Chapter 724: Even If I Die, You Must Fight
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 724: Even If I Die, You Must Fight
"It only takes a single snip of the shears to sever a rope pulled taut."
There is a saying that a single, well-placed pebble is enough to tip a balanced scale.
Encrid suspected that Demuil might have anticipated this situation even before he did. Perhaps Hescal had advised him, or perhaps he had simply felt an ominous premonition.
If not that...
‘Just two swordsmen and a girl.’
Why had he said those words and tried so desperately to kill Anne?
‘If he hadn't known something, he wouldn't have bothered to make an issue of it.’
That was the thought that occurred to him now. Looking back, if Hescal had truly set his mind to it, keeping Anne alive would have been incredibly difficult. No matter how vigilantly Ragna guarded her day and night, someone of Hescal’s caliber would have eventually found a gap to strike.
But it hadn't turned out that way.
Those small stones had gathered and piled onto one side of the scale. The pebbles that were "just two swordsmen and a girl" had finally tipped the balance.
*
This realization came only after the shiver from witnessing the Clan Head's sword had finished sweeping through his body.
Encrid had no talent for prophesying the end of a battle, but reflecting on the situation after seeing the outcome was not difficult.
Alexandra had accelerated her Will, utilizing physical strength, five senses, and dynamic visual acuity far beyond her normal limits. In doing so, she had achieved the Explosion of Lines. To put it simply, it was like lighting a single candle and fighting to endure until the wick burned out completely.
And Tempest had shifted his form and detonated his Will.
The Point Explosion. Staking everything on a single strike.
This side was not a candle, but the spark of a flint—a spark that burst only at the moment of impact. However, its destructive power was several times more intense than a candle's. It was akin to detonating all the energy that would burn a candle in a single, concentrated instant.
‘That is not a strike a diseased body should be making.’
The reality he had temporarily forgotten in the sheer heat of battle forced its way back into Encrid's mind.
Even with his body cut in half, Demuil still reeked of rot. Thick black fluid flowed between his half-crushed organs, and rainwater beat into his severed torso. Yet, he was not dead. It was as if he were trying to prove his malice through sheer persistence.
“Die.”
Demuil's left hand, attached to the relatively intact side of his body, rose. The words he muttered were imbued with an abundance of Will and mana, transforming into a spell. Black mist coalesced in front of his palm, shaping into a long rod before flying forward.
It was a form not much different from the weapons held by the Scalers. Even without being told, it was obvious the projectile was dripping with lethal poison.
Whoosh!
As the manifested rod took physical form, the sound of it tearing through the air was unmistakable.
Would the Clan Head die to a mere rod strike? Under normal circumstances, never. But the capillaries in the Clan Head's eyes had completely ruptured from his final strike, and blood was seeping out. Because of this, his eyes had turned a terrifying, blood-red.
It wasn't just his eyes. Blood began to stream from his nose, mouth, and ears—every orifice on his face.
It was in the midst of this collapse that the spell flew in.
Ragna saw it but could not block it. It was a miracle he hadn't fainted yet; violent movement was out of the question. Still, his body reacted instinctively, and he tried to rise, but someone else stepped forward before him.
It was Encrid. He had moved the instant he snapped back to reality.
Did he not already know from experience that demons like this always prepared one last trick? He had almost lost Sinar even after killing One-Killer. How could he forget that hideous attempt to shove everything—even a soul—into Sinar with a dying blade?
He had not forgotten.
Even though his entire body creaked in protest, Encrid stood in front of the Clan Head. It was a sequence of simple movements. Squeezing his remaining strength into his muscles, he took a step and reached the Clan Head just before Demuil launched the spell.
Having secured his position, he snapped his wrist and swung Samcheol with a swift spin, striking the middle of the black rod. With a sharp crack, the rod shattered into pieces and scattered across the ground.
Since he lacked the strength for a proper swing, he had merely rotated his wrist, utilizing the sword's weight and centrifugal force. It was a stroke of luck that he had managed to deflect it. If he hadn't struck the flow of the spell just right, a hole would have been blown through his own chest instead of the Clan Head's.
‘My body is really...’
There was nothing he could do about his body being a total wreck. Even blocking the spells the bastard had been firing up until now had been a close shave. To be honest, if he hadn't made the bold move to deflect the spells pouring down midway through the fight, he would have been riddled with holes by now.
As Encrid caught his breath and looked ahead, the half-dead Demuil glared at him with terrifying intensity. Even without the creature wagging its tongue, it felt as though his voice could be heard.
