A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 778-779

Chapter 778

“People pass away regardless.”
“Hah… that felt right.”
“Roman, look after the settlement.”
“Enkrid, I appreciate you.”
“Well, that was a good time.”
The final utterances of Oara—rather than being merely recalled, they were branded into his psyche, impossible to erase.
There are certain scenes that never fade, regardless of how many times one relives the same twenty-four hours.
Hadn’t it been mentioned once that a life of loops lacked the mercy of oblivion?
The Ferryman had voiced that sentiment. He claimed that if one wished to escape the burden of painful memories, they simply had to remain within the confines of the present day.
Snap, pop.
Tendrils of smoke from the crackling fire rose toward the cavern’s peak. As the haze ascended, it diffused into the stone and vanished. The sharp, bitter scent bit at his nostrils.
Oara, the one who had decapitated the fragment of Balrog.
Oara, who had appeared within a vision, only to be seized by Balrog.
Oara, who had utilized her oath as her protection and her grin as her weapon.
The warrior who had ultimately shielded the town, carved her legacy into its history, and departed—she sat before Enkrid now, beckoning him.
“Come over here. We should talk.”
Guided by her casual demeanor, Enkrid took a step forward.
As he advanced, his gaze flickered behind her seated form before locking back onto her eyes.
Would she strike without warning? Would her pupils bleed crimson as she lunged?
He felt a spark of intuition—but for some reason, it didn’t seem likely.
Oara was perched on a small boulder. Across the dancing flames sat another rock of similar proportions. Enkrid took his place there.
Oara parted her lips and spoke.
“How have things been?”
“Quite good.”
“It shows. You’ve achieved knighthood, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“In that case, I suppose I must refer to you as Sir Enkrid from this moment on.”
A gentle grin accompanied her words. She showed no shock at his presence.
The flickering orange radiance of the campfire illuminated half of Oara’s pale features. Only her persistent smile remained visible. When Enkrid offered no immediate reply, she spoke again.
“Is Roman doing alright?”
“That idiot went off on a solo quest to sharpen his skills and nearly ended up as a meal for a Parasitic Beast.”
“Roman really did that?”
Oara erupted into a fit of giggles, then added:
“Give me more details.”
The pair engaged in light conversation. The air was neither sweltering nor freezing. Though deep in a cavern, the environment felt neither damp nor parched.
It was comfortable, silent, and tranquil.
It felt like returning from a blizzard in the dead of winter, cleaning up, and exchanging tales over a steaming cup of chocolate.
“Morons.”
Oara would laugh or scowl intermittently. She carried herself as though the spark of life still resided within her.
But it did not.
On the night she slew the shard of Balrog, she had been dragged into a nightmare by Balrog himself.
Soul Collector.
That was one of the many titles held by Balrog.
Before he could find the words to ask how this manifestation was possible, Oara smiled with a touch of sheepishness.
“That wretch… he’s a difficult one to top.”
What stood in front of him was merely a remnant of Oara.
He had encountered similar phenomena with the malevolent blade Tutor and with Acker, the relic left by a different warrior.
However, she had been tethered to this place against her will, having met her end at the hands of Balrog.
“Honestly, I’d be grateful if you could set me free. I tried to handle it myself, but I wasn’t strong enough.”
The warmth and peace of the moment evaporated instantly. Oara’s grinning expression remained, but the atmosphere turned cold.
“It’s arrived.”
She spoke as she gradually rose to her feet.
A warrior, particularly one of her caliber, wouldn’t normally let out a groan just from standing up. She made that sound intentionally to alert Enkrid.
“Watch yourself.”
Her warning was thick with sincerity.
The chamber they were in resembled a massive clearing.
