Chapter 629

Chapter 629

A tree partaking in a smoke—it was, naturally, the first instance Enkrid had ever witnessed such a phenomenon. Before he could manage a single syllable, the arboreal titan spoke once more.
“Ah, a mortal. Then I imagine this is your premier encounter with one of my kind.”
Its gaze, dark brown and appearing as though chiseled from timber, was remarkably inquisitive. The eyes flickered, locked onto Enkrid. He had heard legends of spirits crafted from wood in the past.
“…Woodguard?”
Positioned slightly behind him, Lua Gharne inclined her head and inquired.
“Precisely,” answered the fairy with snowy hair, offering a small nod.
Woodguard—a lineage of spirits shaped in ages past by a deity of the woods to safeguard and nurture the greenery.
Evidently, not every fairy shared the nature of Shinar.
“Fairy” was an expansive category. It encompassed Dryads, Woodguards, and Wing Fairies alike. Dryads were a people rumored to look like pale green foliage, whereas Wing Fairies were minuscule, feathered creatures, no larger than a person’s palm.
Indeed, Enkrid was aware of all this.
He simply had not anticipated meeting one who was so practiced at smoking a cigarette.
Between lips fashioned from timber and parchment-dry leaves, a tightly bound brown-leaf cigarette glowed with heat, then dimmed once more.
Exhale.
Vapor rose in delicate plumes that lingered in the still air.
And just how was it managing that?
Even the soldiers of fortune Enkrid had known, men who were essentially inseparable from their tobacco, could only manage smoke rings at the peak of their skill.
That one sellsword, the one consumed by smoke artistry—if he witnessed this, he would be hailing this creature as “Grandmaster” and refusing to let go of its trunk.
“Care for one?”
The wooden colossus made the offer.
“You are being discourteous to our visitor, Bran,” scolded a different voice.
“Discourteous? What are you saying? This isn’t the trash humans burn—this blend is restorative.”
Bran the Woodguard spoke as he pivoted and strolled to the flank, his timber frame groaning with every motion.
“I do not partake,” Enkrid finally managed. He was, regardless of the situation, still a man. If there was ever a moment to feel stunned, this was it.
What was that creature? Why would a living tree toy with embers like that? Should it not be terrified of sparks?
Yet there he was, inhaling his leafy cigarette and wandering about with clear contentment.
What if he ignited?
Perhaps Shinar had been justified in her extreme wariness of open flames.
Enkrid felt his thoughts drifting in every direction.
When Bran moved out of the way, the path ahead finally became visible.
No one in the vicinity was paying the slightest mind to the smoking timber giant. They were all far too occupied with Enkrid and his companions.
Enkrid reflexively scanned the area.
“Regardless of whether combat ensues, scanning the field comes first.”
That was Lua Gharne’s instruction. Enkrid adhered to it flawlessly.
There was an open space at the gateway to the settlement, encircled by massive trees. Light poured down from the unobstructed heavens above.
The atmosphere was serene. The settlement in its entirety exuded a feeling of stillness.
He could hear the songs of birds and the drone of bugs—but even those vibrations felt more like a textured backdrop than actual sound.
Enkrid honed his senses and absorbed the environment. There was much to take in.
A spirit peered out from a cavity in a tree like a squirrel.
Additional timber giants—others resembling Bran—loitered beneath the ancient boughs. They all possessed deceptive proportions that played tricks on one’s sense of distance.
Some were larger than Audin. Others loomed twice as high as a grown man. One even appeared to be triple that height.
The largest of them had its lids lowered and its maw shut—if it stayed still, it could easily be mistaken for a literal tree.
Processing what was visible, Enkrid expanded his field of vision once more.
The configuration was straightforward: a wide open area at the heart, ringed by wooden edifices.
But this was not the totality of the city.
Had they utilized the woodland itself as the blueprint for the city’s architecture?
A location where hundreds—no, surely over a thousand—spirits resided. It was too immense to grasp in a single look.
Merely traversing it would require several days.
The city was gargantuan—more expansive than Border Guard.
There were no stone-paved streets, naturally, but here and there among the trunks, trails were visible.
After noting the specifics, Enkrid narrowed his focus.
What gripped his interest most was the base beneath one of the timber buildings—likely a dwelling.
It resembled a organic residence a squirrel might construct if it were part of an architects’ guild. The roots delved into the earth, securing it. The entire structure kept the silhouette of a tree.
But something about it bothered him.
Why?
He posed the question to himself twice, seeking the logic. His gut whispered: this was no common house.
It appeared to be a tree with roots buried in the dirt—but that was merely an illusion.
If forced, that object could relocate.
That was what his intuition claimed.
The way they were all situated around the clearing in such a precise, calculated arrangement—it did not appear accidental.
Even the dirt surrounding the roots was a marginally different shade.
A remarkable bit of scouting. Perhaps it wasn’t only combat techniques that Jaxon had instilled in him.
He always emphasized the necessity of analyzing the context.
And grasping your surroundings before a struggle? That was something Lua Gharne had hammered into him, quite literally.
