What had to be done—deflect what was flying in.
The moment he perceived and recognized it, his body reacted on its own. No calculation was needed.
The enemy's strike wasn't one that thought ahead—it was a form that put everything into a single blow.
His accelerated thoughts stretched out the time around him.
Enkrid saw the attack aimed at him.
A long spike, a rapier. The thrusting style reeked of Jaxen's scent.
Seeing that, he pressed down with strength in his right big toe and drew Penna, swinging it.
From ankle to waist to hand, the force transferred at double the speed compared to before.
He kicked off with his knee, locking shoulder, elbow, and wrist in place without wobbling.
It was the greatsword thrusting style—valuing power over speed, a strike so overwhelming that a poor block would be pierced right through.
It was also called the Battering Ram Thrust.
As the name suggested, it was a strike like a siege weapon breaking down a castle gate.
With the cutting power of a treasured sword, when joined with such a technique, mystery itself was born.
Chik! Sguek!
The iron spike was severed midair, and the head of the one who had burst from the ground was cut apart as well.
The violent motion sent wind rushing up from Enkrid's feet. Sparks that flew from the sundered steel rode that wind, spiraling up like a fiery waterspout before fading.
To the unknowing eye, it might have looked like sparks swirling into a storm.
In a single blow, he didn't just block the ambush—he cut through the weapon and slew its wielder.
It was the harmony of a miracle and power, a strike that could have been called magic itself.
Enkrid shook off his blade. Blood dripped from Penna onto the earth.
But when he looked, not a single droplet clung to the edge.
It was said that even without oil, the sharpness of this blade would never dull.
Still, once every half year, it was best to polish it with a special oil blend made from Woodguard sap and Camellia blossom oil.
When he agreed, a fairy named Lefratio had even given him such oil directly.
It was more than a fine sword—worthy of being called a treasure.
"A fine weapon you have."
The man who first spoke—the one holding the staff—said this.
Enkrid shook his blade clean and looked ahead.
He had not been the only target, of course, but neither Luagarne nor Pel were the sort to die to such ambushes.
As expected, both had blocked the attacks.
Luagarne had used her forearm as a shield, leaving it punctured—but for a Frog, that was as good as blocking perfectly.
Pel had quickly leaned back, drawing his sword and slashing in return.
Enkrid even heard the faint thang! sound reverberate—Pel deflecting the strike.
Zero, startled, leapt back in a nimble fairy step, his golden hair scattering in the air. A scratch marked his forehead, but had he been a heartbeat slower, his skull might have grown a new hole where eyes, nose, and ears once were.
Of course, had death truly loomed, Enkrid would have blocked and saved him instead of killing the assailant. But he had judged Zero could narrowly defend himself.
"Ma—…"
The staff-bearing cultist began to speak further—but Enkrid moved first.
It was the perfect moment—the kind of pause where one hesitated, a fissure of thought to slip through.
Enkrid's left hand brushed across his chest and shot forward.
A bizarre sound rang out in response.
Bwooooo!
What he threw was a modified Whistle Dagger.
The Silence Dagger never sat well in his hand, so he had remade it to suit himself.
He had reinforced the blade to increase its power. It made a sound more like a horn than a whistle now.
Perhaps it deserved a new name—the Horn Dagger.
Ppbubbuck!
Its force matched the sound.
Enkrid was never lazy—beyond swordsmanship, he had diligently reviewed all he'd learned and trained daily.
The dagger, thrown with Jaxen's throwing style he had learned, shattered three ambushers bursting from the earth.
Not merely lodging in their skulls—it outright burst them apart.
He had used three of the six daggers Aitri had forged for him.
Half remained.
Only Penna remains as a sword.
For he had lost the True Silver Sword and Ember.
Though Penna was a bit short for a main weapon—
It's not a disadvantage.
Enkrid thought calmly, judged clearly.
No need for panic.
He spread his stance, lifting his sword.
