Twin-like swords came slashing at him out of rhythm. Enkrid blocked each and every strike using Dawn Tempering.

It wasn’t that he had the advantage in speed—he simply moved his feet in such a way that it lengthened the paths the enemy's blades had to travel.

Ting, tidididing.

In response, the opponent also began adjusting his footwork, narrowing the distance while swinging his swords. Their paths overlapped and crossed, sending sparks flying between them.

Then, with their swords pressed together in a bind, the enemy opened his mouth.

"You're not bad."

They were staring at each other up close, close enough that a little more and even the smell of his breath would reach. Enkrid raised his knee with an impassive look.

Aiming right for the groin, but the opponent retreated. The nimble way he moved, tapping off the ground, was almost like a fairy.

It reminded Enkrid a bit of Jaxon.

He predicted the man wouldn't just back away quietly.

And his prediction hit the mark.

As the foot that kicked off the ground to retreat landed, a needle popped out and flew toward him. The twin swords in his hands had already been flung forward.

Something had been done to the blades, too—they gave off a sudden blast of heat that hit Enkrid’s face first.

Accelerated cognition allowed him to perceive the trick the opponent had pulled.

In his mind, Dawn Tempering became a seawall that blocked waves. A visualization of the Wavebreaker Sword Style through optimized cognition.

'I'm the one wielding swordsmanship.'

A sword is just a tool; swordsmanship is the method of using that tool. There's no point in separating them. Whether it’s Flash or Wavebreaker, mixing them is the right path.

With a fleeting thought, Enkrid deflected every incoming attack.

He swept the needle aside using Dawn Tempering in a low arc, creating a gust of wind that pushed it away. The two flying swords were brushed off with light taps of his pommel.

The heat radiating from the blades grazed his cheek. It was like pressing a hot pot against his face for a moment and then pulling it away.

As the deflected swords rang out with a clang—

"Nice tricks you’ve got."

The man dashed forward immediately after throwing his swords, closing the distance. He curled his fingers, reaching to grab—clearly intending to tear or break something.

Enkrid saw through it again.

'A fake grab followed by a stab.'

With what? Likely a hidden blade.

It was a technique more advanced than Hide Knife. Indeed, several short blades were concealed in the man’s sleeves.

Enkrid swung Dawn Tempering down as if to crush his opponent. A heavy downward slash, infused with pressure and intimidation.

But the man moved his hands anyway. This level of pressure wasn’t enough to freeze someone like him. Anyone who enjoys close combat is used to facing such situations.

'Which is why I win again.'

There was no need to show off any more skill than this.

The man was convinced, and he kept reaching forward. The hidden blades in his sleeves responded to the movement of his muscles, slipping out and grazing his skin. All he had to do was grab one and stab.

But the moment dragged on oddly long. That’s how it feels when you’re too focused—every second stretches.

An effect of accelerated cognition.

'Even so... it feels too long.'

Maybe his body was in too good a condition after the recent rest?

In the drawn-out moment, the man looked into Enkrid’s eyes.

Blue eyes, unwavering, stared straight at him. Not a hint of shock, not even surprise.

Only a faint glint of curiosity could be seen between those calm eyes.

'What is he so confident in?'

Then the man realized it. Realized what Enkrid was relying on.

The hand that had been holding down the sword of pressure had already grabbed a different blade and was swinging it up.

That blade moved at twice the speed of before. There was no dodging it now.

'No... I’ve already been hit.'

The elongated moment wasn’t due to focus, but because his ability to perceive the surroundings was breaking down.

In other words, it was a phenomenon experienced when your skull is being split open.

"Grrk."

He just barely managed to twist his head aside, so Penna’s blade, thrust by Enkrid, cleaved the side of his skull. Not quite half his face, but close.

After the clash of attack and defense, deception and calculation, the man, now with half his head sliced off, staggered back and collapsed onto the floor.

Enkrid simply stared down at him.

Was something about to start sprouting from this guy’s body too?

No. Instead, the man opened his mouth. His severed lips flopped as he spoke.

"You... really are worth recognizing."

Not words befitting a man about to die. But it wasn’t denial of his own death, nor a refusal to accept defeat.

That made it oddly unique.

The man toppled over, and black smoke began to rise from him as he slowly dissipated.

"Doesn’t seem like a dream."

Murmuring to himself, Enkrid felt the resonance of his own voice vibrate through his body and looked around. It wasn't a thought—this was sound produced by vocal cords and body.

His knight-honed senses confirmed this was reality.

In front of him lay a road. A path stretching forward. Both sides were blocked by walls, and above, a dingy ceiling had appeared.

It felt like he had entered a cave.