Enkrid had only performed what he was instructed. He might be a sluggish student, but he never surrendered a lesson once it took hold.
What another person might grasp in a day, he would grapple with for a week. But once it took root, it never vanished.
Particularly when he paid attention and gave his total commitment.
That was what prevented him from losing what he had mastered.
Do the dwellings move?
That was his deduction.
Beyond that, all he observed were empty, unfeeling, crystalline eyes.
Enkrid’s sharply tuned perceptions caught a faint trace of bewilderment and wonder in those gazes—but only just. To an untrained eye, they showed nothing.
“What is the deal with those eyes?”
Pell’s remarks rang in his head. Eyes that revealed no sentiment could trigger a basic sort of dread.
Not that it was scary, exactly.
Pell had said it as a jest, but his tone had remained even.
Perhaps he had witnessed enough by now to accept this without blinking.
Or maybe it was simply the result of spending enough time in the company of someone like Enkrid. Pell had survived this long among madmen—now, nothing truly shaken him.
His psychological grit had become sturdier than anyone could have predicted.
“A mortal visitor. What a uncommon event.”
One of the entities moved closer and spoke.
She was a Dryad—one of the woodland tribes famed for restorative arts, where males were a rarity and the feminine aspect was sovereign.
This Dryad, too, was female. Her hair was a profound green, and her skin a light verdant shade. Instead of human allure, she possessed the chilled, crisp aura of the deep woods.
She was dressed in green cloth embroidered with gold thread—a material of unknown origin, but it heightened her mystery.
Her eyes, the shade of buffed leaves, peered at the party before she spoke again.
“You aren’t like those little seedlings, are you?”
Poised and soft-spoken, but the words cut like a blade.
It was the energy she emitted. Enkrid, by this point, allowed his mind to go slack.
They say only a hollow vessel can be filled. If he discarded expectations and bias, he could embrace whatever followed.
In just a heartbeat, his entire perspective had shifted.
The white-haired spirit noticed the change with that characteristic fairy sensitivity—and was secretly moved.
His spirit is straight and unyielding.
She was impressed, but not overawed. Recognizing others as they truly were was sufficient. There was a certain bravery in that brand of poise.
“It is not the time of year for visitors,” remarked the white-haired spirit.
“It has been a lengthy span since a human stepped here,” added another Woodguard. His voice crackled like dried foliage under boots.
Snapping, yet strangely distinct—every syllable traveled without effort.
Bran’s voice, and the speech of the Woodguard in general, were incredibly unique.
Enkrid, observing the timber giants, concluded there was no way he could distinguish them solely by their looks.
In comparison to them, even Frokk would be easier to tell apart.
And Frokk was no simple task, either.
“It has been a long, long age since a human arrived,” the Woodguard reiterated with a leaf-snapping rasp.
Their speaking organs were obviously distinct. The sounds were strange—but still intelligible. He had encountered enough shocks today. This was merely one more to include in the tally.
They say the capacity to accept is also a form of power. If so, Enkrid might be the most powerful on the globe.
He had been the one to command the Mad Squad, even when Rem and the rest were complete train wrecks. He could manage the bizarre.
No matter how unusual the Woodguard appeared, they could not be more eccentric than Rem’s character.
Enkrid faced the timber giant obstructing the path directly. It was time for formalities. Just because this was a spirit settlement did not mean logical beings conversed any differently. That much was evident from the mood.
“Enkrid of Border Guard,” he announced, in his typical voice.
A short pause followed.
“He is the one referred to as the Demon Slayer,” clarified the large spirit who had joined the white-haired one.
Several fairies whispered at that.
“Demon Slayer?”
“Knight of Iron Walls?”
“Enchanted Knight?”
“Heartbreaker?”
Their voices were monotonous, as if they were reciting text from a scroll—but this was their expression of amazement.
Their crystalline eyes expanded ever so slightly.
Of all those titles, the final one caught Enkrid by surprise.
Heartbreaker? He had never encountered that one before. Why was that label surfacing here?
He was genuinely baffled.
But a subtle wave of warmth followed the whispers.
“I shall escort you within,” said the white-haired spirit.
And with that, Enkrid was ushered in, enveloped by an unexplained friendliness.
As they moved past the open area, the spirits never looked away from him.
It ought to have been intrusive—but Enkrid hid his reaction with stoicism. Still, those eyes tracked him meticulously, with something resembling awe.
Not a solitary murmur. Just persistent, quiet watching.
Fairies, Dryads, Woodguards—they were all identical in this.
If gazes were instruments and looks were melodies, then this was a muted orchestra of scrutiny and wonder, with a faint trace of kindness.
So soft, you would overlook it if you weren’t attentive.
“This way,” indicated the white-haired spirit.
She guided them into a residence carved from the core of a massive tree—the second tree on the left of the clearing.
The portal was higher than he had guessed. The interior, while not sprawling, had a snug, hospitable atmosphere.
The moisture and heat were perfectly balanced. They moved through a brief passage made of tangled roots that formed the boundaries. The chamber beyond featured a table covered in a green textile, emitting a sense of vitality.
