantee a bright future.
Encrid silently stared at the severed head, which continued speaking.
"In the end, you’ll be stopped by our blades."
That was possible. Encrid knew the Apostle was being as honest as possible.
But the battle Encrid had started wasn’t about winning or losing. It was a path forged through crawling and walking, even with his meager talent.
He wanted to protect mothers who wished to raise their children in cities free of monsters.
He envisioned a world where even the vendor who shared bruised apples could smile.
He hoped that the old woman who had lived her life lamenting as a barmaid could find peace in her later years.
He dreamed of mercenaries instilling hope in children without suffering nightmares.
Yes, that was the kind of world he wanted.
That’s why he wielded the sword.
That’s why he sang the song.
The Song of the Knight of the Armistice had yet to begin.
"It doesn’t matter."
Encrid said, brushing off the Apostle’s verbal curse as easily as swatting a fly. It wasn’t difficult, nor did it require deep analysis, things simply ended that way.
"…You’re willing to fight a losing battle?"
That’s your opinion, but Encrid didn’t say that. Instead, a deeper response emerged from within him.
"I’ll keep fighting until I win."
"…I see."
Behind him, Pel had another moment of realization, and the Apostle, after staring at the madman for a moment, spoke his final words.
"It’s a pity I won’t get to see a world ruled by the Demon Realm."
He was an Apostle of Rebirth down to his very bones. But now that he was dead, that wish had become meaningless. With that, the severed head could speak no more.
The red moonlight faded to one side. It was a pitch-black night—the final moments before dawn. In the Western tongue, this time was called Urquiola, the dim dawn.
It was only natural for dawn to follow.
A pale blue light enveloped the surroundings, and soon after, the sun rose. Its light bathed the world as if nothing had happened.
"Nice weather."
Luagarne commented.
While the group cleaned up the corpses, some of the fairies with keen senses of energy approached from the front, sensing ominous energy. They were skilled in manipulating spirits and energy.
"What’s going on? Was this an attack?"
One of them asked as they scanned the area. This fairy had traveled across the continent and had taken on the role of their guide.
No comments yet. Be the first to leave a review!