Was it thanks to Lua Gharne, who had been hammering those words into them for days on end? Or was it simply because of a song they'd been humming for far too long?

Even as the scenery of the village suddenly shifted and the sounds of battle erupted from all directions, not a single villager called out for a demon.

“Knight of the Apocalypse. Save us,”

muttered the old woman.

The child answered,

“They said it’s the Demon Knight.”

A heavy shadow loomed over the entire village. Both in the physical and psychological sense. The earth suddenly heaved upward in various places, rising into walls, and before anyone noticed, a ceiling had formed to block the sunlight overhead.

And then came those who fed on fear.

Two swordsmen.

One wielded a thin, flexible sword that curved like a ribbon, while the other held a deformed blade shaped like a perfectly rectangular slab, straight from guard to tip.

“Wonder if this one's got a nice slicing feel to it.”

The one with the slab-like sword muttered under his breath.

“I’m sick of this job. I just want out of this labyrinth.”

replied the thin-bladed one.

They spoke like this sort of thing was routine.

“You know you can’t play this dungeon game once we head to the continent, ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) right?”

Balrog’s labyrinth transformation only worked in areas heavily influenced by the Demon Realm. That much could be inferred from their words.

Of course, aside from the two of them, this meant nothing to the people here. They were about to die—what did that kind of detail matter?

“Grant us the end,” 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

the old woman bowed her head.

One of the two men, the one who had spoken about slicing, raised his rectangular short sword.

Sunken cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, and skin so pale it had taken on a gray hue. His greasy hair hung to his shoulders. He had the kind of face you’d expect to see in a nightmare, someone you'd scream "murderer" at if you saw him at night. To make matters worse, he wore a stitched leather jacket—pants, vest, coat, all crafted not from ordinary leather but human skin.

It was his signature armor.

He had lived his whole life using murder as a form of personal gratification, so calling him a killer based on his appearance alone wasn’t exactly unjust.

His right hand rose. If he brought it down, the old woman’s head would split vertically.

Her skin might have turned violet, but her brain hadn’t changed. Her blood was still red. The feel of slicing her would be the same.

That anticipation was enough to thrill him.

Usually, he had to settle for cutting monsters, beasts, or the guy next to him. But the latter was rarely easy, and monsters never offered the same slicing satisfaction.

A sliver of his grotesque desire crept up the surface of his face. The heat behind his eyes flared as he brought down the slab-like blade.

Thunk.

The sword didn’t meet its mark.

Even so, the killer's eyes still burned with the same twisted hunger. His gaze shifted toward the one who had blocked his blade. He’d known the person would step in—let it happen.

A longsword had intercepted his weapon. A dwarven-forged blade. Its wielder: Rophod.

“What the hell are you?”

Rophod met his gaze and asked, calm and firm. Compared to the murderer’s grotesque appearance, Rophod’s features were clean and his eyes unwavering.

He had been in the middle of a training session with Pell—exchanging critiques, not exactly kindly—when the terrain suddenly changed and a man who looked like he made a living butchering people appeared.

So he blocked him.

Rophod's eyes scanned the man like he was peeling back layers.

His stance. His movements. His eyes.

And those eyes—they were disgusting. There was a vile hunger in them, like an old man leering at a young girl.

The killer retrieved his blocked blade and swung with the other hand. That hand also held a short, rectangular sword.

A slicing knife?

Rophod caught the weapon and noted how strange it was. It was a short sword shaped like a kitchen knife.

A faint smile twisted across the man’s face—something like a smile, anyway.

“Hoo. You look like you’d slice real nice.”

The sound of his breath sent a chill down Rophod’s spine.

Whoosh.

The man closed the distance with a step. Between the two of them, the old woman still crouched, head bowed. She didn’t even look up, frozen in fear.

The killer's weapon was shorter. Rophod’s longsword was nearly twice its length.

That meant distance favored him. But the man aimed with his right-hand blade—the one meant to kill the old woman.

It wasn’t random violence. It was calculated.

