Chapter 830: Temporary Alliance
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 830: Temporary Alliance
Sinar spoke as she watched the dragonkin.
"He is re-encoding the rules of grammar into his mind."
It was a process of repetition, like dredging up ancient memories. He was pulling them up one by one—things once mastered but forgotten after centuries of disuse. It was like heating a dull blade in a forge to sharpen its edge once more.
For those who lived eternal lives, this was an essential skill. After all, immortality without the ability to forget was nothing but hellish torment.
Even among the elder-class elves who rarely showed their faces in the City of Kirhais, there were those who did the same. They were the ones who hadn't appeared even when the city was on the verge of being devoured by demons. It wasn't because they were indifferent, but because they had already entered a state of semi-eternal sleep.
On the rare occasions when one of those elders woke up, they looked much like this.
Just as Sinar surmised, the dragonkin recalled his memories and spoke again.
"Flee. You may run. I will stop it."
The dull blade had found its edge. His grammar had become clear and coherent.
No one reacted to the dragonkin's words. They all merely glanced at their leader. Even Sinar waited for his command.
Encrid had fought this being just moments ago. It had been a conversation of blades. Through that clash, he had sensed something, and regardless of what the dragonkin said, he simply spoke his mind.
"You're a strange one."
They had been trying to kill each other a moment ago, and now he was suddenly offering to protect them? Especially when he was the very one who had blocked their path to the Salamander in the first place?
To call it a mere whim was impossible; the weight behind his sword had been far too heavy for that.
His opponent was not a liar. That was how Encrid saw him. Though his intuition wasn't always right, he was certain of this.
Temares, judging that there was still time, responded to Encrid's words.
"Is that so?"
It was a question in return. Temares knew he was special because he was a dragonkin, but at this moment, he thought the man before him was far stranger.
Look at this unyielding core.
Encrid wasn't the only one who had sized up his opponent through the clash of steel. Dragonkin possessed exceptional senses.
A peculiar human.
Temares viewed Encrid the same way. The human was unwavering. He was like a ship anchored without an anchor, seemingly capable of enduring any raging storm.
Mysterious. That mystery stimulated the dragonkin's very core. A grand dream, an intelligent being imbued with Will—he was a human truly worth watching. He brought amusement, joy, and anticipation. What was this man's duty, and what lay at the foundation of this Will?
It was the first time in his life the dragonkin had felt such curiosity, and a "first" was always intense. It was like feeding a sweet cookie to a child who had never tasted sugar and watching their expression.
He had seen strong-willed individuals before and had shown them goodwill, but none had been this stimulating. It felt like facing the ocean after seeing only small ponds and lakes.
Such immense joy welled up within Temares. That was why he wished all the more that this man would not die. A human capable of evoking such emotions in a dragonkin was rare indeed. Exceedingly rare.
Regardless of what those vertically slit yellow eyes were communicating, Encrid's mind continued to process the situation. He briefly reviewed their recent fight.
There were two reasons he called the dragonkin strange. One was his personality, and the other was his skill—or rather, his evolving skill.
Was he hiding his strength?
A separate thread of thought branched off to review the battle. Encrid recalled what his opponent had shown: the white longsword bending to parry his blade, and before that, the exertion of force through a Word of Power.
No, rather than that... wasn't the fight itself just awkward?
Yes, it had been. If he were to boil it down to a single, simple sentence: His sense of distance kept improving.
In the first strike, his spacing had been terrible. He had only made up for it with absurd physical ability. Measuring distance is the absolute basic of combat, whether one holds a sword or fights with bare fists.
His technique for measuring that distance had changed mid-fight. Starting from that point, everything began to shift.
The positioning of his feet and the way he threw his shoulders forward.
After the spacing, his stance changed. Though the forms were unfamiliar, they were movements that followed the logic of combat. Swordsmanship was something developed to fight, to win, and to kill. His opponent faithfully adhered to those principles.
The last three attacks were all incredibly sharp.
Especially the third and final one, which Encrid had avoided by a hair's breadth. The blade, bending like a white snake, had aimed for his forearm.
Deflecting the blade while cutting.
It was a textbook movement, but half a beat faster. He played with the tempo, mixing in techniques. It was as if someone had read a swordsmanship manual cover to cover, trained each move properly, and was now blending them back together in real-time.
Is this impression accurate?
That was how unusual he was. Where did this anomaly stem from? Was combat as foreign to him as speaking, something he hadn't done in ages? Was he undergoing a sort of rehabilitation?
If so...
"Let's have another round after we finish this."
Everyone heard the proposal, but no one said a word. It wasn't the first time Encrid had acted like this.
The dragonkin was showing baseless goodwill while his capabilities were changing by the second. Just as Temares felt intrigued, so did Encrid. He wanted to probe the very limits of the dragonkin.
"I must fulfill my duty."
The dragonkin spoke his mind. Duty came before all else. Without duty, a dragonkin had no reason to live. It was the anchor of their life, the Will that allowed them to moor themselves in the present.
As Temares spoke, an aura of intimidation radiated from him. Because it was something non-negotiable, his words were imbued with pure Will. On the surface, his tone was calm, but Encrid’s highly sensitive perceptions felt the weight behind it.
Encrid could read the emotions of elves; sensing this much was child's play. Intrigued by the very duty his opponent spoke of, Encrid asked, "What is that duty?"
His tone was unusually friendly. During their fight, he hadn't felt a shred of malice or intent to kill. There was only enjoyment and goodwill—a fascinating fellow. If his opponent's duty was reasonable, wasn't it worth listening to?
