CHAPTER 653: CHAPTER 653 - SO HE GRASPED THE SWORD, SO HE SANG

Chapter 653 - So He Grasped the Sword, So He Sang

In the language of the fairies, Penna was an abbreviation.

When spoken in full, it was Kiis Seco Pedna, meaning "Feather that Cuts Through Everything."

Enkrid swung his sword, infusing just enough Will to avoid exhaustion, and a faint bluish light rose from the blade.

At the same time, he felt the sword fitting more snugly in his grip.

What should he call this feeling?

A sense of becoming one with the sword?

Something like that.

Rem always said his axe was like an extension of himself—perhaps this was what he meant.

Penna’s blade stretched forward in a swift arc, grazing the bridge of the nose of Mormon, the martial artist, right after cutting into the vampire.

With a light pik sound, blood splattered across the man’s face.

The sound was faint, but Penna’s blade was sharp enough to leave a deep wound.

As blood trickled down, the martial artist tightened his facial muscles to stem the bleeding.

It was a muscle control technique from Valaf martial arts.

This newcomer was no ordinary fighter.

Even so, he was manageable.

Enkrid could block, evade, and counter without much trouble.

With high-speed cognition and split-second decision-making, he executed the Wave-Breaking Sword to defend himself.

Compared to fighting the One-Killer, this was twice as easy.

Tensing his muscles, relying on the elasticity of his knees, and twisting his waist, he swung and let his sword flow.

Clang!

He leveraged the recoil from clashing with the Black Serpent’s weapon to drive his elbow backward.

Thud!

But at the end of his elbow was the martial artist’s fist.

The man spun, launching a kick like a whip.

It was so sharp that it could have been mistaken for a slicing attack.

In the stretched-out moment of time, Enkrid saw the incoming strike.

He bent his back, raised his knee, and pointed his toes.

The One-Killer attacked from any stance. His entire body was a weapon.

Then... can’t I just do the same?

The thought became action.

His body, tempered by Valafian martial arts, could incorporate martial techniques when needed.

His movements didn’t tangle.

The Wave-Breaking Sword wasn’t just about swordplay—it was an art that honed the mind.

That meant all of this was still part of the Wave-Breaking Sword.

Not to mention, Enkrid had endured over five hundred such days recently using this method.

He could fight for three more days like this.

With some effort, maybe even a full week.

Though, that would be exhausting.

Spells interfering mid-battle?

Annoying, but nothing compared to walking through fire.

To put it simply, this was a fight he could handle.

Wait a second.

Were these guys fake?

Enkrid considered the possibility as he moved to kick Black Serpent Ele in the chest.

But spikes suddenly protruded from the man’s breastplate.

Fitting for someone who specialized in deceptive swordplay—his armor was equipped with a treacherous mechanism.

Enkrid adjusted mid-strike, switching from a sole kick to a toe jab at Ele’s chin.

The man tried to dodge but took a hit to the edge of his helmet.

Thunk.

Not the most powerful attack, but enough to rattle his head.

What a monster.

Ele gritted his teeth and thought as much.

Meanwhile, Enkrid grew more suspicious.

They have to be fake, right?

If this was a trap set by the cult, it wouldn’t be this easy.

Of course, they weren’t fakes.

They were real, and they were formidable.

Yet, Enkrid was handling them like this.

He simply had no idea how far he had come.

That was why he had the luxury of pondering.

The Black Serpent and the vampire were unpredictable.

The martial artist, in contrast, relied on raw strength and speed instead of trickery.

A more orthodox fighter.

If categorized using the new system, the Black Serpent and the vampire were Sustained Technique Types, while the martial artist was a Tempered Finisher Type.

Though, given their level, they were likely All-Rounders.

At higher levels, warriors naturally filled in their weaknesses.

Being a Finisher Type didn’t mean he lacked technique or endurance.

The ideal form is a perfect circle.

A balance where no single strength stood out excessively.

By that logic, Rem, Ragna, and Audin still had room to improve.

Beyond Finishers, Sustainers, and All-Rounders—should I call it the Complete Form?

Perfection didn’t exist, but at a certain level, one could be called complete.

The vampire, now in three pieces, was dead.

The martial artist was next.

A gap opened, and Penna swept across his throat.

His Adam’s apple split, sending a fountain of blood into the air.

Whatever his past, whatever he had wished for—no one would ever know now.

The dead could not speak.

Under the red moonlight, thick black liquid pooled and soaked into the ground.

