Roman was still baffled, but Jaxon only half-listened to Rem’s nonsense and Shinar’s declarations, letting it pass through one ear while opening up his senses.

The sensations tangled—like stepping into a demon realm.

“Alright then, let’s just say this place turned into a demon realm too.”

Even with that slight distortion, the blade of his senses didn’t dull.

“Where would the Captain be?”

The answer was already there.

“Balrog. Demon realm.”

Jaxon sharpened his perception and sought the most dangerous place. He knew the man called Enkrid. The type who would, without fail, plant his feet where the road was roughest.

Jaxon’s gaze turned toward a dark passage, wide open like the throat of some massive beast. Though there were no stalactites, the area had morphed into something like a giant cavern.

“This is the center of the corridor.”

From this place, multiple tunnels branched outward in every direction. Jaxon’s senses locked onto the most ominous, most foul one. The Will entwined in his perception surged and flared, guiding his decision. Even just sensing and identifying burned through his Will.

Proof enough that fighting or doing anything in there wouldn’t be easy.

But was that reason to back off? Of course not.

Jaxon gave off no particular expression—but someone abruptly stepped up beside him.

“Yo. Found it, didn’t you?”

Just as Jaxon knew his Captain, Rem knew the feral cat’s specialty. If it was this guy, he’d find the way. No matter what, he would.

He briefly missed Dunbakel. Even with all the shamanic techniques in the world, if it were beastified Dunbakel, he might’ve found the trail through scent.

Still, if the feral cat could fill that role, then so be it.

Jaxon thought for just a moment.

He wasn’t in perfect condition, and this barbarian’s “stone throw” was still decent. What he’d seen earlier had left an impression.

“Don’t like your eyes much, though.”

Rem, the perceptive barbarian, grumbled. Jaxon indifferently shifted his gaze to the side. While they were talking, Rophod glanced back and asked:

“Are we all pulling out?”

The answer came from Lua Gharne.

“We can’t. We still need to hold them off.”

Frokk spoke the most rational truth for the moment. What happens if they let them come through?

Everyone remaining in the demon realm would be slaughtered. Securing the rear and holding the line was fundamental to combat.

Frokk knew that charging in all together wasn’t the optimal move.

“Rophod, Pell, Teresa stay behind. I’m staying too.”

Her voice was clear and resonant. It wasn’t some noble gesture to die together.

In short, Rem, Audin, Jaxon, and Shinar would move.

Roman, halfway through the conversation, really wanted to pick his ear—or better yet, ask, “Are you all serious?”

“You saw that, and you’re still going to split the team?”

Whoosh.

Thanks to the torch stands spaced along the strangely transformed corridor, there was no lack of light. The torches attached to the walls lit the surroundings well.

And in that torchlight, the black mist-cloaked figures approaching were clearly visible.

“Hey. That was just the warm-up.”

The voice didn’t quite resemble a human’s. Low, heavy—not loud, but it made the air hum.

Among the mindless foes, a few still stood out. You could tell just by looking—they weren’t easy opponents.

One towered a full two heads above Audin, with forearms thicker than most grown men’s thighs. A Giant, of the kind called Beast of Red Blood.

His hair was matted with oil, as if he hadn’t bathed in weeks—or months. The teeth visible when he spoke were pitch black.

“Go.”

Teresa said, cool and clear, despite the rumbling voice still echoing in the air.

The Giant, stomping forward with thunderous steps, twisted his face in fury. His eyebrows rose, and his clenched jaw jutted out sharply. They were now at a distance where expressions were visible—close enough for him to charge and strike.

Behind him, others stood in formation like a military force, wielding swords, spears, maces, axes. The Giant looked every bit like a general leading his army.

“Wait, what the—”

Roman had just opened his mouth to try to stop it.

“Mmm, what a nap.”

The lazy bastard who’d slept through all the chaos finally opened his eyes.

Even stretched like a cat as if nothing had happened, and Rem, upon seeing it, couldn’t help but mutter with a curse-laced tongue.

“That crazy bastard... should’ve let him die.”

