Chapter 633: No Longer Wishing for Talent
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 633: No Longer Wishing for Talent
In his right hand, Truesilver; in his left, Spark.
Shring!
Drawn from his left hip, Truesilver cast a faint, metallic glow. The blade whistled through the air, tracing a lethal arc parallel to the ground. Simultaneously, Spark, drawn from his right hip, lunged toward a target to his front-left.
A slash and a thrust. Simple movements, yet when executed with such blinding speed, they became the scythe of the Grim Reaper.
Encrid repeated the sequence with mechanical precision. His hands moved with absolute certainty, piercing hearts and severing necks without a hair’s breadth of error.
In the suffocating darkness, the four "servants" who had emerged to "greet" their guests were cut down before they could even hiss. As they fell, Will brushed past Encrid’s eyes, aiding his adaptation to the gloom.
The greatest distinction between an Associate Knight and a true Knight lay in whether they wielded Will consciously or unconsciously. Right now, Encrid was instinctively utilizing his Will to navigate the environment. While he couldn't see with the heat-sensing clarity of certain elven lineages, he could sense the shifting forms of his enemies.
They were four drowners. Their bloated, waterlogged bodies tilted and collapsed.
Splat.
The sound of their fall, the squelching sensation beneath his boots, and the damp air carrying a foul stench sharpened his senses.
‘Water?’
The interior of the Labyrinth was more than just damp. An oppressive weight bore down on his entire body.
‘It’s trying to suppress me.’
The environment was actively fighting the Will he had unconsciously activated. The very air felt laced with poison, a hostile energy pressing against his shoulders as if demanding his immediate departure. It was a duet of discomfort and foreboding—a place designed to smother the spirit.
However, it had little effect on Encrid. As a knight, he reflexively manifested the Will of Rejection. While not a perfect counter to the realm's corruption, it was enough to keep him unburdened. All that remained to bother him was the cloying humidity and the rot.
Shortly after Encrid granted peace to the four drowners, Pel, Luagarne, and the group of elves followed him inside.
"…What a stench," Pel muttered.
The sheep tended by the Shepherd of the Wilderness smelled foul enough, but this was a concentrated miasma of decay that assaulted the nostrils. The unsettling atmosphere Encrid had felt reached Pel as well; his hand naturally drifted toward the hilt of Idol Slayer.
"It is unsettling and ominous," Luagarne added, scanning the area. Even in a darkness deeper than a moonless night, they could roughly perceive their surroundings. Their eyes were hindered, but their other five senses remained sharp.
Soon, a light source flickered to life as one of the elves produced a small stone. A faint radiance emanated from it—not blinding, but sufficient. Elves were naturally gifted with night vision, and some possessed the ability to sense heat. Still, having a steady light source significantly improved their coordination.
"Did you start the moment you stepped inside?" Bran asked. He pulled a cigar from his gear and placed it between his lips. With a sharp clack-clack of flint, the leaves caught with a hiss, producing a small, glowing ember.
Beside the luminescent stone, the cigar’s glow burned with an alien light. The acrid aroma of burning tobacco pushed back the stench of the Labyrinth, if only slightly.
"Have you been here before?" Encrid asked.
"Once."
"I see."
"I came to act as a guide."
Despite its appearance from the outside, the Labyrinth was not cramped. The tunnels were spacious enough to accommodate even Bran’s massive frame. It was a cavernous world wrapped in jagged limestone walls, with sticky moisture dripping from the ceiling—the threshold of the Demon Realm.
"Lady Sinar would want you to turn back even now."
The speaker was a female elf, a swordswoman carrying a blade similar to Spark. It was impossible to tell if she was speaking for Sinar, testing Encrid’s resolve, or expressing genuine concern. She was an expert at masking her emotions.
"She is stubborn by nature; she doesn't listen to others," Pel answered for him. It wasn't an exaggeration.
"Let’s move," Encrid said, stepping forward. The oppressive air and the stench were obstacles, but it would be embarrassing to call them barriers.