You’re going to protect her, aren’t you? Then shouldn’t you stay right here?

That’s what the attack said.

Rophod extended his sword and blocked the right-hand blade.

Clang!

The clash sent sparks flying. With the terrain warped and shadows thick around them, the sparks seemed even brighter.

While Rophod blocked the knife in the right hand, the other blade swept toward his neck.

Rophod lowered his stance, bending his knees and stepping aside.

Balancing on one foot, he kicked at the enemy’s ankle with the other.

The killer twisted around the old woman to dodge the kick.

He understood—fighting while using the woman as a shield was to his advantage.

You’ll keep protecting her, won’t you?

The question hung in the air.

Worse still—he wasn’t alone.

Rophod furrowed his brow. Was this a problem?

Not quite.

It just stirred a memory.

Seeing something you’ve only ever heard about with your own eyes—it takes time to process.

Especially when the real thing doesn’t quite match the image you’d imagined.

His opponent—this man—was the villain from a very old story. One of those horror tales parents tell children who won’t behave.

Which was why even a single sentence chilled his spine. Because of a memory etched deep in childhood.

“...Dammer the Killer?”

Dammer the Killer, or Dammer the Tanner.

A legendary murderer who wore clothing made from human skin and wielded two slicing blades.

As a child, he had endured endless abuse. His father was a leatherworker.

One day, Dammer picked up a knife. He'd been beaten with a belt again. That day, his first kill was his parents. He made the grip of his knife from his father's skin.

He went on to kill more and more people. He tanned their skins and sold them. Hence the name: Dammer the Tanner.

“This... is this for real?”

Rophod stayed where he was, the old woman still cowering between them. Even so, he asked the question calmly.

Dammer found it curious. Was this brat fearless? Or just a good actor?

Either way, he looked like someone who’d have that satisfying “slice” to him.

Rophod stared blankly at him.

Hasn’t he been dead for decades?

That’s why it hadn’t immediately clicked, despite the man's unmistakable features and patchwork leather attire.

“Yeah. I’m that Dammer.”

Three thick wrinkles on his forehead, like fat earthworms—one of the traits that had always defined Dammer’s terrifying image.

So that really was real?

He had just been a scary story character back then.

There were few city-born kids who didn’t know Dammer the Killer.

That’s what made this so unbelievable.

“You’re the real thing?”

Dammer nodded and raised his foot to kick the old woman.

Rophod reacted.

Dammer stomped instead, using the momentum to step into range and swing both blades in a crosscut.

Clang!

Rophod barely halted his advance and angled his longsword to block the strike.

At that moment, a flexible blade curved around like a whip and aimed straight for the back of Rophod’s head.

Clang!

It was blocked—not by Rophod, but by another sword. Naturally, Pell.

“Two of you attacking one guy?”

Pell said, eyes locked on the enemy.

“Tch. So close.”

The man with the ribbon-like sword clicked his tongue and backed off. He stepped lightly and narrowed his eyes, now focused on Pell.

“He blocked it?”

Dammer had allowed Pell to intervene because he’d calculated that his own sword would reach its target faster. According to that calculation, his blade should’ve already pierced through one of their skulls, and the guy standing in front of him should’ve been too late to stop it.

In other words, this one wasn’t weak either. Which meant this fight might take a while.

Dammer was a master of precision—capable of calculating dozens of attack and defense patterns in an instant. But unlike him, who liked to chip away at the enemy’s body or mind before delivering a killing blow, this new opponent clearly had a different sword style.

Rophod had already pieced together a rough understanding from the way they stood, the weapons they used, their behavior and speech. And if he was wrong? If this opponent had truly deceived his senses and insight?

“Then I’ll just have to die.”

That line echoed—something Frokk or Lua Gharne had said. That one shouldn’t expect to survive when facing opponents of this caliber.

He remembered what Pell had said during training, too.

“If you want to live, train harder, you talentless bastard.”

Pell liked giving people nicknames. But in the end, Rophod owed him.