In fact, he did open his mouth.
“I hate you. I hate you.”
“What do you hate so much?” Encrid asked back. There was a strange gentleness in his tone. Was he planning to grant the monster's dying wish?
While everyone was wondering that, Encrid spoke again.
“Is it because I look so young?”
He wasn't being kind. Encrid was grating on Demuil's nerves until the very end. It wasn't because he found teasing fun, but because of a calculated strategy. It was a conclusion reached by combining the Luagarne-style Tactical Sword with Krais's sly wits.
‘Demuil still has enough strength left to pull a trick.’
To use that strength properly, the monster would need to compose his mind. Therefore, it was advantageous to upset him. He must not be allowed to remain calm.
That was how one seized even the smallest advantage. Encrid was shameless. If not for the Luagarne-style Tactical Sword, he would have had no reason to act this way. This was all thanks to the teachings of Frok, who knew everything.
If his opponent had fought with honor, he wouldn't have gone this far. But wasn't this bastard just a wraith who hid behind others, playing dirty tricks and targeting Anne?
So, what was wrong with teasing him a little?
Demuil could not even find the words to respond.
“You... you... you...”
If he could have remained enlightened and unbothered by such mockery in this state, he might have experienced a miracle. For if one could achieve that level of enlightenment, they might as well become a god.
He did not become a god. Instead, as his rage boiled over at having all his desires shattered, he crossed a certain line. Demuil's reason and emotion fused into a single, burning purpose.
No matter what happened to the Clan Head who had cut his body, he would kill this bastard. He would kill him, no matter what, by any means necessary.
And Demuil was no fool.
‘No, I won't stop at just killing him.’
He wouldn't leave Zaun alone just to kill this one brat. Was the loudmouth the only problem? No. Zaun, the Clan Head, and everyone holding a sword were the targets of his resentment.
Furthermore, there was something he had only just realized.
‘Hescal, you bastard.’
He had been deceived. Looking back, it was obvious. That man's goal wasn't the usurpation of divinity. His goal must have been the life he would lead after the usurpation. Which meant he had something he intended to do by surviving to the end. Demuil couldn't let things end the way the deceased Hescal wanted.
‘I am going to die.’
Perhaps it was because he had struggled for so long to avoid death that he recognized it so clearly now. Demuil knew he was dying, and he knew with absolute clarity the scope of what he could accomplish before he drew his last breath.
Death was a foregone conclusion.
‘Zaun is coming with me.’
Once he died, the seeds of the plague he had spread would germinate in an instant. Then, the vast majority of those belonging to Zaun would die. From the Hunter Village to the Broker's Village and even the Retirees' Village, eight out of ten would perish.
This was a secret he had not shared even with Hescal. If that bastard had known, he would be rolling in his grave. It had been decades since Demuil first settled here. Though he had been in a state of suspended animation for most of that time, that was not the case for the last few years. He had made at least this much preparation.
However, that was all.
‘And then, the end.’
The bastard barking in front of him would ultimately survive, and that would be it.
‘Will he go around spreading the word that he killed me? Will he be praised for it?’
Since childhood, Demuil had been described as having a "Snake Heart." He was intensely jealous. He had often heard people say he was a serpent turned human. He hated the thought of a bastard like Encrid being praised. The very fact that the boy would survive was utterly loathsome.
Just before his death, Demuil placed everything he possessed onto the scale. What must he do to kill both Zaun and that bastard?
Though things had gone awry, Demuil was far from stupid. In a short span of time, he devised a means to kill the eyesore before him.
“I am going to die,” Demuil spoke.
“Even a passing Human-faced Dog could see that,” Encrid chimed in, but Demuil did not lose his temper.
“Listen, Clan Head of Zaun.”
His voice overlapped once more. Encrid saw what he was doing now as his final trick. No matter what spell flew at him, he would be able to block it at least once more. Though his body creaked, his swordsmanship for cutting down spells had grown more mature, built upon Esther's training and his recent combat experience.
There was also something he had realized while deflecting spells at the very end.
‘Even if about fifty of those black rods fly at me, I can block them somehow.’
A few holes might be blown in his body, but if he managed to let them pierce him cleanly, he wouldn't end up crippled.
“I won't let you do this alone,” Rynox said, stepping closer. Behind him stood several of Zaun's swords, including Anahera and Riley. Their resolve was no less than his own. This battle, after all, belonged to Zaun. They had drawn their swords to protect their home.
