Chapter 631

Chapter 631

Fairies are conditioned from infancy to suppress their internal fires. Because of this, it was nearly impossible to detect any spark of intense passion or heat within their spirits.
Thinking back, even during the time Enkrid had been knighted—on that tragic day when Shinar suffered the loss of her limb—he recalled how her features had remained perfectly tranquil.
‘One couldn’t attribute that merely to maturity or a stoic nature.’
It was the hallmark of the emotional discipline unique to the fairy race.
And he had not forgotten the parting words she had offered in that moment.
“Continue forward.”
Was that the phrase she had used?
Regardless, the fairies gathered here were of the same mold. Rather than proving their worth through emotional outbursts, they demonstrated it through their resolve to act.
What was the significance of fairy knights marching willingly toward a place of certain slaughter?
‘A collective suicide?’
That was not a term that fit their people.
They weren’t always governed by pure logic or cold reason, but they certainly aspired to be—fairies, by their very nature, approached crises with a chillingly analytical perspective.
Yet, the current circumstances had left them no alternative.
They had committed to this battle, fully aware that it would result in their extinction.
Every single one of them. The entire clan.
‘It simply indicates they have been pushed to the absolute edge.’
That was Enkrid’s assessment of the situation.
Even if he hadn’t appeared, they would have marched into that cavern. This was merely the start—they were prepared to wage war until the final soul perished.
Shinar had consented to become the consort of the demon specifically to prevent this massacre. The Demon Realm had birthed this catastrophe, and the tragedy was far from over.
This was a conflict intended to honor the memories of those already claimed by death.
It was simultaneously a funeral march for those whose lives were soon to be extinguished.
They entered the fray knowing they would fall—so yes, it was a sacrifice.
But if the entire tribe died without a single survivor to sing their final songs, would their resolve carry any weight?
Likely not.
The cries of the marginalized rarely instigate true transformation.
Just as gifted speakers are a rarity, it is uncommon for the downtrodden to find their voice at all. And even when they do, altering the fabric of reality is a monumental task.
This was an era defined by the edge of a blade, the spilling of blood, the weight of iron, and the chaos of the front lines.
A memory, passed down from his ancestors, drifted toward him like a lingering ghost.
“You claimed you would guard us?”
It was the voice of a widow who had lost her spouse—a man whose features Enkrid could no longer bring to mind.
His internal spirit was riddled with ancient injuries. They weren’t mere scars.
Because they continued to weep blood, they could not be considered healed.
“So, what exactly did you succeed in guarding?”
The ghost whispered once more.
Did the world change just because the helpless raised their voices? It did not.
He was devoid of natural genius—he lacked the ability to force his desires upon the world through sheer power.
Because of that deficiency, there were many he had failed to keep safe.
Because of that, many precious things had slipped through his grasp.
Because of that, a heavy sense of regret and sorrow remained.
And despite all that, he had no intention of retreating. Just because he was bleeding did not mean he was incapable of moving.
And even if he lost the ability to walk, he would drag himself forward.
He would achieve the rank of a knight.
That was his singular ambition.
He would stand as a shield for those who sought refuge behind him.
That was the very reason he yearned to be a knight.
Observing these fairies caused those buried memories to surge back to the surface.
“Not bad in the slightest,” Enkrid breathed.
He wouldn’t nourish a tree using the fragile peace earned by shifting all the weight of responsibility onto a single fairy like Shinar. That was a metaphor a fairy might employ. Though it seemed that specific way of speaking belonged only to Shinar—none of the others seemed inclined toward such wit. Perhaps she simply possessed a unique sense of humor. Or perhaps this was simply not the hour for levity.
“If your intention is to step inside with us, I offer my gratitude in advance.”
Bran, the massive tree giant, moved toward him. His feet, resembling thick roots, dragged across the earth, stirring up clouds of silt. A smoldering herb stick was still clenched between his lips.
“Is the scent not repulsive?” he inquired with an unexpectedly cordial air. Yes, cordial—even coming from a Woodguard, a race that seldom exhibited any sign of feeling.
“It’s tolerable. Did you intend to make your move today?”
Enkrid adjusted his weapon belt, shifting the weight of his blades and conducting a rapid check of his equipment. Whether one was a common soldier or an elite knight, the meticulous care of one’s gear was the bedrock of survival.
“No, not precisely. But we would have crossed the threshold before the month’s end, at the latest.”
Bran gave a slow nod.
“Then why choose this moment?”
“A portent. Your arrival—perhaps the deities were signaling that the hour had finally come.”
It appeared his presence hadn’t just coincided with a skirmish, but had been interpreted as a divine omen.
