At her shout, both witches immediately raised their hands, and with a single motion, a pitch-black barrier sprang up around them.
But Jaxen didn't stop.
No, to be precise, he pulled out an object meant to deal with that very shield.
The moment the dark barrier appeared, Jaxen instinctively swept his left hand across his chest, and in that instant, a short dagger appeared in his grip.
"Everything must flow as naturally as water."
That was the principle behind merging with the Sword of Chance.
More importantly, he had anticipated this scenario.
The insight born from experience had prepared him for moments exactly like this.
There was no way witches of this caliber would simply let themselves be stabbed with no protection.
He gripped the drawn dagger in a reverse hold, tightly, his thumb pressing down on the end of the hilt.
It was a grip made for a decisive downstroke.
He wielded relics.
More specifically, he was the best in the Madmen Knights at handling relics and Artifacts.
Now, in Jaxen's hand, was a dagger designed specifically to tear through magical shields.
It was a replica of a relic known by the name Spell Breaker.
The blade itself had been forged and hammered by a Dwarf craftsman, while the engravings and enchantments upon it were Esther's work.
The hilt was shaped perfectly to fit Jaxen's grip—a thoughtful touch from the Dwarf.
The weapon was forged from Valerian Steel mixed with Noir Mountain wrought iron, making it both incredibly hard and razor-sharp, yet constructed for a very specific purpose.
His thoughts were swift, actions even swifter.
He struck before he even met the Red-Eyed Witch's gaze.
With an indifferent look, Jaxen drove the dagger, held in a reverse grip, into the barrier.
Thud!
As the blade pierced the barrier, a black ripple spread across the surface with a noise, pushing him back.
It felt like he'd been rammed by a bear beastkin.
This happened because a telekinetic spell, set to automatically repel attackers, triggered upon impact. J
axen could have resisted with strength, but instead he went with the force, letting it push him just enough.
At the same time, he ducked into the shadowy gap created where the Hellfire Lightning had been severed, its broken sparks and shifting shade providing a cover to blend into.
Only then did the Red-Eyed Witch seem to notice him.
She lowered her head and glared fiercely up at him, her eyes cold and razor-sharp.
Who does he think he is?
That was the challenge blazing in her gaze.
At that moment, a crackling sound rang out—the dagger's blade, still embedded in the barrier, began to fracture.
What now?
The Red-eyed Witch didn't even have time to finish the thought.
Bang!
The very instant she realized the blade was breaking, the dagger exploded.
It had always been meant for single use and then discarded.
Normally, something that fragile—breaking and detonating from a blow like that—would be dangerously unstable, but Esther had managed to stabilize it with her skill.
The dagger had two conditions for detonation: It needed to be swung with strength above a certain threshold, and it had to come into contact with a mass of magic.
Both conditions had just been met.
They hadn't been able to use metals like true silver as the material, but the results were still satisfactory.
As the dagger detonated, the barrier shattered as well.
There was no sound of a spell breaking; the black barrier simply scattered like shards of a broken window, dissolving into the darkness.
As the barrier vanished, some of the dagger's fragments struck the Witch's body, but it did nothing.
Her body, now hardened like a gemstone, was more than tough enough to deflect mere pieces of blade.
However—
Crack, crunch, scrraaaape.
What her body could not withstand was the assassin's stiletto, now at her throat without her noticing.
Of course, the wielder of that blade was none other than Jaxen, who had planted the dagger that broke the barrier and then been flung back by the telekinetic force.
He'd melted into the shadows, instantly moving in a low crouch so deep his chest nearly grazed the ground.
Taking advantage of the confusion, he circled to attack from behind once more.
Simply put, when the telekinetic shockwave hit, he let just enough of it push him back, dropped low into the darkness for cover, and the moment the shield went down, surged forward and drove his stiletto into her neck.
Easier said than done—in reality, pulling it off was something else entirely.
All this happened before Enkrid had even exhaled three times after slicing through the Hellfire Lightning.
Of the two witches, one's head was now lolling loosely.
Black blood oozed from the severed neck—not as much as a human's would be, but thick and viscous, clinging to her skin as it flowed.
It looked like pine resin.
Of course, unlike pine resin, the witch's blood reeked with a nauseating stench.
"Unleash your power!"
The Apostle shouted when he saw the witch's head severed.
Red Eyes, with her neck halfway cut, let out grotesque, gurgling, inhuman screams—ghrrrk, ghrrragh, gaaaah.
Black, frothy blood started bubbling up from the wound in her neck.
The blood that was already flowing began to boil and seethe.
Jaxen had seen her bleeding black blood even before he struck.
He'd noticed her retching and vomiting earlier.
In other words, he knew he was dealing with something far from human, and that's why he dared to attack.
