Chapter 635

Chapter 635

Humans perceive, reflect, and form conclusions based solely on the boundaries of their personal understanding. This universal truth extended even to the Woodguard, those ancient guardians of the forest.

Bran felt the weight of intimidation. To his mind, this represented the most formidable peril they had encountered within these winding depths.

Enkrid, however, remained unmoved. He saw no utility in fear or agitation, so he felt none. He simply applied his mind to the problem and his hand to his hilt.

“A Death Knight.”

It was a warrior remade by the Labyrinth’s dark influence.

Had this transformation granted it power beyond its mortal life? In the metaphors of the forest folk, perhaps it was now a “hardened blade of grass.”

Was this the result of a soul clinging desperately to existence at the moment of passing, only to be pulled back? Or was it merely a puppet, broken and reshaped by the maze?

The “why” was irrelevant.

What mattered was that the entity stood as a direct challenge to a knight.

Yet, Enkrid questioned if it was truly a threat.

He watched the wisps of dark, soot-like vapor coalescing behind the elf. He noted the distribution of weight in her feet and the subtle rotation of her wrist.

His vision translated directly into raw reflex. His cognitive processing accelerated.

By the time the elf initiated her swing, Enkrid’s blade was already in position to intercept.

*Clang!*

Pell and Lua Gharne could scarcely track the blurring collision of metal. To an outside observer, it appeared as though the elf had intentionally struck a target that was already waiting for her.

Enkrid had predicted the vector perfectly.

It was a moment born of heightened perception and surgical focus. After that single clash, the picture became even clearer to him.

“A style that favors economy over flair to achieve maximum effect.”

Enkrid decoded the logic of her movements.

“Is the intent to lock blades? A binding maneuver?”

It is often said that when a fighter swings without specific intent, they are a novice. Even if her mind was hollowed out and her remains were decaying, if she had been a knight in life, her actions retained a core logic.

Her goal was the contact itself.

Initially, he suspected she wanted to pin his weapon, but the reality was more subtle.

She struck and immediately retreated. Enkrid sensed a lingering presence on his Jinblade—a filmy residue akin to ash.

It couldn’t be seen, only felt.

The fallen elf, Argila, was devoid of spiritual energy. In its place, she channeled the corruptive mana provided by the Labyrinth.

The origins might be linked. He recalled Esther once mentioning—

“Spiritual energy can be substituted with an alternative force.”

The mechanics were secondary to the fight.

Enkrid pushed his mental focus to the breaking point and lunged forward.

The follow-up arrived instantly—the kinetic energy of the last parry was recycled into a new assault.

The massive sword, which seemed too heavy for her slender frame, descended in a precise, vertical arc.

It was a strike of minimal travel—difficult to evade and punishing to stop.

Just as before, her aim wasn’t a killing blow.

She sought another collision.

The goal wasn’t a grapple of steel, but merely the touch of the two blades.

The intent was certain, though the consequence remained a mystery.

The answer came from the rear.

“Avoid contact with the steel!”

Bran bellowed. Coming from an elf, such a warning was a rare and vital gift.

The implication: the clash transferred the soot—a lingering hex.

A process was being set in motion. One that empowered the undead knight while eroding Enkrid’s advantage.

Hidden by the gloom, no one could see his eyes ignite with a blue radiance.

A surge of conviction rose from his subconscious, flooding his nervous system.

His thoughts raced ahead, catching a glimpse of the immediate future. His physical senses strained to meet that mental image.

From there, it became pure instinct. For someone like Pell, identifying a flaw was a natural gift. For Enkrid, it was a meticulous labor.

He dissected, observed, and studied. He had sharpened this skill through endless combat, specifically against Pell.

Now, he tapped into a fragment of that specialized talent.

It was an insight earned through study; a reflex forged by repetitive strain. His subconscious will pulled it to the surface.

*Chiriririring!*

Enkrid granted Argila the contact she craved.

Their swords met once, then six more times in a frantic heartbeat.

With every impact, the hex bled from her tainted weapon onto his Jinblade. He felt the weapon grow heavy.

But Enkrid’s momentum never faltered.

The Jinblade was inherently featherweight. Even with its mass doubled by the curse, it was still well within his control.