It was similar to when he had accepted Dunbakel. He was acting on a whim, perhaps because he instinctively knew the being before him wouldn't harm the city or its civilians out of malice.
"My duty is to protect the existence behind me," the dragonkin said flatly.
There was no intense emotion, no deep-seated belief or conviction. All that was visible was a singular sense of duty.
And yet, his Will is overflowing.
He was truly a strange opponent. The word he chose resonated deep within Encrid, for it was a word he often used himself.
If his opponent spoke of duty, then he, too, could speak of duty. And if duty clashed with duty, whose should take precedence? Truth was usually decided by the Laws of the Continent—in other words, the stronger one was right.
However, was beating this man down and killing the Salamander truly the best course of action? Encrid knew the ways of the world. There was completion, but never perfection. Obsessing over perfection would trap one in the present. If one wished to move toward tomorrow, they could not linger on it. But even so, was there any value in a day spent merely passing the time?
He wanted a day where he did his best. To achieve that, Encrid asked, "Protect?"
Who, and from whom?
As if in answer, something plummeted from above. Encrid's Sixth Sense screamed. Even though he wasn't actively fighting, his thoughts accelerated. Something invisible was falling. To be precise, it wasn't that it was invisible, but rather that he sensed an event that had not yet occurred.
Sensing a threat of death, his body reacted.
A red line dropped straight down from above. It was as if someone were cracking an incredibly long, thin whip. With his Sixth Sense activated, Encrid moved three paces to the side, leaving an afterimage behind. The red line sliced into the ground exactly where he had been standing.
There was no roar or explosion. Only a sizzling sound as a thin, immeasurably deep fissure appeared. Hazy smoke rose from the crack. In the wake of the red line, scorching air remained, distorting the atmosphere. A hot gust brushed past Encrid's cheek.
Had he been hit, he would have been instantly sliced in two.
As sharp as Ragna's Sunrise.
It was sharp and searingly hot. Its length could easily match five men lined up end-to-end. If he hadn't dodged, he would have sacrificed an arm. Fortunately, no one else was hit by that long, whip-like strike.
While they watched, wondering what was happening, it wasn't difficult to trace the origin of the whip. It had shot out from the mass of fiery clouds that had descended much lower than before, closing in on the group.
"A tongue," the dragonkin said, short and to the point.
Encrid understood him perfectly. "So this is the Salamander's tongue?"
Encrid glanced down at the ground. The dragonkin nodded. Though he didn't know what "protecting" it entailed, Encrid understood one thing.
"As long as we don't kill it, right?"
The dragonkin had told them to retreat, and in the middle of their fight, he had turned his back to cleave the fireball to protect the group. Encrid read the situation through sheer intuition. His opponent was protecting the Salamander while also preventing it from causing harm to the surroundings.
To the question born from this train of thought, the dragonkin replied, "Correct."
Was the dragonkin trying to discipline it? It seemed that way.
A horribly disobedient brat.
Was he trying to lay a hand on it because sometimes a good thrashing was the only cure?
"Then let's do it together."
Encrid proposed a temporary alliance. The dragonkin nodded. This man's Will was incredibly pure. It made sense why an elf, who knew no lies, would accompany him.
"Aren't we going to get rid of him first?" Rem asked from behind.
By "him," Rem was referring to the dragonkin. Having overheard him muttering, they now knew his name was Temares. If Encrid had the mind to, subduing the dragonkin wasn't impossible. The fight would be easy if even one of his companions joined in.
"Everyone, prepare for battle," Encrid said, ignoring the question.
The amusing part was that no one even attempted to protest. Even back when he was their "crazy squad leader," they had always followed his stubborn leads. It was no different now. They didn't question their leader; they simply did their jobs.
In truth, it was also a confidence born from the fact that if things went south, they could easily subdue the dragonkin and kill the Salamander as well.
* * *
The Heat Parasite, who had anchored its Intent within the Salamander, sneered at them.
If I can't have it, no one can.
Among the monks of the Demon Realm, this was something only he could achieve. Waking a Salamander that had entered a state of hibernation was one such feat. He intended to burn to ash every single bastard who had crossed him. He couldn't care less if a portion of the continent burned down in the process.
Other bastards who exerted influence over this continent would complain, but he could simply ignore them. Now that the Salamander had opened its eyes, this entire region would likely be devastated beyond recovery.
But it will always return eventually.
New vitality would stir in the places the Salamander burned. It possessed the authority of regeneration, though countless bastards would burn to death in the meantime.
Even though he was merely a mass of Intent, the Heat Parasite cackled.
"Die, all of you."
He guided his Intent to stimulate the Salamander. Anguish, suffering, and pain traveled through the Intent to the beast's main body. He found it deeply enjoyable. The Heat Parasite knew that if he couldn't cast aside this pleasure, he wouldn't be able to achieve his true desires.
But how could I possibly give this up?
It was thrilling. Had he been human, his eyes would have trembled from a pleasure several times more intense than sexual ecstasy.
Now, die.
He would top it off with human screams and suffering. Since his Intent could not directly control the Salamander, he merely watched, enjoying the spectacle of the otherworldly phantom beast. Having just lashed out with its tongue of heat, the beast now swung its two forepaws.
His Intent perceived them as forepaws, but to those directly underneath, they appeared quite different. The Salamander's forepaws were nothing less than massive fireballs descending to crush, pulverize, and incinerate the gathered crowd.
How will you burn to death?
Unfortunately, the demon's expectations went unfulfilled.
A sky-blue light erupted, cleaving and extinguishing one fireball, while on the other side, a white light held its ground against the flame, causing the fire to instantly wither away.
Hm?
Both of the Salamander's paws were pushed right back.