Chapter 801

Chapter 801

“Roman, don’t stop. Draw knowledge from the heat of conflict.”
Enkrid had continued his mentorship of Roman until the very second they prepared to depart. Roman, though not discouraged, met his gaze with a look of deep contemplation.
“Is my mental resolve still insufficient?”
He had been overwhelmed by the parasite and nearly consumed by the armor forged from Balrog hide. Regardless of how high one’s aspirations were, Roman knew that a precise understanding of one’s own limitations was a vital component of growth.
A flaw identified was a flaw that could be mended through labor.
“If you continue to reflect and find a void, discover the means to bridge it.”
You develop a strength, then smooth out your edges to find balance, and you repeat that cycle endlessly.
The overarching theories can be imparted, but the intimate, internal struggle is a solitary endeavor. A man can be shown the road to the knighthood, and he can be provided with a regimen for his body and spirit, but once the foundation is laid, he must walk alone.
Enkrid had accepted this reality long ago. He spoke with blunt clarity, while those standing nearby added their own unvarnished perspectives.
“Did you actually convince yourself you were powerful?”
Rem interjected from the periphery.
“Recognition of your current insignificance is the only way to find a future, my feeble brother.”
Audin added his voice to the chorus.
“Weakness is simply an invitation for death.”
Jaxon offered that harsh, fundamental truth.
Ragna merely offered a dismissive glance before turning away, while Pell proposed a training routine centered on striking oneself in the head. Rophod immediately criticized the idea, claiming it would only dull Roman’s wits; he advised that sheer willpower was no substitute for critical thinking—one should deliberate twice, or even thrice, before acting.
“There are seeds that simply fail to germinate.”
Hearing Shinar’s cynical remark forced a dry, breathless laugh from Roman’s throat.
Wasn’t there a saying that a masterpiece is only truly finished when the artist finally paints the pupils of the eyes?
“Did you truly believe victory was within your reach?”
Teresa’s final, heavy inquiry echoed in his mind as Roman committed their names to memory once more.
“A collection of magnificent, deranged lunatics.”
Was he offended? Far from it. He had witnessed their prowess on the field from the sidelines until this point.
He might not hold their eccentric personalities in high regard, but he possessed a profound respect for their capabilities and their convictions.
Roman shrugged off the mockery and offered the same ritualistic farewell he had performed in the city of Oara. With a resonant thud, he drove his blade into the soil and declared his intent.
“My vow remains unchanged.”
“Understood. I haven’t forgotten.”
Enkrid replied with a level tone and pivoted away, just as the High Priest of the Cult-Extermination Order made his way forward.
“Because of your efforts, I have come across a fascinating scent.”
The glint in the priest’s eyes signaled that he had located evidence of the cult’s presence. Whenever they detected the foul stench of that organization, these men transformed into predators that hadn’t eaten in days, throwing themselves into combat with a total disregard for their own safety.
It was common knowledge that while one might survive an offense against the Pope of the Legion, landing on the hit list of the Cult-Extermination Order was a death sentence.
They might project an aura of pleasantry, but they were, in fact, zealots who would gladly embrace a collective suicide if it guaranteed the death of a single cultist.
‘And yet, they do not fight without a plan.’
Had they been mindless, they never would have endured this long.
“We have every justification to remain here now that we’ve unearthed signs of the Red Foot cult. All of this, naturally, is by the Lord’s design.”
The High Priest radiated a grim satisfaction, and Enkrid gave a short nod. They were capable of managing their own crusade.
Then Andrew approached, offering a condensed version of the warnings he had repeated over the last fourteen days.
“The capital doesn’t exactly feel like it’s under siege, but… there is a disturbing undercurrent beneath the surface. Regardless, stay vigilant. There is a proverb: a knight is rarely claimed by the front lines, but rather by a blade in the dark or the pillow of a lover.”
Shinar and Jaxon picked up the conversation.
“A lover’s role is already established.”
“Not a chance.”
Rem, perhaps feeling a lingering bitterness that his wounds prevented him from assisting in Andrew’s training, voiced a desire for a future encounter.
“No, that is entirely unnecessary.”
Andrew shook his head repeatedly, rejecting the notion.
Zoraslav and the entirety of the Demon Realm community gathered outside to witness their departure.
Enkrid shouldered a modest pack and looked back over his shoulder. It was a simple drawstring bag reinforced with a leather base—yet another parting gift from the villagers.
