“He’s ten times more fun than that Hawk Talon bastard.”

Rem muttered. Hawk Talon—nickname of the bastard who had been firing arrows on the battlefield against Azpen. A name that still lingered in Enkrid’s memory.

Back then, those arrows had felt like death itself.

But comparing now to back then was pointless.

Too much had changed since then.

‘We can handle it.’

That was Enkrid’s judgment.

No one here was going to die from that arrow. The most likely to get hit was Lua Gharne, but even if she was struck, it wouldn’t matter. She was a Frokk—a frog-like warrior woman whose kind could shrug off most wounds.

Well-trained Frokks had regeneration rivaling trolls.

“Hhh.”

Rem let out a chilling chuckle. That dangerous grin flickered across his face too.

The twisted corners of his lips and the look in his eyes were seeping with bloodlust.

He really seemed to want to kill every archer he laid eyes on.

In any case, when he said ten times more fun, it was practically the same as saying ten times more dangerous.

Enkrid looked at the wall hidden behind the trees.

‘How far is it?’

He had heard the sound, but couldn’t pinpoint it. Still, it couldn’t be too far.

A distance arrows could reach—and an ideal position to fire from. Those two conditions had to be met.

So the attacker was likely positioned on higher ground.

The tactical swordsmanship of Lua Gharne—now evolved into Enkrid’s own orthodox style—naturally kicked off his strategic thought process.

‘Perfect prediction is impossible.’

That is, it was hard to know the enemy’s exact position or intent. But it didn’t really matter. This was the Demon Realm. Even if something unexpected happened, there was no need to be surprised.

“Because the worst moments keep surfacing, I struggle to block them.”

That was the answer Abnaier gave when Kraiss once asked him how his thinking process worked. The conversation had happened right in front of Enkrid.

It had been an oddly enjoyable exchange. He’d gotten a glimpse of how different those two’s minds worked.

Enkrid took Kraiss’s words in his own way:

‘Flexibility is key.’

To keep a wide vessel—let the branching thoughts reach out, but accept whatever came. No matter what filled that vast bowl, it shouldn’t spill over.

‘Feels like the Sword of Chance is bleeding in.’

Absorbing everything within the realm of tactics—that’s how it felt.

Even though techniques were divided by names like Precision, Fierce, etc., in the end, they were all just ways of swinging a sword.

And the one swinging the sword was always the wielder.

So did it really have to be divided into five categories? Was categorizing things the only answer?

He wasn’t sure. It was the kind of question that couldn’t be answered right now. Still, his heart beat faster in that brief train of thought.

It felt like something interesting was about to form.

But whatever it was, now was not the time.

The Demon Realm disoriented human senses. He was gradually adapting, but even so, it was completely different from outside. Direction, sensory acuity—everything had shifted. His sense of smell and taste seemed dulled, and the visual input spun and twisted in confusing ways. The whole domain felt hostile.

And the enemy would know that too.

‘Do we need time?’

Probably. Given enough time, they’d adapt. And the enemy would expect that as well.

The arrow had been fired not to kill, but to stop their advance. To keep them stuck in place.

But did the enemy really think an arrow alone could hold them?

“Tch!”

A sound cut through the brief thoughts. It had only taken a few breaths, but in real time it was almost immediate—just as Rem finished murmuring.

Everyone’s gaze turned in the same direction.

Where Pell and Rophod were.

The two, hidden behind a large tree, both looked down at the roots wrapped around their legs.

Enkrid saw it too. Roots, slick with violet dirt, writhed like snakes—but stiffer. Still, too lively to be called tree roots.

The roots twisted and clenched around Pell and Rophod’s ankles, trying to snap the bones. Tightening and strangling.

At the same time, branches hanging above them snapped down with a crackling sound, aiming for their necks. Thick, dark brown limbs bent unnaturally as they whipped toward them—fast.

Not as fast as arrows, but quicker than the average adult man throwing a punch. And tough. The texture of the branches gave that impression.

The trees had come alive, launching a hostile counterattack.

The one who inhaled sharply—tch—was Pell.

It wasn’t really their fault that they got caught.