Unlike the narrow tunnels they had navigated, the ceiling here was vaulted high, and the boundaries were distant. Enkrid estimated that hundreds of people could congregate here with ease.
The floor was level, devoid of any landmarks or obstructions.
The solitary strange detail: the walls converged as they moved upward.
And from that narrow gap in the ceiling, the light of the moon poured down.
The moon tonight was a deep scarlet. A Red Moon.
Both lunar bodies were stained blood-red, casting their glow onto Oara’s form.
She moved beyond the reach of the campfire. Then, the embers from the fire surged outward, trailing her, and began to spiral up her left arm.
Whoosh.
The heat raced up her limb, winding around her palm three times, while the remaining length slumped toward the ground.
A scourge constructed of pure flame rested against the stone.
The pulsing, coiled heat looked like a serpent of fire, ready to char and crush anything it ensnared.
Enkrid had noticed it the second he laid eyes on Oara—her shadow.
And within that shadow, Oara possessed two horns protruding from her brow and wings tucked behind her, large enough to shroud her entire frame.
A fiend made itself known, discarding the shell of the spirit it had gathered.
It had been masquerading in Oara’s likeness, lying in wait.
A quick look confirmed it—the shadow of Balrog had now merged with Oara’s.
Was the shadow Oara herself now? Were Balrog and Oara a single entity?
No. It was a mere trick of the light.
A deliberate, twisted game.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
Enkrid rose and gave his greeting.
Oara’s frame began to distort and grow, turning a deep obsidian as her musculature expanded and her height increased.
The silhouette seen in the shadow was manifesting in the physical world.
Snap.
The fiend—this wandering hunter that preys on its own kind—extracted a pair of horns.
As if feeling a sense of catharsis, it elongated its neck and let out a heavy sigh.
With that breath, a small lick of flame escaped.
“You’re a fire-breather too, I see,” Enkrid noted casually, his eyes never wavering.
The master of the shard looked down from its height and answered.
—You made enough noise to summon me, so here I am.
To be exact, the being did not use a throat. It projected its intent directly through will.
A method of dialogue that bypassed the need for sound.
It wasn’t something to be shocked by. Even the Ferryman communicated in such a way.
“Well, you heard the call, and you showed up,” Enkrid replied without a hint of doubt.
The demon’s flesh was like charred coal, and in place of eyes, crimson fires flickered in the sockets. Spiraling ribbons of flame spun where the pupils would normally be.
—I am the Ruler of the Labyrinth, Balrog. Mortal, did you summon me in a quest for eternal life?
“No.”
—I suspected as much.
Enkrid let out a short laugh.
He had just stumbled upon a foe that was notoriously impossible to track down.
The demon, also referred to as the Demon of Struggle, suddenly joined in the laughter.
A man and a monster standing across from one another, sharing a laugh.
If a painter had been present, they wouldn’t have been able to look away from such a scene. The tension of the encounter was that profound.
Balrog’s grin entered Enkrid’s vision. His lips pulled back to reveal ivory fangs.
Why are his teeth so incredibly white?
As he contemplated this, Balrog spoke once more.
—This promises to be entertaining.
The sense of longing, pleasure, and thrill in that statement caused Enkrid to feel a bizarre sense of missed opportunity. He followed that feeling and spoke.
“I should be the one saying that, you bastard.”
Balrog was a high demon. Formidable enough to earn the title Demon of Struggle. And just moments ago, he had displayed a force that had flung Enkrid’s allies across the cavern.
Enkrid didn’t entirely grasp the mechanics of what had transpired or the specifics of the situation. But internally, he had a theory.
Demonic sovereignty—that was the cause.
