Chapter 774: I Got Him
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 774: I Got Him
“I borrow the power of the Red Foot.”
The witch muttered the incantation, repeating the words five times like a mantra. Even as she spoke, her eyes darted frantically.
Both swordsmen were far too dangerous. Was she going to die here? Would she end up like her sister, already cold and dead? No, she couldn't allow it. She refused to let it end this way.
Brief flashes of the days when they were feared as the Twin Witches flickered through her mind. Shaking off the sentiment, she focused her mana and unleashed her curse.
It was a forbidden spell: Hungry Stomach.
“Drop dead, all of you!”
The manifestation of this forbidden art required the literal destruction of her own internal organs. Though she had modified her body specifically to endure such costs, it did not make her immune to the agony.
Black blood trickled from the witch’s lips.
It hurts.
The excruciating sensation of her entrails tearing apart made her lips tremble violently. But pain was better than death. The witch knew that much was true.
* * *
The moment Encrid took a step forward, he sensed a shift beneath his feet.
The spell wasn't as instantaneous as a Firebolt, but its scale was vast. The ground beneath him writhed and buckled, splitting open into jagged holes. Every single cavity was lined with rows of razor-sharp teeth. If he were caught, they wouldn't just tear his flesh—they would snap his very bones.
With Encrid at the center, the earth rippled as gaping maws erupted, desperate to devour him.
Sensing the danger, Encrid kicked off the ground and leaped aside. Strangely, the grotesque maws pursued him, sprouting anew wherever he landed.
Clack! Clack!
The sound of the earthen teeth snapping together echoed like the clashing of iron plates.
Can they be cut?
Encrid looked down. Dozens of mouths lay below him; unlike a Firebolt, they wouldn't dissipate with a single slash. Since the source of the spell wasn't physically present in the maws themselves, there was no way to neutralize it directly.
Whether he was ground to pulp or caught in those teeth, once chewed, he would be sucked straight to some demon waiting in the void—a creature with a gaping gullet, hungering for tribute.
He didn't understand the full mechanics, but his intuition gave him the gist.
A forbidden spell, huh.
Nothing bearing that name was ever easy to handle. Walking Fire and Firebolt had proven that, and this was no different.
Every time he moved to dodge, snapping maws manifested within a fixed radius around him—an area wide enough to hold dozens of men.
He thrust Dawn Forge downward, slicing through a maw that erupted beneath his feet. It vanished, but new ones sprouted beside it even faster than he could destroy them.
Cutting them is pointless, and they track my movement.
Vicious and persistent. That was the only way to describe it.
Having observed the manifestation and its patterns, he began to grasp the underlying principle.
It’s a continuous-type spell.
The target was himself. He didn't know what sacrifice the witch had offered to cast it, but these things wouldn't stop until they had chewed and swallowed something.
If they keep spawning even when cut... then how long can they keep it up?
His question immediately translated into action.
Stepping into the narrow gaps between the teeth, he swung the arm holding Dawn Forge. He slashed, and slashed again.
If they kept spawning, he would simply keep cutting.
It was a battle of attrition—the blue-eyed witch’s total mana versus Encrid’s Will.
One thing was certain: the witch had chosen the wrong spell for this opponent.
She had burned half of her prepared sacrifices and offered her own organs to fuel this curse, but the forbidden spell she had cast was designed to persistently torment an enemy. It was a power meant to slowly grind down an opponent's stamina until they were gasping for breath.
If the target held out but eventually grew exhausted, they would be devoured. However, from her perspective, the situation was becoming incredibly unfair.
This man had fought his way through the Demon Realm, slicing through castle walls and shattering high-level spells. Surely, his Will should be depleted? His stamina should have been at its limit.
Ultimately, in a contest of who would tire or grow frustrated first, there was no way Encrid would lose.
His indifferent attitude and consistent, tireless swordplay made him look like a laborer absorbed in repetitive, mechanical work. Watching this, the witch fell into a state of pure panic.
How can he endure that so easily?
Even when erratic attacks occurred—like tentacles lunging from the depths of the hungry demon’s entrails—the swordsman merely performed a composed half-turn, swinging his blade in a fluid arc.
The sword, carrying the momentum of his spin, severed the tentacles and swept across the ground. It created an optical illusion, as if the blade itself had lengthened. That illusion quickly became reality, splitting another maw wide open.
