Chapter 631: Spectacular
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 631: Spectacular
Elves were trained from childhood to suppress their emotions. Consequently, it was rare to find any trace of fervor in them.
Looking back, Encrid remembered that even when Sinar had lost an arm during his knighthood ceremony, her expression had remained perfectly serene. To say she was merely unperturbed by her age would have been an understatement; it was the characteristic, iron-clad restraint of an elf.
The words she had added then were impossible to forget.
"Go on ahead," she had said, if he remembered correctly.
In any case, these elves were much the same. Instead of proving themselves through passion, they proved themselves through action.
What did it mean for elven knights to march into a place of certain death?
Is this mass suicide?
It was a term that didn't fit the elven race. While they didn't always resolve problems with perfect logic, elves strove to be as rational as possible. Even so, circumstances had backed them into a corner. Knowing they would die, they had stepped forward to fight anyway.
And the entire clan was doing it together.
That is how desperate they are, Encrid realized.
Even if he hadn't arrived, they had intended to enter the cave. This was only the beginning; they would have fought until every last one of them was dead.
Sinar had chosen to become the Demon’s Bride to prevent this very tragedy. It was a nightmare born of the Demon Realm, and for them, the tragedy was still ongoing.
It was a battle to honor those already lost. It was a requiem for those they were about to lose. They were marching in, fully aware of their fate.
But if they all died—if there was no one left to sing that requiem—would their resolve hold any meaning?
Unlikely. The claims of the powerless rarely come to fruition.
Just as eloquent men of action were rare, it was uncommon for the powerless to even raise their voices. But even when they did, changing reality was an incredibly arduous task. Was this not an era defined by swords and blood, iron and battlefields?
Memories of the past manifested as malevolent spirits, whispering in his ear.
"You? You’re going to protect us?"
It was the voice of a wife who had lost a husband whose face Encrid could no longer even remember.
Encrid carried many old wounds. They weren't scars—not yet. Since they still bled, they were more accurately described as wounds that refused to heal.
"So, what exactly did you protect?" the spirit whispered again.
Did the outcome change just because the powerless raised their voices? It did not. Lacking natural talent, he could not rely on raw might. Because of that, there were many things he had failed to protect. Many things he had let slip away.
Regrets and remorse lingered.
Even so, he had no intention of backing down. Bleeding did not stop him from walking. And if he couldn't walk? He would crawl.
He would become a knight. That was his dream.
He would protect those standing behind him. That was his reason for wanting to become a knight.
Seeing the elves brought the past rushing back once more.
"Not bad," Encrid muttered.
He would not water his trees with a peace bought by shifting the burden onto a single elf named Sinar—to put it in elven terms. Though, seeing as no one else made elven jokes, it seemed that particular brand of humor was Sinar’s personal quirk. Or perhaps the atmosphere simply wasn't right for jesting.
"If you intend to go in with us, you have my thanks in advance."
The tree giant, Bran, approached. Dust swirled as his root-like feet scraped the earth, a cigar still clamped between his teeth.
"Does the smell bother you?" he asked in a friendly tone. It was remarkably cordial, especially considering that Woodgards rarely showed emotion.
"It’s bearable. Did you originally plan to go in today?"
Encrid asked as he checked his sword belt, adjusted the position of his blade, and performed a brief inspection of his other armaments. Whether one was a soldier or a knight, maintaining equipment was the absolute basic.
"No, not quite. But we would have gone in within the month at the latest," Bran replied.
"Then why now?"
"An opportunity. Seeing a human like you arrive... perhaps God is telling us that now is the time."
It wasn't that he had coincidentally arrived on the day of their attack; rather, they had taken Encrid’s arrival as a divine signal.
And the elves weren't the only ones who saw Encrid as a sign.
It happened right after Ermen declared he would end the grace period granted by the demon. As Bran approached to exchange a few words, a rancid stench, more pungent than anything they’d smelled yet, wafted from the cave, followed by a low, guttural growl.
From the pitch-black depths, the head of a monster emerged, casting a shadow even darker than the surrounding gloom. With its body still hidden and only its head visible, its brown mane looked as if it were floating in midair.