The elf holding the luminescent stone raised it high. Given that they had been greeted by drowners and a manticore at the entrance, those monsters were certainly not the last of them.
He was right. As they ventured deeper into the wide, tunnel-like cavern, monsters emerged in an endless stream.
"Grrr-aaargh."
The moment the bizarre roar reached them, monsters lunged from the shadows just beyond the reach of the light. They had barely turned a single corner before the next wave hit.
"A mix of drowners and human-faced dogs," Luagarne observed, her Frok’s eye glowing. Even without her insight, the threat was obvious.
They were grotesque. Bloated with stagnant water, pieces of the drowners' skin sloughed off with wet splats. Dozens of human-faced dogs—four-legged abominations—trailed behind them, their pitch-black eyes rolling in their sockets as they blocked the path.
Was this a threat? Not in the slightest.
"We’ll handle this."
This time, Bran stepped forward. They were seasoned warriors; they hadn't entered the Demon Realm unprepared. The elven swordsmen, who had forged their physical bodies into weapons rather than relying on vital energy, were proof of that.
Encrid crossed his arms, watching them work. It was time to assess the strength of his allies.
Elven combat was the epitome of practicality. There was Bran of the Woodgard, and the others: Brisa, Arkoiris, and Zero. Zero was the large elf who had challenged Encrid to a spar when he first entered the city. Excluding Bran, Zero’s skills were the most prominent.
"Not bad," Luagarne remarked. Encrid nodded.
Zero kicked off the ground, drawing his blade. The elven sword, known as a Naidel, sliced through the darkness. Advancing in a single fluid motion, Zero squeezed his muscles, channeling force from his ankles through his waist and into his wrists to deliver a devastating blow.
The Naidel seemed to bend in midair. Under the faint glow of the stone, the blade split a human-faced dog vertically from head to tail.
Splurt!
Pitch-black blood drenched the floor, adding more filth to the already damp ground.
"It seems he’s conscious of you," Luagarne noted.
The strike was reminiscent of how Encrid had dispatched the manticore. It wasn't an exact copy, but the underlying framework was strikingly similar.
‘Is his talent that exceptional?’
An elf’s power usually came from vital energy. Even without manifesting it, Zero’s swordsmanship was flawless. The other two elves were equally formidable.
Encrid felt as if he were wearing heavy iron greaves, a side effect of the Demon Realm’s atmosphere that his Will of Rejection couldn't entirely negate. The others were likely feeling the same weight, yet they remained swift.
Their footwork was light; their swings were fierce. While Zero focused on raw power and cleaving strikes, Brisa and Arkoiris focused on accumulating wounds without overextending. They fought like twins, moving in perfect sync without a single word or gesture. One would intentionally expose their back, and the moment a monster lunged to exploit the opening, the other would sever its head.
‘Baiting the instinct, then striking the vulnerability.’
It was a simple tactic in theory, but executing it with such seamless timing was a testament to their skill.
Among them, Bran was the outlier. His method was brutally simple.
Grrr!
A human-faced dog lunged, sinking its fangs into Bran’s arm. The teeth failed to pierce his armor. While the beast was clamped onto his forearm, Bran’s massive, wooden fist smashed into its skull.
Crack!
The blow wasn't fast, but the sheer mass behind it was comparable to a giant’s. The monster’s head burst instantly.
Bran’s tactic was: Take a hit, give a hit.
A Woodgard’s body was composed of living bark, serving as a natural suit of plate armor that was nearly impossible to breach. It protected their eyes and internal organs—assuming they even had them.
‘Do Woodgards have organs?’ Encrid wondered reflexively. ‘If the exterior is impenetrable, I’d have to destroy the interior.’ It was a warrior’s thought, analyzing a potential opponent even when they were allies.
Zero soon joined the other two. There were over twenty human-faced dogs, but Encrid didn't need to intervene. He watched the fight closely, and as he did, a small realization dawned on him.
