Chapter 775: As Expected of the Iron Wall
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 775: As Expected of the Iron Wall
"This is absurd."
A man had appeared in his dream, unveiling the tapestry of a long, twisted life.
He had captured humans, experimented on them, and used the knowledge gained to modify his own body. He had survived for two hundred years that way. To put it simply, his existence was a reckless consumption of others' lives to sustain his own.
There was nothing else of note.
"O, Red Foot."
The man in the dream murmured. Leaving only those words behind, he scattered like water-soaked, torn paper, swept away and vanishing into the river.
Encrid blinked. He found himself standing on the gunwale of a small ferryboat. The owner of the boat let out a cackling laugh—not a physical sound, but a raspy vibration transmitted directly into his mind.
The Ferryman was intentionally making it obvious that he was laughing.
Since the dying man was the one called the Apostle of the Red Foot, what Encrid was seeing now had to be the Ferryman's doing.
"Is this your idea of a twisted hobby?" Encrid asked indifferently.
The Ferryman showed no sign of displeasure. He cackled once more and spoke.
"Do you know what it means to kill one of their apostles inside the Demon Realm?"
For Encrid, the weight of those words was difficult to grasp. The Ferryman didn't bother accounting for Encrid’s lack of background knowledge; he simply said what he wanted to say.
"Now, they know who you are."
Sway.
The Ferryman, standing on the rocking gunwale, felt alien. Encrid tilted his head, unsure if the being was mocking him or simply emphasizing his amusement.
But Encrid was no fool. From the Ferryman's words and his own experiences, he deduced the meaning behind the statement.
Who were "they" in this context?
An apostle was a devotee—an existence that served and dedicated itself to a higher power. Audin had called himself the Apostle of the God of War.
The identity of the "Red Foot" became clear.
The Six Devils.
It was only logical to assume it was one of the Six Devils ruling the Demon Realm.
He should have been terrified. The Thorn Castle Lord had lived for a mere two hundred years, but there was no telling how long the devils had reigned over this land. If such entities were targeting him, it would be natural for the seeds of fear to sprout.
Of course, Encrid did no such thing.
"I suppose it's truly fitting for me to be called a 'Charming Demon' now," he joked.
"Madman," the strange Ferryman cursed from behind him.
Encrid didn't mind. Everything around him blurred as reality pulled him back. Opening his eyes, Encrid sat up and mulled over the events of the previous night.
*
Returning to the City of the Eroded.
The moment the residents saw Encrid, they fell to their knees, weeping or praying.
"O, Demon God!"
Swept up in emotion, some arbitrarily hailed Encrid as a Demon God. Luagarne, seemingly displeased by this, corrected their behavior.
"He is no Demon God. He is the Charming Demon—the one who bewitches all."
Terrified by the aura the Frok exuded, the residents repeated her words like a mantra.
"The one who bewitches all..."
It felt like a scene from a play. Encrid brushed it off, but the Frok puffed out her cheeks in satisfaction, clearly pleased with herself.
As they ventured further into the settlement, they found a life-sized statue being erected in the center of the village.
"I’d like an explanation for that," Encrid said, stopping dead in his tracks.
Zoraslav, acting as the village chief, bowed his head. "We are carving it to honor the Knight of the End and the End of War."
Most of the villagers possessed excellent handiwork. Their skill in curing the hides of demonic beasts translated well into sculpting. Though it wasn't the work of a master, their sincerity was undeniable.
"...Why isn't there one of me?" Rem questioned, looking slighted.
Ragna, who had sustained various injuries while killing the apostle, had already slipped away into the town hall—their temporary lodging—as if he couldn't care less.
"It’s not bad," Sachsen remarked, stopping to evaluate the sculpture. He had a knack for art. As the head of the continent's greatest assassin and information guild, he was adept at handling stolen goods and possessed an extraordinary eye for value.
"It is not a statue of the Lord, but if it brings them peace of mind, it is enough," Audin noted.
Teresa shared the sentiment.
To be honest, Encrid didn't feel bad about it either, but the way they looked at him was peculiar. The reason for those strange gazes became clear through a child he met before sleep. A few children were humming a familiar song.
"Sing that song again," Encrid requested.
It was a song where the terms "the End" and "the End of War" were used interchangeably. It was the very song Encrid had been captivated by when he was young.
"Why are there two versions of the lyrics?"
At his casual question, a child—looking half-curious and half-scared—explained at length. To end the war, to end the fighting, this world had to be ended. That was why it was called "the End."
When asked what that "world" was, the child didn't really know.
Interpreting it in his own way, Encrid realized they viewed their suffering and despair as a single world. Ending that misery was what they called "the End."
Leading that world to its end.
And because it ended the fighting, it was the "End of War."
*
It was early morning when they returned from the battle inside the Demon Realm. The group had skipped eating, washed up, and gone straight to sleep. Now, having woken from that deep rest, Encrid stepped outside to warm up his body.
Since they had fought a fierce battle just yesterday, he stuck to light calisthenics rather than intense training. As he moved, his stomach growled. In a basket woven from tree vines near the hall entrance, he found various fruits.
After filling his stomach with apples, a hard fruit he didn't recognize, and a forearm-length piece of tough bread, he sensed a presence.
"You're awake."
