Chapter 778: Responding to the Call
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 778: Responding to the Call
“People die anyway.”
“Whew, that was good.”
“Roman, I leave the city to you.”
“Encrid, thank you.”
“Ah, that was fun.”
The words Oara had spoken right before her death weren't just memories; they were engraved so deeply into his soul that they could never be forgotten.
Some memories never faded, no matter how many times he repeated this day.
They say a repeating 'today' does not come with the blessing of oblivion.
The Ferryman had once said something like that. Was that why he had told Encrid to simply stay in 'today' if he wanted to forget those painful things?
Crackle, crackle.
Smoke rose from the campfire, reaching the ceiling of the cave before seeping into the stone and vanishing. A pungent, acrid smell stung the tip of his nose.
Oara, who had decapitated the Fragment of Balrog.
Oara, who had appeared in his dreams only to be dragged away by the Balrog.
Oara, who had used her vow as a shield and her laughter as a sword.
The knight Oara—who had ultimately protected the city, engraved her name upon it, and departed—now sat before Encrid and gestured to him.
“Hey, come over here. Let's talk.”
At her familiar, friendly tone, Encrid stepped forward. As he moved, his eyes swept the area behind Oara before returning to meet her gaze.
Would she suddenly swing a sword at him? Would her eyes turn crimson as she lunged to kill? His instincts told him no.
Oara sat on a small stone. There was a similar stone next to her, both centered around the campfire. Encrid sat down.
Oara spoke first. “Have you been well?”
“Very.”
“You look it. You're a knight now, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I guess I should call you Sir Encrid now,” Oara said with a bright smile. She didn't seem surprised to see him.
The red light of the campfire illuminated half of Oara's pale face, catching her usual smile. When Encrid didn't immediately answer, she spoke again.
“How is Roman doing?”
“That half-wit almost got eaten by a parasitic beast while running wild on his own to try and improve his skills.”
“That Roman?” Oara burst out laughing. “Tell me more. In detail.”
The two of them chatted. It was neither hot nor cold in the cave, neither damp nor dry. It was cozy, quiet, and peaceful. It felt like coming home through a blizzard in the dead of winter, washing up, and sharing a conversation over a hot cup of cocoa.
“Those fools.”
Oara laughed at times and frowned at others. She behaved like a living person.
But she wasn't. On the night she killed the Fragment of Balrog, she had been dragged away by the Balrog in his dream.
Soul Collector.
That was another of the Balrog's aliases.
Before he could even ask what had happened, Oara smiled sheepishly. “That bastard was tough to beat.”
What stood before his eyes now was a part of Oara.
It was a phenomenon he had already experienced with the magic sword tutor, Aker—the lingering will of a departed knight. However, unlike Aker, Oara had been killed by the Balrog and bound here against her will.
“Well, I'd appreciate it if you could free me. I tried to do it myself, but I failed.”
The cozy, peaceful air vanished instantly. Oara's smiling face didn't change, but the atmosphere did.
“It's here,” Oara said, grunting as she pushed herself up. There was no reason for a knight-level combatant to groan just from standing up; she was signaling to Encrid that the time for talk was over.
“Be careful.”
She spoke with absolute sincerity.
The space they were in was like a wide, open clearing. Unlike the narrow passages they had traversed, the ceiling was high and the walls were distant. Encrid perceived it to be wide enough to accommodate hundreds of people. The ground was even, devoid of any structures.
The only unusual feature was that the walls narrowed as they went higher. From a hole in that narrow ceiling, moonlight began to seep down.
Tonight's moon was red. A Red Moon. Both moons were dyed completely crimson, their light bathing Oara's body.
She walked out of the campfire's reach, but the flames stretched out to follow her, trailing along her left arm.
Whoosh.
The trailing flames wrapped around Oara's hand three times, while the rest dangled toward the ground. A whip made of pure fire settled onto the earth. The coiled flames were like a serpent of fire, ready to constrict and incinerate.
The moment Encrid had first seen Oara, he had perceived her shadow. In that shadow, two horns sprouted from her head, and on her back, wings were folded—large enough to wrap around her entire body.
The demon was revealing its true form, shedding the soul-shell it had collected. It had deliberately worn Oara's appearance to wait for him.
The Balrog's shadow had now merged with Oara's. Was the shadow Oara, or were the Balrog and Oara mixed? No. It was just an illusion—a twisted display of the demon's taste.
