Ragna knew his limits were approaching. At this rate, he would burn out and die.

It was like fighting atop a precariously balanced stack of stones. A slightly stronger breeze could topple it, or even a curious child tapping it with a finger might bring it all down. If even one person lost balance or collapsed, Balrog would go berserk with glee—and that would be the end.

Even so, Enkrid remained unchanged. No shift in expression, no flicker in his eyes—they were still rolled back, wild.

Shluk!

Just a moment ago, Ragna’s sword had pierced a hole through Balrog’s abdomen. A clean thrust. The resistance transmitted through Sunrise’s blade made it clear—he had struck something real.

'Why?'

Though Ragna had attacked with the full intent to pierce, at the final moment, he felt Balrog’s will mix with his own. As if Balrog let himself be stabbed.

All that uncertainty condensed into a single word: Why?

Not that there was time to voice it.

Ultimately, it seemed Balrog wasn’t satisfied with simply holding out. He played a move no one expected.

They say to give up flesh to take bone—but Balrog was willing to give both and still come out ahead.

And so he did.

Even with a gaping wound in his stomach from Sunrise, he tried to shatter Enkrid’s shin. The attack followed the same pattern as before, but what made it unpredictable was Balrog’s bold and decisive judgment.

Though his abs were torn and his entrails spilled out, his thigh muscles moved precisely. His toes once more lashed toward Enkrid’s shin.

If one cog in this delicate machine forgot its role, the whole system would collapse.

Audin couldn’t go beyond his designated range of balance, and Rem—who had been suppressing from afar—couldn’t suddenly rush in either.

There was no one who could take that kick in Enkrid’s place.

Shinar, watching from afar, reflexively moved to leap in—but the current her had no way of physically closing that distance.

Meaning: Enkrid was about to lose a leg.

And with that, this fight would end.

Enkrid’s two swords had already been thrust outward to block the split strands of Surtr and the burning whip, Salamandra.

So instead of trying to draw them back, he lifted his leg—receiving Balrog’s kick with the sole of his foot.

He balanced on one leg and let the impact flow through him. Even with refined technique, it was a defensive step behind.

Even if he did block it, his shin bone seemed certain to twist or shatter.

And yet—Enkrid endured. He even muttered something under his breath.

“Endure.”

He threw back the very word Balrog had once used on him in a previous today.

From Endure to Steel Armor and now Indules—the transformation of Will had manifested outwardly. If one could channel Will into a sword, then surely one could do the same with the body.

Enkrid mimicked Audin’s Sacred Light Armor, which he’d observed countless times. Maintaining it too long made Will heavy and obstructive in battle—but for a single moment of defense, it was more than enough.

He blocked the blow. Had he taken it head-on, even with this, his shin would have crumbled—but he let the impact flow through, minimizing it as much as possible.

The result: a dull ache in the muscle. He had absorbed Balrog’s kick with little more than that.

'Genius.'

Ragna admired him, quietly.

More than raw talent, it was a product of time, effort, and experience.

And so, Enkrid continued to block Balrog’s attacks—somehow, by any means necessary.

It hadn’t been a long battle, but the toll of enduring it alone was beginning to show as wounds bloomed across his body.

Clang!

Surtr swept horizontally with intent to bisect the ground itself. Enkrid blocked it, but Penna shattered and was sent flying.

If the fairy blacksmith who forged it saw this, she would have screamed.

A portion of Enkrid’s cloak tore away as well.

Blood sprayed. Not black mist—but red blood, evaporating into red smoke.

It was a byproduct of the high-speed exchange. It, too, blurred beneath the torchlight.

In light of everything that had transpired, what happened next could no longer be called coincidence. It was inevitability.

A reward for enduring.

Rem launched three projectiles, combining Possession and Descent in a single technique. The first two shattered Balrog’s newly regenerated horns. The third struck his forehead.

No longer suppression—this was full-on offense. Until now, Rem had thrown them one by one. But now—three, in a row. A secret technique fully unleashed.

That full-force assault had consequences. Balrog’s limbs twisted, and an opening widened.

Enkrid barely hung on, so focused on blocking that he didn’t even register what Rem had done.

All he could do was watch Balrog’s reaction.

“Miss it, and it’s over.”

That left no room for distraction.

Audin suddenly ignored the whip and circled to Balrog’s right side. Until now, he’d fought from the left, occasionally throwing punches and kicks from there. This was an unexpected positional change.

Huaaahng.

Then, with his right hand, he gathered divine energy—more than ever before—and ignited it. The sacred light flared into divine fire. A hidden secret technique. The sacred flame granted by the god of war—Sanctified Fire.