The Demon Realm confused the senses. No one could predict tree roots slithering out of the ground to seize their ankles.

So they were caught. But so what?

That’s what Pell thought—and in the same instant, he drew his sword and swung it, down and then up.

The blade traced a large circle. The downward slash was loose but weighted; the follow-up slash, an upward half-moon, was swift and fierce.

A strike that seemed to slice through both root and branch. Pell cut through them.

Thock! Crack!

Two distinct sounds overlapped. The Idol Slayer was a fine sword, and the man who wielded it was no slouch either.

No matter how tough the roots and branches, they couldn’t withstand a knight’s determined strike.

Freed from the snare, Pell broke loose.

Rophod moved just as decisively. His weapon wasn’t engraved, but it was no less formidable.

The blade was sharpened with True Silver and forged with Valerian steel at its core. It was a dwarven sword, meticulously honed over three months.

He too carved a wide arc through root and branch. The difference was in the precision—his swing followed a constant, even tempo.

There was no lack of strength. If Roman had seen that slash, he’d have been stunned.

Rophod had recently come into his own, and though quietly so, he was a knight known as a Calamity. His Will enhanced his trained muscles with absurd power.

Crack!

Branches and roots severed. Black sap sprayed into the air.

Pell and Rophod scattered left and right. And as if on cue, two more black arrows came whistling in. Both aimed at exactly where they had dodged to.

Bang!

He hadn’t planned on blocking anything, but Enkrid moved automatically. Pell was closer, so he rushed that way. Several thoughts struck him at once.

‘The enemy sees this place.’

‘If they see, they know we came from outside.’

‘They know we need time to adjust to the Demon Realm air.’

It all connected—those earlier thoughts. The conclusion was simple.

Arrows and tree monsters. The plan was to pin them down and kill them in place. Let them die here, forever dodging.

But who said he’d allow that?

Crack! Boom!

The ground beneath Enkrid’s foot exploded as he moved—like he’d teleported through heavy air. Then Duskforge smashed the arrow. Sky-blue light struck the black bolt like thunder.

Boom!

A deafening blast. He didn’t deflect it. He didn’t block it. He hit it. Enkrid’s blow drove the arrow into the ground, where it bounced several times into the air.

The second arrow, aimed at Rophod, was blocked by Audin.

A white light gathered in his hand, forming into a large sphere. That light swatted the arrow away.

Boom!

This one echoed too. The white light in Audin’s hand unraveled like a ball of thread, split and shimmered, then vanished.

It had absorbed the impact of the arrow. It looked like divine light breaking apart—a thunderclap of holy power.

Almost as if declaring that this battlefield was not the realm of the heavens.

“A devious opponent, brother.”

Was that meant as provocation? Audin wore an uncharacteristic expression.

His lips smiled, but his usual laughing eyes were gone—revealing pale yellow irises.

Enkrid felt a tingle through his palm and looked at Duskforge’s blade.

If it stung that much, had the edge been damaged?

He ran his finger down the blade for a moment.

‘Well, look at that.’

The sword reflected the dull sunlight with a sky-blue glint—unchanged from the day Aitri had given it to him.

Even this wasn’t enough to leave a scratch?

The blade that rang out with a metallic hum seemed to answer.

That it would never break—no matter who the opponent was.

Enkrid was more than satisfied with the answer his engraved weapon gave.

“It won’t break.”

That was what Aitri had said too. Maybe the meaning behind those words wasn’t trust or belief—just simple fact.

Aitri, as a blacksmith, handled Will. Anyone who put their soul into their work used Will without even realizing it.

And when handling Will, there was nothing more important than believing in oneself.

The belief that you wouldn’t lose, the refusal to give up.

All of that formed the foundation of Will.

So it was only natural that the sword, forged with Aitri’s burning life and imbued with Enkrid’s Will, radiated this confidence.

A sword that would never break, no matter what.

In the fairy tongue, they called it Infrates—something Lephratio, the fairy blacksmith, had once said. It came up in a conversation about legendary divine weapons.

If you translated that into the Eastern cant or the southern dialect, the word became Unchanging.

