“Humans die anyway.”

“Hoo... that was nice.”

“Roman, take care of the city.”

“Enkrid, thank you.”

“Ah, that was fun.”

The words Oara said just before her death—more than simply remembered, they were carved into memory, unforgettable.

Some memories never left your mind, no matter how many times you repeated today.

Didn’t someone once say that repeated days didn’t come with the blessing of forgetfulness?

The Ferryman had said that once. That if you wanted to forget those hard things, you just had to stay in today.

Crackle, crackle.

Smoke from the burning campfire rose up to the cave ceiling. As it climbed, it seeped into the ceiling and disappeared. The acrid smell stung his nose.

Oara, who had beheaded the shard of Balrog.

Oara, who appeared in a dream, only to be captured by Balrog.

Oara, who had used her vow as a shield and her smile as a sword.

The knight who ultimately protected the city, etched her name into it, and then left—she sat now before Enkrid and gestured.

“Hey, come here. Let’s talk a bit.”

Moved by her familiar attitude, Enkrid began walking.

As he moved, his eyes scanned behind where Oara sat, then looked into hers again.

Would she suddenly swing her sword? Would her eyes turn red and charge at him?

He had a feeling—but somehow, it didn’t seem likely.

Oara was sitting on a small stone. On the other side of the campfire was another stone, similar in size. Enkrid sat there.

Oara opened her mouth and asked,

“How’ve you been?”

“Very well.”

“You look it. You’re a knight now, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I should call you Sir Enkrid from now on.”

She smiled softly as she said it. She wasn’t surprised to see Enkrid.

The red glow of the fire cast half of Oara’s pale face in light. Only her unchanging smile could be seen. When Enkrid didn’t answer, she opened her mouth again.

“Is Roman doing well?”

“That halfwit ran off on his own to improve his skills and nearly got eaten by a Parasitic Beast.”

“Roman did?”

Oara burst out laughing, then said,

“Tell me more.”

The two chatted away. It wasn’t hot, nor cold. Though they were in a cave, it wasn’t damp or dry.

It was cozy, quiet, peaceful.

Like coming home through a snowstorm in midwinter, washing up, and sharing stories over a hot chocolate drink.

“Idiots.”

Oara sometimes laughed, sometimes frowned. She acted like someone still alive.

But she wasn’t.

The night she killed the shard of Balrog, she was taken away in a dream by Balrog.

Soul Collector.

That was another of Balrog’s nicknames.

Before he could ask how this all came to be, Oara smiled bashfully and said,

“That bastard... hard to beat.”

What stood before him now was just a fragment of Oara.

He had experienced something similar with the cursed sword Tutor and with Acker, the weapon left behind by another knight.

Only, she had been bound here against her will, having died at Balrog’s hands.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you could let me go. Tried to do it myself and failed.”

The warm, peaceful atmosphere vanished. Oara’s smiling face didn’t change—but the air had shifted.

“It’s here.”

She spoke and slowly pushed herself to her feet.

A knight, especially one who had become a knight, wouldn’t grunt just from standing. She let out that groan as a signal for Enkrid.

“Be careful.”

She said it sincerely.

The area was like an open clearing.

Unlike the passageway they had come through, the ceiling here was high, and the walls far off. By Enkrid’s judgment, it was spacious enough for hundreds to gather comfortably.

The ground was flat, with no particular structures or obstacles.

The only unusual feature: the walls narrowed the higher they went.

And from the narrow ceiling, moonlight was now streaming down.

Tonight’s moon was red. A Red Moon.

Both moons were dyed crimson and shone down upon Oara’s body.

She stepped beyond the campfire’s glow. Then the flames from the campfire stretched out, following her, and began climbing up along her left arm.

Fwoooosh.

The flames trailed up her arm, coiled around her hand three times, and then the rest dangled downward.

A whip made of flame lay across the floor.

The writhing, coiled fire resembled a fiery serpent that would scorch and constrict anything it wrapped around.

Enkrid had noticed it the moment he first saw Oara—her shadow.

And in that shadow, Oara had two horns rising from her head and wings folded behind her back, large enough to wrap her entire body.

A demon revealed itself, shedding the husk of the soul it had collected.

It had been showing itself in Oara’s form, lying in wait.

A glance confirmed it—Balrog’s shadow had now taken the shape of Oara’s.

Then, was the shadow Oara now? Was Balrog and Oara mixed together?

No. It was just an illusion.

Deliberately so—a perverse indulgence.

“Nice to meet you.”

Enkrid stood and offered a greeting.