With his palm cloaked in holy fire, Audin slashed at Balrog’s thigh.

Sssssssshhh!

The fire didn’t spread—it just burned, right through, severing Balrog’s thigh from his body.

Yet despite losing a leg, Balrog didn’t scream. Instead, he slammed his elbow into Audin’s head.

BOOM!

Audin, having poured all his strength into the strike, was sent flying.

It wasn’t a coordinated plan, but balance had broken. Still—this was something someone had to do, sooner or later. Everyone who’d been holding out knew that. If they only endured, they would lose.

Balrog could regenerate completely and never tired. In terms of stamina—they’d be outlasted.

Before Audin was struck, Enkrid shoved Dawn Tempering between them. Because of that, Audin’s head didn’t burst. He was simply launched, skipping off the ground like a stone before tumbling to a stop.

In that moment, Ragna’s Sunrise came slicing through Balrog’s chest.

It was a blow that couldn’t be blocked. That sense filled everyone’s minds.

Balrog’s flame eyes surged. His burning whip flew in and wrapped around Ragna’s sword, grabbing it. That moment of resistance slowed the sword’s approach. Balrog used that time to spin his body, tighten his newly regenerated abs, and thrust a foot out—spinning back kick.

'He’ll die.'

Time splintered. Intuition flashed a glimpse into the near future.

Ragna would die.

The angle, speed, and timing were inescapable.

But not everyone thought so.

One man, focused only on blocking, shattered his limits and moved.

Enkrid had just blocked Balrog’s downward swing with both hands gripping his sword.

Meaning—he blocked the elbow aimed at Audin, and then parried Surtr.

No one should’ve been able to block the follow-up spinning kick. But Enkrid moved through that space.

“Block it.”

His resolve shone—fueling a transformation of Will.

Point Explosion triggered, accelerating the Will shaped by Indules.

In that instant, Enkrid’s sword stood on the same timeline as Balrog.

And blocked the kick aimed at Ragna.

CRACK!

Blade and viscera shook. A portion of the shock grazed Ragna’s lower torso.

But blocked—was blocked.

Ragna’s sword struck the second crystal embedded in Balrog’s chest—and cracked it.

Krrrrack.

The crystal split—but stopped short of shattering. Sunrise had failed to complete its mission.

One more breath—and the battle would end in Balrog’s favor.

And yet, Enkrid’s eyes didn’t waver.

Ragna collapsed, unable to summon any more Will. Rem had dropped to his knees in the distance.

He was paying the price for overusing forbidden techniques.

Audin raised his head from where he lay, sprawled.

And of course—after a single breath, every one of them would rise again, even if they had to wring their hearts dry.

Even if the final outcome was death—or the end.

These people didn’t know how to give up. That’s how they were taught. That’s what their commander taught them—through his back.

They had taught Enkrid their techniques, training, and forms—but they had also learned countless things from him.

And in that breath between breaths—a moment even Balrog couldn’t manipulate—someone moved.

An assassin, hidden all this time, struck.

Just as Balrog once rose from Oara’s shadow—Jaxon rose from Balrog’s own shadow.

He stabbed one of the intact crystals on Balrog’s chest.

From behind, in an embrace, the reverse-gripped dagger shattered a crystal.

Jaxon immediately tried to slash sideways.

At that exact moment, Balrog’s wings folded inward, curling, and transformed—into a crude javelin.

It flew straight at Jaxon’s neck from below.

A counterattack that defied prediction—against an attack that defied prediction.

* * *

“Block.”

Enkrid was still buried in a single thought.

He perceived the attack lines, anticipated them, deployed his insight—and blocked.

“Block.”

The will to block at any cost urged a transformation of his Will into Indules.

And yet—it wasn’t enough. So what was he supposed to do now?

There was no time to think. If he didn’t respond now, someone would die.

Maybe it was admiration. Or maybe just the Ferryman’s whim, or an auditory illusion.

But it sounded like the voice of the golden-haired Ferryman he’d once seen. That was the feeling.

“Fight. As if it were your first time.”

His words became a verse that rang in Enkrid’s chest.

He had felt this many times—repeating today, fighting and fighting again, blocking and blocking—but realizing something and acting on it were different matters. And now, Enkrid dragged that vague intuition into reality.

“The sum of all techniques. The «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» sword is wielded by the person.”

To block everything meant to protect what lay behind him. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

His resolve gleamed, igniting the Will’s transformation.

“Block.”

The moment he recommitted, a path appeared.