Demons weren’t just simple monsters. Their innate powers made them entities that humans shouldn’t even dream of fighting.
Balrog’s specific power was the Labyrinthization of his territory.
So why was Enkrid talking to such a creature with such disrespect?
There was no deep reason.
Simply because he would resort to any tactic to succeed.
Enkrid engaged in combat according to his own rules.
Demons likely possessed sentiments—so if they could be rattled, he would rattle them. It was a conscious effort to strip Balrog of his majesty.
A standard knight wouldn’t even have the courage to attempt it.
The irony was that Balrog was attempting the same tactic on Enkrid.
—The others who ventured into this place are likely corpses by now. Their bodies were probably broken before they even arrived.
Enkrid responded without skipping a beat.
“I checked the situation on my way in. No one is dying from something as trivial as this.”
He had already passed through three knights imprisoned in the maze. They had served as excellent warm-up partners.
—You believe that is the extent of it?
Balrog’s voice dripped with raw power. If one relaxed their focus even slightly, it felt as though their internal organs would buckle under the weight of the aura. This was the definition of true terror.
And the intent behind his words was clearly to provoke panic.
The unknown is the root of terror. Terror is what breeds desperation. Balrog sought to sow seeds of doubt in Enkrid’s mind.
But the lunatic who relived the same day used that to his own benefit.
“Ah.”
Mocking a sense of shock, he purposely left a gap in his defenses. Balrog caught it immediately.
What was the truth behind the title Demon of Struggle?
It wasn’t just about a love for combat. The name originated from the fact that he committed his entire being to every single fight.
—…You piece of work.
Even Balrog’s speech pattern shifted. The tone no longer matched his legendary status—he sounded more like a common grunt from a bar.
In a way, this was a surprise even to the demon.
A human who didn’t flinch under his aura, who continued to speak his mind—it was a rarity in his long existence.
“He didn’t take the bait,” Enkrid whispered to himself.
The Enkrid-style technique of Feigning an Opening had been seen through.
Balrog ended his mental projection, and Enkrid struck instantly. He slammed his heel into the dirt, lunging forward, and unleashed a horizontal slash in one continuous motion.
A blow based on Oara’s transitional form. A perfect greeting for Balrog’s arrogant face.
As if collapsing the distance between them, Enkrid’s sword flew forward—only to be caught by Balrog’s bare hand.
CLANG!
A pressure wave erupted from the collision. Fwoosh! Balrog’s whip of fire flared up as if it possessed a consciousness of its own.
—Meet Salamandra.
Balrog lifted his forearm to eye level and spoke. His gaze met Enkrid’s. One set of eyes was blue, the other a searing red.
His burning pupils flared with malice. Simultaneously, the whip—behaving like a serpent of embers—struck without warning.
The spiraling fire attempted to seize his leg. Enkrid instinctively retreated, ripping his blade with force from Balrog’s grip.
Dawn Tempering vibrated in response to its wielder and sharpened its focus.
It was a weapon etched with intent, fueled by Will. In this moment, its sharpness would exceed even Penna, the treasure of the fae.
Screeeech.
And yet, the strike yielded nothing.
Balrog’s arm, while he continued to smirk, didn’t show so much as a line.
‘What kind of material is that limb made of?’
Furthermore, the fire whip operated entirely on its own.
‘His arm didn’t even twitch.’
Not just his limbs—his entire body remained still. No telegraph, no muscle tension. The whip had initiated the strike autonomously.
It crawled across the stone with a rhythmic hiss and reared its head.
Observing it, one would swear it was a sentient fire-beast.
—This is Surtr.
Balrog now unsheathed a blade, fire dancing across its length, and presented it.
The flame was unnatural—it glowed a deep, dark black.
And its scale was easily triple that of Ragna’s Sunrise.
