Chapter 460 - Cheer me on and keep dancing
Chapter 460 - Cheer me on and keep dancing
"That's not like the half-baked ones we faced before. Did you know that when you faced it?"
Rem's tone wasn't reproachful.
Jericks froze momentarily, as if wary of this newly arrived Rem.
The ghoul had even been given a name, indicating it wasn't an ordinary creature. Perhaps it was capable of thought.
It was common knowledge that what sat atop a ghoul's neck was merely decorative, but this was the Demon Realm, where common sense held no sway.
As the tense standoff settled into a momentary lull, Enkrid took the opportunity to carefully observe the ghoul now named Jericks.
One thing was clear—this monster was absurdly strong.
Far beyond the fake knights crafted by the necromantic count they'd encountered before.
"That's right," Enkrid replied.
From experience, he already knew that this ghoul understood how to fight.
The half-finished creatures Rem referred to were precisely those counterfeit knights, grotesque toys of stitched flesh and muscle.
"And you still fought it, knowing that?"
Rem pressed further.
"It was manageable," Enkrid responded simply.
It was the truth. In the past, he wouldn't have even survived, but now, it was doable.
The ghoul was also wary of Oara. For various reasons, his muscles ached, and his joints creaked, but he'd avoided being pierced by its claws.
His ribs throbbed from two kicks to the chest, but the pain was tolerable.
Should I thank Audin for this?
If not for the training in striking techniques, his ribs would've been broken.
Furthermore, through countless battles, he'd gained an understanding—he could sense the motion of Will in the moments he was struck.
The important thing was that he had endured.
In hindsight, he realized he could probably now withstand the swordplay of those knights from Aspen, whom he'd once feared.
"Did you learn that bravado from that directionally-challenged guy?"
Rem smirked as he spoke, but inwardly he was serious.
Ah, this one's no joke.
This ghoul wasn't like the half-finished creatures they'd fought earlier.
Those monstrosities had strength but lacked technique.
What good is power if the one wielding it is incompetent? That's why those things had been easy to handle.
But the monster before him was different.
It had survived countless battles, even against its own kind.
For a ghoul to develop instincts and survive to this level meant it had fought to the brink of death repeatedly.
This strength was the result of hard-won battles, not incomplete craftsmanship.
Rem recognized the situation clearly: We can't kill it.
Not as they were now. Magic would be necessary. His current skill level wasn't enough to overcome it.
Besides, they'd already fought off five trolls hidden among the other creatures.
Even those trolls weren't ordinary.
Pain lingered in his left forearm, and his hip joint creaked.
He'd blocked a stone axe with his left arm while killing the third troll, taking a hit to his waist in the process.
The minor injuries from the battle against the five trolls had thrown his body slightly off balance.
It wasn't fatal, and a few days of rest—no more than a week—would be enough for recovery.
A walking journey or dealing with simple bandits would still be manageable.
As long as he didn't engage in intense combat, especially against oversized monsters, he would be fine.
But the oversized monster stood right in front of them.
And their leader showed no intention of retreating.
In fact, it seemed Enkrid was deliberately preventing Oara from stepping in.
This is excessive, even for bad luck.
Rem scratched his head with the haft of his axe. He'd resolved to head west and was prepared to deal with some misfortune, but this was over the top.
"What do you want?"
Even so, Rem asked.
"To land a decisive blow."
The answer came without hesitation, showing that the decision had long been made.
Well, Enkrid wasn't the type to hesitate.
He was the kind of madman who moved first and then made his chosen path the correct one through sheer determination.
Rem found that strangely appealing.
That's why he had stayed here in the first place.
He'd learned from this man, and that's why he was finally ready to return west.
The ghoul flexed its fingers, as though calculating something.
A monster that instinctively used the power of a knight in battle.
Rem briefly wondered if he might die.
"Let's do this," he said.
Retreat wasn't an option.
There wasn't enough time to formulate a proper strategy, but Enkrid had been waiting for Rem from the start.
All they needed was a single opening.
Rem would create that opening. Enkrid believed it completely.
Ghouls were not creatures of thought.
The head atop their necks was, indeed, ornamental.
