Chapter 653: That is Why I Held the Sword, and That is Why I Sang
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 653: That is Why I Held the Sword, and That is Why I Sang
In the language of the elves, Penna was an abbreviation. Spelled out, the name was Keith Seco Pedna, meaning "the feather that cuts all."
Encrid channeled just enough Will into his swing to avoid exhaustion, and a pale blue light flared from the blade. At the same time, he felt the sword fit more snugly in his hand.
How should he describe this?
‘The feeling of becoming one with the sword?’
Well, it was something like that. Rem always used to say his axe was like an extension of himself; Encrid wondered if this was the feeling he had meant.
Penna's blade, extending in a long sweep, grazed the bridge of the vampire's nose and then that of the martial artist, Mormon.
With a sharp snick, the man's face was instantly covered in blood. Though the sound was faint, Penna's blade was incredibly sharp, leaving a fairly deep gash.
As blood poured down, the martial artist tensed his facial muscles to stem the bleeding.
It was a muscle-tensing technique he had also learned in Valaf-style Martial Arts. This meant the newcomer was no ordinary opponent either. Even so, he was manageable.
Encrid could block, dodge, and strike back with ease.
Using high-speed thought and thought partitioning, he executed the Wave-Blocking Sword to defend. It was twice as easy as blocking One-Killer.
Tensing his muscles, relying on the springiness of his knees, and twisting his waist, he swung and unleashed his sword.
Clang!
Using the recoil from clashing with the weapon of the man called Black Snake, he drove his elbow backward.
Thud!
The martial artist's fist met the tip of his elbow. The martial artist spun his body and threw a kick.
His leg whipped out like a lash. It was a strike so sharp it could easily be mistaken for a sword slash.
Even in the stretched-out flow of time, the kick was remarkably fast. Encrid arched his back, raised his knee, and pointed his toes. That bastard One-Killer used to attack from any posture.
That was because his entire body was a weapon. But then...
‘Can't I just do something similar?’
The thought was immediately put into action. Having a body trained in Valaf-style Martial Arts meant he could mix in hand-to-hand combat whenever necessary. His movements didn't even get tangled.
Since the Wave-Blocking Sword was less about simply moving a blade and more of an art that trained one's thoughts, all of this could be considered part of the Wave-Blocking Sword.
Furthermore, Encrid had recently endured over five hundred iterations of "today" using this very method.
He could fight like this for over three days. If he pushed himself a little, couldn't he even last Seven Days? Of course, he would be incredibly exhausted by the end of it.
And the spells interrupting him in between? While he wouldn't call them cute, they were perfectly manageable compared to Walking Fire.
To put it simply, this was a highly winnable fight.
‘No way.’ Are these guys fakes?
With that thought, Encrid tried to kick Black Snake Elle in the chest. But then, spikes shot out from the man's breastplate.
True to someone whose specialty was deceptive swordsmanship, he had installed a sinister mechanism in his armor.
Instead of planting the sole of his foot, Encrid flexed his ankle and kicked upward with his toes, aiming for the chin. Elle tried to dodge but caught the blow on the edge of his helmet.
Thud.
It wasn't a particularly powerful strike, but it was enough to rattle his head.
‘What a monster,’ Elle thought, gritting his teeth, while Encrid doubted them once more.
‘They must be fakes, right?’
If this were truly a trap prepared by the cult, there was no way it would be this easy.
Of course, they weren't fakes. They were the real deal, and they were formidable.
Yet, this was how the fight was going. Encrid simply didn't realize how high he had climbed. That was why he had the luxury of having such idle thoughts.
‘The guy called Black Snake and the vampire were unorthodox.’
Compared to those two, the martial artist who joined later relied on strength and speed rather than trickery. He could be considered textbook.
If he categorized them using his recently established system, Black Snake and the vampire fell under the "maintenance-artistry type," while the martial artist was the "training-lethal type."
Of course, since all three seemed to have reached the level of a knight, they had to be considered "all-rounder types."
As one's level rose, any deficiencies were bound to be filled. Just because someone was a training-lethal type didn't mean their maintenance or artistry was lacking.
‘The ideal is a perfect circle.’
Reaching a level where one's sharp, protruding strengths are seamlessly integrated. In that sense, even Rem, Ragna, and Audin still had room for training.
‘Once you transcend lethal, maintenance, and all-rounder, do you become a completed type?’
Perfection did not exist. Still, once you reached a certain level, you could call it a completed form.
The vampire was thrashing about after being sliced into three pieces, so he was as good as dead.
The martial artist was next. An opening appeared, and Penna swept across his neck. His Adam's apple was severed, and blood erupted.