Balrog’s stature was slightly larger than Audin’s, meaning the weapon was massive even by his standards.
Then he unfurled his twin wings—making his presence seem three or four times more imposing.
In that heartbeat, Balrog released the full gravity of his being, an aura that bore down on every living soul. The literal manifestation of power.
It felt as though manacles, glowing with heat, had bound his entire body—and as if a mountain were falling directly onto his skull.
I’m going to lose. I’ll be defeated. There’s no path to victory against that. It’s beyond the limits of humanity. Would it be different if I were a giant? Or of dragon blood?
As those doubts surfaced—
His Will surged and spat them out.
It sliced through Balrog’s pressure, shredded the fear, and threw it aside. The manacles snapped. The mental burden that had been suffocating him was gone.
Enkrid had survived the demon’s crushing aura—but he realized that during the struggle, his guard had become dangerously wide.
Yet Balrog did not move to finish him.
—You adjust fast. Excellent.
The demon seemed satisfied instead.
‘So he had no intention of attacking yet.’
A trial? A measurement of his power? Or just vanity?
It didn’t matter.
Enkrid remained steady. Regardless of what the foe attempted, he never lost sight of his objective.
‘Cut him.’
He funneled his entire Will into the metal.
In that split second, he grasped the essence of Ragna’s secret.
‘The transformation of Will.’
To weave a different property into the core of one’s Will. How? Through sheer intent.
He had witnessed Ragna perform it—practiced it a thousand times—refined it, struggled with it, and battled three knights to get here.
All of those moments converged to coat his blade.
Dawn Tempering glowed with a sharper blue light as the edge redefined itself.
Just as a sword guided by the intent to sever possesses greater lethality—by pushing that intent to its peak, one creates a blade of pure Will.
It felt like the evolution of a previous lesson… yet also like a brand new discovery.
Regardless of the mechanics, the result was clear: his sword now held a cutting edge of sky-blue Will.
Thud.
Whether he noticed the light on Enkrid’s weapon or not, Balrog jumped. Then he disappeared into the air.
The demon materialized behind Enkrid.
His blue eyes tracked two arcs as he spun in a half-circle.
Enkrid pivoted and swung.
A sword that could cut through solid iron like soft clay collided with Surtr.
Thud.
The sound was quiet. Only a small burst of obsidian flame.
Fwoosh.
As if mocking the effectiveness of the strike, Balrog stood firm. Unmoved. Like he hadn’t felt a thing.
Through the screen of fire, his fist shot forward.
Enkrid dropped his center and brought up his elbow, reaching for the demon’s wrist to break the momentum—but Balrog’s strike shifted rhythm and accelerated in the blink of an eye.
CRACK!
He took the hit directly.
Despite the combination of Fortune’s Blade, mental mapping, perfect reaction timing, and the Wavebreaker Sword Style—the blow landed.
Enkrid’s frame was lifted off the ground and driven into the stone wall.
Balrog, using the same hand that had just struck, grabbed the hilt of his whip and lashed it toward the wall.
This time, the whip’s movement was different. It was blinding.
The head of the fire serpent swelled into a massive club of heat and slammed into the stone faster than a thunderclap.
BOOM—CRUNCH!
The whip hit the rock as if a falling star had struck it from the heavens.
Through the shower of debris, Enkrid tumbled outward, rolling across the floor.
Crimson leaked from his mouth—he had taken heavy internal trauma.
‘It failed.’
A sword that felt as though it could sever anything was still stopped by another forged from the same essence.
Balrog had just demonstrated that reality.
A wandering demon. A myth in the flesh.
He was capable of exactly that.
—Is that the limit of your strength?
Balrog questioned.
His blade, Surtr, much like Enkrid’s, was composed of fire—its edge shaped from incinerating Will.
A sword that, to any observer, seemed to be forged from the very essence of a burning sun.