But the ghoul named Jeryx could think—rudimentarily, but enough.
That thinking ability was the main reason Jeryx had evolved into its current state.
Through this, Jericks assessed situations and made judgments.
Whether one opponent or three stood in its way made no difference. They were weaker and slower than it was.
But if it killed the one in front of it, the blade from the one behind would come for it.
A blade it had faced multiple times.
Jericks thought.
It only needed to endure and buy time.
Then the being that had driven it here would intervene.
That was the conclusion it reached through thought.
A troublesome blade approached again.
Jericks casually kicked away the axe blade aimed at its ankle and meticulously blocked the sword.
The blade carried a disturbing aura, something that was immediately apparent.
It wasn't just an ordinary weapon. It contained traces of argentium, known as True Silver.
Jericks instinctively knew to avoid being deeply cut or pierced.
This fight was about learning, as it always had been for Jericks.
It had learned from fleeing those wielding terrifying swords. It would learn now as well.
It suppressed its bloodlust and waited. Time was on its side.
Of course, every being in the world is prone to error.
A scream pierced the air.
Jericks's unfocused pupils contracted as its gaze snapped toward the source of the sound.
A small human female was clutching her shoulder, rolling on the ground. Blood spilled from the wound, its scent tantalizing.
Tempted by bloodlust and hunger, Jericks struggled to suppress its urges, choosing instead to watch.
It evolved further in that moment.
Though its exterior remained unchanged, its inner self had advanced.
For ghouls, moments of crisis often spurred rapid evolution jericks' cognitive abilities sharpened even more.
And then—
"Now."
Amidst the chaos, a moment of distraction.
A blade, moving so fast it appeared as a mere line, sliced through the air in a lethal trajectory. Its target: the wrists—inescapable.
It had all unfolded in the brief instant when attention was diverted. The blade of an axe aimed to sever both hands.
Why had his attention strayed? It wasn't due to the injured man.
No, it was because of the terrifying sword moving right beside him.
The human pressing him had stepped away, leaving an opening.
That same sword then cleaved through the air, slicing toward the scent of blood behind the man.
To be precise, it didn't aim for the human but for the owlbear closing in on him.
Shwick, thud, squelch.
It all happened in a flash.
Oara had leaped and swung her sword.
The owlbear split vertically, spraying black blood everywhere.
The ghoul extended his hand, twisting his wrist to catch the axe blade mid-swing.
No longer needing to hide his strength, claws extended as he gripped the weapon tightly.
Crunch, crack.
The axe blade cracked and shattered.
Destroying it completely, Jericks stepped forward with his left foot.
His kick, precise and deliberate, was his hidden trump card.
Faster than any hand, his leg extended.
Boom!
A deafening impact.
The axe wielder was sent flying backward by the kick.
It all fell within the ghoul's calculations—everything was accounted for.
But then, he saw it. A light beyond comprehension, outside his calculations.
The light surged forward and vanished just as quickly.
It was gone because it had pierced through his skull, entering between his eyes and exiting his head.
In that fleeting moment, Jericks didn't understand what had happened, but one thing surfaced in his mind:
The terrifying blade that had once aimed for him. This light was the same.
His skull breached, Jericks made one last move.
He raised his claws and thrust them forward.
It wasn't an act born of emotion, but a primal instinct. His claw tips dug into flesh with a faint thunk.
If Roman's strikes had once been about squeezing every ounce of strength from his muscles, his current attack was different.
"Infuse Will into every action."
From the first step he took to each breath he drew, everything carried intention.
Unable to become a knight yet, Roman sought to emulate a knight's strike by embedding Will into everything he did.
Enkrid observed this method, learning and internalizing it.
Will, often called a force of sheer determination, could be felt but not wielded at will.
So how had he executed Swift Strikes or the Giant's Blow?
"It all resides within me."
By committing fully to each movement, it could be achieved.
Step as though your life depended on it; grip your sword with the same conviction.
Understanding came in a moment, but progressing from that point required endless repetition.
Enkrid trained until his body absorbed the revelation.
Just as he had infused Will into Swift Strikes or the Giant's Blow, he now embedded it into every gesture.