What his life had been like, what he had hoped for, and what he had wanted that brought him here—none of it would ever be known now.
Because the dead cannot speak.
Under the red moonlight, a liquid that looked pitch-black gushed out, soaking the ground.
With a heavy thud, the man fell to his knees first, and then his head crashed to the ground. The way he collapsed in a slow arc appeared to everyone as if time had been stretched, moving in slow motion.
As all things with a beginning must have an end, the slowly tilting head finally touched the ground.
Liquid continued to pool beneath the fallen man's body. When red became too deep, did it eventually look black? Just like their blood? There was no way to know.
"My wish will be fulfilled in the end."
Black Snake Elle spat out incomprehensible words as he lunged. Encrid could hold his own against three, but he couldn't afford to fight half-heartedly against someone throwing away his life.
Saying it was manageable was one thing, but if he let his guard down or made a single mistake, he would be the one to die.
However, having grown so accustomed to tightrope-like battles while fighting the demon One-Killer, perhaps that was why facing three opponents felt manageable.
Therefore, there was no room for mistakes. And even less room for carelessness.
Those who became knights were monsters in their own right. To ordinary people, they were beings who never made mistakes and performed impossible feats. Yet, even to such a knight, Encrid's techniques were exceptionally refined.
There were no openings. Was his reputation as the Knight of the Iron Wall due to this specialty? It was only natural for Elle to think this way.
Clang! Cl-clang!
Deflecting the elongated sword tip flying toward him with Penna, Encrid leaped to the left, but the sword—now moving like a black snake—pursued him.
The deflected black snake whipped its head around, aiming for the back of Encrid's head. True to its name, it really looked like a snake lunging at him.
Encrid retreated, then pressed his right thumb against the ground to abruptly reverse his direction. The sudden movement created an illusion, making it look as if his body was still moving forward.
In reality, Encrid had already changed direction, pressing Penna against the middle of the enemy's elongated sword as he dashed forward.
Screeech!
Sparks and embers flew, leaving a trail along his path. Encrid's feet were faster than his opponent's sword.
A pale blue meteor surged up the length of the black snake. In the end, the black snake failed to reach its target, and Encrid's Penna severed the neck of the man named Elle.
Shlick!
A clean sound cut through the neck. The strike was so incredibly fast that although it severed the neck, leaving a single fine line, the head did not fly off immediately. Penna's blade was so sharp that it was capable of passing through while leaving nothing but a thin thread of a line on the neck.
"Go to hell, all of you. Bastards."
Even as he died, Elle poured out his resentment. Blood trickled down his neck like tears.
Soon, his head slid off, and instead of mere droplets, a torrent of blood erupted. If it hadn't been a human head that was severed, and if the erupting liquid hadn't been blood but water shooting from a city fountain, it would have been a spectacular sight.
Though no one would ever know, a man who had met his wife at nineteen, had a daughter at twenty-two, lost them both at twenty-nine, and came to hate the entire human race had just died. Apostle Black Snake Elle was his name.
As Elle died, he felt as if he were falling into a dark pit. His wife and daughter were not there. He had willingly drunk the blood of a demon to exact his revenge on the world.
Therefore, his place would be by the demon's side.
"Truly remarkable."
The man holding the staff stopped casting his spell and spoke. Now that the outcome of the battle was decided, the Apostle of the Advent spoke in a calm tone, as if no longer even capable of being surprised.
"Did I underestimate you? Or was my calculation wrong? Or is this some prank of the gods? It is full of incomprehensible things, but I suppose questioning it won't change anything."
"Are you going to fight?"
"Though I am the only one left, I must."
The Apostle was a spell collector and possessed excellent physical abilities. However, to use Encrid's terminology, he was an imperfect circle.
‘A perfect circle can still be pierced by a sharp awl.’
Such was Encrid's thought. Once a system was established, it led to inspiration for his next swordsmanship. Even as he fought, Encrid envisioned a new form of swordsmanship.
For now, only the concept had surfaced, but it was a start. Though it might vanish into thin air just as easily.
The Apostle had wished to be their misfortune, but that desire was not granted.
Clack, cl-clack!
He cast more than half of the spells he possessed, but none of them got through. Even the black sphere spell, which turned anything it touched into dust, was sliced apart by Encrid's sword.
"In the end, we will win," the Apostle said.
Thrust, slice.
Encrid half-listened as he thrust into and slashed the man's neck.
The blood flowing from the neck harmonized with the moonlight. It was crimson. Cultist though he was, this man was also human. Serving the god of the Demon Realm did not turn a human into a different race.
The head, severed by the blade, fell to the ground with a thud and rolled.