Even without emphasis, anyone could feel the sincerity. It was a damn curse.

“Where’s the Captain?”

That was the first thing he asked after getting up.

“Oh, couldn’t find the way? I’ll lead then.”

And that’s how he summed up the situation.

“Just follow quietly, Brother.”

Audin finally stepped in, unable to watch any longer. Rem shut his mouth. He knew better—his axe would move faster than his words.

“This way.”

Jaxon moved without a care, and Shinar followed him.

“YOU—LITTLE—SHITS!”

The ignored Giant roared.

“So damn loud.”

Rophod and Pell rubbed their ears. No trace of fear in their reactions.

“How the hell...”

Roman muttered. He couldn’t process what he was seeing.

Up close, it was clear why they were called madmen—it went beyond head-nodding recognition. He felt like he’d been thrown into the eye of chaos.

He might die. So how could they act like this?

Not that it was for him specifically, but Pell gave an answer.

“Keep your eyes sharp and stay close, bashful Rophod. I’m living through this and climbing higher today.”

Rophod answered right back.

“Who’s bashful? You simpleton Pell, you keep up. I was always in the lead.”

The half-giant Teresa passed between them.

“Save your breath, little brothers.”

Lua Gharne puffed out her cheeks and laughed at the sight.

“Ha! Even Frokk will surpass his limits today!”

A whip of flame, a loop sword, unorthodox movements and tactical chaos.

Even with all that as her weapons, Lua Gharne had little she could do against a true knight.

But she too wanted to move forward. She lacked nothing in desire, had overflowing experience—and now she had her catalyst.

“If I can’t pass it, I’ll die.”

As Roman heard her murmur that again, it struck him too.

“I could die. You know this is reckless, right?”

Those were the words his comrade had said to him before they left the city of Oara.

Right.

All of this began because he wanted to move forward. To rise higher.

The mindset he had just before getting nearly devoured by a parasite. That resolve, briefly forgotten, now surged through his whole body—and his Will moved on its own.

Even if he survived this moment, Roman knew, instinctively, he wouldn’t become a knight overnight.

“But does that matter?”

What mattered was not losing the will to move forward.

Why had Rem and the others left? Because they all knew—Enkrid was in danger.

Somewhere far more perilous than this spot, their Captain was out there. That’s why they moved.

Not that they intended to abandon this place without a fight.

“Let’s loop around a bit, Brother.”

Audin’s suggestion. Leaving directly would be too harsh on those staying behind.

Jaxon nodded without even looking back. Their group veered slightly to the side, moving along the outer edge of the ghost horde.

“RAAH!”

The lead Giant charged—but Teresa’s shield edge crushed his skull, sending him crumpling.

She spun, wielding her shield like a blunt weapon. Her agility and striking force betrayed her massive frame. Teresa was prepared to show everything she had.

And so, the battle began again.

Of course, it was a battle destined to repeat endlessly—

—within Enkrid’s endlessly repeating day.

***

Within the repetition of this endless “today,” Enkrid now stood before the Dullahan, confirming the man’s name out loud once again.

“Dorapa?”

“...How do you know my name?! No—It’s not Dorapa, it’s Donapha!”

A man with no control over his emotions. Even in such a state, he had the skill to make Enkrid falter with a single perilous strike.

Of course, Enkrid had spoken deliberately before Donapha could put full force into his attack, baiting him into letting down his guard—then closed the distance and combined flash-speed footwork with thrusts, linking multiple flashes into a lightning-strike that shattered the man’s body into four pieces.

At the end of Dawn Tempering, his severed head hung like an ornament. As Enkrid flicked his sword clean of blood, Donapha—now reduced to a head—shrieked.

“My name is Donapha! Do! Na! Pha!”

With those last words, he dissolved into black mist and vanished, leaving behind nothing but grains of dust.

“Too fast, maybe?”

He’d killed the first opponent before the twin short swords had even been drawn. And this man—Dullahan or not, Dorapa or Donapha—had also been cut down in a single exchange.

Perhaps that’s why the third opponent with the single-edged sword was taking their time.