Holding Penna upright, the crimson moonlight split around its edge.
Twin moons illuminated the land.
Before his party, backed by a hill, the staff-bearing man struck the ground again with a sharp tak!
"I will offer once more—will you not turn to our side? To die here would waste your talent."
"And who are you, exactly?"
Enkrid asked without wavering.
There was not the slightest tremor of fear or disarray in him.
The one most shocked was Luagarne.
Seeing the staff, and the attire, her cheeks didn't even puff up—she only glared hard.
"Could it be?"
She asked.
Pel scowled, hand on the hilt of the Idol-Slayer, while Zero held on with thin, slow breaths.
The knight in black armor exuded a pressure that weighed on their shoulders.
It felt like they were back inside the Maze—the Demon Realm itself.
This was intimidation, the aura of knights.
"Your guess is correct."
The man nodded at Luagarne's words.
Seeing Enkrid's blank look, he continued:
"I am an Apostle of the Advent."
In the Holy Demonic See, "Apostle" referred both to those of extraordinary talent—and those who had awakened power through encountering one of the Six Demons.
The one here was the First Apostle, the latter kind.
In short—this man had stood behind all the cult's deeds thus far.
He had sent the Cursed Apostle. He had directed the sorcerer who wielded Walking Fire.
"Demonic charisma that bewitched even cultists."
Pel muttered without thinking, still fixated lately on honing provocation.
"Is that true?"
Enkrid retorted, making Pel smirk.
Yes, there was threat here—but no reason to cower.
If today were his dying day, so be it.
Anyone afraid of death would never have picked up a sword.
Shepherds of the wild grew up chatting with wraiths and playing tag with monsters.
That was what it meant to be a wandering shepherd.
If fear of death kept him from his task, he could never have even begun the work.
"So it isn't?"
Pel answered boldly, unshaken.
His greatest talent, Enkrid thought, was that very boldness.
It matched his temperament perfectly. He felt no envy—but found the Apostle's talk of "wasting talent" laughable.
"Go call a ghoul your mother and beg for more milk. I'll never turn."
Enkrid spat out a crude curse.
The Apostle's brow furrowed—never before had he heard such a vulgar insult.
What did he just say?
Pel's head buzzed with bursting sparks at those words.
What was provocation? It was stimulus—something that moved the enemy's heart.
The key is to read the mood, and say something they'd never expect.
Enkrid knew how to twist words to mock—but this was a direct insult.
Yes, now he understood. The point wasn't mere profanity—it was shattering composure.
Pel was delighted. He wanted to try it immediately.
"Look at that face. Long since weaned, yet begging milk? Ugh."
He couldn't quite manage to mimic retching, but his words were on point.
"…So this is the Madmen I've heard of."
The Apostle muttered.
The See's true base was of course in the Demon Realm—this man was essentially a regional overseer.
Yet to overturn the composure of one who had been taught directly by a Demon—through mere words—was exhilarating.
Luagarne's cheeks puffed. A Frog laughed with deep, bubbling sound.
"Still, I will give you a chance. Ele."
The Apostle commanded.
The knight in black armor moved—or rather, the instant he was perceived moving, a black line split the air above Enkrid's head.
A stroke through the seams of time itself, cutting even his accelerated thoughts.
Enkrid lifted Penna and struck upward.
Bang!
Moments ago, he had sliced a spike with a single cut. But this time, his blade was checked.
The black sword trembled before him, splitting into three.
Afterimage, created by pivoting the wrist from the ankle.
The technique was instantly understood—and its counter rose in his mind.
The foe wielded a deceptive sword.
Naturally, Enkrid split his thoughts, unleashing his Wave Block.
Dadadang!
Sword met sword, ringing in brisk clamor.
Wind stirred between them as sparks scattered.
Through the firelight, Enkrid's blue eyes shone.
The knight in black armor was formidable.
With visor lowered, only his glowing eyes glared out—azure light flowing.