Six strikes, six parries—and then, breaking away from her heavy blade, the Jinblade grazed the neck of the dead knight.

A clean, shimmering stroke. A lethal touch that left the resurrected elf standing perfectly still.

Behind Enkrid, an elf’s hand stopped short—just as they were about to unsheathe the Kiaos.

*Drip…*

Dark ichor seeped from the wound in Argila’s throat. There was little fluid left in her veins, and the flow quickly ceased.

She collapsed forward, her knees hitting the stone with a dull thud.

The dark mist behind her began to dissipate until it vanished entirely.

She did not move again. The group lingered in a tense silence, but she remained inanimate.

“Moving on.”

Enkrid verified the threat was ended and spoke without inflection.

Spending time among the stoic elves had influenced him; his voice carried a flat, muted quality.

It wasn’t an act of modesty. To his mind, the victory wasn’t particularly remarkable.

In his eyes, the opponent wasn’t a true knight—only a hollow imitation.

Shinar had emphasized this many times:

“A knight of our kind who cannot command spiritual energy does not exist. The spirit is our foundation. Attempting to write a poem without hands is nonsense. If you claim you’ll use your feet, I would say you are effectively writing with nothing at all.”

It was a lesson wrapped in a joke, yet steeped in truth.

Enkrid had once quipped, “Why not use your mouth?”

To which Shinar had countered:

“You are the type who would jam the quill into your eyelid and keep writing even if your mouth was gone.”

The exchange had been so earnest it bypassed humor entirely.

“How were you able to do that?”

Zero stepped forward, his curiosity piqued. Even elves, who were conditioned from birth to mask their feelings, were susceptible to wonder. The shock in his tone was undeniable.

“I identified a gap and I struck it.”

Enkrid gave his standard reply. It was the most honest explanation he could offer.

“Tch.”

Pell made a sharp sound of disapproval.

He had analyzed the fight well enough to see what had occurred—and it bore a disturbing resemblance to his own methodology.

Enkrid had manifested a blade that sought out flaws instinctively.

Had he mimicked Pell’s unique style?

No. It didn’t feel like theft.

Within the Mad Squad, secrets were a liability. To withhold a technique was to stunt the group’s potential.

Boundaries existed only to be overstepped.

Pell had learned that truth by watching Enkrid. That didn’t stop him from being annoyed, however.

“Natural gift.”

It was a word he would never utter.

But Pell felt the sting—his own innate talent felt insufficient.

If he truly understood the “todays” Enkrid had sacrificed to reach this level of mastery, he wouldn’t dare feel that way.

Meanwhile, Enkrid was already processing the data.

“Core concept, execution, and training regimen.”

Countless hours of sparring had developed a sixth sense for vulnerabilities that went beyond sight or sound.

A martial art predicated on pure reaction.

Whether the movement was elegant, heavy, or lightning-fast was secondary. As long as the edge reached the target, the mechanics were flexible.

The concept: “A blade that perceives the flaw.”

The execution: “Perception coupled with history.”

The training: “Infinite repetition in combat.”

Pell was born with it. Enkrid had built it through blood.

He was currently translating that raw instinct into a formal theory—a task he completed in seconds.

“What was that…”

Bran whispered as he approached, still dazed. The other two elves blinked in disbelief.

Enkrid looked at them and remarked:

“I’m not sure what you’ve tucked away in your robes. But I’d prefer if you didn’t use it against Shinar.”

His voice was level, but the statement cut through the air.

The elf named Arcoiris recoiled.

How did he know?

Enkrid’s sapphire gaze remained fixed on him.

Where Arcoiris was transparent, Enkrid possessed a terrifying intuition and a cold clarity of thought.

“We cannot allow Lady Shinar to remain as the bride of a monster.”

That sentiment had been voiced before they entered. It was repeated once they were inside.

The statement carried a dual meaning.

First: They intended to rescue Shinar.

And second:

“Whatever you are hiding—it’s designed to kill her, isn’t it?”

Enkrid pushed the point.

The underlying truth: they were prepared to end her life.

In their minds, it was better for her to return to the gods than to exist in torment as a demon’s consort.