Torches were embedded in the walls at regular intervals, illuminating the surroundings.

What did that man mean by “worth recognizing”?

And what exactly was this situation?

All he knew was that he had to move forward.

Staying still wasn’t going to help anything.

Feels like I’ve stepped into a maze.

It felt like something was messing with his sense of direction.

For a second, he thought maybe this is how Ragna always feels.

In any case, Enkrid walked forward. Before long, he encountered another figure.

"Was that flailing of yours some desperate bid to die?"

If this even counted as a person.

A knight holding his own severed head sat atop a ghost steed, greeting Enkrid.

A high-ranking demonic creature rarely seen even in Demon Realms: a Dullahan, a headless rider.

The face atop the ghost steed wasn’t monstrous. Though not attached to his torso, the severed head showed a face with a finger-length white beard, clearly that of an elderly man.

The head was tucked under his arm.

Blue veins ran along the short neck stump, and his red-tinged face looked far from frail. The body merged with the ghost horse appeared large and sturdy.

"This Donapha shall end your desperate—Gyak!"

Instead /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ of replying, Enkrid swung his sword. Pushing off with his left foot, he closed the distance.

Charging low, his body broke through an invisible wall, and Dawn Tempering locked perfectly into his grip as cognition stretched out.

He awakened his senses and brought the blade down in a clean vertical slash.

The enemy couldn’t dodge it. No, he didn’t even try. It was a hunch beyond the five senses—pure instinct.

A clean, efficient strike. The trajectory was textbook perfect.

And it was fast. Every ounce of torque from his twisting body was packed into the blow.

It was a strike combining Flash and Vortex.

Donapha tried to counter with a massive axe—but failed. As he moved his arms, the head under his arm tumbled to the ground.

Thunk. Roll.

"You little—! You punk—!"

The rolling head kept yapping with just its mouth.

The clash ended in an instant. Standing in the pose of his finished strike, Enkrid reviewed the fight.

The enemy’s speech, demeanor, weapon, and stance had revealed his strategy.

'A brute who enjoys heavy strikes.'

What would such an opponent do when they saw a clean, honest slash?

Enkrid had predicted his move—and then cut vertically through him with a blow even stronger than expected.

He also reviewed his own strike.

'Used a bit too much force. Made the follow-up move a bit awkward.'

It was his first time trying it. Enkrid knew he didn’t have a gift like Ragna.

But he had made it this far. With more practice, it would come together. Just doing it would make it work somehow.

Now, even if the path ahead wasn’t clear, it didn’t matter.

The road he’d traveled, the experience he’d built—that was enough to give him confidence.

"How dare you strike this Donapha—!"

The name “Donapha” sounded quite old-fashioned.

Enkrid, thinking just that, raised his sword and brought it down on the talking head.

Though it was Enkrid’s first time seeing a Dullahan, once he split its head, both the head and the body scattered like black mist.

That made it the second one.

He casually pulled the sword embedded all the way into the floor.

“Impressive.”

He met the third opponent after moving a little further down the corridor. This time, the distance was shorter. Technically, the enemy had come to meet him—but Enkrid neither knew that nor cared to know.

Besides, the only reason anyone could come to meet him now was because Donapha had already been defeated. But that too was unknowable.

“You beat Donapha? Poor match-up, I suppose.”

The woman spoke only for herself, no matter what Enkrid said. Her torso was abnormally long—her body brought to mind a snake.

Her height was about the same as Audin’s, but it didn’t give the impression of a large frame. More like a supple spear shaft. Her arms were as long as her waist, making for an unusual physique, packed tight with dry, sinewy muscle all over.

But more striking than her build was what she wore.

Instead of armor, she wore a skin-tight cloth outfit—like a careless older sister who’d stolen her younger sibling’s clothes.

The clothes didn’t fit her and clung uncomfortably tight to her frame.

It was something he couldn’t ignore.

“Where’d you steal those clothes from?”

He hadn’t meant to provoke her, but her face instantly filled with murderous intent.

“I’ll grind that tongue of yours into mush—then see if you’ll still mock me.”

She charged with a refined tone of speech—but she was no ordinary swordswoman.

Lowering her body until her chest grazed the ground, she dashed forward with speed like a flying arrow.

A sharp thunk followed her passing, and a crashing roar echoed from the spot she’d just flown through.

Closing in, the woman twisted her waist from a near-ground posture. That snake-like torso showed an absurd level of flexibility, like a coiling spear shaft.

It was an unorthodox strike layered on top of another.

What she held was a falchion—a single-edged blade with a broad and curved tip.

Her slash drew an erratic upward arc from the ground.

