Chapter 635: Pushing Through the Darkness
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 635: Pushing Through the Darkness
People perceive, think, and judge only within the boundaries of their own knowledge. The same was true for the tree elf, Woodgard.
Bran felt the weight of that limitation. To him, this was the greatest crisis they had faced since entering the Labyrinth.
Encrid, however, remained calm. He saw no reason to be shocked, nor any reason to panic. So, he did neither.
Instead, he simply did what needed to be done: he thought, and he swung his sword.
‘A Death Knight.’
A knight reborn through the dark power of the Demon Realm.
Was its strength different from when it was alive? To use an elven expression, perhaps it had simply become a sturdier blade of grass.
Had it ended up like this because it craved life even at the threshold of death? Or was it merely a puppet possessed by the Demon Realm, forced to act against its own will?
It didn't matter.
All that mattered was that the entity blocking his path was a threat to a knight.
But was it truly a threat?
Encrid saw something like soot rising behind the elf's back. He noted the positioning of its feet and the precise angle at which its wrist twisted.
His eyes registered the details, his intuition flared, and his thoughts accelerated.
By the time the elf swung its sword, Encrid had already positioned his own blade to intercept.
Clang!
Pel and Luagarne could barely track the exchange. To them, it looked as if the undead elf was swinging its sword toward a predetermined spot—because Encrid’s blade was already there, blocking it "in advance."
It was a moment born of accelerated cognition and keen insight. After that single clash of steel, there was more to be seen.
‘A style of restraint rather than flashiness, maximizing efficiency.’
Encrid grasped the nature of his opponent's swordsmanship.
‘Is its goal to clash blades? Is it aiming for a bind?’
It was said that if you swing a sword without thinking, you lack real combat experience. No matter how many holes were in its brain or how many maggots nested inside, if it had been a knight in life, its strikes could not be without intent.
And that intent was to clash blades.
He wondered if it was aiming for a bind, but that wasn't it either. The creature retreated immediately after the clash. Encrid felt something like soot transferring onto his Truesilver sword.
He didn't actually see it; he felt it through intuition.
The dead elf, Argilla, had been unable to use Vital Energy. Instead, she used the demonic mana bestowed by the Demon Realm. The source was the same. Hadn't Esther said so? It was possible to substitute Vital Energy with something else. Of course, the reason or cause for how things had ended up this way remained unknown.
Encrid accelerated his thoughts and immersed himself in the battle.
A single clash, and then the deflected blade came flying back in rapid succession. A heavy greatsword, ill-suited to the elf's slender frame, came crashing down from above.
The swing minimized all unnecessary movement. Its angle and speed made it difficult to evade without blocking.
This time was no different from the last. It wasn't trying to cut him; it was baiting him into clashing weapons. Yet, it wasn't trying to lock blades in a bind to force close-quarters combat.
The intent was clear, but the underlying meaning remained obscure. The missing piece of information finally came from behind.
"Don't clash weapons with it!" Bran shouted. It was a rare, desperate cry from an elf.
The meaning: the soot transferred through contact. And through that contact, it brought about some kind of change—a change that would favor the dead elf while disadvantaging Encrid.
Since everyone was behind him, no one could see Encrid's eyes. In the darkness, his blue eyes blazed with light.
Will, surging from the depths of his subconscious, coursed through his entire body. His thoughts accelerated, opening his Foresight. In tandem with his ability to see an inch ahead, his senses sharpened to a razor's edge.
He left the rest to instinct.
Perceiving an enemy's weakness instinctively was a talent for Pel, but for Encrid, it was a technique. Thus, he dissected, researched, analyzed, and reviewed. It was a process of indulgence—savoring, tearing apart, and enjoying the mechanics of the fight. Having established this through countless spars with Pel, he could now steal and employ a fragment of that talent.
The key was to perceive with insight and let the techniques ingrained through repetitive training flow naturally. The Will surging from his subconscious—his sheer willpower—aided him in this.
Cl-cl-cl-clang!
Encrid allowed the dead elf to achieve what it wanted.
As their swords met, they clashed six more times in an instant. The curse bound to the magic sword transferred to the Truesilver sword. The weight of his blade shifted. Yet, Encrid's movements did not falter, nor did his sword stop.
The Truesilver sword was so light that even if its weight doubled, it didn't matter.
After deflecting the blade six times and pushing it away, the Truesilver sword parted from the greatsword and planted a deep kiss directly on the neck of the undead elven knight.