And it wasn’t only the fairies who viewed him as a catalyst.
Immediately after Ermen announced that he would terminate the period of mercy granted by the demon—and Bran had finished his brief exchange—a sharp, decaying odor began to drift from the mouth of the cave. Accompanying the smell was a low, vibrating snarl.
From the pitch-black interior of the cavern, a head emerged, casting a shadow that seemed even darker than the surrounding twilight.
The creature’s body remained concealed in the gloom, with only its head protruding—its tawny mane waving in the air as if floating in water.
“All squads, assume combat positions.”
Ermen barked the command, and Bran, flanked by several Woodguards, moved to secure the vanguard.
From a human perspective, the massive and durable Woodguards were taking on the duty of heavy infantry shield-bearers.
But the sight of the solitary, floating head lasted only a few seconds.
A predatory beast emerged fully, stalking forward on four heavy limbs.
Its head was that of a great lion, yet a venomous snake’s head served as the tip of its powerful tail.
That tail whipped through the air once before crashing against the earth.
Sssk, chaaaak!
Plumes of dirt erupted as the tail pulverized the ground.
A Manticore. And not a common specimen.
‘A mutated variant.’
His battle instincts identified it instantly. His intuition pointed the way, and his eyes searched for the physical proof.
‘Venom on the talons.’
The ends of its claws were stained black—not merely a dark pigment, but drenched in a viscous fluid that left corrosive streaks on the soil with every stride.
‘Desiccated maw.’
No whiskers to speak of. A bone-dry mouth. Jowls that looked like cured leather.
‘It is capable of breathing flame.’
No—it certainly will.
Lua Gharne had taught that every engagement must commence with careful scrutiny. He had heard identical advice while traveling the lands to master the art of the sword.
Jaxon, as well, had insisted that nothing surpassed the importance of clear sight before a clash.
While he was calculating the Manticore’s threats, the fairies initiated the opening gambit.
He had figured the tree giant was merely serving as a stationary barricade, but several fairies suddenly sprinted up his wooden torso.
The titan lowered his center of gravity slightly to assist their ascent.
They moved with incredible grace. Eight fairies reached his shoulders and skull, drawing their bows in a synchronized motion.
Thud-thud-thud.
Tension rippled through their muscles, and their fingers turned pale from the immense force required to pull the strings. Every one of them found their mark without a moment’s delay—all within the span of a breath and a half.
The giant crouched, the fairies climbed, and they took their aim.
No formal order was required—they loosed their projectiles as a single entity.
They had mentioned that even the children were crafting arrows because of the shortage of labor.
But there was no reason to doubt the craftsmanship—these were sturdy, perfectly balanced arrows.
Twang.
With the sharp vibration of the bowstrings—
Piiing!
Eight shafts streaked forward in unison. Just like the volleys in the deep woods.
Enkrid’s perception sped up instinctively, observing every path of flight.
Two were aimed at the pupils. Two targeted the hinges of the front shoulders. The other four were meant for the tail.
It was a masterclass in marksmanship.
However, the Manticore’s counter was effortless.
Fwomp.
It simply shut its eyes, shifted its weight slightly, and snapped its tail.
That was all it took.
Its skin was far too resilient for the arrows to find purchase.
“I invoke the Spirit of the Gale.”
One of the eight called upon a spirit. According to what Esther had shared with him, this was a standard incantation.
They tapped into the energy of beings from other planes—and fairies were masters of this craft.
A vortex of air swirled around one of the snipers. Her verdant attire snapped in the sudden wind.
“Ops, Vigor, Inhabito.”
Positioned below her, a Dryas extended a hand and whispered a chant. He didn’t know the literal translation, but the purpose was clear.
An emerald radiance sparked at her fingertips, coating the metal of the arrowhead.
With the gale’s energy coursing through her, she drew the string—this time with no apparent effort—and loosed the arrow without the slightest pause.
Fwoosh.
The sound of air being torn apart followed the arrow’s path. It streaked toward the Manticore’s brow—traveling far faster than any mundane projectile.
Enkrid’s heightened perception told him it was moving too quickly to be evaded.
The arrow was destined to shatter the Manticore’s skull. That was the inevitable conclusion. The wind spirit had provided the necessary velocity. Even the very essence of life was focused at the point.
A glimmer of hope must have shone in the fairy’s gaze. He didn’t have the opportunity to confirm it, though.
Perhaps she was simply too practiced at hiding her feelings for it to show.
Regardless, they had surely been hopeful.
But their expectations were shattered.
The arrow halted abruptly, just a hair’s breadth away from the Manticore’s forehead.
“Telekinesis,” Ermen whispered. His tone remained flat, even though the event warranted shock. Inwardly, he was stunned—but his fairy composure kept it buried.