By breaking each action into smaller components and infusing Will into each, his movements became simpler and more direct.
"Thrust."
After countless failures, he finally succeeded in embedding it into a single motion.
His footing felt awkward, and the hand gripping his sword seemed strange.
But from the ankle planted on the ground to the tip of his fingers, Will coursed through him.
The world blurred, his senses narrowing. He moved only as initially intended, focused solely on infusing Will into his actions.
Enkrid thrust his sword.
Not in a single motion, but by dissecting the act into countless deliberate steps. Each was precise, intentional, and executed with focus honed to a fine point.
Did it feel different from usual? Perhaps. He couldn't say for certain.
But for a fleeting moment, the Will coursing through his entire body granted him a taste of omnipotence.
"Thrust."
The enemy couldn't evade. It was inevitable.
And indeed, the outcome aligned with that certainty.
The tip of Aker pierced through Jericks' forehead.
Roman had warned that such an act would leave him hollow and utterly drained of strength.
Yet Enkrid felt no emptiness.
Having experienced it several times before, he understood it well.
The absence of Will brought no void, only the agonizing pain of overstrained muscles.
As Jericks fell, claws extended in a final strike.
And then, a white shadow interposed itself before Enkrid.
It was Dunbakel.
The sight of the monster made her tremble uncontrollably.
She wanted to run, but she didn't.
"Run. Flee. Escape."
Those words only arise when one faces their fears head-on.
And so, Dunbakel hurled herself forward, her body moving before her mind could process it.
"Why?"
The question followed her actions. A faint thunk punctuated her confusion.
"Urgh!"
She braced for excruciating pain, expecting her abdomen to be pierced.
Yet all she felt was the taut ache of her tightened muscles—no pain, no wound.
Tremble.
Her trembling eyes fell upon her arm. Its muscles quivered, and her damaged arm guard caught her attention.
In her grasp was a piece of the monster's body.
"What are you doing?"
Enkrid's voice broke the moment.
He had already lifted another piece of the monster's corpse.
"Are you stepping in?"
Enkrid was overwhelmed with exhaustion.
Not just from the thrust, but also from using Will to lift the monster's body as a shield.
His muscles screamed in protest, though his eyes remained sharp.
The dullard who glimpsed omnipotence paid no mind to the enormity of his feat.
Now wasn't the time for self-reflection.
Jericks was dead.
Roman had dispatched the spider swordsman with a knight's strike.
Oara had slain the owlbear.
A short-haired blonde woman, wounded during the chaotic struggle, lay collapsed. Oara stood next to her.
"What are you?"
Her startled voice directed the question toward him.
Enkrid replied simply.
"It's your turn now."
Oara, despite the suddenness of his words, said nothing, turning her focus ahead.
There stood the true master of this labyrinth: a fragment of Beelrog.
Oara knew she couldn't endure a prolonged battle due to the poison.
Even now, stepping away from the city for too long was impossible.
Only in moments of utmost necessity did she intervene.
Had she fought before this, facing Jericks and the others, if she had to confront Beelrog's fragment as well, she might as well lay down her life now.
Yet Enkrid understood. He knew what today would bring.
"Let's see it—what it is that Knight Oara protects."
The visitor who had come to the city spoke from behind her.
He was strikingly handsome, a man of unique presence. It was as if he had foreseen everything.
And was there a problem with that?
None.
Oara, knowing her role, smiled.
Raising her sword, she returned Enkrid's earlier words.
"Cheer me on and keep dancing."
As she swung her blade downward, her steps flowed in a gentle curve.
The sword's destination: Beelrog's head.
Clang!
The fragment, now wielding a blood-stained steel weapon, blocked her attack.
A knight and a monster locked weapons, their clash reverberating.
Enkrid hoped for this moment: to see Oara fight with all her might.
And for that, he had repeated this day.
His cheer was already delivered—by slaying the ghoul Jericks.
This battlefield was his tribute and support.
All he wanted was to see it: what a knight does and what they are capable of.
Through today's repetition, Enkrid had conveyed his desire.
And Oara, fulfilling his hope, showed him what he yearned to see.
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