Facing Aspen's knight taught one valuable lesson: merely defending would lead to inevitable death. This was now a truth Enkrid knew by experience.
As Enkrid swung his sword, his feet moved in unison, boots stained with blood pressing firmly into the ground.
Sword and step became one fluid motion. Observing Oara's strikes had imparted valuable lessons, which he now applied.
Merging footwork and swordplay wasn't easy—it demanded over sixty painstaking days of practice to master.
Two blue eyes pierced through the darkness. Channeling his immense strength with sheer willpower, he brought his sword down.
Crack!
The blade, infused with white lightning, struck the ghoul's head and cleaved toward its shoulder.
It seemed as though part of the ghoul's body might be severed.
Thud! Clang!
Yet the ghoul caught the blade with its palm, effortlessly nullifying the knight's forceful blow. Their speeds differed, allowing such a feat.
Unfazed, Enkrid quickly pulled back. Sparks flew as his sword aimed once more, this time targeting the ghoul's eye in a sharp, calculated stab.
Swish!
Again, the attack missed. The ghoul twisted its head aside, dodging deftly. Enkrid immediately adjusted his swing, slicing sideways.
The ghoul stepped lightly, completely evading the sword's trajectory. The maneuver placed it at Enkrid's flank, and its clawed hand lashed out.
Enkrid raised his left shoulder, blocking the claws with his pauldron.
Crash!
The armor shattered, fragments flying and grazing his brow. A slightly worse angle might have cost him an eye.
Without a moment's hesitation, Enkrid stepped back with his left foot, creating space to swing his sword once more.
The ghoul was skilled against knights but was no knight itself. It could mimic Oara's laughter, but not her swordsmanship.
Enkrid's next strike emerged unpredictably, a blow imbued with raw strength, aimed at the ghoul's head.
Even with its toughened shell, this strike would inflict serious damage. Blood would flow, and something would surely be severed.
Thump!
The ghoul crouched and sprung backward, effortlessly leaping out of the sword's range.
A hollow indentation marked where its feet had pressed into the ground.
How could it evade so easily? The earlier strike that shattered Enkrid's shoulder guard had been a feint.
Their physical capabilities were worlds apart, enabling such evasion. Enkrid had lost his pauldron to such a light attack.
"Whew."
Enkrid retrieved spark and gripped his sword,
Aker
, with both hands, angling its tip toward the sky. Steadying his stance, he locked eyes with the ghoul's soulless black orbs.
How many of its attacks could he endure? He didn't know. But Enkrid intended to fight until victory. The fire of determination burned within him.
Yet he hadn't forgotten his goal. His endurance was only temporary; failure wasn't an option.
Oara watched. If she intervened, it would mean he had failed today.
"So..."
Come quickly.
Enkrid visualized his objective, sketching it in his mind. He needed his comrades to return swiftly.
If they couldn't overpower the ghoul, Oara would step in. But he planned to kill the ghoul before that happened.
Failure would make today no different from countless others—and that, he couldn't accept.
He wouldn't let Oara lose her smile. He would show what a true knight was.
He would twist today into something new.
"Do you truly believe you can twist fate?"
At the end of one of countless days past, the boatman had asked him that.
For Enkrid, it wasn't about belief.
"I have to do it."
He would keep going until it worked. That was the mantra that had carried him this far.
The boatman had smiled at him. Was it mockery, or something else? Enkrid couldn't tell.
It was simply a feeling—one that foretold something was about to happen.
"That's why I sharpened my axe today. That's the foresight of this great me," said Rem, displaying the razor-sharp edge of his azure axe.
His pace was brisk, almost as fast as a run without breaking into one.
Dunbakel followed effortlessly, responding with a quip.
"Don't you sharpen it every day?"
Her comment implied that his so-called foresight was as trivial as a dog's droppings. Sharpening his axe daily wasn't exactly a special event.
Dunbakel often lacked tact—perhaps too much at times. At this moment, buoyed by Enkrid's earlier praise, she was in high spirits.
"Didn't you just find a good whetstone and get excited about it?"
Her tongue sometimes moved independently of her brain, as if her heart spoke directly, turning thoughts into unfiltered words.
Rem twisted his lips into a smirk.
"That, too, is foresight."
Nonsense, thought Admor, trailing behind them. But he kept his thoughts to himself—partly because the pace left no room to speak.
Despite his well-trained body, keeping up was a struggle, as if he were sprinting.
Opening his mouth now risked biting his tongue. Staying silent was the wiser choice.
