"All it takes to cut a taut string is a single snip of the scissors."
There's a saying that one well-placed stone is enough to tilt a balanced scale.
Encrid thought that Drmule might have foreseen this situation before he did.
Maybe Hescal had advised him, or maybe he had simply felt an ominous premonition.
If it wasn’t that—
'Just two swordsmen and one girl.'
Why would he say that and struggle so desperately to kill Ann?
'If he hadn’t known something, he wouldn't have bothered to interfere.'
That’s the thought that came to mind.
If Hescal had set his mind to it, saving Ann would have been extremely difficult.
It’s the conclusion that came only after time passed and looking back.
No matter how tirelessly Ragna guarded her day and night, if it was Hescal, he would have found a gap and struck.
But that didn’t happen.
Instead, small stones piled up on one side of the scale, and the pebbles, just two swordsmen and one girl, managed to tip it.
After the shudder from seeing the Head of Zaun’s sword swept through his body, Encrid, though he had no talent for predicting the end of battles, had no difficulty in reflecting on the situation by looking at the results.
Alexandra accelerated her Will, utilizing her enhanced strength, five senses, and dynamic vision. Thus, she achieved an explosion of pure motion.
To put it simply, it was like lighting a single candle and fighting to hold on until the wax completely burned away.
And Tempest changed form and exploded the Will.
It was a Focus Point Burst, staking everything on a single swing of the sword.
This was not a candle, but a spark from a flint. A flame that only ignited for a brief moment when struck.
However, the firepower was several times more intense than a candle. It was like releasing all the firepower meant for burning the candle at once.
'This isn’t swordplay fit for a sick body.'
Reality, which had been momentarily forgotten due to the exhilaration, forced its way back into Encrid's mind.
Even with half his body severed, Drmule still reeked of rot.
Thick black fluid oozed out between his half-mangled intestines, and rainwater poured into his severed torso.
And yet he still hadn’t died. It was as if he was determined to prove that.
"Die."
Drmule’s relatively intact left hand lifted.
At the same time, the words he muttered were infused with will and magic, becoming a spell.
Black mist gathered at his hand and transformed into a long rod that shot out.
It was shaped much like the weapons the Scalors had wielded before.
Even without being told, it was obvious the rod was saturated with poison.
Whoosh.
As the rod manifested physically through magic, a sharp sound of the air splitting apart rang out.
Would a mere rod like that be enough to kill the Head of Zaun? Impossible, under normal circumstances.
But the Head’s single swing had ruptured all the blood vessels in his eyes, causing blood to seep out.
Because of that, everyone looking could see the Head’s eyes turn crimson.
And not just his eyes, blood began to flow from his nose, mouth, ears, and every hole on his face.
In the midst of all this, the spell came flying. Ragna watched but couldn’t stop it.
He was already lucky not to have passed out. Strenuous movement was impossible for him.
Even so, his body responded instinctively, and he half-rose to his feet, but someone moved before him.
It was Encrid.
The moment he snapped back to reality from his exhilaration, he acted immediately.
He already knew from experience, such demons always prepared some final act. Even after killing the One-Killer, he had almost lost Sinar.
How could he forget the monstrous act where, at the very end, the demon tried to shove his soul and everything else into Sinar?
Yes, he hadn’t forgotten that moment. Despite his body creaking, Encrid stood in front of the head of the house.
It was a series of simple motions.
He forced his muscles to move, stepping forward to reach the head of the house just before Drmule could fully unleash his spell.
Once he seized the position, he twisted his wrist and spun the Three Iron around, striking the middle of the black rod.
With a sharp crack, the rod shattered into fragments and scattered onto the ground.
He didn’t have the strength for a full swing, so he relied on the sword’s weight and centrifugal force by only twisting his wrist.
It was a miracle he managed to block it.
Had he not struck the spell precisely at the grain, he would’ve ended up with a hole through his chest instead of protecting the Head of Zaun.
'My body...'
His body was truly wrecked, but there was no helping that. He had barely managed to block the spells Drmule had been firing until now.
Honestly, if he hadn’t taken the risky gamble of slipping through the torrent of spells earlier, he’d have several holes in his body already.
