Chapter 723: Point Explosion
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 723: Point Explosion
His mouth had moved of its own accord, but he couldn't help it. He was trapped in a curse, forced to repeat this "today" over and over. And as he relived that day, there were times the count exceeded several hundred.
If he added up every single loop, the number wouldn't be in the hundreds, but in the thousands.
So, it was only natural that he had called it "merely." Anyone who understood his situation—the Ferryman, for instance—would have nodded in agreement.
Makes sense.
Of course, to outsiders who knew nothing of his circumstances, it sounded entirely different.
Provoking him at a time like this?
That was likely how they saw it.
The single word "merely" was perfectly natural to Encrid, but it sent a violent ripple through everyone else.
Just moments ago, the overlapping voice that had commanded even the falling rain to worship had made Demuil seem like a being from another world. He had exuded an untouchable majesty, a presence far beyond any mortal's reach.
Yet with that single word, "merely," he was dragged back down—reduced once more to an ugly soul clinging to a rotting corpse, a monster barely kept alive by spells and potions.
What was more, he had exposed his petty narrow-mindedness by reacting to a few simple words.
"...I will grant you this: you have a talent for getting under my skin, creature," Demuil said to Encrid.
"I am merely a single swordsman," Encrid replied, raising Samcheol. He slowly lifted his arm, pointing to his side, and continued, "And together, we are merely two."
Shhhhh.
No one spoke; there was only the howling wind and the lashing rain. To have the nerve to throw out such a provocation in this situation was nothing short of extraordinary.
Rumble!
The sky spat a bolt of lightning as if marveling at Encrid’s audacity. A flash of white light illuminated the surroundings before fading away. Shadows stretched out in four directions from his body, only to snap back and merge with him as darkness reclaimed the space.
Throughout it all, Encrid's stance remained perfectly steady.
"You aren't called a madman for nothing," Rynox murmured in admiration.
Encrid wanted to protest. He didn't think he deserved to hear that from a man who, having just lost an arm, joked about only using three swords from now on. But before he could, the Clan Head spoke first.
"From here on, it is my turn, Encrid of the Border Guard."
The Clan Head stood before the monster with the bizarrely "beautified" black rock skin. Though his entire body was covered in wounds, his overwhelming presence remained undiminished. He was like a greatsword given human form. It wasn't just pressure; he himself felt like a blade—a greatsword, its edge honed and brimming with the will to fight. There was no need to ask where its tip was pointed.
"Don't worry. You've got Rynox the meat shield right here," Rynox chimed in.
"Did you say that another person's single day is ten 'todays' to you?" Encrid asked, cutting in. Before his opponent could even answer, he threw out another question. "Is that why you look so prematurely old?"
At this point, he was risking his life just to mock his opponent. His tone was as solemn as a scene from a heroic epic, yet the words coming out of his mouth were pure mockery. It was a truly admirable talent for provocation.
He's bringing up his age now?
"And here I am, looking so youthful," Rynox shook his head in disbelief at every word Encrid uttered.
"You are truly a creature I wish to tear limb from limb."
Fury dripped from Demuil's voice. In his decades of life, it wasn't as if no one had ever looked down on him, but it had been a very long time since he had heard such insolence. Or was this the first time?
He had no intention of sharing his life story, but he had spent the last several decades in a slumber-like state. Both before he slept and after he woke, he had been surrounded only by those who revered him.
"My god!"
"Master, who shall become the new god of the Demon Realm!"
The only one who had never shown him fear was Hescal. But Hescal had approached him out of greed, not courage. Even so, hadn't Hescal sought to abandon the current Zaun and build a new one by Demuil's side, placing his reliance on him?
Demuil's stomach churned with rage. Aspiring to godhood did not make one magnanimous. That was Demuil's true nature. He had never allowed anyone who crossed him to live. He hadn't even fully trusted Hescal, which was why he had placed a restriction on the man's heart—yet Hescal had still made an incomprehensible choice in the end.
Trust and faith were concepts that had never existed in his life. He was a petty, narrow-minded man who had never trusted a single soul. And now, he was a petty, narrow-minded monster.
"I will kill you, without fail," Demuil raised a finger to point at Encrid. The patches of skin that had turned to black stone over his rotting flesh looked hideous.
"What did I even do to deserve that?" Encrid protested.
Of course, facing someone's murderous intent was a daily occurrence for him, so he wasn't genuinely offended. His tone betrayed as much; his calm, indifferent delivery of a complaint was incredibly grating.
"Let's make sure we never become enemies," Rynox muttered, impressed all over again.
The Clan Head raised his sword, his face devoid of any humor. For twenty years, the Zaun family had been forced to divide itself. For a long time, they had to suspect, cast out, and test one another. The Clan Head was furious. The very culprit who had dared to fracture his family stood right before him. The root of all this manipulation was not Hescal, but the monster standing before him.
"I should have hunted you down and killed you long ago," the Clan Head murmured quietly. Hearing him, Demuil turned his gaze toward him.