"All units, battle positions," Ermen ordered.
Bran and several other Woodgards stepped forward to block the path. The Woodgards at the front acted as shieldbearers, their massive statures and sturdy bodies forming a living wall.
The sight of the floating head was brief. Soon, a beast-like monster with pitch-black eyes crawled out of the cave on all fours. Its head resembled a lion’s, and its tail ended in the head of a venomous snake.
Its tail whipped through the air, striking the ground.
Ssh, crack!
A cloud of dust billowed up from the impact. It was a Manticore. And no ordinary one, at that.
A unique specimen.
This was the conclusion reached by Encrid's Sixth Sense. He judged by instinct, then looked with his eyes to find the reasoning behind it.
Poison on the tips of its claws.
The tips of its claws were more than just black; they were coated in a sticky substance that left corrosive traces on the ground with every step.
Soot marks around its mouth.
It had no whiskers, the corners of its mouth were parched, and its lips resembled thick, charred leather.
It breathes fire.
No, it definitely would.
Luagarne had said that all battles begin with observation. He had heard similar words during his travels to learn swordsmanship. Sachsen, too, had insisted that nothing was more important than looking closely before a fight.
While he was assessing the Manticore, the elves initiated the attack.
Encrid had thought the tree giants were stepping forward to act as shields, but several elves used the giants' massive bodies as platforms, leaping onto their backs to gain height. The giants bent their knees slightly to facilitate the maneuver.
They were incredibly agile. Eight elves perched on the giants' shoulders and heads, drawing their bowstrings in a single, fluid motion.
Creak, creak.
Their muscles swelled, and their fingertips turned white from the tension. The eight archers aimed at their target. Everything happened in the span of a breath and a half.
The giants crouching, the elves climbing, the aiming—it was seamless. Without a single command, the eight elves released their arrows in unison.
Even the young elves had been forced to make arrows because they were short-handed, but there was no reason to doubt the quality. They were sturdy, with perfectly aligned fletching.
Simultaneously with the sharp twang of the bowstrings—
Whoosh!
Eight arrows flew as one.
Encrid’s thoughts accelerated as he tracked the projectiles. Two arrows targeted the eyes, two targeted the shoulder joints of the front legs, and the remaining four aimed for the tail. They truly deserved the title of master archers. Their marksmanship was extraordinary.
In contrast, the Manticore’s response was insultingly simple.
Thud, thud, thud.
The beast merely closed its eyes, whipped its tail, and twisted its body. That alone was enough. Its hide was far too thick for ordinary arrows to pierce.
"I call upon the Spirit of the Wind for aid."
One of the eight archers borrowed the power of a spirit. From what he had heard from Esther, that was a type of spell—an art in which elves were exceptionally skilled.
An air current formed around the archer, her green clothes fluttering wildly.
"Ops, vigor, inhabito."
Below, a Dryas stretched out her fingertips and chanted. Encrid didn't know the language, but he could guess the intent. A green light shimmered from her hand and touched the arrowhead, causing it to glow with verdant energy.
The archer who had borrowed the wind’s power drew her bow again, pulling the string effortlessly. Without a pause to breathe, she released.
Whoosh!
With the sound of tearing wind, an arrow flying at impossible speeds targeted the Manticore’s forehead. With the insight Encrid possessed, he knew it was a speed impossible to dodge.
The arrow would pierce the Manticore’s forehead. It was a predetermined future. That arrow possessed the power to pierce even the beast’s hide, enhanced by the Wind Spirit and concentrated vital energy.
Anticipation might have welled in the elf’s eyes, though there was no time to confirm it. In any case, their expectations were shattered.
The arrow jerked to a halt a mere finger’s breadth from the Manticore’s forehead.
"Psychokinesis," Ermen muttered. His voice remained flat, though he was likely startled deep down. The characteristic restraint of an elf kept his shock internal.
The Manticore snorted, and a bright red flame erupted from its nostrils, incinerating the arrow shaft. The burning remains fell to the ground with a hiss. Embers crackled, spreading a burnt smell through the sour stench.