So as he sliced her throat, he simultaneously drew three more daggers and plunged them into the witch's body—one into her abdomen, another into the back of her head, and the last into her thigh.
The whole sequence was almost like he was helping the witch up or straightening her clothes.
Jaxen moved as if in a dance—one even deadlier than anything he'd shown during sparring matches.
The first step: gripping the daggers stuck in her abdomen and the back of her head, then pulling them through.
Crunch, rrrip.
Not as strong as Audin, nor as mighty as Enkrid, but Jaxen also possessed strength far beyond the average man.
He'd learned to add his Will to that honed strength when needed.
The daggers he'd embedded carved black trails across the witch's body.
From those slashes flowed thick, black pine resin-like blood.
He didn't bother pulling the daggers out.
After dragging them along for about a span's length, he simply let them go.
The original close-quarters killing technique called for slicing, then pulling out the dagger and stabbing it elsewhere, but this time, Jaxen changed it up.
To be honest, he simply didn't have time to pull out the dagger and stab again.
Amid the black, foaming blood, a sharp-tipped hand suddenly shot out—it was a hand that had grown from her severed neck.
That hand lunged straight for the back of Jaxen's neck, aiming to impale him.
The claws, sharpened to razor points, looked capable of tearing through a plate of iron without much effort.
In fact, the Red-eyed Witch was confident that this hand could pierce even the black crystal monster skin.
Of course, that would only happen if it actually landed.
Jaxen let go of his two daggers and dodged the attack, displaying incredible skill even in such close quarters.
At point-blank range, he'd evaded purely on instinct.
The claws slashed through the air but missed, and Jaxen's hand immediately gripped the hilt of the dagger lodged in her thigh.
By now, he had dropped low, almost as if hugging her thigh.
This time, he grabbed the dagger not with a reverse grip, but with a hammer grip.
With all five fingers of his right hand locked firmly around the handle, Jaxen spun with the witch at the center.
He moved as quickly as a squirrel fleeing a predator; his afterimage flickered around her and then vanished.
Pugagak.
As he spun, the dagger blade stuck in her thigh cut through flesh, so it was only natural that blood spurted and her leg was nearly severed.
Without hesitation, he yanked the halfway-embedded dagger free and stabbed it into her other leg.
With each new wound, things like hands, feet, or sharp, serrated fangs started erupting from the witch's body.
As a result, any trace of a normal human form had long since vanished.
Jaxen kept going, undeterred by whatever monstrous shape his opponent took.
His dance blended motions of gripping, slashing, cutting, and stabbing with his daggers.
Standing in place, he relentlessly tore into the witch's mutating body amid spurts of black, frothing blood.
Before the witch could complete her transformation, her head was severed, her legs ripped off, and her innards half-spilled from her body.
At the climax of the whirlwind dance, the Red-Eyed Witch was left a shell of her former self, her body half its previous mass, crawling across the floor with just one limb—her left hand, reduced to only the index and middle fingers.
"Sa..."
Whatever more she intended to say was lost.
Crack.
Jaxen drew another short sword the length of his forearm and drove it into the back of her head, marking her grave.
Her own maw had long since been torn open and relocated onto her back, and now Jaxen's blade pierced through the fresh maw there, revealing the set of doubled, razor-sharp teeth that proved she was never human.
And so, one witch was killed.
"Ahhhh!"
The Apostle who had been watching cried out, and the hulking form encased in Crystal Armor began thundering across the ground.
It was a Death Knight—some twisted imitation knight built from a remodeled corpse.
Such a thing might be a threat to some, even the source of someone's nightmares.
"If we just cut them all down, it's fine."
Fel spoke as he stepped forward, his movements light and effortless.
He stepped forward, immediately raising his sword and preparing to strike down.
He employed the Vortex technique he had practiced over and over until it became second nature.
The knight in Crystal Armor wielded force at a true knight's level, powered by that modified body.
As the creature stomped heavily, its form blurred into streaks, leaving afterimages as it charged—a sudden shift in speed.
Right then, as the Death Knight pushed off the ground, Fel brought his sword down.
Fel matched the change in speed, bringing his sword down in a motion even faster, as if pulling it inward mid-strike.
Crunch!
The most terrifying thing about a Monster clad in Crystal Armor is that, even as its body shatters, it never slows its assault.
Fel's Idol Slayer split the crystal helmet open and became lodged in its chest; just as the spirit dwelling inside began to scatter into the blade, the Crystal Sword in the creature's hand shot straight toward Fel's neck.
It was terrifyingly fast.
With all his strength focused on his initial blow, Fel had no way to predict or dodge this unexpected counterattack.
Fel reflexively hunched his body.
If he was going to get hit, he figured he might as well get struck where it would least matter.
He made the split-second decision—but there was no need.
He wasn't alone here, after all.
Clang!