Even without the sprint, Admor would have stayed quiet. He had tact and understood the wild light in Rem's eyes.
One more careless word and the axe-wielder might cleave heads before dealing with the monsters.
Yet Dunbakel, undeterred by the implied threat, threw out another provocative remark.
"How absurd."
The barbarian, with a smile that barely masked their inherent gentleness, made a pointed promise post-battle.
"See you after this."
Dunbakel hesitated momentarily but didn't falter in her steps. Instead, she puffed out her chest and replied,
"Do as you please."
She had resolved to prove herself.
Retreating before the fight had even begun wasn't an option anymore. There wasn't an axe blade swinging for her face at this very moment, after all.
Though that crazed axeman had pushed her to the brink of death countless times during their sparring sessions, it was clear he wasn't truly intent on killing her.
She had endured many harsh days under the guise of "training," days that still stung bitterly when she thought about them. But facts were facts.
So she wouldn't back down. Giving up here would make her goal of proving herself a distant dream.
"Good, I'll hold you to that."
Rem quickened his pace, his tone unyielding. Admor, gasping for breath, trailed behind him, reassessing his earlier preconceptions.
Normally, "I'll hold you to that" was the language of bluffers. Yet coming from Rem, those words felt genuine.
Admor could feel it—this man harbored grudges that stretched for miles.
"Wait, I smell something," Dunbakel said suddenly, halting mid-step. Her nose twitched repeatedly.
To their left lay a noxious swamp; ahead, a gray forest stretched ominously.
Admor raised his right fist, knuckles facing outward—a signal to stop. The soldiers all halted, their shoulders rising and falling in tense rhythm.
A chill swept through the group, draping them in an oppressive silence.
And why wouldn't it?
This was the Demonic Realm.
Even soldiers stationed near the borders of the Thousand Stone rarely ventured this deep into its interior.
Almost never, in fact.
Recon squads typically skirted the periphery. Their tasks ranged from eliminating pre-ascension beasts to predicting waves of monsters.
Yet this mission was anything but routine. What should've been a standard operation had devolved into a desperate search for their missing scout.
"Rowena..."
Admor scanned the area, straining his eyes. But he wasn't a ranger, and clues didn't easily present themselves.
All he knew was that Rowena had prepared thoroughly for this mission, expecting danger from within the Demon's Realm.
Surely she couldn't have fallen easily. But then, where was she?
And why were there so many monsters here?
"Relax," came the voice of Rem, his gray-haired head nodding forward as he spoke. "I told you, this is all part of the plan. My foresight never fails."
Admor exhaled sharply, realizing he'd been holding his breath. Ahead, he caught sight of Rem loosening the leather strap on his axe sheath.
Despite the suffocating tension and the grim thoughts clouding his mind, Admor forced himself to ask, "Why do you follow orders so unquestioningly?"
He already anticipated Rem's answer—it wasn't genuine curiosity that made him ask.
The question was just a distraction from his nerves. He assumed Rem owed some kind of life debt or had pledged undying loyalty to someone.
But Rem's response left him momentarily dumbfounded.
"Because he asked for help."
"Wait, what? Seriously?" Admor stammered.
Dunbakel, overhearing, added with a sniff, "Yeah, he did. Just earlier."
Admor was at a loss. Had he misheard their earlier conversation? Was his worry for Rowena clouding his senses?
He glanced back at one of his subordinates, seeking confirmation, only to be met with an expression of equal bewilderment.
"He asked, so I'm helping. Simple as that. Not something he does often," Rem said casually.
Admor let the bizarre answer sink in, his earlier tension momentarily dissipating. He realized it was futile to try to make sense of a man like Rem.
His attention returned to the terrain as he spotted clear traces on the ground: boot prints, drag marks, broken trees, and torn vines scattered around.
"What happened here...?" Admor murmured, but before he could piece it together—
Uuuuuung.
The gray forest shuddered. Vibrations rippled through the ground, making Admor's body tremble.
Rem turned, flashing a smile. But it wasn't a reassuring one. It was the mischievous grin of a delinquent who'd found the perfect toy.
The moon disappeared behind a cloud, casting his face into shadow. For a brief moment, it felt like Rem had vanished entirely.
Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Admor's eyes struggled to keep up as Rem propelled himself forward, barely making a sound. A resounding
thud
snapped Admor's attention to the giant spider ahead, now lifeless with its head split cleanly in two.
Admor signaled the group to advance cautiously, covering the gaps Rem and Dunbakel were carving open.
They moved like a seasoned squad—silent, efficient, and poised. The only way to survive the Demon's Realm.

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