In the fairy tongue, Penna was an abbreviation. Spelled out fully, it was Kiis Seko Fedna—meaning the feather that cuts through all things.
Enkrid swung with just enough Will that he would not collapse from exhaustion, and from the blade rose a pale blue glow. At the same time, the sword seemed to cling more naturally to his hand.
What should he call this feeling?
As if I've become one with the sword?
That was how it felt. He remembered how Rem always said his axe was like his own body—perhaps this was what he had meant.
The arc of Penna's blade stretched out, grazing the bridge of the martial artist Molmon's nose right after slicing into the vampire.
Pik!
A sharp sound rang, and blood splattered across Mormon's face. The sound was light, but Penna's blade was too sharp—the wound was deep. Blood flowed freely, and the warrior tightened the muscles of his face to staunch the bleeding.
It was a technique from Valraf-style martial arts. This new opponent was no ordinary fighter.
And yet, Enkrid could block, evade, and strike with ease.
With high-speed thought and mental partitioning, he executed the Wave-Breaker Sword, parrying every blow. Compared to when he had faced One Killer, this was easier—by far.
He poured strength into his muscles, trusted the spring of his knees, twisted his waist, and swung to scatter the enemies before him.
Clang!
His sword met the weapon of the one called Black Serpent, and using the rebound, Enkrid drove his elbow backward.
Thud!
His elbow struck against the martial artist's fist. The man spun, sending a whip-like kick lashing out—a strike sharp enough to be mistaken for a sword slash.
Even in the stretched, slowed perception of battle, the kick was fast. Enkrid bent back, raised his knee, and extended his toes.
One Killer had once fought like that—his entire body a weapon.
Then I can do the same.
The thought became action instantly. His body, tempered in Valraf's martial discipline, could easily mix martial arts with swordsmanship. Nothing clashed or felt forced.
The Wave-Breaker Sword was not merely sword technique—it was an art of thought itself. This too, then, was Wave-Breaker Sword.
And Enkrid had survived more than five hundred days like this, over and over. He could fight for three days straight. Perhaps even seven if he pushed, though he would be exhausted.
And the spells breaking in from the side? Not "cute," perhaps—but compared to the Walking Flame, they were manageable.
The conclusion: this was a very winnable fight.
…Could they be fakes?
Enkrid wondered as he tried to kick Black Serpent Ele in the chest. But spikes shot out from the man's breastplate.
As expected from one who specialized in deceptive swordsmanship—he had fitted treacherous devices into his armor.
So instead of stomping, Enkrid lifted his ankle and clipped Ele's chin with the tip of his foot. Ele dodged, but the edge of his helmet was struck.
Thunk.
Not a powerful hit—but enough to rattle his head.
This monster bastard…
Ele clenched his teeth in frustration. Enkrid's doubts only deepened.
They must be real.
If this were truly a cultist trap, it would not be so feeble. No—these enemies were real. Not ordinary at all.
It was simply that Enkrid himself did not realize how far he had grown.
Black Serpent and the vampire were unorthodox.
The martial artist, by contrast, relied on speed and strength. A straightforward style.
If categorized by the new system: Black Serpent and the vampire were Sustainer types. The martial artist was Finisher type.
But all three were knights. At that level, they were versatile—gaps filled, weaknesses compensated.
The ideal form is a circle.
A balance where sharp points are hidden.
By that measure, even Rem, Ragna, and Audin still had room to grow.
Beyond Finisher, Sustainer, and Versatile—there lies the Completed form.
Perfection does not exist. But at a certain point, one could call it complete.
The vampire, severed into three pieces, was already finished.
Next was the martial artist. A gap opened, and Penna flashed across his throat. The larynx was cut, and blood erupted.
His life—whatever it had been, whatever he had hoped or wished—was forever unknown now.
The dead cannot speak.
Dark liquid pooled beneath him, crimson deepening until it seemed black beneath the moonlight. His knees buckled, his head dropped with a crash. Time itself seemed to slow as his body toppled.
And as every beginning has an end, his head finally struck the ground.
"My wish… will be fulfilled."
Black Serpent Ele charged with incomprehensible words.
Enkrid could handle three foes, but not gently—not against one throwing his life away.
It was not that he underestimated them. He was simply too accustomed to battles like tightrope-walking, too familiar with razor's-edge duels against demons like One Killer. Against three knights, he would not falter.
Knights, in truth, were monsters to others—flawless, never making mistakes, always executing impossible feats. But Enkrid's art was even beyond that.
No gaps. A fortress of steel. Perhaps this was why they called him the Ironwall Knight.
Bang! Tak-tak!
Ele's weapon extended like a serpent. Enkrid parried with Penna and darted aside.