Being inside a living organism, it was only expected that the aroma of vegetation saturated the air.
“It smells of midsummer,” Pell whispered. “Even though it’s the heart of winter.”
He wasn’t mistaken. The scent was a flawless mix—vibrant greenery, seasoned timber, and fertile soil.
There was no requirement for oils here. The smell brought Shinar to Enkrid’s mind. Though in truth, the scent that emanated from Shinar had been more profound, more elegant.
Pell and Lua Gharne, who trailed Enkrid inside, glanced about, clearly moved by the spirit architecture.
The tree had been hollowed out in its entirety—furniture and partitions alike—but everything possessed its own unique flair.
The seat in front of the table, for instance, was barely a chair at all—more like a hunk of timber that just happened to resemble a place to sit.
If left by the path, one might mistake it for kindling.
It was molded like one of those naturally spiraled logs.
“You mentioned you arrived to locate Shinar of House Kirhais?”
The white-haired spirit asked from her position.
“Yes,” Enkrid answered.
That was the sole objective of his journey.
He decided to put aside his shock and wonder for the moment. They could be dealt with later.
Originally, he had figured that finding her would not be a challenge upon reaching the city.
He’d heard she was performing some sort of obligation—something for the benefit of the settlement. So naturally, he had assumed she was present.
But evidently, she was not.
If Shinar had been present, she would have come out to meet him with her typical greeting: “Did you arrive because you longed for me, fiancé?” Or perhaps: “Have you finally resolved to wed me?”
But she hadn’t.
So Shinar was absent. That much was certain—both through deduction and gut feeling.
“A truly startling guest,” remarked the white-haired spirit.
As she uttered a few more syllables, a silver-haired fairy appeared from the passage, carrying infusion.
The vessels were like the seats—more like hollowed wood than actual porcelain.
But the liquid inside? Entirely palatable. No—better than that. It was superb.
Had this been a formal tea service, Enkrid would have offered nothing but acclaim.
“Shinar is not present, is she?” he asked, despite already being certain.
Sometimes one asks questions even when the result is known. No point in skirting the issue with metaphors—he favored being blunt.
“She is not,” the white-haired spirit confirmed.
“Is she deceased?”
No. He already knew that as well.
But certain queries had to be voiced. He needed to hear it confirmed by another.
The white-haired spirit shook her head.
“For the coming years, even if she desired to perish, she could not.”
There was a gravity in her tone. Sadness. Contrition.
It was the first instance Enkrid had detected such a vivid sentiment from her.
Admittedly, for a spirit, it was muted. Just a small change in tone behind her otherwise controlled voice.
A few ideas crossed his mind.
He was ignorant of the specifics, but… was she imprisoned? Bound away?
“May I hear the entire account?” he requested.
Their reception had been nothing but benevolent, and he had no cause to display enmity in return.
Not just the spirit before him—the one who had provided the drink as well. Their friendliness was authentic.
“I have inquiries of my own,” the white-haired spirit countered.
A counter-question. This time, sentiment was more visible.
She cloaked it in stillness, but the honesty was undeniable.
Enkrid waited with composure. He grasped the situation—Shinar wasn’t dead, so he merely needed to find out how to get to her.
Was she being untruthful?
Spirits find it difficult to deceive, Shinar had once informed him.
Granted, some fairies might have been tainted out in the world, warped by the turmoil of the lands. But among fairies who had matured in a culture where falsehoods were pointless—where reality could be sensed through the soul—dishonesty had no ground.
There wasn’t even a term for “lie” in the tongue of the spirits, or so the story went.
After a interval of stillness, the white-haired spirit finally spoke.
Her voice was firm, yet saturated with importance. Quiet on the exterior, but buzzing with necessity underneath.
“Do you possess the knowledge of how to slay a demon?”
Enkrid did not respond immediately.
He could feel how deeply she meant the question. This wasn’t a matter to be addressed carelessly.
He took his time, lips opening, then pressing together again. Weighing it.
Only after organizing his thoughts did he nod, then speak—honestly, earnestly, returning her kindness in the same spirit.
“Cleave with all your strength.”
Quiet.
No one uttered a syllable.
There was a faint rustle from the adjoining chamber. It was so silent that even that minor vibration stood out.
“…I am embarrassed,” Pell whispered, shattering the stillness.
Lua Gharne paused, looking at the spirits, then remarked,
“He does not intend to belittle you.”
Enkrid played back his own statement in his head—and saw his blunder.
This was all due to that cursed Rem. Ragna, Jaxon, Audin—they were all to blame as well.
He’d spent so long in their company, trading nothing but blunt, jagged combat maxims, that he had lost the knack for nuanced speech.
There were too many concepts he couldn’t articulate, even if he made the effort.
That tendency had just shown its face again.
Attempting to fix it, he added:
“Cleave with all your strength… until they cease to be.”
“…We ought to stitch your mouth closed,” Pell whispered once more.
“It wasn’t this severe previously,” Lua Gharne murmured, then addressed the spirits clearly:
“He truly does not intend to belittle you.”