“Aaaah!”
The witch screamed. Was it because of her heightened spiritual sensitivity? Or was it simply raw insight?
She could see her own end approaching.
Perhaps it was because she had already witnessed, through her twin sister, that even an Aberration would die if sliced into dozens of pieces. Her scream was born of sheer, unadulterated terror.
“Allow me to assist,” Audin added.
With that, Audin joined the fray. Encrid had already shattered the witch’s spirit by ruthlessly dismantling her forbidden spell.
Her attention divided by Sachsen’s attacks, the witch was forced to block a divine fist backed by a bear-like build using nothing but her raw physical strength. Though her modified body could temporarily exert the power of a knight...
Crunch! Thud! Crash!
It was useless.
The man wielding divine power identified the joints of the fleshy mass the witch had reflexively thrust out. He twisted and snapped them backward, closing the distance to drive his iron fist straight into her head.
Clang!
It was, quite literally, like a strike from a mace.
Her skull caved in from the single blow, and more black blood gushed out. Before new flesh could even sprout to knit the wound, fists imbued with white light struck her in rapid succession.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
The fists, thrown in a rhythmic cadence, played a funeral march using the witch’s head as a percussion instrument.
“St... op...”
In the brief pause between punches, the fallen witch begged instead of chanting.
“Yes, I shall send you to the Lord. You poor soul.”
Audin was merciless. He drove his fist down, crushing the life out of her. Crash! Audin continued to tenderize the remains until the witch was nothing more than a flattened lump of meat against the earth. Naturally, she could say no more.
The Twin Witches, who had lived for over a hundred and fifty years by desperately clinging to life, were finally dead.
Meanwhile, the Apostle was being hunted by Ragna’s blade.
“This is impossible!” the Apostle roared, denying reality.
Having caught his breath as the forbidden spell dissipated, Encrid nodded in silent agreement.
A sturdy castle wall, forces specialized for the Demon Realm, countless monsters, and their own individual might—they were a force that even two or three elite knights working together could not have handled. It was only natural for the Apostle to be in shock.
“Why are you nodding along with him?” Pel asked, walking over.
Since the concentration of monsters here was actually lower than outside, Pel felt the area was relatively easy to clear. His reasoning was simple: more monsters meant more sword swings, which consumed more time. Whether they were elite or fodder, they all died the same when slashed, hacked, or burned.
“I am the Apostle of the Red Foot!”
From across the battlefield, the Apostle attempted his final struggle.
Red muscle began to coat his entire body like an exoskeleton, and his frame began to balloon. The blue veins bulging on his muscular shell were as thick as mooring ropes.
Even standing next to Audin, one had to look up, but this creature was now larger than a giant. His height had shot up to that of four grown men. It was a grotesque sight—muscles expanding wildly in a burst of super-accelerated growth.
“Worms...!” the Apostle bellowed.
The swordsman standing before him merely raised his blade with a serene expression.
The sword’s name was Sunrise, and the man holding it was Ragna.
The blade in Ragna’s hand shed a brilliant red light, pushing back the surrounding gloom. A small sun was born upon the earth. For here stood the power of the god born in the east, who ruled half the world and consumed the darkness.
“Hey.”
The master of the sword called out to the Apostle. The monster’s eyes were massive and bloodshot, thick black veins pulsing around the sockets.
Instead of answering, the Apostle slammed his fist down. The heavy mass flying like a sledgehammer was a boulder in its own right.
Boom!
The air tore apart, and space distorted along the trajectory of the swing. Monstrous physical strength ripped through sound and atmosphere alike. It seemed as though Ragna would be turned into a bloody pulp, but the expected impact never came.
Spreading his legs, Ragna took a firm stance and raised Sunrise. The Will spreading from his core to his entire body anchored that power.
Crash!
With a deafening roar, a shockwave rippled outward in concentric circles.
Sensing the power within that strike, Encrid judged the Apostle’s raw strength to be superior even to the Minotaur that had run amok with two swords.
But he lacks finesse.
That was the flaw. Those with true experience put meaning into every single movement. There was no such thing as a wasted gesture. Yet, the Apostle’s punch didn't account for what came next. He lacked the refinement of actual combat.