But the blade twisted, snapping back to strike his skull from behind—like a real snake.
Enkrid pressed his thumb to the ground, reversing direction instantly. The sudden movement made it look as if his body blurred forward, an illusion.
In truth, he was already racing ahead, Penna braced against the extended blade.
Sparks shrieked!
His steps burned a trail. His feet outran the serpent-blade.
A pale-blue comet streaked along its length—until Penna slashed Ele's neck.
Shlick!
A crisp cut. So swift the line remained, head still attached—Penna was that sharp, leaving only a drawn thread.
"Die, you bastards!"
Even in death, Ele cursed. Blood welled at his throat like tears, then burst forth in a geyser.
None there would ever know, but once—this man had lost wife and daughter. At nineteen he wed, at twenty-two he had a daughter, and at twenty-nine he lost them both. He came to hate humanity itself.
That was the man who became the heretic knight, Black Serpent Ele.
As he died, he felt the plunge into a black pit. His wife and daughter were not there. He had drunk of demon's blood to spite the world—so his place would be at their side instead.
"Truly astonishing."
The man with the staff, the Apostle of Return, stopped chanting. Calm, no longer surprised.
"Did I underestimate you? Or miscalculate? Or is this a god's jest? I cannot know. But it matters little."
"Are you going to fight?"
"I remain the last. Yes, I must."
He was a collector of spells, with strong physical prowess—but an incomplete circle.
Even a circle can be pierced by a sharp point.
So Enkrid thought. Frameworks gave way to new inspirations. Even now, in battle, a new form of swordsmanship began to take shape in his mind.
The Apostle had hoped to be their doom. Instead, his wish failed.
Tak! Tak-tak!
Half his spells spent, none had succeeded. Even the black orbs that turned flesh to dust—cut apart by Enkrid's blade.
"In the end, we shall win."
The Apostle muttered.
Stab—slash.
Enkrid ignored him, drove Penna into his throat, and cut.
Blood spilled red as moonlight. Though a heretic, he was still a man.
The head dropped, rolling.
The cursed red moon still burned above, but no enemies remained.
Necromancy collapsed with its master's death. A few spirits tried to flee, but Luagarne's whip and Zero's sword destroyed them.
"Haa… I was mistaken."
The head, severed, still spoke. The Apostle of Return had tricks yet.
"…Immortal?"
Would cutting him to pieces matter? Enkrid raised his sword again, but the head spoke quickly.
"No… I'll fade by dawn. Only the red moon's power sustains me."
Not a lie.
"You could split me further, but it changes nothing. Unless you fetch five untouched men and five untouched women, bleed them, and reattach my head… but you won't."
"If we would, we wouldn't have cut your head off."
"True. And even then, it wouldn't work. Human blood won't. Perhaps half-dragon blood might."
A joke? Even now?
"Shall I smash him with my whip?" Luagarne asked.
"I'll cut him," said Pel.
"I can do it," Zero offered.
"All of you so eager to kill one old body. Have mercy. Even speaking drains what little I have left."
"Then why speak?"
"Regret, and a proposal. Regret is mine alone. The proposal: you should change sides."
"Shall I whip him now?" Luagarne asked again.
The Apostle pressed on. Curses failed, so only words remained.
"You cannot win. Why fight for the losing side?"
Even as only a head, his words carried force. He had once been a great figure, a hero in his own right, even if twisted.
Enkrid stared silently.
"In the end, your sword will break against ours."
Perhaps true. He spoke sincerely.
But Enkrid's war was never about winning. It was about walking.
For the mother shielding her child.
For the fruit seller who split even rotting apples to share.
For the old tavern maid who longed for peace.
For the mercenary who told his child they were a genius.
Yes—that was the world he wanted.
That was why he took up the sword.
That was why he sang.
The Song of the War's End Knight had not even begun.
"Doesn't matter."
Enkrid shook off the Apostle's words.
"…A losing battle?"
He didn't bother with platitudes like you don't know until you fight.
Instead, from deep within, the words came:
I'll fight until I win.
"…Indeed."
Behind him, Pel realized something again.
The Apostle, staring at a madman, spoke his last:
"A pity… to die without seeing the world remade."
A heretic to the bone. But death made his wish nothing. His head fell silent.
The red moon dimmed, the sky blackened. Urquiola—dark dawn.
And as always, after dark dawn came light.
Blue spread first. Then the sun rose.
Light fell upon the world.
"Fine sunlight."
Luagarne murmured. As the group cleared the corpses, fairies arrived, sensing the ominous traces.
"What happened? An ambush?" one asked—a fairy guide, well-traveled and wary.