"That's absurd."

A man appeared in a dream and showed me his life.

He had abducted humans, experimented on them, and used the knowledge gained from those experiments to modify his own body. In doing so, he lived for two hundred years.

To put his life simply—he survived by recklessly using others’ lives for the sake of his own.

There wasn’t much else to say about it.

"Oh, Red Foot."

The man from the dream murmured. Then, like a piece of paper soaked and torn by water, he scattered and was swept away by the current.

Enkrid blinked. The place where the man had stood was now just the gunwale of a small ferryboat. The owner of the boat let out a clicking laugh. Not with his mouth—it was something passed directly into his mind.

In other words, ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ the ferryman had deliberately made sure Enkrid knew he was laughing.

The man dying in the dream was the Apostle of Red Foot, which meant what Enkrid was seeing now was likely a trick of the ferryman.

"I have a twisted hobby. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Enkrid said flatly as he stared at the image, but the ferryman showed no sign of displeasure at the comment.

He just laughed again—click, click, click—and then spoke.

"Do you know what it means to kill one of their apostles inside the Demon Realm?"

The ferryman asked.

To Enkrid, half of what he said was hard to understand. The ferryman didn’t consider what Enkrid already knew.

He just said what he wanted.

"Now they know you."

Splash.

The ferryman standing on the rocking gunwale felt unfamiliar. Enkrid tilted his head as he looked at the ferryman, uncertain whether he was mocking him or simply trying to emphasize the laughter.

Enkrid wasn’t a fool. From the ferryman’s words, from what he himself had done, and from all that he had experienced, he deduced the meaning behind the ferryman’s statement.

Who were "they"?

An apostle is a devotee. Someone who serves and is devoted to another.

Audin had called himself the Apostle of the God of War.

Then what was "Red Foot"?

‘The Six Demons.’

It was reasonable to conclude that Red Foot was one of the Six Demons who ruled the Demon Realm.

He should have been terrified. The Lord of the Thornbush Castle had only lived two hundred years, but no one could even guess how long the demons had existed on this land.

If such beings were now targeting him, it would be natural to feel fear growing within.

Of course, Enkrid didn’t.

"I guess I’ve truly earned the name Demon Star now."

He cracked a joke and woke from the dream.

"Crazy bastard."

The unfamiliar ferryman cursed him from behind, but Enkrid didn’t feel bad about it.

Everything around him blurred, and reality came rushing back to awaken him. Enkrid opened his eyes, sat up, and replayed last night’s events in his head.

‘We returned to the City of the Ingested.’

The moment they saw Enkrid, the people there either fell to their knees crying or began praying.

"Oh, Demon God!"

Some, overcome with emotion, arbitrarily called Enkrid a demon god, and Lua Gharne, displeased, immediately corrected their words and tone.

"Not a demon god. A demon star. Or if you must, the One Who Enchants All."

Some of the residents, intimidated by the aura Frokk exuded, parroted her phrasing.

"The One Who Enchants All..."

This wasn’t some stage play.

Enkrid didn’t make a fuss over it, but Frokk puffed her cheeks and seemed quite pleased.

They moved farther into the village, and at its center, a life-size statue roughly matching Enkrid’s proportions was in the process of being erected.

"What’s that supposed to be?"

Enkrid stopped and asked.

Zoraslav, acting as the village chief, bowed his head and answered.

"We are carving it to honor the Knight of the End and the Armistice."

Most of the villagers had exceptional hands. Their craftsmanship in working with beast and monster hides was reflected in their carving as well.

It wasn’t the work of a master sculptor, but the sincerity behind it was real.

"...Why isn’t there one of me?"

Rem, seeing it, voiced his complaint.

Ragna, who had been injured while slaying the Apostle, showed no interest and strolled off into the village hall that now served as their temporary lodging.

"Not bad."

Jaxon stopped to observe the carving and gave his evaluation. He had a keen eye for buying and selling art.

The intelligence guild was also adept at handling stolen goods, and Jaxon, being the head of the continent’s top assassination and intelligence guild, naturally had refined artistic taste.

"It’s not a statue of a god, but if it gives the people a sense of peace, then it’s a good thing."

"Yes."

Audin and Teresa also offered their own brief impressions.

To be honest, Enkrid couldn’t say he felt bad about it either, but there was something... off in the way the people were looking at him.