Right before Jaxon appeared, Enkrid had already closed the distance—pressing in close to Balrog’s chest.

Jaxon could only be struck by the wings. Balrog still had plenty of weapons—his hands, his feet. While those couldn’t easily strike backward, they were more than enough to crush an approaching gnat.

Balrog swung his elbow toward Enkrid. At its tip, formless power condensed into a blade—about to scythe through the air.

Just before that, Enkrid reversed his grip on Dawn Tempering and drove the pommel down, smashing the middle of Balrog’s arm.

At the same time, Jaxon hurled the horn-hilted dagger he hated so much, piercing through the middle of Balrog’s wing. The wing, which had been rising with momentum, faltered. That was enough time for Jaxon to retreat safely.

“If predicting and blocking the attack line isn’t enough...”

Then strike the starting point. And for that, close-quarters combat was essential.

Enkrid’s eyes lit up with ecstasy. He was savoring the moment of surpassing his limits.

“Killing the Embers.”

A variation—an evolution—of the Wavebreaker Sword Style.

Before the attack even begins, use insight to intercept its origin.

It was like snuffing out the flame before it caught fire.

Balrog thrust his foot. Enkrid stepped on his thigh and climbed up, reaching out a palm toward his jaw.

The attack—the combination of a kick and a headbutt with Balrog’s horn—was cut off.

One sought to kill. The other sought to block. Together, they formed a deadly waltz.

Enkrid threw everything he had into striking the point of origin.

Balrog’s motion was halted—yet he feinted again. Pretending to target Enkrid, he suddenly slashed toward Ragna, whose stance had collapsed after swinging Sunrise.

The blade—Surtr—extended in a perfect, graceful straight thrust. A textbook one-handed thrust, executed while an opponent was literally stomping on his thigh. It was acrobatic madness.

There was no real intent behind stabbing Ragna. Balrog had read Enkrid’s resolve to protect everything around him—and exploited that to his advantage.

Once again, Enkrid had to surpass his limits.

Even if it meant breaking time itself, even if it meant sacrificing part of his body—if it had to be done, he would do it.

Indules. The Will he’d packed into his body no longer weighed like a stone—it floated like a goose feather. His now-lightened frame resonated with Dawn Tempering, and the blade flew.

THANG!

Surtr was deflected. It bounced off Dawn Tempering.

But then—Balrog feinted again.

Letting go of his sword on purpose—that was the trick.

And with both hands free, he clapped them together, aiming to crush Enkrid’s skull between his palms.

In that tiny sliver of time, Enkrid’s thoughts accelerated even faster than usual.

“Why couldn’t I block the origin point?”

It had been a stab with a sword—he should have blocked it. He should have severed the move before it began. But he couldn’t.

His mind sped further.

“Because he threw it.”

Letting go of the weapon freed up his hands. And Balrog’s entire body was a weapon.

This thought, born from instinct, struck like lightning.

To block Surtr, Enkrid had let go of Dawn Tempering as well.

Then he raised both arms to shield his head.

But he didn’t have time to let his Will re-harden into stone.

Crunch!

He let the force flow through him as best he could—and endured. Then, he lifted his leg.

After all the blocking, all the endurance—this was Enkrid’s first counterattack.

A kick launched from beyond prediction, beyond insight.

His foot crashed into Balrog’s jaw.

It was a kick he had learned the hard way—from Balrog himself.

“This is it.”

He had no strength left to continue. Balrog’s crystal was cracked—but one still remained.

Unless all three were shattered, Balrog would not die. His broken and twisted neck would just regenerate.

So—should he give up here?

No. His heart refused.

That unyielding will made Enkrid move his foot again.

And as it kicked, it also launched Balrog’s left wrist—where claws had grown long and sharp—skyward.

Even though blocking it wouldn’t change anything in the end, he still did it. Even knowing it was a final, desperate thrash—he still did it.

And then Enkrid heard a fairy’s voice, as if in his ear.

“Well done, fiancé.”

Finally, the green-hued blur that had only watched appeared.

As stealthy as Jaxon, the one who had stood back until now approached—pressing her palm to the ground beside Enkrid and extending a leg.

The tip of her foot was sharp. It looked like a spear made from a leaf.

WHAM!

Just as Enkrid had broken past his limits, Balrog too had scraped the very bottom of his barrel.

The fairy’s upside-down kick turned into a spear—and shattered the final crystal.

CLANG—

Black shards scattered into the air. And through them, her voice pierced his ears:

“This is your punishment—and my revenge—for kicking my fiancé.”