“Nice to meet you.”
Encrid stood up and offered a greeting.
Oara's body gradually grew larger, stained pitch-black. Her muscles swelled, and her frame expanded. The form that had been hidden in the shadow now manifested in reality.
Crack.
The roaming monster that had plucked out its own horns, the monster that slaughtered demons, stretched its neck and let out a long breath. Along with that breath, a burst of flame flared.
“You breathe fire, too.”
As Encrid watched quietly, the master of the fragment looked down from above.
—You called so noisily, so I came.
The beast did not use vocal cords; it transmitted its meaning through Will. It was a method of communication that transcended language. It wasn't surprising; the Ferryman did the same thing.
“You actually came when called,” Encrid replied without a shred of hesitation.
The demon's skin was blackish-charcoal, and instead of pupils, its eyes were filled with burning red flames. A rapidly spinning trail of fire served as its iris.
—I am the master of the labyrinth, Balrog. Mortal, did you call upon me dreaming of eternal life?
“No.”
—I figured as much.
Encrid laughed. He was finally facing a bastard who was incredibly difficult to meet. The monster known as the 'Demon of Struggle' suddenly laughed as well.
It was a surreal scene: a human and a monster facing each other and sharing a laugh. If a painter had been there, they wouldn't have been able to resist capturing the moment. The confrontation was that striking.
The Balrog's smile caught Encrid's eye. The corners of its mouth curled up, revealing white fangs. Why are its teeth so white? Encrid wondered idly.
The Balrog's mouth opened again.
—This will be fun.
Feeling the anticipation and ecstasy contained in that line, Encrid felt a strange sense of competitive loss. He spoke in accordance with that feeling.
“That's my line, you bastard.”
The Balrog was a Great Monster, strong enough to be called the Demon of Struggle. It had already shown the authority to scatter his companions across this labyrinth. Encrid didn't fully understand the mechanics of the situation, but he had his suspicions.
This was the Authority of a demon. They were not simple creatures. Their Authority made them beings that others dared not look down upon. The Balrog's Authority was Labyrinthification—the power to warp the area it occupied into a maze.
Why speak so crudely to such an opponent?
There was no real reason. He would do anything to win. Encrid fought in his own way. Since even a demon possessed emotions, he would shake them if he could, deliberately trying to diminish its dignity. It was something an ordinary knight wouldn't even dare to dream of.
The funny thing was that the Balrog was attempting something similar with Encrid.
—Of those who came here, everyone but you must be dead. None of their bodies would have remained intact.
Encrid replied instantly. “I tested the waters on my way here. Nobody's dying from just this.”
He had traversed the path by overcoming three knights trapped in the labyrinth. They had been excellent training partners.
—Do you think that is all?
A fierce momentum gathered in the Balrog's tone. It was a threat so intense that his lungs and heart felt as if they would shrivel if he let his guard down for even a second. This was the true origin of Intimidation.
The demon was clearly trying to shake his emotions. The unknown is fear. The Balrog was trying to sow seeds of anxiety in Encrid's heart.
But the madman who repeated 'today' turned that right back on it.
“Ah.”
He feigned surprise, showing a deliberate opening. The Balrog recognized it immediately.
What lay behind the alias 'Demon of Struggle'? It was a title earned because the creature didn't just enjoy fighting—it poured its entire existence into battle.
—...You bastard.
The Balrog's speech also turned coarse. It spoke like a mercenary in a tavern, entirely unbefitting its grand reputation. Even for the Balrog, this was unexpected. A human who didn't lose heart under its pressure and still spoke his mind—even in its long life, such a being was rare.
“You didn't fall for it,” Encrid muttered.
The Encrid-style Orthodox Swordsmanship technique, 'Feigning an Opening,' had failed.
The Balrog's telepathic communication stopped. Encrid naturally shifted his weight and lunged. Maintaining a forward-dashing posture, he swung his sword downward.
It was a strike derived from Oara's Linking Sword—a fitting first gift for the Balrog.
Encrid's blade, advancing as if folding space, was blocked by the Balrog's bare arm.
Clang!
A shockwave rippled outward. Whoosh. The Balrog's fire whip flared up savagely, as if it possessed a mind of its own.
—Greet it. This is Salamander.