The sinister red moonlight still illuminated the earth, but there were no enemies left. The remnants of the necromancy summoned by the Apostle also dissolved into nothingness once the caster died.
Some evil spirits tried to take advantage of being summoned to run wild, but Luagarne's whip and Zero's sword did not leave them be.
"Whew, my approach was wrong."
And the severed head spoke, even without a torso. The Apostle of the Advent was performing a bizarre trick, attempting to converse with only his head remaining.
"...Are you some kind of immortal?"
Would he still live if his head were split into eight pieces? As Encrid asked and raised his sword again, the head quickly spoke up to prevent him.
"No, I will die before long. I might last until morning at the latest? I am only holding on because the red moonlight is lending strength to my mana."
Was it a lie? It didn't sound like one.
"Splitting my head won't change anything, will it? If by some chance you feel pity and want to save me, you could bring five virgin men and five virgin women, sprinkle their blood on my body, and reattach my neck. But I doubt you would do that."
"If I were going to do that, I wouldn't have cut off your head in the first place."
"Actually, even if you did, my neck wouldn't reattach. Having sex doesn't change one's blood, after all. Though it might be a different story if you could get the blood of a dragonkin."
Joking at a time like this?
"Shall I crush it with my whip?" Luagarne offered a kind suggestion.
"I can split it. Are you worried about a curse?" Pel also stepped forward.
"If that is the case, I can do it," Zero added.
"Every single one of you is so eager to kill an old body. Give me a break. Good grief, gathering my remaining mana just to speak is exhausting enough."
"Do you have something you want to say?"
"I have lingering regrets and a proposal. Even if we set aside my regrets as personal matters, the proposal still stands. You should switch sides."
"My whip it is, then."
Luagarne prepared to lash her whip. In truth, the Apostle was barely holding on. He only had a few words left in him.
He could have used his last remaining strength to cast a curse, but he had already tried and knew the outcome. It wouldn't work. It wouldn't work on him. Therefore, leaving a few words was his best option.
"It is a fight that cannot be won anyway. There is no reason to stand on the losing side, is there?"
Even with only a head left and no body, his words carried weight. Though not to the extent of Krang, he was a man who knew how to deliver a speech.
The Apostle had indeed been a cunning hero who once dominated an era. Though he had sided with the Demon Realm, followed the doctrines of the Demon Realm Holy Land Cult, and become an Apostle of the Advent, looking at what he had accomplished—right or wrong—one could not deny his heroic presence.
Just because the direction of one's faith was misguided did not mean their individual capability was diminished.
Encrid silently stared at the head. The head of the Apostle spoke its final words.
"In the end, you will be stopped before our blades."
That might be true. Encrid knew the opponent was speaking with utmost sincerity, without falsehood.
But the fight Encrid had started was never based on the premise of winning in the first place. It was a path he had crawled and walked with nothing but his meager talent.
He wanted to let a mother, who wished to protect her child, live in a city free of monsters.
He wanted a world where a fruit vendor, who would split even a partially rotten apple to share, could smile.
He hoped an old woman, who had spent her life lamenting as a tavern maid, could find peace in her old age.
He wanted nights free of nightmares for a simple mercenary who planted dreams in a child by calling him a genius.
Yes, he wanted such a world.
That is why he held the sword.
That is why he sang.
The song of the Knight of the End of War had not even begun.
"It doesn't matter."
Encrid countered and shook off the verbal curse the Apostle had woven. It wasn't particularly difficult, nor did he specifically try to grasp the intent. That was simply the result.
"...You choose to fight a losing battle?"
He didn't say things like "that's just your opinion" or "you won't know until you try." Instead, words from deep within his soul came out first.
"Because I will fight until I win."
"...I see."
Behind him, Pel gained another realization, and the Apostle stared at the madman for a moment before leaving his final words.
"It is a pity I must depart without seeing the world of the Demon Realm."
He was an Apostle of the Advent Cult to his very bones. But now that he was dead, it was a meaningless wish. With that, the head could speak no more. The red moonlight faded away. It was the pitch-black hour of the night, the dawn before sunrise. In the language of the West, it was Urquiora, the Gloomy Dawn.
It is only natural for the sun to rise after the Gloomy Dawn.
A deep blue light enveloped the surroundings first, and a moment later, dawn broke. Light descended upon the world. The sun illuminated the surroundings brightly, as if nothing had happened.
"The sunlight is nice," Luagarne said.
While the group cleared and organized the corpses, some of the elves, who had sensed an ominous energy ahead, approached. They were individuals with excellent talent in manipulating vital energy.
"What happened? An ambush?" one of them asked, scanning the surroundings. It was an elf who had served as their guide this time, having experience traveling the continent.