"Arrogant fool."
The Clan Head had searched for over ten years for the one who had spread curses and disease, and only now did they stand face-to-face. The time Demuil had actually been active was extremely brief; in the interim, his disciples had acted in his stead. Had Hescal not helped, he would still be hiding somewhere in a state of suspended animation.
I woke up a hundred years earlier than planned.
Of course, it didn't matter. Waking up a bit early changed nothing. After all, he had now glimpsed divinity. No matter how large a fish swimming in the small pond of Zaun grew, it could never hope to match him. Was that not why he had set everything in motion, even knowing his state was imperfect?
Demuil had no more need for words. It was time for retribution.
Black smoke billowed from his hands, and squirming insects began to swarm across the ground. Each one was the size of a palm. A bite from them would be far worse than a mere sting.
Encrid stood with his sword raised. Rynox stood beside him with his single arm. Just then, the presence of others began to register behind them. No one needed to look back. It wasn't the presence of demonic beasts, and a voice soon followed.
"Anahera is here."
The most beautiful giantess, having lost her helmet, limped forward as she spoke.
"I honed my sword for moments like this. I will help as well."
Behind her, the man who had always walked with a limp joined in. It was the giantess Anahera and the limping Riley.
"Is that him?"
"You cut down Hescal?"
"Is Ragna dead? He can't die yet. He has to wait until I surpass him."
The other swords of Zaun gathered around them.
"Because if you lose, I'm next."
Alexandra arrived as well, half-leaning with her arm slung over Odinkar's shoulder.
"Don't worry, Alex. I've got you," Odinkar said, keeping his boiling anger in check. Though it had been a short time, he too had grown. His old habit of crossing the line during sparring had been thoroughly beaten out of him during his grueling time in the Border Guard.
The swords of Zaun were gathering to protect their home. Their resilience was undoubtedly something Demuil had failed to anticipate. Even with the Medusa and the sorcery snakes eliminated, he had never expected that not a single member of Zaun would die, let alone stand so defiantly before him.
Yet Demuil believed even this was of no consequence. He was alone now, but that was no obstacle. Hescal and those who called themselves his disciples were nothing but expendable tools. He was destined to become a god and open a new Demon Realm here. He would be praised by every creature across the continent and the Empire. He would become a god and establish a new order.
"Protect the Clan Head," Encrid commanded, acting on instinct. Without pausing for breath, he barked out orders. "Anahera, fall back to the flank! Swords, support the rear! Riley, lead the group and kill every last insect!"
With a few waves of Demuil's hands, insects rained from the sky, and golems of black earth rose from the ground. The fists of the black mud golems were as large as human heads.
Were they about to enter another grueling, drawn-out battle? No, they were not.
The Clan Head raised a vial, downed its contents, and swallowed. Letting his sword hang low, he regulated his breathing.
The medicine? Now?
It was the medicine Anne had provided. He had heard it was meant to temporarily numb pain, even if only for a brief moment. The Clan Head had taken it just now. Which meant that up until this point, he had been fighting with a completely broken body.
Why? For this very moment. For this single, fleeting moment. This was the moment the scheming Clan Head had been waiting for.
Quite apart from what his mind deduced, Encrid felt an extraordinary aura radiating from the man. Meanwhile, Demuil summoned insects, golems, and flying evil spirits, scattering pestilence. The black smoke he dispersed was a lethal poison and a harbinger of plague. Inhaling it would cause tumors to swell within the body and strike the victim blind.
The swordsmen of Zaun began a delaying action, keeping a safe distance. They evaded the black smoke and cut down the insects. They circled the golems, severing their legs to rob them of mobility and cutting them down again the moment they regenerated.
As the battle raged, the Clan Head stood as still as a corpse, his sword hanging low. Then, he raised the blade, holding it close to the side of his face. Seeing this, Demuil waved his hands and hurled a sphere of condensed black water. It was the size of a human head, and Encrid did not even want to imagine what would happen if it detonated.
"Block it," the Clan Head commanded.
Encrid didn't know what the Clan Head was planning, but he moved instantly to obey. Encrid could instinctively perceive the structure of spells. He had cut down the Walking Fire in the same manner, and his subsequent training with Esther had only sharpened that sense further.
The spell.
Tracing its flow, he raised and swung his sword. Drawing back his left foot, he thrust Samcheol forward. With a sharp slash, the black sphere was split in two.
Splat.
The severed halves splashed onto the ground, dissolving into the mud without leaving a trace. It was a power borrowed from the Master of Sulfur, capable of melting anything it touched. Yet it had been rendered useless. The core of the spell—the structural transformation of mana—had been shattered.
"He cut a spell?" Demuil gasped in shock. It was a reaction well-deserved. A thread of pure mana, severed cleanly. How could a mere swordsman accomplish such a feat?
"How dare you!"
Demuil hurled five more black spheres in rapid succession, while chains of black smoke erupted from his back, lashing out in all directions. The chains slithered across the ground like silent, swift serpents, snapping at Encrid's ankles.