The reason for their strange gazes became clear before bed—when a child started humming a familiar song.

"Sing that song again."

It was a song where the words "end" and "armistice" were used interchangeably. One that Enkrid had heard and loved in his childhood.

"Why does it have two versions of the lyrics?"

To his casual question, the child, with a mix of curiosity and fear, explained.

To bring peace, the world must end—hence, the end.

When he asked what that "world" was, the child said they didn’t really know.

Interpreting it in his own way, Enkrid thought: to these people, the anguish and despair surrounding them must be one world, and ending that world was the end they spoke of.

‘Lead the world to its end.’

To end the fighting—was the armistice. Perhaps that’s what they meant.

They had returned from the battle inside the Demon Realm early in the morning. The group had skipped food, washed up, and gone straight to sleep. And now they had awoken fully rested.

Enkrid pushed aside lingering thoughts and stepped outside, stretching his body as usual.

Since there had been an intense battle just yesterday, he opted for light stretches rather than intense training.

Doing so made him hungry. His stomach growled, and near the entrance to the village hall, he spotted a basket woven from tree vines, filled with various fruits.

He filled his stomach with apples, some unfamiliar hard fruit, and a forearm-length, chewy loaf of bread.

As he chewed, he sensed someone behind him.

"You’re up."

It was still before dawn. Today, the sky was heavily clouded, so the sun would be faint. Still, it was far less gloomy than the Demon Realm.

The owner of the green eyes—Shinar, the fairy with otherworldly beauty—looked more pale than usual. She resembled someone who had barely recovered from a serious illness.

‘Understandable.’

Before Ragna cut down the Apostle, Shinar had fought against the Magic Spirit. The spirit wielded a sword as well as a bow.

When the curved black blade struck flesh, it tore into it. It must have been poisoned too—just a scratch caused the flesh to rot. Shinar’s exposed arm was proof.

Her torn wound was black. Though a scab had formed, it couldn’t be called a normal cut.

‘Still, Shinar won.’

How? Enkrid had seen the whole process.

The Magic Spirit spared no use of her power, what they called Will or Magicka.

Her sword shimmered with a dark gray glow, proof that surviving all those years in the Demon Realm was no lie.

In contrast, the energy infused in Shinar’s Leaf-Winter Blade seemed precarious. If one side was a refined blade, the other was more like a sharp needle.

‘Even so...’

She’s the one who survived.

Shinar had shown a movement that seemed to channel the essence of a vortex—then unleashed a chilling strike. Using her energy to cloud her opponent’s senses, she pierced the heart of the Magic Spirit with her sword. That was when her arm got severely slashed.

‘It resembled Jaxon’s Lethal Thrust.’

Fairies, who train to suppress and regulate their emotions from a young age, excel at hiding themselves in their surroundings.

She was adept at moving without making a sound or leaving a trace.

‘She combined fairy technique with Jaxon’s.’

Shinar looked at Enkrid with a calm gaze. She knew this madman. She knew what would pique his interest.

"Umbra-Akleus. In the continental tongue, it means ‘Shade Needle.’"

And so she stated the name of the technique she had used. Enkrid’s eyes lit up. As expected—he’d been curious about that.

As she spoke, Shinar lifted her injured arm into the light so he could see it more clearly and asked:

"Before I die, could you grant me one request?"

Shinar asked.

But Enkrid was still replaying the battle she had shown him yesterday in his mind.

The Magic Spirit’s sword—Black Lightning’s blade—was vicious. There was no answer to it other than assassination. Just as Enkrid had seen in his mind, the opponent held the advantage.

Of course, having the advantage didn’t guarantee victory or survival. Shinar had aimed for that narrow window.

She unleashed her energy as if to engage in direct combat, baiting her opponent with a feint and psychological pressure—then drove her sword into the heart.

There was no doubt she had referenced Enkrid’s orthodox swordsmanship.

The fact that Black Lightning fell for it so easily was also due to the sheer unlikeliness of a fairy fighting that way.

Fairies don’t lie, after all.

But—they do know how to distort the truth.

Shinar had declared she would fight, and she’d revealed her intent by releasing her energy. But she had never once uttered a lie.

It was perfect rationalization.

Her act itself succeeded. She had torn open a spot that would’ve sent Lua Gharne—who had a phobia of hearts—into a frenzy.