Chapter 779

Could it be credited to Lua Gharne, who had relentlessly drilled those principles into them for days? Or was it merely the result of a melody they had been whistling for far too long?

Despite the village terrain abruptly warping and the clamor of conflict erupting from every direction, not a single inhabitant cried out for a demon.

“Knight of the Apocalypse. Deliver us,” the elderly woman whispered.

The youngster beside her responded, “They referred to him as the Demon Knight.”

A heavy gloom settled over the entirety of the village, manifest in both shadow and spirit. The ground groaned and surged upward in various spots, forming jagged walls, and before anyone could process the change, a stone canopy had knit itself together to shut out the sun above.

Then appeared the predators who thrived on terror.

Two warriors.

One carried a slender, supple blade that rippled like silk, while the other gripped a grotesque weapon shaped like a perfectly rectangular slab of metal, straight from the hilt to the tip.

“I wonder if this specimen has a satisfying cutting feel,” the one with the slab-like blade murmured.

“I am weary of this assignment. I simply wish to depart from this labyrinth,” the thin-bladed swordsman replied.

They conversed as if this slaughter were a mundane chore.

“You realize you won’t be able to indulge in this dungeon simulation once we cross to the continent, correct?”

It seemed Balrog’s labyrinthine alteration only functioned in territories saturated by the influence of the Demon Realm. That much was clear from their exchange. Naturally, to the common folk gathered there, such details were irrelevant. They were on the verge of execution—what use was technical knowledge?

“Grant us the conclusion,” the old woman said, bowing her head in resignation.

The man who had mused about the sensation of slicing raised his rectangular short sword. He had hollowed cheeks, dark circles rimming his eyes, and skin so drained of color it looked like ash. Greasy locks of hair fell to his shoulders. He possessed the face of a nightmare, the kind of visage that would make anyone shriek “murderer” on a dark street. To worsen the impression, he was clad in a suit of stitched leather—trousers, vest, and overcoat—all fashioned not from animal hides, but from human skin.

It was his notorious trademark.

He had spent his existence treating homicide as a form of sensory pleasure, so judging him a killer based solely on his appearance was entirely accurate.

His right arm ascended. If he swung, the old woman’s skull would be split down the center. Her skin might have taken on a violet tint, but her internal biology remained the same. Her blood was still crimson. The tactile sensation of carving through her would be identical to any other victim.

That prospect alone sent a shiver of delight through him.

Usually, he had to content himself with butchering monsters, animals, or the comrade standing next to him. But the latter was rarely a simple task, and beasts never provided the specific satisfaction he craved. A glimmer of his foul yearning flickered across his face. The intensity behind his gaze spiked as he drove the slab-like blade downward.

*Thunk.*

The steel did not find its target.

Even so, the killer’s eyes maintained their warped hunger. His focus shifted to the individual who had obstructed his strike. He had anticipated an intervention—he had allowed it.

A longsword had parried his weapon. It was a blade of dwarven craftsmanship. Its owner: Rophod.

“What sort of creature are you?” Rophod inquired, his voice steady and resolute.

In contrast to the murderer’s repulsive appearance, Rophod’s features were symmetrical and his gaze remained fixed. He had been in the midst of a sparring session with Pell—trading blunt criticisms—when the earth shifted and this man, who looked like a career butcher, appeared. So, he moved to intervene.

Rophod’s eyes analyzed the man, mentally stripping away his defenses. His posture. His cadence. His eyes. Those eyes were loathsome. There was a predatory, vile glint in them, reminiscent of a lecherous old man.

The killer pulled back his blocked weapon and lunged with his other hand. That hand also gripped a short, rectangular blade.

A butcher’s knife?

Rophod parried the strike, noting the weapon’s oddity. It was a short sword designed like a kitchen tool. A ghost of a grin twitched on the man’s face.

“Hoh. You look like you’d provide a very fine slice.”

The sound of the man’s breath made Rophod’s skin crawl.

*Whoosh.*

The killer closed the gap with a single stride. Between them, the elderly woman remained curled on the ground, head lowered. She didn’t even dare to look up, paralyzed by trauma.

The killer’s weapon was short. Rophod’s longsword was nearly double its length. Usually, that distance would be an advantage. However, the man aimed his right-hand blade at the old woman again. It wasn’t a reckless swing; it was a trap.

*You intend to shield her, don’t you? Then you cannot move from this spot.*

That was the silent message of the strike. Rophod thrust his sword out to intercept the right-hand blade.

*Clang!*

Sparks erupted from the collision. With the terrain twisted and shadows clinging to the walls, the flash seemed blinding. While Rophod held the right-hand knife at bay, the second blade hissed toward his throat.

Rophod dropped his center of gravity, crouching low and shifting his weight. Balancing on a single foot, he lashed out with a kick at the killer’s ankle. The murderer pivoted around the old woman to evade the blow. He understood the geometry of the fight—using the civilian as a meat shield gave him the upper hand.

*You’ll keep guarding her, won’t you?*

The unspoken taunt lingered. Furthermore, he wasn’t alone. Rophod knitted his brows. Was this an insurmountable problem? Not exactly. It simply triggered a dormant memory.