Even if they didn’t come to him, Enkrid could simply go to them. Knowing what would happen inside this place and what awaited in the future, he moved without hesitation.

Through the darkened passageway he strode, until he came across an opponent standing like a signpost along the path.

“...What are you?”

That person faltered in confusion. Enkrid saw no need to answer and pushed them into the defensive from the start.

By attacking first, he forced opponents who specialized in counters into a reactionary stance. The battle became far easier than on the first day.

With a trip of the foot that disrupted balance, he borrowed the opponent’s own specialty and split their skull open.

The enemy continued to speak even as their severed head and mouth dangled midair.

“You again...”

Whatever the man intended to say no longer interested Enkrid. He simply pressed forward.

And ahead, by a small campfire, a sword leaned against a rock at an angle—a past connection /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ awaited.

The knight whose name had become a city looked up and met Enkrid’s gaze.

The ferryman had intervened—but this was a place steeped in the Authority of the demon. Had she too been dragged into this repeated “today”?

The sudden thought was denied by Oara herself.

“Ah, you’ve come.”

Her eyes were no different than they’d been in the previous iteration of today. Slightly surprised, yet slightly expectant.

“Shall we talk?”

Today repeated. And in this place, there was only one prisoner.

At the end of their brief conversation, the Red Moon rose—and from Oara’s shadow and flesh, Balrog opened his eyes.

—You’re the one who called me, aren’t you?

The words were a little different than last time, but Enkrid could tell from Balrog’s reaction: even the demon didn’t know. The ferryman’s interference was unknown to all.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Enkrid let go of any question he could not answer, drew Dawn Tempering, and hurled the scabbard behind him. In fact, he even undid Penna from its binding and tossed it back as well.

As he gripped the sword and focused, his Will condensed and formed a solid blade.

Fflutter—

Sensing his intent, the cloak gifted by the fairies caught the wind and rippled. Its width began to shrink until it became a thin scarf, then wrapped around his neck in a single loop before settling into place.

Enkrid’s eyes quieted.

Balrog’s pressure began to rise—a chain that bound the entire body. An invisible force that exerted crushing dominance.

Enkrid responded with Will laced in rejection—striking back with intent—and the two horns on Balrog’s forehead twitched up and down.

A nod.

It meant approval.

Once again, Balrog waited until the pressure had been overcome. Likely, this too was part of his amusement.

This, perhaps, was one of his many trials—only those who could endure his pressure were worthy of crossing blades with him.

He didn’t take advantage of the openings his aura created. That confidence—what others might use to break a foe’s spirit—was, for Balrog, simply a matter of certainty.

To observe and not strike in that moment meant he believed nothing could overturn the outcome. It introduced impurity into one’s Will.

It was right after Enkrid shattered that pressure with pure refusal.

He still gripped the sword in both hands. And in the next instant, Dawn Tempering sliced downward through the red moonlight.

No warning. No breath. No signal.

This was the best he could do in a preemptive strike.

As the blade cut through the air with a whoosh, Enkrid felt the time around him slow. It was like stepping into mud—every motion crushed beneath immense pressure.

Inside Balrog’s eyes, irises lit with flame spun rapidly—then froze.

Those burning pupils seemed to ask:

“Is that your best?”

In this version of today, before Enkrid had even learned his name, Balrog’s black flame sword, Surtr, rose and slammed into the sky-colored Dawn Tempering.

Clang!

The second battle began.

Not much had changed from before. There was no time to internalize what he’d learned from the first fight.

But was that a problem?

He hadn’t wasted a single “today.” That’s how he had made it this far. So he would continue to do just that.

Enkrid fought with everything he had. He raged. And he lost.

Thud!

The flaming whip—Salamandra, both fire snake and weapon—wrapped around his left arm and pierced his heart.

It was the opening he’d given while blocking Surtr and Balrog’s horns.

Pain. Agony. To forget it, he turned his head and reviewed the fight again and again.

He thought he was still awake—still enduring.

But before he knew it, darkness swept over him.

And in the process of replaying the fight in his mind, the ferryman’s gaze quietly turned toward Enkrid.