Dozens of exchanges flew in a heartbeat.
Meanwhile, the Apostle spoke in a steady, measured tone:
"Do you think you live by your own will? Do you believe this world is fair? Before the Demon Realm, all humans are equal. If you understood our creed, you would see."
As he spoke, Ele's blade split into three again—but this time, it abruptly lengthened.
With a metallic ting, the blade segments stretched apart, connected by faint cords.
A planned strike from the start.
Enkrid had just leapt back to evade—this time, he could not.
Worse, Ele's left hand flicked out, binding Enkrid's wrist with that strange cord.
The separated blades seemed poised to rend his chest apart—yet it did not happen.
Ignoring the cord binding his wrist, Enkrid pulled Penna back—and struck the middle of the lengthened blade.
Bang!
Sparks burst bright, and the attack aiming for his chest faltered.
Length breeds weakness—the longer, the more unwieldy.
Force applied mid-span turned its path awry.
"My name is Black Serpent!"
Ele shouted, battle fervor rising. His weapon was his engraved blade, his specialty.
Shrrrkkk!
The sword split into pieces, lengthening. A whip of blades.
Yet it could return to a solid sword at will.
Unpredictable, difficult to counter—yet.
Tadang! Bang!
Enkrid held firm.
It looked precarious, yet not truly dangerous. To outside eyes, the battle defied judgment.
Luagarne could see—and so could the Apostle.
Did he not barely survive against Hatoon?
The Apostle wondered. Yet here, he was holding against Ele with ease.
In raw combat ability, Black Serpent Ele was the strongest in his diocese.
A foe even the Apostle would hesitate to guarantee victory against.
Yet Enkrid endured—and more, matched him.
So he prepared well.
In temperament, the First Apostle resembled Ermen or Krais.
He had already considered this outcome—what if even Ele could not subdue Enkrid?
The Apostle spoke again:
"Levantine."
One of the robed figures stepped forth.
Loose sleeves, hardly suited for battle garb.
"May I drink?"
"As you will."
A cryptic exchange. Levantine's lips curled unnaturally high.
His mouth tore wide, fangs thrusting forth grotesquely.
Saliva dripped between them, gums bared.
Dark veins burst across his eyes.
"I am Levantine, noble of the night."
He spoke and lunged.
Enkrid casually swung toward his approach. Penna slit his clothes.
Pik!
His garment split, but Levantine's body turned to mist, scattering upward.
In the Demon Realm lived a race called vampires—residents who fed on human blood.
Levantine was one. Not a knight, but still a foe even Ele could not easily best.
Naturally, he was part of the First Apostle's carefully gathered forces.
From the air, Levantine regained form, extending a hand.
His palm split, black blood spilling forth, forming into arrow-shapes that shot forward.
Puk!
Enkrid pivoted on his left foot, spinning like a top, blade slashing.
His sword burst the black arrows—thang!—and at the same time, checked Ele's strike.
It looked like he had barely managed, but it was skillful improvisation.
"Damn it."
Pel muttered.
He had sought a chance to intervene, but could not muster the courage.
If left to drag on, the third foe waiting behind was surely as strong as the two ahead.
Would Enkrid fall, eventually?
Thus he gripped his blade, watching, waiting for a gap.
Luagarne too was focused, searching. Zero dared not move at all.
And in this tense scene, the Apostle's voice rose again:
"Become as men equal before the Demon Realm! Be a pillar of a more profound world! Thus it shall be your destiny!"
He spoke ceaselessly, as though preaching.
"I grant you a chance to begin anew, to overturn your wretched fate!"
His words rang out, laced with power.
Bang!
Clash of blades—
Boom!
The bursting of vampire blood—
Through it, Enkrid spoke.
"What?"
Thud! Tadan!
"I didn't hear you. Say it again."
"Ah."
Pel gasped in awe.
At times, it wasn't vulgarity—but simple words—that overturned an enemy's heart.
And this led him into a new world of realization.