Her long arms, packed with flexible muscle, bent and whipped with the same fluidity as Lua Gharne’s whip, snapping with brutal velocity.

Clang!

The attack was blocked by a sky-blue blade raised perfectly horizontal to the ground.

Scarlet sparks flew between them.

Her unconventional attacks might be blocked once, but twice, thrice, consecutively—they were difficult to fend off.

And the woman knew that. Which is why she didn’t try to finish it in one blow—she specialized in continuous strikes.

When her weapon struck the opponent’s sword and bounced off, she used that recoil to gain speed. She felt the strain build in her arm muscles and focused her Will into both arms.

She executed just that.

The falchion grew faster and even more erratic in its trajectory.

Attacks strung together in an unnaturally long rhythm—long enough to bewilder a defensive opponent.

As a result, their hands would soon tangle.

Her long arm curved like a whip, and the rapidly accelerating blade came crashing down toward Enkrid’s head.

Wham, wham, wham!

Each swing of her blade tore through the air, the sound shredding the space inside the cave.

Before long, only thunderous roars filled the place.

Wham—clang! Bang! Crash!

The sky-blue sword blocked her continuous strikes. Some blows were deflected, others redirected—but never once did he falter.

The woman didn’t even pause to breathe, attacking again and again.

Until she could push no further.

And all she got in return was a shallow slice across the opponent’s cheek.

A thin red line bloomed on his face—blood, something she didn’t have.

Because of the high-speed movements, the droplets quickly scattered into the air.

She needed to catch her breath—and refocus her Will. The woman drew back in a leap, withdrawing the mercilessly swung falchion.

Fwhip.

Her opponent’s cape, now slightly shortened from the harsh movement, fluttered in the wind.

Through the flickering firelight of the torches lining the cave, she saw Enkrid raise his sky-blue blade to his mouth, holding it level with the ground.

His blue eyes looked as though they pushed back against the yellowish torchlight filling the cave. The sight sent a chill down her spine.

A foreboding chill, delivered by instinct.

Only his eyes were visible above the blade covering his lips—then came his voice.

“My turn now.”

What?

The woman quickly twisted her waist and raised her sword. The man had closed in before she knew it—she needed to block his swing.

Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, he had already lunged forward and swung.

The strike crashed into her falchion, and now the tide had turned.

She was on defense—and he was the one attacking.

“Tch!”

Unlike Enkrid, she couldn’t last long.

Her fighting style focused entirely on offense. That’s why.

She was vulnerable in defense. Though, one had to be Enkrid’s level to even perceive that.

“You...”

Her throat was half-severed, black mist pouring from the gash. She collapsed, sprawled across the ground.

Her gaze fixed on the man who had cut her down.

He had stopped swinging. He flicked his hand through the air a few times.

She understood what he had done even before seeing it—now that she saw it, it was certain.

“You—!”

She shouted in rage.

Enkrid looked at her with indifferent, impassive eyes and said,

“You were a fine opponent.”

The woman screamed in fury.

“You used me as a training dummy?!”

Her outburst tore open the wound on her neck further, causing even more black mist to gush out—she could no longer speak.

She dispersed in a swirl of fog and vanished.

Enkrid took another step, looking down at her.

She wasn’t wrong.

The first opponent had used Hide Knife and individual tactics, so Enkrid responded with textbook swordsmanship.

The second opponent favored brute force, so he ended it with a single decisive blow.

And the woman just now specialized in continuous erratic strikes to overwhelm her foe.

Enkrid had analyzed each of their strengths and used them as training opportunities.

“Not quite a scarecrow, though.”

He muttered.

And found it slightly entertaining.

Each opponent that emerged had a unique style of swordsmanship. It made for excellent practice.

He usually sparred with Rem, Ragna, or Audin—but facing these kinds of foes felt refreshing.

After a few steps, he met his next opponent.

Crackle, crackle.

It was a woman, tending a campfire inside the cave.

A longsword rested diagonally across her body, still sheathed. She warmed herself by the flames, humming a cheerful tune.

Hm-hm, hmm-hm.

Enkrid stopped in his tracks the moment he saw her face.

The distance wasn’t far. If he intended to, he could have thrown his sword at once.

But he didn’t.

“Oh, you’re here?”

She greeted him upon sensing his presence—like meeting an old friend after a long time.

And Enkrid, too, felt something similar.

At the same time, he seemed to understand whose doing all this was.

Enkrid opened his mouth.

“Sir Oara.”

Knight Oara moved in accordance with the name of her sword.

She smiled. And to Enkrid, that smile looked utterly genuine.

It was the same kind of smile she’d worn when their final battle ended back in the city of Oara.