That kiss was a brilliant, straight line of light—a gift from the Grim Reaper that rendered the dead elf permanently incapacitated once more.
Behind Encrid, the hand of the elf who had been about to draw Kiaos froze.
Drip.
Black blood trickled from the dead elf's neck, but because there was so little fluid left in its body, the dark liquid only seeped out in small drops before stopping completely. The decapitated elven knight fell to its knees with a thud and collapsed forward.
The soot remaining behind the headless knight's back faded away speck by speck until it vanished.
There was no sign of movement from the fallen foe. They watched in silence for a moment, but it lay perfectly still.
"Let's go."
Confirming it was motionless, Encrid spoke calmly. Perhaps from spending so much time with the emotionally restrained elves, his tone had naturally grown quiet and composed. To put it another way, he did not view what he had done as anything remarkable. And for Encrid, that was only natural.
The entity that had attacked him was not a true knight. It was merely a half-measure.
Hadn't Sinar said so multiple times?
"There is no such thing as an elven knight who cannot use Vital Energy. Vital Energy is the foundation and source of an elf. To be without it is like trying to write a letter without hands. If you argue that one could write with their toes if they had no hands, then I must say it is like trying to write a letter without hands or feet."
It was a profound truth hidden within a trivial joke. Back then, Encrid had replied that one could just hold the pen in their mouth. Sinar had retorted that even if he had no mouth, he was the type of guy who would wedge the pen between his eyelids to write.
It had been a highly serious conversation that didn't feel like a joke at all.
"How did you do that?" Zero approached and asked. No matter how much they were taught to suppress their emotions from childhood, elves were still people. It was a question born of sheer astonishment.
"I saw an opening and cut," Encrid gave his usual reply. There could be no clearer answer.
"Tch."
Pel clicked his tongue. He had managed to catch a glimpse of the exchange, however faintly. Seeing the outcome of Encrid's actions, it closely resembled his own usual swordsmanship. He wondered what Encrid had done, only to realize he had executed a strike that moved on its own upon seeing a weakness.
Did he feel like his specialty had been stolen? Not quite. Within the Order of Madness, sharing techniques was only natural. If he stopped there, whining about whether his skills were stolen or not, it would only prove that he had reached his limit.
Limits existed to be shattered. Pel had learned that from watching Encrid. However, that didn't mean he was entirely pleased. That was why he clicked his tongue.
‘Talent.’
Though he would never utter the word aloud, Pel felt a lack in his own talent. Of course, it was a thought he could never have held if he knew the countless "todays" Encrid had lived through to reach this point.
As Encrid replied, several thoughts crossed his mind, and he began to ponder.
‘The meaning, the method of implementation, and then the method of training.’
His experience from countless spars allowed him to capture the opponent's weaknesses beyond the five senses. In other words, it was swordsmanship utilizing the sixth sense. It didn't matter which of the principles of Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu was applied within it. As long as he could reach the opponent's body, he didn't care about the method.
Here, the meaning was "the sword that sees weaknesses." The method of implementation was insight and experience. And the method of training was repetitive sparring.
Pel could manifest all of this through sheer talent without needing such dense experience.
‘While I can do it thanks to the countless "todays" I've spent fighting.’
It was the process of translating what was executed by instinct into theory. A brief moment was enough for that.
"What on earth is this..." Bran also approached in astonishment. The remaining two elves could be seen blinking their eyes repeatedly.
Watching them, Encrid spoke.
"I don't know what you have in your breast pocket, but I hope you aren't planning to use it on Sinar."
His calm tone pierced, slashed, and tore straight to the heart of the matter.
The elf named Arkoiris panicked. Did he know everything?
Encrid's blue eyes stared straight at him. While this innocent elf knew nothing of deceit, Encrid was quick-witted and possessed an outstanding ability to read the situation.
"We cannot leave Lady Sinar as the Demon's Bride."
It was a statement they had made multiple times, both before entering and after. This statement carried two meanings.
One was that they would save Sinar.
"I don't know what's in your pocket, but it's at least something capable of killing Sinar, right?" Encrid spoke again.
The second meaning was that they would kill Sinar. Rather than letting her suffer as the Demon's Bride, they would send her to the side of the gods.
Encrid had seen right through it. He didn't even need to think deeply to see it. And even though he knew, he had no desire to argue about it. Unless they were elves who had wandered the continent and been weathered by the world, they did not know how to lie.