It meant more than just unbreakable—it meant constant, always the same, unwavering.

That’s why he liked this sword. No, he more than liked it—he was deeply fond of it. As much as how naturally it fit in his hand.

He didn’t need some so-called mythical divine weapon from legends.

The tree moved like the Woodguards he’d seen in the fairy village. Its branches reached out like hands, stabbing and swinging down.

“You think I look easy or something?”

Pell said, standing still beneath it. He’d stopped mid-dodge.

Truthfully, there hadn’t even been a need for someone to block the arrow for him.

Sure, maybe there’d been an opening. He could admit that. But it wasn’t enough to be fatal.

He could dodge, block, and overcome it just fine.

‘Am I baggage?’

He would never accept that.

This was all because of insufficient training.

A furious surge of ambition and competitiveness roared up inside him. Will mixed into it, whirling violently through his body.

The dark brown tree giant rose up, using its roots like feet. Dirt and stones scattered around it.

“Yeah, same.”

Rophod’s reply came from the other side. Even if he didn’t feel exactly the same as Pell, he was in a similar state.

His pride was wounded. These fucking trees—were they looking down on them?

Both of them drew their swords and lunged, ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) stabbing and slashing.

The tree giant’s exterior was hard, but not hard enough to withstand a knight’s sword.

Thunk! Crack, snap.

With that kind of noise, the tree split and black sap sprayed out.

Enkrid, watching the tree giant collapse, turned to Shinar and asked,

“Is that one of Bran’s friends?”

Its outward appearance was different, but it moved similarly to the Woodguards—the tree fairies.

Were they relatives of some kind? Or were these just another kind of monster? How many trees were there around here? Impossible to count. The barrier itself began to writhe and move.

A wave of trees surged forward. Roots ripped through the dirt with wet cracking noises, crawling along the ground. Overhead, sharp branches sliced through the air, welcoming their guests.

The problem was that welcome wasn’t a gentle pat on the shoulder—it looked like it’d impale you somewhere in the torso and suck out your blood.

A faint crease formed between Shinar’s brows. She drew her Leaf Blade.

Shrrrrrng.

It sounded like the blade cut through the very air of the Demon Realm. Maybe it only felt that way because her will was embedded in it.

Shinar held the drawn Leaf Blade loosely and said,

“So that’s why this place felt so full of unclean air.”

She muttered and met Enkrid’s eyes.

“Seems like something I know lies beyond that point.”

Enkrid didn’t ask further. They’d find out soon enough once they got there.

Right now, they had to deal with the wave of tree giants approaching from ahead.

How? Slash, stab, and knock them down.

Hadn’t Rophod and Pell just proven it? If you cut them with a sword, they died.

“Looks like each of us will have to take on at least ten or so.”

That was Rem, who had counted the approaching tree creatures.

“I’ll take thirty. That’s what being the vice-commander means, right?”

Ragna responded to that. It wasn’t said arrogantly, but something about it made your stomach churn.

It was the effect of the word “vice-commander.”

Since he’d shown off that flaming sword or whatever, he always acted like this, huh? Rem’s gaze sank coldly. His killing intent rose to the surface.

“Do you wear that head of yours just for decoration? I knew you were full of shit ever since you started running your mouth thinking you were terminal or something. Do you even think before you talk? Who the hell said I couldn’t kill thirty of them? Learn to read the room, dumbass. I was just telling you the general count, that’s all.”

“Got it. Just a regular squad member.”

Grrk. Rem’s molars ground against each other.

“And I’m the vice-commander. Don’t start talking about duty and shit like it suits you. Duty? Duuuuutyyy~?”

“You’re a nuisance. I could kill you first and then fight.”

“Try it.”

The two stared at each other in silence. Not even a breeze seemed able to slip between them. The air grew cold and still, dust settling in the frozen tension.

The approaching tree monsters paused for a moment.

Why are those two fighting each other instead of us?

If they had mouths, they might’ve asked that.

Of course, monsters didn’t actually get confused. It was just that the overwhelming pressure from the two men spread invisibly, and the creatures flinched in response.