He had unmasked their intent.

It wasn’t a difficult deduction—it was simply logical. These weren’t elves who had survived the cynical world outside; they were incapable of complex deception.

Arcoiris remained silent.

It was a tactical choice. Silence was safer than a clumsy lie.

But his eyes, his stance, and his very aura betrayed the truth.

“The intention was obvious. Knowing it doesn’t change the reality of our situation.”

Lua Gharne finally intervened. Whether her words were meant as comfort or a cold reality check, the elves seemed to settle slightly.

“…We should pause for a moment.”

Bran suggested.

The linear nature of the passage allowed for periodic rests. This was how they had successfully scouted the area previously.

Enkrid took a seat on the cold floor, staring into the dense ink of the path ahead.

He could feel it.

“Turn back. Return another time.”

The shadows seemed to murmur that plea. The malevolence was almost physical.

It didn’t matter if this was a conflict, a rescue, or a personal quest.

Regardless of the motive, this hall would eventually test the resolve of anyone who walked it.

It always provided the temptation of an exit—the chance to flee.

Those whose spirits wavered would retreat. Sensing their own inadequacy, they would run.

If this were a clash of nations, and the Labyrinth and the city were the combatants—

“One is consuming the other.”

The elves had lost their protectors. Many had fallen here.

The Labyrinth had feasted on their essence, growing in power with every death.

If they had struck with overwhelming force at the start, they might have eradicated it, despite the cost.

“Then the Demon of Courtship would never have manifested.”

But the elves had sought a path without blood.

Years passed. They failed repeatedly. The Labyrinth grew into an insurmountable nightmare.

By the time they resolved to destroy it, the opportunity had passed.

An enduring malice.

The demon’s shadow was felt just beneath the surface.

Its hunger for an elven bride was merely a reflection of its hunger for the city itself.

It sought to break free of the maze and spill into the world.

“The birth of an expansive Labyrinth.”

If the city were to fall, that would be its fate.

Elvenheim—the human name for these hidden realms.

What would they call it if it became a tomb?

“Elven Grave?”

Enkrid shut his eyes.

He wasn’t exhausted, yet sleep claimed him instantly.

Was it the influence of the Ferryman? Or simply his body forcing a recovery before the next trial?

He couldn’t be sure.

But in his slumber, the Ferryman materialized.

Standing on a swaying vessel with a purple lantern in hand, he spoke:

“You don’t need my words, but I will offer a suggestion.”

“A suggestion?”

Enkrid tilted his head in the dream.

“Leave the Frokk, the humans, and these elves to their fates—and run.”

The Ferryman gave a dark laugh, his smile dripping with ill-will.

Enkrid offered no reply.

He snapped his eyes open.

Only a few seconds had passed. No significant time had elapsed.

He consumed some dried rations. The elves stuck to their fruits and greens, as was their custom.

Then, they continued.

During that brief interval—what had Bran and the others concluded?

A new, strange reverence had taken root among the elves.

“Slayer of Demons.”

“We offer you our respect, sir.”

It wasn’t just a look in their eyes; they were speaking the words.

Even Zero seemed overcome with feeling.

“Defeat the demon, and bring our queen home.”

Enkrid had momentarily overlooked a detail—

He knew exactly who Shinar was.

Her full title: Shinar Kirheiss.

“Elvenheim” was a generic human term. Every elven city had a specific name.

Usually, they were named after the lineage that ruled them.

The city Enkrid had entered was Kirheiss.

Even in places governed by a council, the founding family held a symbolic—and frequently literal—authority.

The royal bloodline.

Shinar was the final heir of that line.

She was the sovereign of this city.

“The most shocking part is that it wasn’t just an elven joke.”

Enkrid muttered.

“Excuse me?”

Brisa asked.

“It’s nothing.”

A queen. It was a staggering revelation.

No further creatures blocked their path. The tunnel opened into a vast, cavernous hall.

There were no more paths to follow—though many doors lined the walls, they were unnecessary.

They had reached their destination.

Their objective was right in front of them.

“Shinar.”

Shinar Kirheiss—the woman once titled the Golden Witch—sat with her fingers interlaced, resting upon a throne carved from bone.