It was the same now. Arkoiris was left speechless. Choosing silence because he couldn't lie was a wise move, but his gaze, gestures, and posture spoke far more clearly than any words, confirming that Encrid had hit the mark.
"It was obvious. And knowing it doesn't change anything," Luagarne spoke up. Whether she meant it as comfort was unclear, but the elves' embarrassment seemed to dissipate slightly.
"...Let's rest for a moment," Bran said.
The straight, continuous passage allowed them to stop whenever they wished. This was likely how they had been able to enter and return before.
Encrid also sat down on the floor. As he sat and stared into the pitch-black darkness blocking their path, a thought occurred to him.
‘It is dangerous, so turn back. Try again next time.’
The darkness seemed to whisper those words. Its malice felt incredibly vivid.
Whether they fought the Demon Realm or saved someone, it didn't matter. Whatever their purpose, this passage would ultimately shake a person's resolve. By offering the option to return at any time, it allowed them to flee. It was a mechanism designed to make those with broken wills run away. They would enter prepared to make sacrifices, but upon sensing failure, some would turn back.
If this were a war, and the Demon Realm and the elven city were assumed to be nations...
‘It is a form of one side slowly eating away at the other.’
They said the elven city had lost its knights and many had died here. The Demon Realm known as the Labyrinth grew stronger by feeding on their flesh and blood. Had they mobilized their full strength the moment they recognized the Demon Realm, they could have destroyed the Labyrinth, even at the cost of sacrifices.
‘Then there would have been no such thing as a Courtship Demon.’
But the elves had pondered ways to deal with it without suffering casualties. As time passed and they suffered several failures, the Demon Realm had eventually grown into a troublesome existence that could not be easily dealt with. By the time they finally resolved to eliminate it, it was already too late.
A persistent malice. He felt as if he could faintly glimpse the demon's presence.
Courtship—taking an elf as a bride—was likely a similar process. The bastard wants to devour the elven city. It seeks to escape the Labyrinth and enter the world.
‘Is this the beginning of a Great Demon Realm?’
If the city is devoured, that is exactly what will happen.
Elvenheim—the collective term humans used for elven cities. If such an elven city were to become a Demon Realm, what should it be called?
‘An elven grave? Elven Grave?’
Encrid closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn't even felt sleepy, yet he fell asleep before he knew it. He didn't know if it was the Ferryman's trickery or if his body was naturally resting to prepare for the impending danger, but the Ferryman appeared in his dream.
"No words should be necessary, but I shall give you a piece of advice," said the entity holding a violet lamp aboard a swaying rowboat.
"Advice?" Encrid tilted his head.
"Just throw away the remaining Frok, humans, and elves around you, and run."
The Ferryman cackled. The vivid malice laced in his laughter felt unfamiliar. Encrid did not reply and opened his eyes.
He thought he had dozed off for a while, but only enough time to blink a few times had passed. It was after they had filled their stomachs with jerky and the like. The elves, of course, ate vegetables and fruits.
The party forged ahead once more.
What had the others, including Bran, felt during that brief rest? A strange fervor could be felt among the group of elves.
"Demon Slayer."
"Sir, you have my deepest respect."
It was praise directed at Encrid, expressed not just through their eyes but spoken aloud. Even Zero spoke in a deeply moved tone.
"Please vanquish the demon and save our Queen."
He had almost forgotten, but Encrid actually knew Sinar's true identity. Her name was Sinar Kirhais.
The term Elvenheim, meaning the home of the elves, was what humans used; in reality, each elven city had its own name. The elves often named their cities after the families that led them. The name of the city Encrid had visited was Kirhais.
Even in an elven city ruled by a council and councilors, there was a family whose role was clear, transcending mere symbolism. The royal family that had ruled the city for generations. Since Sinar was the only one left now, she was the Queen of this city.
"It is all the more surprising that this isn't an elven joke," Encrid said.
"Pardon?" the elf named Brisa asked back.
"It's nothing."
A Queen—nothing could be more surprising than that.
There were no more monsters. The passage gradually widened, transforming into a vast space. There was no longer a path leading forward. Or rather, though openings resembling passages could be seen here and there, it would be more accurate to say there was no need to go any further.
They had reached their destination, and their target was right before their eyes.
"Sinar."
Sinar Kirhais, the companion once known as the Gold Witch, sat upon a chair of bone with her hands neatly folded.