Chapter 600 - The Walking Fire
What exactly is the Walking Fire?
It is a forbidden spell—one of those that should never be used.
Why then is the Walking Fire forbidden?
Spells often draw their power from two sources:
Borrowed spells, which rely on the strength of otherworldly beings.
Created spells, which are forged entirely within the caster's magical domain.
The Walking Fire falls under the category of created spells.
Its origin is tied to a catastrophic event caused by a primordial entity known as the Salamander.
"Everything that burns is beautiful."
These words were spoken by a genius obsessed with fire during that time of turmoil.
He became engrossed in shaping forms made of flame, and the Walking Fire was one of his creations.
However, it was also his most corrupt and catastrophic failure.
To manifest the spell, two critical sacrifices were required:
A hundred lives capable of suffering in fire, regardless of species.
The caster's own lifespan.
In theory, any caster who invoked the Walking Fire would die upon its completion.
The spell's design drew not only on the domain of created spells but also on the power of borrowed ones, invoking the name of a demon skilled in handling hellfire.
Though some might wonder if a highly trained mage could be brainwashed into safely casting it, such an idea was laughable.
The spell was so complex that only an extraordinary magician could even attempt it.
From precise control of magic to its incantation, any error would result in either the caster being burned alive or exploding outright.
This was why no sane magician would ever attempt it.
Still, the Walking Fire remained devastatingly effective once successfully conjured, as it would not extinguish until its purpose was fulfilled.
It drew on the mana flowing through nature itself as its fuel.
Esther, a witch devoted to the pursuit and study of magic, quickly pieced together the details of the spell after Enkrid's question.
The Walking Fire was a spell stripped of control, leaving only destruction in its wake.
If one were targeted by it, evasion was nearly impossible.
What if it were me?
Esther considered several solutions almost instantly.
But these were ideas only she, a witch and a seeker of the stars, could conceive.
For someone like Enkrid, a mere swordsman, there were no practical options.
"Why?" she asked.
The mirror she had given him reflected only his face, and their conversation was brief, limited by the low magical charge of the enchanted object.
"Because I need to know. Tell me everything," Enkrid said, his urgency evident even through the fragmented exchange.
Sensing his desperation, Esther refrained from questioning him further and instead conveyed her knowledge as concisely as possible.
"What if someone stood their ground and waited for its mana to deplete?" Enkrid interrupted, cutting straight to the point.
It was clear he was in a rush—so much so that he didn't care to explain himself. Esther understood his haste but warned him nonetheless.
"It's possible, but I wouldn't recommend it," she said.
Her concern was clear: such a tactic would likely result in death by immolation—or, at best, leave the person alive but horribly scarred.
However, her cautionary words fell on deaf ears.
"That might work," Enkrid muttered before vanishing from the mirror's surface, leaving it to return to its dull, lifeless state.
Esther stood and prepared to act.
The situation had become clear in her mind.
If the Walking Fire had already appeared, it was too late for her to intervene directly.
Yet, through Enkrid, she had learned an invaluable lesson:
If you stop because it's too late, nothing will ever happen.
With that, she stepped forward, wasting no time.
The mirror Esther had given him was a specialized artifact that responded when held and focused on her presence.
Now that Enkrid had set it aside, the mirror returned to its mundane form.
He had no time for pleasantries.
Discarding the enchanted scale armor that would only hinder him, he stripped off his indigo cloak and all unnecessary gear, leaving only a thin, short-sleeved shirt.
With swift, practiced movements born of more than twenty years of service, he secured his sword belt and weaponry once more.
"What are you doing?" Luagarne asked.
"It's too hot," Enkrid replied.
A peculiar statement, given the chill of early winter.
"The fire is walking!"
Unintelligible screams and fragmented cries for help filled the air, mingled with the chaos of flames consuming all in their path.
"Huh? What's that?"
Lua's cheeks puffed in astonishment.
Without further delay, Enkrid bolted.
Even before he crossed the square, he saw it—the Walking Fire.
It remained the same, its elongated, finger-like tendrils incinerating people and structures alike.
A deafening explosion erupted from somewhere where oil had been stored, sending a plume of black smoke skyward.
The acrid smell filled the air, and visibility was instantly obscured.
Panic spread as people stumbled blindly in the chaos.
"Damn it, what's happening?"
"It's hot, too hot!"
Enkrid didn't need to see it to confirm.
He dropped into a half-crouch, ready to act with what was available.
He launched forward, slicing horizontally.
The blade, tempered in dark iron, grazed the surface of the spell,
His prior experiences had not been wasted, serving as hard-earned wisdom.
'Sever the core, and it will detonate.
Cut deeply, and the result is the same.
Even removing part of its body beyond a certain size will cause an explosion.'
Such an explosion would unleash a backdraft, swallowing everything around it, followed by secondary detonations that scattered embers far and wide.
Anything within reach would ignite.
Each ember was as destructive as the fire spells cast by skilled mages.
The answer wasn't to cut—it was to endure.
Until its energy was completely drained.
As Enkrid shifted his strategy to one of endurance, he realized this was a battle of patience.
What, then, was his immediate course of action?
'Shave it down.'
Not enough to trigger an explosion, but just enough to carve away its flames, piece by piece.
A risky maneuver to accelerate the depletion of its energy while drawing its attention, giving others time to escape.
Was it acrobatics?
Was it perilous?
Without question.
But it wasn't impossible.
His honed senses, a result of Jaxen's training, and the Isolation Technique he'd mastered through Audin, had shaped his body into a weapon.
Adding pinpoint focus, his blade work became art.
Amid the swirling black smoke, two blue flames glimmered as though guided by an artist's hand.
Each stroke carved through the body of the
, scattering fragments of fire into the air, where they fizzled out.