With a heavy thud, his knees collapsed first, followed by his head, which fell in slow motion, as if time itself had stretched.

Where there is a beginning, there is an end.

His tilted head finally touched the ground.

Beneath his fallen body, the liquid continued to spread.

Does red darken enough to turn black?

Was it the same with their blood? Who could say?

"My wish will be fulfilled in the end."

The Black Serpent, Ele, muttered something incomprehensible as he lunged.

Enkrid could handle three opponents, but against an enemy willing to throw away his life, there was no room for softness.

Saying the fight was manageable didn’t mean he could afford mistakes—if he slipped up, he would die.

But after fighting the demon known as the One-Killer, he had grown too accustomed to walking a tightrope.

Even against three opponents, he felt at ease.

That meant he wouldn’t make mistakes.

He wouldn’t be careless.

Knights were already considered monsters—capable of feats beyond reason, never making mistakes, never hesitating.

But even among knights, Enkrid’s technique was refined to perfection.

There were no openings.

Was this why they called him the Unyielding Knight?

Even Ele, despite himself, found the thought reasonable.

Bang! Bang!

Enkrid struck aside the elongated sword tip with Penna and leaped left.

The Black Serpent’s weapon coiled and pursued him like a living snake.

It twisted midair, aiming for the back of Enkrid’s head.

It was as if a real serpent had launched itself at him.

Enkrid pressed his right thumb into the ground, using it as a pivot to shift direction.

The sudden movement created an illusion—his body seemed to lean one way, yet in reality, he was already running the opposite direction, pressing Penna against the stretched blade.

Tktktktktk!

Sparks flew as he left a trail behind.

He was faster than the enemy’s sword.

A pale blue meteor streaked up the Black Serpent’s weapon.

In the end, the serpent never reached its target.

And Enkrid’s Penna severed Ele’s neck.

Squelch!

A sharp sound was heard as the sword sliced through the throat.

The strike was so fast that it merely traced a thin line without severing the head completely.

Penna’s blade was so sharp that it could leave only a fine line on the neck as it passed.

"Just die, all of you. Bastards."

Even as he was dying, Ele spewed his resentment.

Blood trickled down his throat like tears.

Soon, his neck slipped, and instead of droplets, a gush of blood erupted.

Had it not been a severed human head and not blood but water from a city’s fountain, it might have been a magnificent sight.

No one could have known, but a man who met his wife at nineteen, had a daughter at twenty-two, and lost them both at twenty-nine, growing to hate the entire human race, had perished.

The Black Serpent, Ele—that was his name.

As he died, he felt as though he was being pulled into a black abyss.

His wife and daughter were not there.

He had willingly shared in the demon’s blood to take revenge on the world.

So, the place he was headed would be by the demon’s side.

"Truly astonishing."

A man holding a staff stopped his incantation and spoke.

Now that the battle had been decided, the Apostle of Rebirth spoke in a calm tone, as if he was no longer surprised.

"Did I underestimate you? Or was my calculation wrong? Or is this just some trick of the gods? There are too many things I can’t understand, but questioning them won’t change anything."

"Are you going to fight?"

"I’m the only one left now, so I suppose I must."

The Apostle was a collector of spells and possessed an exceptional physique.

However, in Enkrid’s terms, he was an incomplete circle.

’A round circle can still be pierced by a sharp awl.’

That was Enkrid’s philosophy.

When a system was established, it led to inspiration for the next form of swordsmanship.

As he fought, Enkrid envisioned a new technique.

For now, only the idea had formed, but it was a beginning.

It could fade away without amounting to anything, but...

The Apostle had wished to become their misfortune, but that wish did not come true.

Tap. Tadat!

He had used more than half of his collected spells, yet none had been effective.Even the black sphere spell that reduced anything it touched to dust was severed by Enkrid’s sword.

"In the end, we will be the victors."

The Apostle spoke.

Thunk, stab.

Enkrid paid little heed to the words and drove his sword into the Apostle’s throat.The blood flowing from the wound gleamed under the moonlight—red, vividly red.

Though he was a cultist, he was still human.

Serving the god of the Demon Realm did not change his species.

The severed head hit the ground with a dull thud and rolled.

The eerie red moonlight continued to bathe the land, but there were no more enemies left.

The traces of necromancy the Apostle had summoned also dissipated as soon as the caster died.

Some of the vengeful spirits tried to run amok, but Luagarne’s whip and Zero’s sword did not allow it.