With its forearm raised above its forehead, the Balrog spoke. Its eyes met Encrid's—one side blue, the other red. Its fiery eyes blazed. Simultaneously, the whip, which was no different from a fire serpent, moved without warning.
The coiled flames sought to seize his ankle. Encrid stepped back, pulling the sword pressed against the Balrog's forearm with explosive force. Dawn Forge responded to its master's call, its edge sharpening to a lethal point.
It was an imprinted weapon imbued with Will. Its instantaneous cutting power should have been superior even to Penna, the elven treasure.
Screeech.
And yet, the blade failed. On the forearm of the smiling Balrog, not even a scratch remained.
What is that arm made of?
Moreover, the whip made of flames moved of its own accord. The Balrog's muscles hadn't even twitched. The whip had begun its attack entirely on its own, without momentum or warning.
The fire whip slithered along the ground with a hissing sound, then raised its head like a cobra. It was a separate demonic entity moving independently.
—And this is Surtr.
The Balrog drew a sword of blazing fire in its right hand. That flame transcended the ordinary, burning pitch-black. Its size was easily three times larger than Ragna's Sunrise. Since the Balrog's body was massive, it was a thick, heavy greatsword even in its grip.
When it unfolded its two wings, its physical presence seemed to quadruple.
At that moment, the Balrog unleashed a momentum that pressed down on all creation. This was the true manifestation of Intimidation.
It felt as if Encrid's entire body was bound in heated chains, as if a boulder larger than a house was falling toward his head.
I will lose. I can't win. It is impossible to overcome such an existence.
The moment those thoughts arose, the Will inside his body moved to reject them. It tore through the Intimidation, shattering the mental chains and vaporizing the boulder in his mindscape.
Encrid overcame the pressure, but he knew a massive gap had been created in his defense during the process. Yet, the Balrog did not follow up.
—You adapt quickly. Good.
Rather, it seemed satisfied.
It had no intention of attacking in the first place.
Was it testing him? Playing? It didn't matter. Encrid was unshaken. No matter what his opponent did, he did not forget his purpose.
Cut.
He poured his Will into the blade. In this moment, he caught a glimpse of the trick Ragna had used.
The transformation of Will.
Imbuing the original properties of Will with a specific intent. He had practiced this countless times after seeing Ragna do it, agonizing over the process during his repeated days. That experience, combined with facing the three knights in the labyrinth, finally coalesced.
Everything gathered on his blade. The sky-blue light of Dawn Forge thinned, sharpening its edge to an impossible degree. Just as cutting power is imbued into a sword swung with the absolute intent to cut, maximizing that intent resulted in a materialized blade of Will.
It was an extension of what he had learned, yet a completely new realization. A sky-blue blade of pure energy now overlaid Encrid's sword.
Thud.
The Balrog leaped. Suspended in the air, the demon vanished with a whoosh. It reappeared instantly behind Encrid.
Encrid's blue eyes traced two lines. Those lines spun in a semicircle around his body as he whirled, lashing out with his sword. The blade, which could slice steel like tofu, was blocked by the fire-sword, Surtr.
Thud.
The noise was minimal. Instead, the black flames merely flared larger for a moment. It was as if the demon was saying it could easily handle Dawn Forge.
Through the flames, the Balrog's fist flew forward.
Encrid tightened his stance, attempting to grab the beast's wrist and break its momentum, but the Balrog's punch accelerated mid-flight, shifting its speed.
Bam!
The blow landed cleanly. Even though Encrid had sequentially used the Sword of Chance, optimized his thoughts, and employed the Wave-Blocking Sword, he was still blown away.
His body was launched into the air, slamming into the cave wall.
The Balrog immediately opened its hand, grabbed the handle of the whip, and swung it toward the wall. The speed was entirely different from when the whip moved on its own. The head of the fire serpent swelled into a massive blunt weapon, striking the wall faster than sound.
Boom! Crash!
The whip strike caused an explosion as if a boulder had been launched from a catapult. Through the debris, Encrid could be seen rolling away. Blood poured from his mouth; his internal organs were clearly damaged.
It's not working.
A sword that felt as if it could cut anything was being blocked by a weapon of the same nature. The Balrog—a living legend—was more than capable of matching his Will.
—Is that all?
The Balrog spoke. Its sword, Surtr, was now in a state similar to Encrid's—its blade formed of condensed, roaring flames. It was the ultimate weapon of a Demon of Struggle.