What had begun as a defensive effort to endure was slowly turning into an opportunity for victory.
Gripping his sword tighter, he centered his focus.
Heart of the Beast
granted him not just boldness but also the clarity to suppress natural reflexes—such as flinching or closing his eyes when danger approached.
This ability to act instinctively in the face of fear gave him a decisive edge.
It was the same principle behind Rem's impromptu, split-second axe strikes.
Enkrid employed it now.
Despite his precision, the
ignored him, its movements unchanged.
A panicked cry rang out from behind—Luagarne's voice.
As Enkrid continued to carve away at the flames, another familiar voice soon followed.
"You idiots! Get to the manor!"
It was Lord Louis, shouting as he dashed into the chaos.
The mass of people began to move again, their presence a faint disturbance in the net of Enkrid's senses.
turned its attention toward them.
If he didn't intervene, dozens would be burned alive.
"Baby, my baby!"
Among the fleeing crowd, someone fell, hunching over to shield a child.
Without needing to see, Enkrid could picture it clearly—a child had tripped, and their parent was now protecting them with their own body.
To save everyone, he needed to stay focused on his current task. But that meant abandoning the mother and child to certain death.
Was it right to sacrifice a few to save the many?
There was no time to hesitate.
The dark iron blade slashed upward with the swiftness of a swallow in flight.
The flames surged, followed by a resounding explosion.
Enkrid wrestled the creature—fire incarnate with limbs and a head-like form—off to one side.
His clothes ignited, his skin burned, and unimaginable pain surged through his body.
Despite his immense endurance, his entire frame trembled uncontrollably, saliva dripping from his mouth—only to evaporate before it reached the ground.
"You idiot! Enki!"
Luagarne's panicked voice called out as he rushed toward him.
Even through the agony, Enkrid found some solace.
The Winter Flower might have burned, but Delma hadn't, nor had Luagarne.
Another day's end approached, marked by the flash of darkness.
When the scene shifted, the ferryman appeared once again, his demeanor strangely consistent this time.
"Ambitious, aren't you?"
The ferryman's voice carried a mocking edge.
"What do you mean?" Enkrid asked.
"You refused to run alone, so I even made it so you could bring the people you wanted to protect. And what did you say? 'I'll protect tomorrow'? Such arrogance."
"Hmm, fair enough."
Enkrid gave a half-hearted reply, lost in thought.
Time always felt too short when he woke.
No matter how much he accelerated his thoughts, it wasn't enough.
Even so, there was value in this momentary pause—a chance to reflect on the accumulated experiences and the precious seconds he'd gained from repeated failures.
"You won't surpass it that way," the ferryman said sharply.
Before Enkrid could respond, the day restarted once more.
He opened his eyes to the familiar scene of waking from a midday nap.
Although something about the ferryman's words stuck with him, Enkrid had his own experiment to attempt today.
As soon as he opened his eyes, he bolted forward.
The Walking Flame had entered the city, burning everything in its path.
Enkrid always awoke feeling a sense of foreboding, and soon after, the blaze would erupt.
Here's the question: what if he encountered it before it entered the city?
Enkrid hypothesized.
What he had seen was the Walking Fire already within the city.
And this time, enduring the fight had been near impossible.
'I should've taken off the armor.'
It was a mistake caused by trying to rush time.
Taking off armor while running was no easy task.
Although he gained some time by dashing across rooftops, the outcome remained the same.
His hypothesis was wrong.
The Walking Fire had already breached the city.
However, he did witness the moment it all began.
It ignited a carriage in front of the city gate, burned some horse feed and two horses in the stable beside the gate, but hadn't yet killed anyone.
People stared at the Walking Fire in confusion.
Some screamed at the sight of dying horses.
An elderly stable hand, presumably the stable keeper, even struck the Walking Flame with a pitchfork.
The elderly man was consumed by the flame without so much as a scream.
Watching this, Enkrid had a thought:
'I need to learn more.'
Afterward, he felt the searing heat of his armor burning into his skin, fought, and then died.
"You're a fool."
Ignoring the ferryman's scolding, he faced today once more.
Taking off scaled armor while running—was it as much of a feat as catching a flying arrow midair?
Easier, perhaps, but still something requiring skill.
Taking it off wasn't practical.
He needed a different approach.
'Don't take it off.'
Enkrid used the shortsword he got from Aitri to cut the straps of his armor.
"They said that was expensive, didn't they?"
Luagarne made a remark as she watched, but now wasn't the time to care about that.
As soon as he woke, he ran, cutting through his armor straps as he charged forward.
After another scolding from the ferryman, he greeted yet another today.
'Let's cut down on time spent grabbing the sword belt too.'
He abandoned putting on a shirt after cutting the straps of his armor. He grabbed just the black iron sword and bolted.
Even after repeating today several times, he didn't gain much.
On the next today, he pulled out a mirror while running.
By now, Enkrid had become a master at undressing while sprinting—a skill he never imagined mastering through endless repetition of today.
"You know the Walking Fire, don't you?
That dictum spell—it burns until its magic is spent.
Tell me everything you know."
Esther, on the other side of the mirror, hesitated for a moment before sharing what she knew.
Enkrid absorbed her words while running.
Day after day, he repeated this process, gathering information piece by piece.
And then, he discovered something else.
'No wonder it seemed to grow stronger during fights.'
The creature absorbed nearby magic to increase its size, killing living beings to do so.
The spell, which had been invoked by a sacrifice, continued to devour sacrifices to sustain itself.
In other words, it was weakest before killing anyone.
With every death, its power grew.
Although Enkrid learned this, he still failed.
"I thought you were arrogant, but it turns out your brain's just for show."
The ferryman, who should have enjoyed watching Enkrid trapped in today, seemed oddly irritated.

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