The group would be traveling on foot. Andrew’s contingent could have provided horses, but the group had decided that a steady march would be more beneficial for their ongoing physical recovery.
“If you feel a sense of debt, you should express it.”
Roman remarked to Zoraslav. However, instead of a thank you, Zoraslav posed a question.
“With frames like ours, being what we are—do we truly possess the right to a longer life? To find joy?”
The commander of the Cult-Extermination Order carefully weighed his choices to ensure his comrades didn’t perish for nothing. Any person in a position of leadership was expected to do the same.
But what did the leaders here—people who spent their lives surviving by the skin of their teeth, forced to offer tributes to some Red Foot or Blue Foot Apostle—actually think about? Was mere existence enough? Or should they have reached for something greater?
Enkrid had observed the grueling effort the common folk put into avoiding a meaningless death. He had seen them tan hides, process medicinal herbs and toxins, and strive to improve their meager circumstances. He had heard them singing of things yet to come.
Was there a single person here begging for the end? Was anyone truly ready to give up?
“If you have made the choice to live…”
Then live.
If you have chosen to sing of hope and the dawning sun—rather than embracing surrender and the coming night.
Then you are worthy of life.
He held no rigid criteria for who deserved salvation. He merely acted upon the dictates of his own spirit.
It was for this reason that Enkrid understood he was not fit for a throne. Principles, statutes, and decrees—those are the tools of a sovereign. A ruler employs them to manage the masses.
He was a man of the sword. A soldier of fortune. A combatant. A knight.
Therefore, there was only one vow he could offer.
“By the coming dawn, I pledge my protection to you.”
As Enkrid spoke, his hand tightening around the hilt of his weapon, Zoraslav lowered his head in reverence. Then, as if the strength had left his frame, he collapsed to his knees and began to sob. The rest of the village followed his lead.
The elderly, the strong, the women, and the children—all eyes were fixed on Enkrid. Even the infants, too small to grasp the weight of the moment, were moved by the collective emotion. Most of the inhabitants understood the truth.
They had been scraping by on the very fringe of the human world. Had these warriors decided to purge them, there would have been no defense.
Yet, here was a man who had bled solely for their sake. Someone who promised to stand as their shield. Someone extending a hand while standing on the precipice themselves.
What title do you give someone who rescues you without demanding a price?
Instead of the “Demon Knight” title that Lua Gharne had tried to instill in her mind, the people began to call Enkrid the Savior of the Last War.
“Savior of the Last War.”
The voices of the villagers rose as one, calling out to him.
Zoraslav burned the identity and the image of his protector into his very soul. If the opportunity ever arose to return the favor, he would gladly sacrifice his life to do so.
This sentiment wasn’t exclusive to Zoraslav. There was a specific reason they had labored over the Balrog’s hide until their hands were raw.
“Well then—”
The sky above was a vibrant blue, decorated with a light dusting of clouds. They hadn’t cleansed the entirety of the Demon Realm, but perhaps because the Balrog had fallen, the heavens seemed more brilliant. It felt as though the sky itself was declaring this patch of the Demon Realm to be human territory now.
Sunbeams pierced the clouds, illuminating the former residents of the Demon Realm—now the pioneers of the Naurillia frontier.
They would likely still face bigotry due to their purple skin, but for the moment, their existence would be far better than it had been.
Enkrid briefly recalled the people he had failed to save and the things he had been forced to abandon, but he chose to let those thoughts fade, focusing instead on the quiet peace of the moment.
“You seem to be in high spirits,” Shinar noted.
“That’s hardly a negative thing,” Jaxon remarked, while Rophod and Pell shifted uncomfortably, scratching their heads.
The gratitude of the village wasn’t directed solely at Enkrid; it encompassed the entire group. In the midst of the farewells, Rem and Ragna found a new reason to bicker.
“I certainly endured more pain for their sake than you did.”
“Hardly. You just spent the whole time wandering aimlessly in the Demon Realm and only showed up when the work was done.”
Rem’s brow furrowed at Ragna’s jab.
“If I weren’t still recovering, I’d have ended you by now. Consider yourself fortunate.”
“You?” Ragna responded with a flat tone, scanning the crowd of villagers.
“Yes. Let’s finish this here. It won’t take me long to execute you before we hit the road.”
“If you’re truly that thankful, dig a hole right here and drop him in it for me,” Rem said to the surrounding folk.
A real fight never broke out, as Enkrid stepped in to quiet them.
“That’s enough.”