However, the raw power was undeniable. Destroying a castle wall? The Apostle could do that. Wiping out the cursed tree clan? He was entirely capable of it. If he were to descend upon the continent, he could easily seize a city and treat the population as livestock.
The Apostle possessed that level of might. It was just his misfortune that he could not kill the single man holding a sword before him.
The fist slammed down upon Sunrise, but it could do nothing to the human holding the hilt.
Drip, hiss.
Flesh split against the edge of Sunrise, and blood flowed, rising as steam from the heat retained by the blade. A pungent, metallic stench filled the air.
Ragna tightened his grip.
My Vow is...
To never stop until the day I die.
The determination to forge ahead until his very last breath was the foundation of his Vow. What was easily achievable for one person could be a lifelong challenge for another. Since everyone’s standards differed, their constraints were unique.
Ragna’s constraint was exactly that. Because what was natural for Encrid was not natural for him.
The Apostle utilized both spells and physical strength. Tentacles of coagulated black blood erupted from his limbs, tearing through the air. Mouths opened on his stomach and back, their darting tongues covered in thorns.
The sword shining in the darkness struck, deflected, and blocked every single one.
Encrid stood to the side, watching. The others remained in their positions as well. Amidst the collapsed walls and the corpses of monsters, a single swordsman and a single monster engaged in a desperate struggle to the death.
Encrid realized that Ragna might actually die. The Apostle’s spells were relentless, and eventually, a gap would appear. Black vines burst from the ground, showering the area in fine needles. Hit by several, Ragna’s limbs grew momentarily sluggish.
Even so, victory belonged to their side.
“What a repulsive display,” Sinar muttered.
Spells utilizing wooden vines were an Elven specialty—specifically, that of the Druids. Seeing the Apostle corrupt and use such arts as he pleased left Sinar in a foul mood.
“...To a mere... knight...” the Apostle wheezed.
Monsters that devoured knights were common in the Demon Realm. The Apostle, his head half-crushed and blistered as if seared by a hot iron, looked at Ragna. His body was sliced and shredded; the muscle armor that should have been impenetrable had been systematically dismantled by Ragna’s swordplay. He was gasping his final breaths.
Ragna raised his heavy arm. The opponent had been a grueling challenge to face with a single sword. In the brief moment he had overcome a dazing spell, he had nearly been impaled by a tentacle.
As Ragna prepared his final strike, he felt something flying from behind and twisted his body. He was a half-beat late, but since the projectile wasn't aimed at him, it was easy to dodge.
Thwack!
The projectile embedded itself into the Apostle’s half-destroyed head. It had been thrown with such force that it tore through the neck muscles and skin. It looked like someone had jammed an object into a split pumpkin.
The object embedded in the Apostle's skull was a hand axe.
“I got him.”
From the side, the low voice of the lost barbarian drifted over. Rem smiled brightly, his right hand still outstretched.
“The one who lands the final blow gets the kill. You know that, right?”
Seeing the minor cuts on his forehead and forearms, it was clear Rem's journey to this point hadn't been easy either. This was the Demon Realm, after all—a place untouched by human hands.
The battle was over. Though some monsters surely remained, the stronghold had collapsed, and its guardians were dead.
Though it was merely a single fortress city, not even the heart of the Demon Realm.
Encrid calmly assessed the situation. Still, he felt a deep sense of accomplishment. Though the others didn't know it, this was a place the Red Cloak Knights had failed to conquer multiple times. And they had swept through it in a single breath.
Sinar looked at the corpse of the Demonic Spirit she had slain and wrapped a wound on her forearm with a long, enchanted leaf—an Elven bandage. She scanned the surroundings, hearing the faint, lingering wails of vengeful spirits.
If they left now, another Thorn Castle Wall would eventually rise here. The corruption possessed a matching level of obsession. Purification was necessary. And nothing purified better than flames.
“Let’s burn it,” said the Elf who had once hated fire.
Whether it was a memory of a past she had overcome or her resolve to move forward, there was no need to ask. Encrid merely nodded.
Their business here was finished; it was time to light the signal fire.
In a land where gray clouds shrouded the sky and darkness reigned, a crimson light blazed like the sun. Though sunrise was still a long way off, the flames burned as hot and as long as the sun itself.
And in that light, Encrid finally felt the yearning he had desired so deeply.