Oara’s body gradually swelled, darkening pitch-black, muscle bulking up, her whole form growing larger.

The shape seen in the shadow was now appearing in reality.

Crack.

The demon—this wandering creature that slays other demons—plucked out two horns.

As if in relief, it stretched its neck long and exhaled with a loud hoo.

Along that breath, a short tongue of flame flared out.

“You breathe fire too, huh?”

Enkrid remarked idly, still watching.

The owner of the shard looked down from above and replied.

—You called me with such clamor, so I came.

More precisely, the creature didn’t use vocal cords. It conveyed meaning directly by will.

A form of communication that required no spoken language.

Nothing to be surprised by. Even the Ferryman did that.

“Well, you called, and here you are.”

Enkrid answered without hesitation.

The demon’s skin was charred-black, and instead of irises, red flames burned in its eye sockets. The swirling tails of fire spun where pupils should be.

—I am the Master of the Labyrinth, Balrog. Mortal, did you call me seeking immortality?

“No.”

—I figured as much.

Enkrid laughed.

He’d just run into an absurdly hard-to-meet bastard.

The demon, known also as the Demon of Struggle, suddenly laughed as well.

A human and a demon standing face to face, laughing.

If an artist had been there, they wouldn’t have been able to resist painting that scene. That’s how striking the confrontation was.

Balrog’s smile came into Enkrid’s view. His lips curled upward, revealing white fangs.

Why are his teeth so damn white?

While he stared, Balrog opened his mouth again.

—This should be fun.

The anticipation, joy, and exhilaration in that line made Enkrid feel a strange sense of loss. He followed the emotion and spoke.

“That’s my line, you bastard.”

Balrog was a great demon. Strong enough to be called the Demon of Struggle. And just now, he had demonstrated a power that scattered Enkrid’s companions across the area.

Enkrid didn’t fully understand what had just happened or the current situation. But inwardly, he had an idea.

Demonic authority—that’s what it was.

Demons weren’t simple creatures. Their powers made them beings mortals dared not challenge.

Balrog’s authority was the Labyrinthization of his domain.

So why would Enkrid speak to such a being so casually?

No real reason.

Because he would do anything to win.

Enkrid fought in his own way.

Demons likely had emotions too—so if they could be shaken, he’d shake them. It was a deliberate attempt to undermine Balrog’s dignity.

Any ordinary knight wouldn’t even dare to try.

The funny thing was, Balrog was doing something similar to Enkrid.

—Everyone else who came here is probably dead. Their bodies were likely not whole to begin with.

Enkrid answered without so much as pausing to breathe.

“I tested the waters on the way here. No one died from something like this.”

He’d come through three knights trapped in the labyrinth. They’d been excellent training opponents.

—You think that’s all there is?

Balrog’s tone radiated sheer force. Just letting your guard down a little, and it felt like your lungs and heart would collapse under the pressure. This was what true intimidation was.

And the content of his words was clearly meant to unnerve.

The unknown is fear. Fear is what stirs dread. Balrog tried to plant anxiety in Enkrid’s heart.

But the madman who repeated the same day turned it to his own advantage.

“Ah.”

Feigning surprise, he left an opening. Balrog noticed it instantly.

What lay behind the alias Demon of Struggle?

It wasn’t just about enjoying fights. The name came from pouring everything into every battle.

—...You bastard.

Even Balrog’s language slipped. The tone didn’t match his feared name—he now sounded like some tavern mercenary.

Which, in a way, was unexpected even for him.

A human who didn’t flinch under pressure, who still said what he wanted to say—rare in all his long life.

“Didn’t fall for it.”

Enkrid muttered to himself.

The Enkrid-style orthodox swordsmanship move, Feigning an Opening, had failed.

Balrog ceased his telepathic communication, and Enkrid moved without hesitation. He grounded his foot into the earth, shifting his weight forward, and swung his blade in the same motion.

A strike derived from Oara’s follow-through technique. A suitable opening gift for Balrog’s smug face.

As if folding space, Enkrid’s blade shot forward—only to be blocked barehanded by Balrog.

CLANG!

A shockwave burst out from the point of impact. Fwoosh! Balrog’s flaming whip erupted like it had a will of its own.

—Say hello. This one’s Salamandra.

Balrog raised his forearm over his brow and spoke. His eyes met Enkrid’s. One pair blue, the other blazing red.

His flame-lit irises flared savagely. At the same time, the whip—no different from a fiery serpent—lunged without warning.

The coiled fire tried to grab his ankle. Enkrid naturally stepped back, yanking his blade with force from Balrog’s arm.