Encrid cut down all five spheres in sequence. Aside from the fact that they were spells, the act of cutting them was not particularly difficult. They weren't fast, nor did they fly along erratic trajectories. They were easier to slice than the pumpkins Rem used to throw at him with his bare hands.
The chains were much the same. He could see the focal points where the magic concentrated, so he moved nimbly and severed them. He stepped back, kicked to buy space, and swept Samcheol low across the ground. Every muscle in his body throbbed, and his head pounded with a splitting ache, but...
Thin and long.
Having experienced the explosion once, he was now able to draw out his Will like a fine thread through careful moderation. Controlling his Will had become twice as easy as before. He wanted to try imitating what Ragna did, but right now, simply keeping his sword moving was his utmost priority.
"Ha!" Demuil glared at Encrid. Because of this bastard, absolutely nothing was going his way.
Encrid's mouth twitched. He was trying to say something. Was he about to say he couldn't hold out any longer? That he had reached his limit? Seeing the blood streaming from Encrid's nose, he was clearly far from fine. Demuil watched his lips closely while continuing to fling spells.
Encrid swallowed the blood welling up in his throat and spoke. A good speaker must project their voice so that the listener can hear them clearly. In that regard, Encrid was an excellent orator. He spoke at just the right volume for Demuil to hear.
"How do you like what merely two swordsmen and a young girl have accomplished?"
He's saying that now?
"Screeech!"
Demuil let out a screeching wail. His fury boiled over. Instantly, the variety of spells flying at them multiplied. Black spheres, chains, and dark hands suddenly erupting from the ground. Some of the falling rain turned black, shaping into hounds. Lightning crackled between them, but Encrid managed to dodge the strikes and cut down every spell that threatened the Clan Head.
He rolled across the ground, his entire body drenched in muddy water. With every violent movement, fragments of his shattered elven undergarment fell from his clothes. Though he was soaked to the bone and covered in mud like a drowned rat, Encrid's blue eyes never lost their luster, shining even in the darkness.
Just as Encrid felt he was reaching his absolute limit, the Clan Head lunged toward Demuil.
What did Demuil rely on in that split second? The protective barrier surrounding his body? But one of the absolute truths of the world is that trust can always be betrayed. Is it not written even in the holy scriptures? That among hundreds of disciples, there will always be one who betrays and sells out his master. Indeed, the parable of the betraying disciple appears in every holy scripture, as well as in countless oral folktales.
"Ah..."
Ragna, having regained consciousness at some point, let out a soft gasp.
Encrid stared ahead. Lacking the strength to move another inch, he leaned heavily on Samcheol, which was planted in the mud. Rainwater lashed against his eyelids, but he could not bring himself to blink.
The Clan Head, Tempest Zaun, leaped forward and swung his sword.
A single strike.
The Clan Head staked everything on this single blow. His past experiences, his years of training, and even his future. Light erupted from his blade. It was a manifestation of Will entirely distinct from Audin's divine power. The light enveloping the sword curved, severing the very world itself.
A blade that could cut through anything. One look was all it took to know.
Shattering the protective barrier and everything else in its path, the Clan Head's sword bit into Demuil's shoulder and sliced diagonally through his torso, splitting the monster in two. To the naked eye, it looked as though a flash of pure light had descended to cleave the hideous beast.
Throughout the entire process, Encrid felt the Will surging and exploding within the Clan Head. It wasn't because his senses were uniquely gifted; anyone at the level of an Associate Knight would have felt it. Will was formless—invisible, yet palpable. And now, it was visible even to the naked eye.
But the Clan Head's Will did more than just show itself; like an invisible wind rustling hair, it made everyone in the vicinity keenly feel its shifting presence.
An explosion.
He, too, had detonated his Will. Only, his method differed from Alex's. Encrid's experience, instincts, and the theoretical knowledge he had accumulated through training came together, allowing him to understand exactly what the Clan Head had done.
A Point Explosion.
Alexandra distributed her power over a duration of time—an Explosion of Lines. The Clan Head, conversely, staked everything on a single strike. It was a swordsmanship designed to condense everything into one single blow. That was undoubtedly the Clan Head's ultimate technique.
And that technique had finally severed Zaun's long-standing nightmare.
Black blood soaked the ground. The rain began to thin, and the wind died down. Demuil stared down at his bisected body. Half-rotted organs spilled onto the ground.
"How...?" he gasped out his disbelief. The madman who had claimed godhood was gone. In his place was only a wretched mortal who had tried to deny death.
Replaying the Clan Head's strike in his mind, Encrid felt a shiver run down his spine. To be honest, he had believed he could win if he staked his life on it, but...
I couldn't block that.
Recalling that strike sent a sudden wave of vertigo through his mind.
The continent is vast indeed.
And that was what made it so thrilling.
Encrid smiled as he looked at the Clan Head's Will and sword. Demuil, turning his head by chance, caught sight of Encrid's grin. A profound hatred surged within the dying monster's heart.