Seeing a figure you have only ever heard of in legends with your own eyes requires a moment of cognitive adjustment. Especially when the reality doesn’t perfectly align with the mental image. His adversary—this man—was the antagonist of a very ancient chronicle. A bogeyman from the horror stories parents use to frighten disobedient children.

That was why a single realization sent a chill down his spine. It was a terror rooted in childhood.

“…Dammer the Killer?”

Dammer the Killer, otherwise known as Dammer the Tanner.

A mythical psychopath who wore garments stitched from human remains and brandished twin carving blades. As a boy, he had suffered horrific domestic abuse. His father had been a leatherworker. One day, after being beaten with a strap yet again, Dammer seized a knife. His parents were his inaugural victims. He had wrapped the hilt of his blade in his father’s skin.

He continued his spree, killing without end. He processed the hides of his victims and sold them. Thus, the name: Dammer the Tanner.

“Is this… is this actually happening?”

Rophod remained in position, the old woman still trembling between them. Despite the shock, his question was delivered with composure. Dammer found the reaction intriguing. Was this youth devoid of fear, or merely a skilled performer? Regardless, he looked like a victim who would offer a “slice” of high quality.

Rophod gazed at him blankly. *Hasn’t he been dead for half a century?*

That was why the connection hadn’t been instantaneous, despite the man’s distinct features and the patchwork skin attire.

“Indeed. I am that Dammer.”

Three deep furrows sat upon his brow, resembling thick worms—a signature trait of the terrifying illustrations of Dammer.

So it truly was him? He had merely been a character in a grim fairy tale back then. There were few children raised in the city who didn’t know the legend of Dammer the Killer. That was what made this encounter so surreal.

“You are the genuine article?”

Dammer gave a nod and raised his foot to stomp on the old woman. Rophod moved to block. Dammer used that momentum to lunge forward instead, swinging both blades in a lethal cross-pattern.

*Clang!*

Rophod barely checked the man’s advance, angling his longsword to absorb the twin strikes. At that instant, a whip-like blade curved through the air, aiming for the base of Rophod’s skull from behind.

*Clang!*

It was parried—not by Rophod, but by a different sword. Pell had arrived.

“Two of you ganging up on one?” Pell remarked, his eyes locked on the new threat.

“Tch. So very close.”

The man with the ribbon-sword clicked his tongue and retreated a few steps. He moved with a light, predatory grace, his eyes narrowing as they settled on Pell.

“He intercepted it?”

Dammer had permitted Pell to interfere because his internal logic suggested his own blades would finish Rophod first. By his count, his steel should have already bifurcated a skull, and the newcomer should have been too slow to change the outcome. In other words, this second opponent was also formidable. This meant the engagement might be prolonged.

Dammer was a scholar of precision—able to simulate dozens of combat permutations in a heartbeat. But unlike him, who preferred to slowly erode an opponent’s spirit and flesh before the final cut, this new foe possessed a different martial philosophy.

Rophod had already synthesized a basic strategy based on their stances, their gear, and their dialogue. And if he was mistaken? If this killer had successfully masked his true power?

“Then I shall simply have to perish.”

That sentiment resonated—something Frokk or Lua Gharne had once muttered. That one shouldn’t count on survival when dueling entities of this magnitude. He also recalled Pell’s words from their training.

*“If you want to keep breathing, practice harder, you talentless hack.”*

Pell had a penchant for insults. But ultimately, Rophod was in his debt. It was because of Pell that deciphering Dammer’s intent felt manageable. Compared to the chaotic, unpredictable angles Pell utilized, Dammer’s movements felt almost transparent.

Dammer himself would never have believed that. But in that moment, Rophod achieved a sudden clarity regarding his own growth. It was as if he were watching the fight from a bird’s-eye view, detached and analytical, seeing himself as the enemy saw him. In this state, predicting the opponent’s next move was effortless.