Dawn Tempering responded to its master’s call and sharpened its edge.

It was an engraved weapon, imbued with Will. For this moment, its cutting power would even surpass Penna, the fairy-forged treasure.

Trdrdrdrk.

And yet, the blade achieved nothing.

Balrog’s arm, still bearing a smile, didn’t show a single scratch.

'What the hell is that arm made of?'

And the flame whip moved entirely of its own accord.

'His arm muscles didn’t even move.'

Not just his arms—the whole body hadn’t twitched. No warning, no tension. The whip had launched the attack independently.

It slithered across the ground with a sizzling tsssss and raised its head.

Looking at it, you could’ve sworn it was a living serpent beast.

—This one’s Surtr.

Balrog now drew a sword, flame burning across its surface, and introduced it.

The fire wasn’t normal—it burned pitch black.

And the size was easily three times bigger than Ragna’s Sunrise.

Balrog’s frame ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) was a little larger than Audin’s, meaning the sword was massive even for him.

Then he spread his two wings—making his silhouette appear three or four times larger.

At that moment, Balrog unleashed the full weight of his existence, a pressure that pressed down on all living things. The embodiment of dominance.

It felt like chains, searing with fire, had coiled around his entire body—and as if a boulder the size of a house were crashing down on his head.

I’ll lose. I will lose. I can’t win. There’s no way to overcome that thing. It’s beyond what’s allowed to humans. Would it be different if I were a giant? Or a dragonkin?

As that thought surfaced—

His Will stirred on its own and rejected it.

It tore through Balrog’s intimidation, shredded it, and cast it away. The chains were broken. The mental weight that had been crushing him vanished.

Enkrid had endured the demon’s oppressive presence—but realized that in the process, a wide opening had formed in his stance.

Yet Balrog didn’t exploit it.

—You adapt quickly. Good.

He was pleased instead.

'So he never meant to attack to begin with.'

A test? Measuring his skills? Just showing off?

Didn’t matter.

Enkrid was unfazed. Whatever the enemy did, he never forgot what he needed to do.

'Cut him down.'

He focused his Will into the blade.

In that instant, he caught a glimpse of what Ragna’s trick had been.

'A transformation of Will.'

To infuse something else into the core nature of Will. How? With intention.

He had seen Ragna do it—practiced it countless times—tinkered with it, wrestled with it, and faced three knights on his way here.

All those experiences combined and imbued his blade.

Dawn Tempering shimmered in a thinner blue light as the edge honed itself.

Just as a blade steeped in the will to cut carries greater sharpness—by maximizing that intention, you create a blade of pure Will.

It felt like a continuation of something he’d previously learned... yet also like a new revelation.

Whatever the process, what mattered was this: his blade now carried an edge of sky-colored Will.

Thunk.

Whether that light showed on Enkrid’s blade or not, Balrog leapt in place. Then vanished with a whoosh.

The demon reappeared behind Enkrid.

His blue eyes traced two lines, rotating in a semicircle around his body.

Enkrid turned and swung.

A blade that could slice steel like tofu clashed against Surtr.

Thunk.

The noise was minimal. Just a slight surge of black fire.

Fwoosh.

As if to say, “That’s all your sword can do?” Balrog stood, unshaken. Like it was nothing.

Through the flames, his fist came flying.

Enkrid bent his knees and elbow, reached for the demon’s wrist, aiming to snap it midway—but Balrog’s punch changed pace and accelerated mid-movement.

WHAM!

And so, he was hit squarely.

Despite chaining together Fortune’s Blade, calculations, optimal reaction paths, even the Wavebreaker Sword Style—he was still struck.

Enkrid’s body lifted and slammed into the cave wall.

Balrog, with the same hand that had punched, extended it and grabbed his whip’s handle, then swung it toward the wall.

This time, the whip moved differently than before. It was fast.

The fiery serpent’s head ballooned into a heavy bludgeon and crashed against the wall faster than sound.

BOOM—KRAK!

The whip struck the stone as if a boulder had smashed it from above.

Through the exploding rubble, Enkrid tumbled out, rolling.

Blood poured from his lips—he’d likely taken internal damage.

'Didn’t work.'

A sword that seemed like it could cut anything would still be blocked by one forged in the same shape.

Balrog had proven that.

A wandering demon. A living legend.

And he was capable of that.

—That all you’ve got?

Balrog asked.

His sword, Surtr, much like Enkrid’s, was formed of flame—its blade shaped from burning Will.

A sword that, to the eye, appeared to be made of searing fire itself.