The Manticore let out a huff.
Crimson fire erupted from its nostrils, vaporizing the arrow in an instant.
Fwooosh.
The blackened remains of the shaft fell to the dirt.
Sizzling sparks drifted through the putrid air, bringing the smell of burnt timber.
Following that, the eight fairies armed with swords moved to the front.
“It would have been a fine thing to witness just once before I passed.”
“I concur.”
Two of them exchanged words.
What they had been wishing to see, Enkrid couldn’t guess.
Among the group of eight was the tall fairy who had previously lectured him on the nature of honor—he gripped a naide with a broader blade than his peers.
The standard design of the naide was the “Spring Blade,” yet every fairy’s weapon had subtle variations. Some weren’t even naides at all—one carried a long, straight-edged blade.
Grrr.
The Manticore didn’t bother to look at them.
It radiated a thick arrogance, the blatant self-assurance of an apex killer.
It commanded telekinetic force, exhaled incinerating fire, and possessed venomous talons.
It was an ideal sentinel for a demon.
This single creature might very well be capable of slaughtering every fairy present.
Of course, they weren’t being reckless. They had prepared everything in their power—such as the wind-blessed arrow and the life-infused sorcery.
“At minimum, three will perish.”
That was Frokk speaking, whose gifts involved the parsing of powers, the reading of the terrain, and the assessment of the battlefield.
“Should I take care of it?”
Pell asked.
“No.”
Enkrid answered as he moved forward. In reality, the Manticore had been tracking him for some time. Even as the eight fairies had stepped up, a portion of its focus remained fixed on him.
It could sense a genuine threat on a primal level.
Enkrid walked with measured steps. His movement now mirrored that of a fairy—silent, controlled.
Shiiing.
He unsheathed his True Silver Blade. The metal caught the light in this foul-smelling cavern, emitting a gentle golden shimmer.
“Get out of the way, animal.”
He spoke as he passed through the line of eight fairies. None attempted to hinder him.
To these people, even a single thread of hope was worth seizing. They had no motive to turn away an offered blade.
Why had Shinar kept this from him?
He could speculate.
‘She didn’t want the demon’s blight to transfer to me.’
Or perhaps she had decided that he was not prepared to endure whatever secrets lay within the cave.
Was that a sign of doubt? Or a clinical, logical choice?
‘Or perhaps…’
Perhaps she was truly concerned for his safety.
Enkrid might be capable of slaying the demon. But then again, he might fail.
There was no certainty. If things spiraled out of control, the demon could slaughter everyone. At the very least, Enkrid might take a mortal blow.
It could all serve as a roadblock on his journey toward his dream.
“If I take this burden alone, won’t that suffice?”
A phantom of Shinar seemed to speak. But it was only a mental projection—he didn’t know how she would truly respond.
So—
“There is someone I have to find inside. Clear the path.”
He would demand the answer from her face-to-face.
His voice vibrated with the power of Will.
The Manticore could not comprehend the language. Yet, it recoiled at Enkrid’s aura and moved to the side.
Realizing its own moment of weakness, it snarled in frustration.
As if to declare: I am not intimidated!
ROOOAAAR.
Its bellow thundered—less an act of bravado and more a cry of pure alarm.
And it didn’t stop at a roar.
A sphere of fire burst from its maw with a violent rush.
In comparison to the walking fire he had faced, this was almost trivial.
The golden radiance of the True Silver Blade sliced the fireball in half.
Fffsh!
With a sharp hiss, the fire fragmented and vanished.
Flames that are overwhelmed by sheer will cannot burn.
Telekinetic pressure clamped down on his limbs. But his Will of Rejection triggered automatically, and he broke the invisible hold with raw physical force.
Then came the strike of the venomous claws.
They tore downward with animalistic rage—but when compared to the refined Four Seasons swordplay Shinar had utilized in their training sessions, it was nothing more than the frantic movements of a beast.
A blade that was both faster and more potent than any human’s sliced the creature from its head down to its haunches.
Even the serpent-headed tail tried to lash out for a final bite—but Enkrid’s blade followed its arc perfectly, severing it with surgical precision.
If the fairies had demonstrated flawless accuracy with their bows, Enkrid had performed the same feat—with his sword.
Once, such a thing would have been beyond him.
But now, he possessed the skill.
And so, he executed it.
Sssshhhh.
The bifurcated Manticore’s dark ichor formed a thick puddle, its internal organs spilling out across the floor in a messy heap.
“Incredible,”
Ermen remarked.
His voice was still devoid of emotion, but there was a faint trace of wonder buried beneath that typical fairy mask.