They had arrived with purpose, and they departed with that same steady gait. With the sun at their backs, the party moved out, and behind them, a melody celebrating peace and new beginnings drifted on the wind.
Andrew was aware they had cleared out a host of monsters, but he was oblivious to the fact that they had slain the Balrog. No one had bothered to give him the full report over the past two weeks, as the group had been entirely preoccupied with resting and healing. Lua Gharne had whispered a few clues, but even that frog refused to leave Enkrid’s side.
Thus, the full scope remained a secret. Even the Cult-Extermination Order had only pieced together a portion of the Mad Order’s activities when they found that the Thorn Castle—a place of dread even in the Demon Realm—had been toppled.
The villagers merely recounted what they had seen: a massive swarm of beasts had arrived and been annihilated, and then a subterranean entrance had been discovered where a final battle occurred.
Andrew and the High Priest suspected something monumental had transpired, but the specific details eluded them.

—

The moment they cleared the village perimeter, Ragna attempted to take the lead, only to have his progress halted by Rophod and Pell.
“Not that direction.”
“If it’s not that way, then where are we headed?”
Lua Gharne stayed close to Enkrid, urging him to vocalize the realization he had just come to.
Deciding it was time to resume their training in earnest, Enkrid spoke.
“We are heading to Naurill.”
He stated the objective plainly, and the group offered their consent. Stopping there on the way was simple enough. It also aligned with the summons from Crang, so it was the logical choice.
“Ahem. You should carry me,” Shinar said, letting out a forced cough.
It was an obvious fabrication.
“Ahem, cough, hack, wheeze—”
Her performance was inconsistent. If this was meant to be theater, then perhaps the fairies needed to learn the concept of a stage. Though, that was unlikely; for a race incapable of dishonesty, acting was likely a form of psychological distress.
“Would you prefer a sparring match instead?” Enkrid bypassed her coughing and focused on the combat skills she had displayed earlier.
She had referred to it as Aars Pugnae—a unique fairy method of hand-to-hand combat. He might lose track of other details, but anything related to the art of the fight stayed with him.
At his suggestion, Shinar’s eyebrows shot up and her eyes narrowed in genuine annoyance.
“I ask for a ride and you offer a fight?”
She continued to pester him, persistent as ever.
“Carry me.”
It was the behavior of a small child, despite her four centuries of life. Even a man of Enkrid’s patience had his breaking point. This was becoming absurd.
“Fine, do you want me to carry you?” Rem asked, unable to tolerate the spectacle any longer.
“I decline.”
The fairy, bound by her nature to be honest, shook her head with total conviction.
“It’s not like I actually wanted to,” Rem grumbled, his mood soured by his slow healing process.
“Well, how about me?”
“I decline.” Shinar rejected Audin with equal speed. When she caught Teresa’s gaze, she shook her head yet again.
A light wind stirred, tossing her blonde locks and giving her the appearance of a profound mystic—one gently informing lost souls of their errors. In reality, the message was simple: she would only accept a ride from Enkrid.
“Your spine won’t snap—just pick her up,” Rophod said. He was a man of efficiency, so he naturally favored the solution that ended the delay.
Enkrid’s arms hadn’t fully mended, but his legs were perfectly functional—a fact he had demonstrated when he dealt with Roman. So, he hoisted her up and continued the journey. He was still clad in his armor, which felt weightless to him.
From her position on his back, smelling faintly of fresh clover, Shinar whispered,
“This time, I was the first.”
First? The meaning hit him immediately—he recalled that he had carried Esther first once before. Shinar clearly remembered that too, and she was gloating about being the priority this time.
Enkrid didn’t dwell on the sentiment.
His focus had already returned to the complexities of the blade.
He walked in a focused silence, conducting mental drills. The others, recognizing his concentration, gave him space. It was a productive time for everyone to process the lessons of their recent journey.
“This is pleasant,” Shinar would occasionally remark.
In this manner, they traveled toward Naurill. Any beasts or predators that crossed their path were handled effortlessly by Rophod, Pell, and Teresa. Shinar alternated between walking and riding on his back.
By the time the city of Naurill came into view, the news of the Balrog’s death hadn’t yet arrived—but the story of how they had lured a horde of monsters out of the Demon Realm and decimated them had already taken root.
Andrew and the High Priest had been dispatching messengers for supplies and aid, and the tale had spread like wildfire.
After all, rumors always travel faster than a man on foot.
“The Monster Butcher.”
The sentry at the city gates murmured the name as they approached.
It was the new title bestowed upon Enkrid.