At that, eight elves wielding swords stepped forward.
"It would have been nice to see it at least once before dying."
"I agree."
Those were the words spoken by two of them. He didn't know what they had hoped to see.
Among the eight was the elf who had spoken of honor upon seeing Encrid. He was a head taller than the others, wielding a Naidel with a wider blade than his kin. It was said that the basic form of a Naidel was the Sword of Spring, but the weapons held by each elf differed slightly. Some weren't even Naidels, but long, single-edged swords.
Growl.
The Manticore didn't pay them much mind. It exuded the arrogance and leisure of the strong. It possessed psychokinesis, fire breath, and venomous claws. It was a flawless sentinel for a demon.
This single Manticore might have been enough to slaughter every elf gathered here. Of course, they weren't fools; they had prepared. That preparation had been the spirit-aided arrow and the vital energy spell, but...
"At least three will die," said Frok, whose talent allowed him to read potential and analyze the battlefield.
"Should I do it?" Pel asked.
"No," Encrid replied, taking a step forward.
In truth, the Manticore had been wary of him for a while. Even when it blocked the arrows and the elven swordsmen stepped forward, a part of its attention had remained fixed on him. It was instinctively sensing a predator.
Encrid walked forward slowly. Without realizing it, his gait had begun to mirror the elves’—silent and devoid of emotion.
Shring.
He drew his Truesilver sword. The unsheathed blade caught the sunlight, casting a faint golden glow across the stench-filled clearing.
"Make way, beast," Encrid said.
He walked right between the eight elves. No one stopped him. They were desperate enough to grasp at any straw, and they had no reason to refuse a helping hand.
The reason Sinar hadn't told him about this? He could guess.
She intended to prevent the demon’s curse from transferring to me.
She had judged that he wouldn't be able to handle whatever lay inside that cave. Was that a lack of trust? Or a conclusion reached through cold, rational judgment?
Or perhaps...
It could simply be because she was truly worried about him. A human like Encrid might be able to kill a demon, but he might also fail. The outcome was unknown. If the situation became unmanageable, the demon would kill everyone—or at the very least, inflict a wound that would end Encrid's journey. She had judged that this risk was an unnecessary obstacle to his dream.
"I just have to handle it on my own, don't I?"
An illusion of Sinar spoke in his mind. But it was merely an illusion. He didn't know how she would actually answer.
Therefore—
"I have someone to meet inside, so get out of the way."
He would just ask her for the details when they met.
Will infused Encrid’s voice. The Manticore could not understand his words, yet, overwhelmed by the momentum he exuded, it took a step back. Realizing its own cowardice, the beast immediately bared its fangs.
Roar!
A roar echoed, intended to instill terror. But to Encrid, it sounded like a scream wrung out of a creature that couldn't endure the pressure.
The beast’s mouth spewed more than just sound. A fireball came hurtling toward him. Compared to the Walking Fire he had faced before, it was nothing but a spark.
The golden radiance of the Truesilver sword cleaved through the fire.
Thud.
With a dull impact, the severed flames flickered out, robbed of their heat. A flame suppressed by Will could burn nothing.
Psychokinesis seized his limbs. The Will of Rejection activated instinctively. Encrid shook off the invisible grip with sheer physical strength.
Next came the venomous claws. The momentum was fierce, but compared to the Four Seasons Swordsmanship Sinar had shown him in their spars, it was nothing more than the desperate flailing of an animal.
A human blade, faster and driven by overwhelming strength, split the monster from head to tail. Even as it died, the snake on its tail thrashed to bite, but Encrid’s trajectory sliced straight through its head as well.
If the elves were masters of the bow, Encrid was a master of the edge. What would have been utterly impossible in the past was now second nature.
So, he simply did it.
Slaaash.
The Manticore’s black blood pooled on the earth, its entrails spilling out in a grisly heap.
"Spectacular," Ermen said. His tone was as dry as ever, yet it carried that fleeting glimpse of elven admiration.