At the very last moment, the Magic Spirit had tried to borrow the power of the Apostle, transforming by inflating the muscles across her body. But her wish was not fulfilled.

The energy that had pierced her heart severed every single muscular strand inside her. It happened in an instant.

From the start, it had been a duel prepared to end in one strike—and the fairy won it.

“Rotten potatoes belong buried in the ground,”

Shinar had said.

But Black Lightning didn’t accept her end quietly.

“Bitch.”

With a final desperate strike, she swung her sword and slashed Shinar’s forearm. If Shinar hadn’t dodged, her neck would have been cleanly severed.

Back in the present—Shinar looked wistful.

Surely, a dying fairy’s final wish could be granted?

That’s what her eyes were saying.

Enkrid looked straight into hers. Within those two green jewels, there was sincere longing.

For a fairy to reveal that much emotion—it had to be rare.

“Let’s get married.”

A dying fairy’s final wish—wasn’t it something worth fulfilling?

That’s what everyone would probably think.

Before anyone noticed, the rest of the group had woken up and were eavesdropping or outright watching their conversation from in and around the hall.

The one staring openly, of course, was Rem.

“Did you apply the spring water from the Dryas tribe and Bran’s ointment?”

Enkrid asked.

“...I did.”

Shinar’s reply came a bit slowly, but she didn’t panic. Maintaining composure was a specialty of the fairy race.

“You’re acting like you’ll die soon. How much longer do you actually have to live?”

Enkrid knew well that fairies distorted the truth. His orthodox swordsmanship specialized in exploiting gaps in a person’s intentions—and he was the founder of that very style.

After a brief silence—

“Tch.”

The fairy clicked her tongue—an oddly unfitting gesture.

“Truly ironclad.”

Lua Gharne nodded as she said it. Before and after the battle, there was no end to what she found impressive.

Rem snickered at the scene.

Ragna was still asleep, and Pell and Rophod hadn’t been interested from the beginning.

They too knew the fairy—specifically, Shinar—well.

What she meant by “before I die” hadn’t been a lie. But strictly in terms of lifespan, she’d outlive Enkrid.

“A shame.”

Shinar clicked her tongue as she said it.

Enkrid figured this fairy went to excessive lengths just to tell a joke.

Was it really worth going that far? That kind of thought crossed his mind.

The group ended up staying in the village for two more days.

“You’re saying you cut down a fortress inside the Demon Realm and made it out alive?”

During that time, Roman nearly fell over in shock after hearing what they had done.

That evening, with his belly full, Enkrid swung his sword while pondering various things—only to realize he had gotten lost.

I’m the one who got lost?

He wasn’t Ragna. How could he get lost just outside the village?

It was impossible—or so he thought. Then how?

Looking around, he noticed the terrain was completely unfamiliar. It wasn’t narrow, but walls had risen on either side. The way they’d formed, the packed dirt looked like stone.

These walls stretched ahead like a long corridor, eventually turning at a bend. It was about twenty steps away. Just beyond that turn, a shadow stretched out faintly—and a figure stepped into view.

“Oh, a guest.”

The man spoke.

A face Enkrid had never seen before. He wore baggy clothes and had small eyes. The wide sleeves and loose fit completely hid his physique.

Two short swords had appeared in the man’s lowered hands. It was a trick befitting a circus acrobat. He had been hiding the blades inside his sleeves and drew them so smoothly you wouldn’t have noticed unless you’d seen it before.

He also wore a sword at his waist, but those sleeves had concealed more than just steel.

Enkrid had once trained in similar techniques.

“Hide Knife.”

A border guard named Torres from the Border Guard had used a technique like that.

As soon as the man finished speaking, his body rippled—and suddenly elongated, arriving right in front of Enkrid.

The two short blades stabbed directly at Enkrid’s heart and throat.

There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation in the charge—just pure aggression and sharp, violent blades.

Enkrid, the moment he sensed the opponent, read his intent. No—he felt it. And once felt, he responded.

With a rising stroke, Duskforge in his hand traced a vertical line and aimed to split the man’s torso in two.

In the end, both of them only cleaved through afterimages.

From that single exchange, Enkrid could tell: this opponent wasn’t some flower knight.

No—he was a proper knight, trained in the Imperial style of Valmung.