‘Zero.’
The elf wasn't fighting with his mind; he was fighting with instinct. He had closed his heart and suppressed his emotions, leaving nothing but combat logic in his head. And yet, he was still thinking.
Usually, instinctual combat and rational judgment were mutually exclusive. Yet Zero was bridging the gap.
‘How?’
In terms of raw experience, few on the continent could match Encrid. As his thoughts accelerated, he began to dissect the elf’s technique. He wasn't just watching; he was devouring the logic behind the movements.
This process was similar to what Ragna did naturally. The difference was that Ragna "knew" the moment he saw something. Encrid had to work for it. He had to break down the reasons and reconstruct the process.
It didn't take long. Though his internal analysis was extensive, only a few seconds passed in the real world. Encrid finally understood the tactical foundation Zero was using.
‘What I use is Thought Acceleration.’
To an observer, it looked like Encrid was processing dozens of thoughts simultaneously. In reality, he was thinking sequentially—just at an astronomical speed.
What Zero was doing was different.
‘Truesilver in the right, Spark in the left.’
It was like wielding two swords. Zero was dividing his consciousness—Thought Partitioning.
Having understood the theory, Encrid felt he could grasp it after a few attempts. He couldn't do it immediately, but that didn't bother him. He wasn't born with that kind of innate talent, and for the first time, he didn't wish he was.
‘Rather than knowing it in an instant, mastering it through years of effort means it will never be forgotten. I can savor the entire process.’
To master a technique through sensation and then understand it theoretically—Encrid preferred that path. It was why he no longer envied the "gifted."
"Our task is to find the stairs leading down," Bran said after the last of the dogs was crushed.
Monsters continued to crawl out of the darkness. Drowners were constant, and at one point, two more manticores emerged. There was no time to rest, but the group wasn't in any real danger yet. These were common monsters, not Colony-class threats.
‘Still, stamina will become an issue.’
The sheer number of enemies was exhausting. Even simple labor becomes a burden when there is no end in sight. Pel and Luagarne took turns leading the vanguard, and Encrid stepped in whenever the line wavered.
As the corpses piled up, they pushed forward through the mud and uneven terrain. Along the way, they encountered swarms of blood-sucking flies and giant leeches. The flies were particularly heinous; their bites caused wounds that refused to clot.
The elves swung their swords with surgical precision to swat the insects, but the swarm seemed infinite.
"These bastards were a nuisance last time, too," Bran grunted. Since his bark-skin was impervious to their proboscises, he didn't bother dodging. He simply swatted them like common houseflies.
Splat.
When Bran crushed one against the wall, black ichor and pulped thorax trickled down the limestone. It was a revolting sight. Encrid followed suit, punching the air to swat them away without drawing his blades.
"How bothersome," Luagarne sighed. She ignited the length of her whip, and the tunnel flared with sudden brilliance. She swung the weapon in a wide arc, creating a vortex of heat that incinerated the flies in midair. The flames dancing along the whip looked less like a weapon and more like a high-level spell.
Encrid watched, fascinated. Luagarne caught his gaze.
"A magic weapon’s utility depends entirely on the wielder," she said.
They walked for hours after clearing the swarm.
"It’s too vast," Pel noted.
Bran nodded. "It will take three days at most, two at the least."
It wasn't called a Labyrinth for nothing. Finding the path was a grueling chore. Had Bran not been there to guide them, they might have wandered the upper levels for weeks. Bran didn't rely on memory; he judged their progress by the types of monsters they encountered.
"Found it," Bran said suddenly. "Those are the ones guarding the stairs."
Encrid looked ahead. Several drowners stood in the path, but these were different. They were unique specimens—larger, more distorted, and far more numerous.
"They are creatures that do not die, even if you kill them," Bran warned.
The elves tensed. Encrid could see why. Hovering above the shoulders of the drowners were flickering, ethereal shapes.
They were drowners possessed by evil spirits.