Dawn had not yet broken. The sky was heavily clouded, promising faint sunlight, but it wasn't nearly as gloomy as the Demon Realm.
Sinar, the elf with green eyes and otherworldly beauty, looked twice as pale as usual. She looked like someone who had barely managed to crawl out of a sickbed.
And with good reason.
Before Ragna had cut down the apostle, Sinar had fought the Black Lightning. The demonic spirit used a sword as skillfully as a bow. The curved tip of its blade gouged out flesh upon contact and was coated in a poison that caused flesh to rot instantly. Sinar's exposed arm was proof of that.
The wound was black. Although a scab had formed, it was no simple laceration.
Yet, Sinar won.
Encrid had witnessed the entire process. The demonic spirit had unstintingly used Will and demonic energy. Its sword had glowed a dark gray, a testament to its long survival in the Demon Realm. In contrast, the essence Sinar infused into her Leaf-Winter Sword had looked precarious—like a sharp needle facing a refined blade.
And yet, she was the one who survived.
Sinar had feigned a strike with the momentum of a vortex, only to unleash a sinister slash. Clouding the opponent's five senses with her essence, she had pierced the Black Lightning's heart, though her arm had been deeply cut in the process.
It was close to Sachsen's Mu-sal Thrust.
Elves, who suppress their emotions from childhood, are masters of concealment. Sinar had blended Sachsen's techniques with elven skills.
She looked at Encrid with a calm gaze. She knew the man before her; she knew where his interests lay.
"Umbra-Acleus. Translated into the continental tongue, it means 'Shadow Needle.'"
When she abruptly named the technique, Encrid's eyes sparkled. She had known he would be curious. Sinar exposed the wound on her arm more clearly and asked, "Could you grant me just one favor before I die?"
Encrid was still dwelling on the fight. The Black Lightning had been fierce; there was no answer to it other than assassination. Sinar had waged psychological warfare, releasing her essence to feign a head-on clash before piercing its heart. She had clearly referenced Encrid-style Orthodox Swordsmanship.
The Black Lightning had fallen because it never expected an elf to act with such deception. Elves did not know falsehood.
However, they did know how to distort the truth.
Sinar had proposed a fight and shown her intent, but she had never spoken a lie. It was a perfect rationalization. Thus, she had succeeded in tearing into a spot that would have horrified Luagarne.
"A rotten potato must be buried in the ground as it is," Sinar had said.
The Black Lightning had not accepted its end quietly. "Bullshit," it had hissed, swinging its sword in a final death throe that would have severed Sinar's neck had she not moved.
Returning to the present, Sinar wore a wistful look. Her eyes seemed to ask: Shouldn't you grant the final wish of a dying elf?
Encrid looked straight into her eyes. Desperation pooled within those green gems. It was rare for an elf to display such emotion.
"Let us enter Holy Matrimony."
The companions who had woken up were either eavesdropping from the hall or watching openly. Rem, of course, was watching openly.
"Did you apply the spring water from the Dryas clan and the ointment Bran made?" Encrid asked.
"...I did," Sinar replied. Her response was slightly delayed, but she didn't lose her composure.
"You act as if you're at death's door, but how much longer can you actually live?"
Encrid knew she was distorting the truth. Encrid-style Orthodox Swordsmanship was a style that exploited flaws in an opponent's intentions, and he was its creator.
A brief silence followed.
"Tch." The elf clicked her tongue.
"As expected of the Iron Wall," Luagarne said, nodding.
Rem cackled. Ragna was still asleep, and Pel and Ropode showed little interest. They also knew Sinar well. What she meant by "before I die" wasn't technically a lie—but in terms of lifespan, she would still outlive Encrid by centuries.
"What a pity," Sinar said.
Encrid wondered if it was really necessary for her to go to such lengths just to make a joke.
*
The group rested in the village for two more days. Meanwhile, Roman was practically falling over in shock at what they had accomplished.
"You cut down a fortress inside the Demon Realm and fought your way out?"
That evening, after eating, Encrid was swinging his sword while lost in thought when he realized he had lost his way.
I lost my way?
He wasn't Ragna; how could he get lost on the outskirts of the village? It was impossible. Yet, looking around, he found himself in unfamiliar terrain. Walls of compacted earth that looked like stone rose to his left and right, forming a long corridor.
From beyond a corner twenty paces ahead, a shadow stretched out. A man emerged.
"Ah, a guest," he said.
Encrid didn't recognize the face. The man wore loose-fitting clothes that concealed his physique, and his eyes were small. In his dangling arms, two shortswords appeared as if by magic—a trick worthy of an acrobat. He also wore a sword at his waist, but he had hidden the shorter blades in his wide sleeves.
Encrid had practiced a similar trick in the past. Hidden Knife. Torres of the Border Guard had used something like that.
No sooner had the man finished speaking than his body seemed to sway, stretching out as he instantly closed the distance. Two short blades thrust straight toward Encrid's heart and neck. It was a violent, hesistation-free charge.
The moment Encrid perceived his opponent, he read his momentum. He felt it, and he reacted.
Dawn Forge flashed, tracing a vertical arc from low to high, bisecting the air where the figure had been. In the end, both had merely cut through afterimages.
With that single exchange, Encrid knew his opponent was no knight—certainly not a Flower Knight of the Empire.