It was thanks to Pell that reading Dammer’s intentions felt easy. Compared to the unpredictable strikes Pell would land from strange angles, Dammer’s approach was almost honest.

Dammer himself would never think that. But Rophod naturally came to realize something about his own abilities in that moment.

Like observing himself from above, he gained a kind of detachment—an awareness of how he appeared through the enemy’s eyes. In this situation, understanding the opponent’s intent was remarkably simple.

Dammer thought he was wearing Rophod down, bit by bit.

So Rophod played along.

Pretending to slip. Pretending his breath was faltering. Pretending he was losing hope as time dragged on and the old woman remained unrescued.

It was classic Enkrid-style orthodoxy—swordsmanship built on deception and manipulation.

Dammer thought he’d finally seized his moment. He poured all his strength into a strike. After alternating rhythm and angles, he suddenly lifted both blades overhead and brought them down in a crushing double strike—breaking his pattern for maximum power.

Rophod had been waiting for this.

He gripped his sword firmly with his right hand, and with his left, held it near the ricasso to brace. He caught both of Dammer’s slicing blades and endured the impact.

Bang!

Bang!

It was an attack infused with Will. A killing blow from a murderer who had risen to knight level through slaughter alone.

Well—long, long ago.

Rophod used the bind technique to catch the blades and absorb the force. He steadied himself with his knees and waist to prevent being knocked back.

Then, using the same momentum, he stepped forward past the old woman and stomped down on Dammer’s foot.

He had blocked and stomped in one fluid motion.

Dammer couldn’t dodge.

Rophod’s boot came crashing down on the top of his foot. The thud rang out with heavy finality.

The bones in Dammer’s foot shattered with a crack, twisting his face in agony.

By the time he reacted, Rophod had already released his sword, grabbed Dammer by the chin and neck, and violently twisted in the reverse direction.

Crackkk—

The cervical spine rotated, snapped, and the skin of Dammer’s neck spiraled grotesquely.

It was a move he’d picked up watching Audin and Enkrid—part martial art, part execution. They’d even taught him a bit of it directly.

Dammer dropped to his knees with a thud, without even a death rattle.

Rophod had just killed the monster from his childhood nightmares. And didn’t think it was particularly impressive.

Meanwhile, Pell had finished his own fight.

The so-called master of calculations had tried to outthink him, so Pell just charged straight in, slashing diagonally with the vortex technique Enkrid had shown him.

The man with the ribbon-like blade hadn’t anticipated such a move. His body split open, his innards spilling out, and instead of blood, a black mist poured forth.

“Just corpses waiting to be killed by their master.”

Pell muttered.

“Master?”

Rophod echoed the word.

The dying man cackled and replied,

“You’re all inside the labyrinth right now!”

With that, he vomited black mist and died. His body dissolved into smoke and vanished.

“Labyrinth?”

Rophod asked, walking over.

Pell just shrugged. At last, the old woman timidly lifted her head.

“We’re safe now.”

Whatever this “master” or “labyrinth” meant—it could wait.

For now, Rophod had done what he’d set out to do. Like Enkrid, he had protected someone. Even if that someone was a violet-skinned host, a being people called a Demon or Corrupter, he still felt proud.

“This probably isn’t over.”

“Then we better get moving.”

The two of them set off again, walking toward the strange presences and ominous sensations they felt in the area.

Soon, they found Frokk. She was leaning on her loop sword, one leg and one arm severed. Only black dust remained of her enemy.

“What happened?”

Rophod rushed forward and asked.

As he helped her up, Frokk tensed her muscles to stop the bleeding and spoke through clenched teeth.

“Something jumped out. It was knight-level.”

“And?”

“Heh. Jaxon just slinked off somewhere.”

Ah. Understood.

Now a group of three, they continued on—and found Audin, Teresa, and Roman.

They found Audin in the middle of a serious battle.

‘Even more brutal than when he was breaking down the city walls.’

Now, his presence was absolutely murderous.

“To dare hold back those who should return to the Lord!”

He even looked angry.