Catching his breath, Encrid looked ahead. There, the half-dead Drmule glared at him with terrifying hatred.
Even without moving his tongue, it felt as if Encrid could hear his voice.
Well, Drmule did eventually open his mouth.
"I hate you. I really hate you."
"What do you hate so much?"
Encrid asked back, his tone unexpectedly soft. Was he intending to grant the dying monster a final wish?
While everyone else thought that, Encrid spoke again.
"Is it because I look too young?"
No, that wasn’t it.
Encrid was deliberately provoking Drmule until the end. It wasn’t just for amusement.
There was calculation behind it, a conclusion born from combining the Luagarne-Style Tactical Sword with Krais' scheming mind.
'Drmule still has the strength to pull something.'
If he wanted to use that strength properly, he would need to concentrate. Which meant it was advantageous to mess with him emotionally.
He must not be allowed to remain calm. Even the smallest advantage had to be seized. Encrid had no shame about it.
If not for the Luagarne-Style Tactical Sword, he wouldn’t be doing this. It was all thanks to Frog’s teachings.
Well, if his opponent had fought honorably, Encrid wouldn't have gone this far.
But wasn’t Drmule the one who hid in the shadows, scheming and targeting Ann?
Then surely, a little taunting was fair.
Drmule couldn't even form a proper sentence.
"You... you... you, you—"
Even after all that, if he could find enlightenment through being mocked, it would have been a miracle.
And if he did reach such enlightenment, becoming a god wouldn’t be out of the question.
But he didn’t become a god.
Instead, overwhelmed by the fury of having all his plans crumble, Drmule's reason and emotion fused into a single, burning goal.
No matter what, he would kill that bastard, Encrid, even if it cost him everything. And Drmule wasn’t stupid.
'No, I won’t end it just by killing him.'
He wouldn’t leave Zaun untouched just to kill one brat.
Was it only the loudmouthed one who was the problem?
No, Zaun, the head of the house, every swordsman there were all targets of resentment.
And at last, he realized something else.
'Hescal, you bastard.'
He had been deceived. Now he could see it clearly.
That man’s goal wasn’t just seizing divinity, it was what came after. He must survive to complete his purpose.
He wouldn’t end things the way the dead Hescal had wanted.
'I will die.'
Perhaps because he had struggled so long against death, Drmule clearly recognized his own end.
He also knew the scope of what he could do before dying.
Death was a certainty.
'Zaun will go down with me.'
When he died, the seeds of disease he had scattered would immediately sprout and grow. Half of Zaun would perish.
The Hunters’ Village, the Intermediaries' Village, the Retirees' Village, eight out of ten would die.
Even Hescal hadn’t known about this secret.
If he had, he would be pounding the ground in rage even after death.
It had been decades since Drmule planted himself here.
Though he spent much of that time in a dormant state, the past few years were different.
He had prepared.
This was the culmination of it all.
'And then, the end.'
The brat barking in front of him would survive and spread tales of his triumph.
'Will they celebrate him everywhere for killing me?'
From childhood, Drmule had lived with the label of “deep-hearted” clinging to him.
He was filled with jealousy.
People even said he was a snake who became a man. He hated the thought of Encrid being praised.
He hated that brat surviving at all.
In his final moments, Drmule placed everything he had onto the scales.
How could he kill Zaun and that brat?
Things had gone wrong to bring him to this state, but Drmule's intelligence wasn’t low.
In a short span, he came up with a way to kill that eyesore.
"I will die."
Drmule’s mouth opened.
"Even a stray Face Hound passing by could see that."
Encrid interrupted, but Drmule didn’t lose his temper.
"Listen carefully, Head of Zaun."
His voice overlapped once again.
Encrid judged that what he was doing now must be his final scheme. Whatever spell came flying, he could block it one more time.
His body was creaking a bit, but his ability to sever spells had matured, thanks to Esther’s training and his recent real battle experience.
He had also realized something during the last spell interception.
'Even if fifty of those black rods come flying at me, I can somehow block them.'
He might end up with a few holes in his body, but if he handled it well, he wouldn't be crippled.
"I won't let you do it alone."
It was Lynox who approached and said this.
Looking behind him, there were many of Zaun’s swords, including Anahera and Riley.