The Clan Head stared blankly at Encrid's back with fading, blurry eyes, feeling his vision darken. Had he gone blind? Perhaps. The strike he had unleashed earlier was something he wouldn't have even attempted during his prime. He had thrown everything into it. In truth, he had swung his sword with the mindset that he wouldn't care if he died immediately afterward.
Because he had used his Will so ruthlessly, a profound exhaustion gnawed at his entire body, leaving him wanting nothing more than to collapse. Yet, the bastard he had cut down was still wagging his tongue.
Drip. Blood trickled from his ear canals. His hearing was muffled, but he could still hear.
“I am listening,” the Clan Head replied.
Demuil began his curse in an incredibly calm tone.
“I will let you decide. There are only two choices.”
Wondering what nonsense he was talking about at a time like this, they listened as the owner of the rotting body, which had miraculously refused to die, kept wagging his filthy tongue.
“If I gather my remaining strength and detonate it, everyone in Zaun who contracted the disease I spread will die. Normally, the seeds of that disease grow over time, but if I die, they will sprout instantly and take their lives. I planted them that way from the very beginning. However!”
The bastard paused. His tone was filled with power. Listening to this, Ragna felt his head throb painfully. The bastard's voice sounded in multiple overlapping layers. It was the voice of a monster who had wished to become a god, squeezing out and detonating his last remaining strength.
“In exchange, I will bestow every curse I possess upon that single bastard. If I do, the curse that would instantly germinate the disease spread across Zaun will vanish.”
Demuil raised his remaining finger and pointed at Encrid.
Did he hate Encrid so much that killing only him would suffice? No, Demuil understood people. He didn't just understand them; he manipulated the human heart. Wasn't that how he had made Hescal his sword? Though looking back, it seemed he had been deceived, it was undeniable that he had initially ensnared Hescal by playing on human desires.
‘I know humans.’
Demuil was confident. Encrid would reject this proposal. No one in the world wanted to die. That was an absolute truth.
‘Much less someone who would die for others.’
There might be parents who would die for their children. But a person who would die for a complete stranger? Could such a person exist?
Because of the choice he had offered, the Clan Head would have to weigh Zaun against an outsider on the scale, and it was clear which way that scale would tip. Encrid would resist. And the Clan Head would try to capture and subdue the resisting bastard.
‘Even if I die, you must fight.’
That was his first aim: to sow discord and blood among the survivors.
And there was another hidden aim. What if the Clan Head and Zaun captured Encrid? He had said the seeds of the disease wouldn't germinate instantly, but he had never said the disease would disappear. Even if all of this fell apart, it was merely a difference between dying sooner or dying later.
“You expect us to believe that?” Rynox interjected.
“Now, behold.”
As Demuil spoke and waved his hand, a rectangular golden border materialized in the empty air behind him, and golden letters began to float within it.
“You must have heard of it. The Forbidden Scripture of the Oath. I shall write my intent upon this scripture.”
A precious artifact had appeared. The words written upon the Forbidden Scripture of the Oath would inevitably come to pass. And the price was the soul of the deceased. Rumors were rife that the owner of that brilliantly golden scripture was one of the Demon Gods who ruled the Demon Realm—the Master of the Forbidden Word Spell.
Rynox also knew of the Forbidden Scripture's existence. That was an inescapable sentence of death. It was an act that mortgaged one's very soul.
“It's real. That scripture,” Schmidt, who had joined them at some point and was proudly pulling his weight in the battle, stepped forward.
He practiced both magic and swordsmanship. His magical knowledge told him that what Demuil was saying right now was the truth. He, too, must have fought a grueling battle, as a torn, blackened wound was visible on one of his cheeks.
Schmidt spoke again. Having grasped the situation, his words were filled with logic.
“It makes no sense to say this was prepared to deceive someone. There is no one in Zaun with any magical aptitude, and my presence here was hardly planned in advance.”
If Tempest or anyone else refused to believe it, something truly terrible would happen. Schmidt did not want that. He couldn't afford to lose his half-brother and his close friend all at once.
“There are no lies in my words. Believe it or not, do as you wish. But all of this is the truth.”
An air of leisure drifted from Demuil's tone. For someone about to die, he was remarkably bold.
Those standing behind clamored, asking what the Forbidden Scripture was, if this was real, and if it could be trusted, but they soon began to fall silent. Because no matter how they looked at it, the atmosphere made it clear that all of this was real.