"Didn't the Dwarf say that, as swords go, this one counted among the finest he'd ever made?"
Ropord thrust his sword forward, intercepting the Crystal Sword.
The monster's weapon clashed against the blade extended in defense—and stopped, unable to press further.
Ropord felt a tingling ache in both arms.
There was no other way—he'd had to block that blow head-on with sheer brute force and hold his ground.
If he'd tried to deflect it halfheartedly, Fel would be sporting a dramatic new scar right now.
"You owe me for this," Ropord said.
Fel straightened his neck, which he'd instinctively ducked, and pulled his sword free.
The Crystal Armor that had served as a makeshift scabbard for a moment collapsed to the ground, breaking apart and scattering everywhere.
Whatever had been inside was gone now.
Idol Slayer took care of that.
The Crystal Armor had turned to stone, nothing more than rubble rolling on the floor.
Fel glanced over the heap of stone and said, "I'll forget about what you said earlier."
Ropord immediately caught his meaning.
"As an oath?"
"I swear it."
"Fine. Let's call it even."
Ropord had made himself vulnerable by saying that even witches could be taken in by Enkrid's demonic charm, and Fel was agreeing to let it go.
If Fel had been petty about it, he might have had to hear about that slip-up for months—maybe not just months, but whenever Fel felt like bringing it up again.
All in all, it was a fair trade for drawing his sword to help.
There were more knights clad in Crystal Armor.
If you counted just their numbers, there were over ten of them.
But if you looked inside, you'd see they weren't actually Death Knights—evil spirits had been planted inside, their bodies remodeled, and then doused with potions.
Still, Enkrid and the others had no way of knowing any of this.
All they understood was that these opponents were anything but ordinary.
"That sword!"
The Apostle of Red Foot could barely keep up with the string of surprises.
This time, it was because of Fel's sword—a weapon that could slay evil spirits.
It seemed they had exploited the Crystal Armor Knights' one weakness.
But the astonishment didn't last long.
The Apostle had a job to do.
"Everyone, come out!"
At his shout, more monsters surged out from all sides like crashing waves.
Some came out one by one, others charged en masse in tightly packed groups.
Luagarne watched the scene, gripping her Flame Whip and Loop Sword—one in each hand—as she readied herself and struck out at the approaching creatures.
Crystal Armor Knights were one thing, but these monsters looked truly bizarre.
There were ogres with three arms; trolls with horns sprouting from just above their navels—she'd never seen monsters like these before, either.
There were even ghouls with three legs who couldn't keep their balance and ended up leaping while holding one leg up.
What in the world are these things?
Although those questions crossed her mind, now was not the time to find answers.
Besides, her curiosity wasn't that intense to begin with.
It looked like the Apostle's private collection from inside Thornbriar Fortress had just spilled out, but to them, these were simply foes they needed to kill.
So as Luagarne focused on doing her part, Shinar seemed to have chosen his opponent from the very start, stepping forward to face the Corrupted Fairy.
The Corrupted Fairy set her longbow down on the ground and drew her sword.
Schwing, ting.
As the blade struck the metal band around the scabbard, the Corrupted Fairy's sword made its presence known.
It looked like a needle, but the tip was curved—a shape perfect for tearing into flesh.
Because of its design, it could only be drawn after striking the band around the mouth of the sheath.
Even while drawing it, you had to pull it forward at the end, and as the Corrupted Fairy did exactly that, she spoke.
"Have you come to serve as nourishment for the Demonic Domain? You low-grade kin who never even evolved?"
It was expected that the Corrupted Fairy would run its mouth.
The only problem was her opponent.
Shinar was Enkrid's fiancée—at least, that's what she claimed—and the fairy who had spent ages by his side.
With a calm expression, the fairy's lips parted.
"...Nourishment? Me?"
Even though fairies were said to never tell a lie, she certainly knew how to get under her opponent's skin.
Shinar shrugged her shoulders—it was a gesture that didn't really suit her—then, as if telling the Corrupted Fairy to look around, she opened the palm of the hand not holding the Leaf blade and waved it lightly to the side.
The message was clear: take a look at the situation.
If you had eyes, it was obvious who was winning, so wasn't it more likely that you, not me, would end up as nourishment?
That was what she meant.
The very fact that Shinar conveyed all this in a simple movement, without saying a word, could be called a masterclass in provocation.
"Me, you sayyy?"
She drew out the end of her reply, making it even more effective—and she had something more to add.
"Wouldn't you be more suited to being fertilizer than me? Oh, but honestly, you're more likely to end up as monster dung than as nourishment. You half-sprouted potato shoot of a woman."
Shinar had also learned to mix human insults with fairy ones now.
Since it wasn't the typical way a fairy would speak, her words were completely unexpected.
The navy face of the Corrupted Fairy went blank.
She was furious.

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