Their resolve was surely no less than his own.
This battle belonged to Zaun through and through. They had drawn their swords to protect themselves.
The head of the house, with his vision flickering and dimming, only saw Encrid’s back as his sight blackened further.
Had he gone blind? Perhaps.
The sword swing he performed earlier was something he hadn’t done even in his prime.
It was fair to say he threw everything he had into that swing.
He had swung it fully prepared to die immediately afterward.
The harsh use of Will had devoured his strength, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse and rest.
But the man he had cut down was still flapping his mouth.
Blood trickled from his ear canal.
His hearing dulled a little, but he could still make out the words.
"I'm listening."
The head of the house answered, and Drmule, with an absurdly composed tone, began his curse.
"I’ll let you decide. There are only two options."
What kind of nonsense was this about choices?
Listening closely, the rotting body, somehow still intact, kept moving his filthy tongue.
"If I gather the last of my strength and unleash it, everyone in Zaun infected by my disease will die. Originally, the seeds of the disease were meant to grow slowly, but once I die, they will sprout at once and snatch away their lives. That’s how I planted them in the first place. But!"
Drmule paused mid-speech. There was great force in his tone.
Ragna, who was listening, felt a sharp pain ringing in his head.
Drmule’s voice overlapped several layers, the voice of a monster squeezing out his last strength in a desperate cry.
"Instead, I can pour all the curses I have into that one bastard. Then the disease that would sprout instantly in Zaun will disappear."
Drmule lifted his remaining fingers and pointed straight at Encrid.
Did he hate Encrid so much that killing only him would be enough?
No, Drmule knew people. Not just knew, he could manipulate human hearts.
Hadn’t he once turned Hescal into his personal sword by doing just that?
Thinking back, it seemed he had been deceived in the end, but at the start, it was definitely by stirring human desires and emotions that he reeled him in.
'I know humans.'
Drmule was confident.
Encrid would reject this offer. Nobody truly wants to die. That’s a universal truth.
Especially not to die for someone else.
Parents might die for their children, sure.
But for a complete stranger? Could such a man exist?
Because of his words, the head of the house would have to place Zaun and an outsider onto the scales, and it was obvious which way it would tip.
Encrid would resist. And the Head of Zaun would try to subdue the one who resisted.
'Even if I die, you all will have to keep fighting.'
That was the first trap. And there was another hidden one.
If the Head and Zaun captured Encrid?
He hadn’t said the disease would disappear, only that it wouldn't sprout instantly.
Even if everything fell apart, it would only be a matter of whether they died sooner or later.
"You expect us to believe that?"
Lynox interrupted.
"Then look."
Drmule said, waving his hand.
A golden rectangle formed in the air behind him, and golden letters began to emerge.
"You’ve heard of it, haven’t you? The Golden Words of Oath. I shall inscribe my will into this."
A rare artifact had appeared.
Anything written into the Golden Words must come true. The price was the soul of the one who wrote it.
It was widely rumored that the master of the brilliant golden book was one of the Demon Gods who ruled the Demon Realm.
He was even nicknamed the Lord of Golden Words.
Lynox, too, knew of the Golden Words. It was an unavoidable death sentence. No, it was like pledging your soul.
"It’s real. That Golden Words."
Suddenly, Schmidt, who had fought valiantly alongside them, stepped forward.
He had trained in both magic and swordsmanship.
His magical knowledge told him that what Drmule said was true.
He had fought fiercely too, one side of his cheek was torn and blackened from a wound.
Schmidt spoke again, more composed now, with logic filling his words.
"It doesn’t make sense to think he prepared all this just to deceive us. It's not like Zaun has many magic-users, and my presence here wasn't exactly planned either."
If Tempest or anyone else refused to believe this, truly terrible things might happen.
Schmidt didn’t want that.
He couldn’t bear to lose both his half-brother and his dear friend at once.
"There is no falsehood in my words. Believe it or not, that’s up to you. But everything I say is true."
Drmule’s tone carried a strange composure.
Quite bold for a man on the verge of death.
Those behind them were still asking what the Golden Words were, if it was real, if they could trust it, but they gradually began to fall silent.
No matter how they looked at it, everything about the situation screamed that it was real.
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