"Phew, it seems my approach was flawed."

And then, despite having no body, the fallen head spoke.

The Apostle displayed a bizarre talent—attempting conversation with just his head.

"...Are you immortal?"

Would he survive even if his head were split into eight pieces?

Enkrid raised his sword again as he asked, but the head hurriedly opened its mouth.

"No, I’ll die soon enough. At best, I might last until morning. The red moonlight is merely sustaining my magic."

A lie?

It didn’t seem like one.

"Would splitting my head further change anything? If you feel any pity and wish to spare me, just bring five virgin men and five virgin women, pour their blood over my body, and reattach my head. But I doubt you’ll do that."

"If that were an option, I wouldn’t have severed your head in the first place."

"Well, even if you did, my head wouldn’t reattach. Having sex doesn’t change the blood itself—unless, of course, you find the blood of a dragonkin."

Joking at a time like this?

"Should I just crush him with my whip?"

Luagarne kindly offered.

"I can cut him apart. Are you worried about a curse?"

Even Fel stepped forward.

"If that’s the case, I can do it."

Zero joined in.

"All of you are eager to put an old man down. Have some mercy. Ugh, gathering my remaining magic just to talk is exhausting."

"Do you have something you want to say?"

"I have regrets and an offer. The regrets are personal, so they don’t matter, but the offer still stands. You should switch sides."

"My whip it is, then."

Luagarne prepared to strike.

In truth, the Apostle had been barely holding on.

He didn’t have many words left in him.

He could have used his last strength to curse them, but he had already tried that and knew the outcome—it wouldn’t work.

It never would.

So, speaking a few final words was the best he could do.

"This is a battle you cannot win. There’s no reason to side with the losing faction."

Despite having only a head left, his words carried weight.

He wasn’t as skilled as Crang, but he knew how to make a speech.

The Apostle had once been a formidable schemer in his own era.

He had stood on the side of the Demon Realm, following the doctrine of the Demon Sanctuary Church and rising as an Apostle of Rebirth.

Right or wrong, one could not deny that his actions bore a heroic quality.

A misguided faith did not diminish personal capability.

Similarly, skill and character did not always align, and walking the righteous path did not guarantee a bright future.

Enkrid silently gazed at the head.

The Apostle, left with only his head, spoke his last words.

"In the end, you will be stopped by our blades."

That was possible.

Enkrid knew the Apostle was speaking as truthfully as he could.

But Enkrid’s fight had never been one he expected to win.

He had taken step after step forward despite his meager talent.

He wanted a mother protecting her child to live in a city free of monsters.

He wanted a fruit vendor, who split even rotten apples to share, to smile.

He wanted an old tavern woman, who lamented her life, to find peace even in old age.

He wanted an earnest mercenary, who called a child a genius and instilled them with dreams, to have nights free of nightmares.

Yes, that was the world he wished for.

That was why he held a sword.

That was why he sang.

The song of a knight to end of war had yet to begin.

"It doesn’t matter."

Enkrid dismissed the Apostle’s words like one would brush off a curse spoken into the wind.

It wasn’t difficult, nor was it something he had deliberately thought through.

It was simply the result.

"...You’re saying you’ll fight a losing battle?"

There was no talk of "That’s just your opinion" or "You won’t know until you fight."

The words that came first came from a deeper place.

"I’ll keep fighting until I win."

"...I see."

Behind him, Fel gained another realization, while the Apostle stared at the madman for a moment before leaving his final words.

"It’s a shame I won’t get to see the world of the Demon Realm."

He was an Apostle, a Reformationist to his very core. But now that he was dead, such desires were meaningless. That was the end of it—his severed head could speak no more.

The crimson moonlight tilted to one side. Then came the pitch-black night, a time without moonlight.

The hour before dawn. In the language of the West, it was called Urkiora, the dim morning.

And after the dim morning, dawn was inevitable.

A pale blue light first embraced the surroundings, and shortly after, the day broke.

Light descended upon the world. The sun shone brightly, as if nothing had ever happened.

"Nice sunlight," murmured Luagarne.

As the group cleared away the bodies and put things in order, some of the fairies, sensing an ominous presence ahead, approached.

These were individuals with exceptional skill in handling life energy.

"What’s going on? An ambush?"

One of them, scanning the surroundings, asked.

He was a fairy with experience traveling across the continent, chosen as a guide for this journey.

***

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