Dammer believed he was systematically breaking Rophod down. So, Rophod leaned into the deception.

He feigned a slip. He forced his breathing to sound ragged. He acted as though his morale were crumbling as the battle stretched on and the old woman remained in peril. It was the purest form of Enkrid-style combat—a discipline built on feints and psychological manipulation.

Dammer believed he had finally found his opening. He committed his entire strength to a finishing blow. After shifting his rhythm and playing with angles, he suddenly raised both knives high and brought them down in a devastating overhead smash—abandoning his usual pattern for raw power.

Rophod had been waiting for that exact commitment.

He gripped his hilt with his right hand and placed his left hand near the base of the blade to reinforce it. He caught both of Dammer’s carving knives and absorbed the massive impact.

*Bang!*
*Bang!*

It was a strike powered by Will. A lethal blow from a murderer who had reached the rank of knight through sheer volume of slaughter. Albeit, a very long time ago.

Rophod utilized a bind to trap the blades, anchoring himself with his legs and core to prevent being pushed back. Then, using that stored kinetic energy, he lunged forward past the cowering woman and stomped violently on Dammer’s foot.

He had parried and countered in a single, continuous motion. Dammer was unable to retreat. Rophod’s boot slammed into the killer’s foot with crushing force. The sound of the impact was heavy and final.

The bones in Dammer’s foot disintegrated with a sickening snap, and his face contorted in a mask of pain. Before he could recalibrate, Rophod had released his sword, seized Dammer by the jaw and the back of the head, and wrenched them in opposite directions with violent force.

*Crackkk—*

The neck vertebrae spun and shattered, and the skin of Dammer’s throat twisted into a grotesque spiral. It was a technique he had refined by observing Audin and Enkrid—a blend of grappling and execution. They had even given him personal pointers on the move.

Dammer collapsed to his knees, hitting the ground without even a final gasp. Rophod had just ended the monster from his childhood nightmares, yet he didn’t find the feat particularly noteworthy.

Nearby, Pell had concluded his own duel.

The man who claimed to be a master of calculation had tried to outthink him, so Pell had simply charged with raw aggression, delivering a diagonal slash using the vortex technique Enkrid had demonstrated. The man with the ribbon-blade hadn’t expected such a direct, overwhelming force. His torso was ripped open, his vitals spilling out, but instead of blood, a thick black vapor surged from the wound.

“Nothing but walking corpses waiting for their master’s command,” Pell remarked.

“Master?” Rophod repeated.

The dying man let out a raspy laugh and replied, “You are all currently trapped within the labyrinth!”

With those final words, he coughed up a cloud of black mist and expired. His physical form dissolved into smoke and faded away.

“Labyrinth?” Rophod asked, stepping closer.

Pell merely gave a non-committal shrug. Finally, the old woman cautiously raised her head.

“You are out of danger now.”

Whatever this “master” or “labyrinth” implied, it could be dealt with later. For the moment, Rophod had accomplished his objective. Much like Enkrid, he had stood as a protector. Even if the person he saved was a violet-skinned host—a being others labeled a Demon or a Corrupter—he felt a sense of fulfillment.

“This is likely just the beginning.”

“Then we should proceed.”

The pair set off once more, heading toward the disturbing auras and heavy sensations radiating from the heart of the village.

Shortly after, they encountered Frokk. She was propped up by her loop sword, having lost an arm and a leg in the struggle. Only a pile of black ash remained of her foe.

“What happened here?” Rophod asked, rushing to her side.

As he supported her, Frokk constricted her muscles to stem the blood loss and spoke through gritted teeth.

“Something ambushed me. It was at the knight level.”

“And the other one?”

“Heh. Jaxon just slipped away somewhere.”

Understood.

Now a trio, they pushed further in—eventually locating Audin, Teresa, and Roman. They found Audin locked in a ferocious struggle.

*He’s even more savage than when he was tearing down the city fortifications.*

Currently, his aura was purely homicidal.

“How dare you obstruct those who seek to return to the Lord!”

He looked genuinely incensed.