Balrog’s shattered body—cracked like crystal—crumbled into ash, scattering as thick, black sludge oozed out from within.

And yet, he still managed to swing his arm one last time. One final movement remained in him.

He could have ordered the remnants of his lingering will to attack—commanded every last thought he had left to destroy the ones who had driven him to annihilation.

But Balrog didn’t.

He didn’t want to.

Instead, he just grinned, mouth stretched to a grotesque degree.

He was born to fight, and so he would die fighting. There was no reason not to be satisfied.

He had never lived for slaughter. He had lived for battle itself.

Born a monster, he would die a warrior. He never cowered from oblivion. That alone was enough.

Only one thing stung: the fact that he wouldn’t get to do it anymore.

No—if he were to be truly honest with himself—he would’ve liked to play around with that guy, human or not.

For longer. For a very long time.

That black-haired, blue-eyed maniac.

'What a shame.'

But that didn’t mean he left behind any clumsy regrets.

Balrog, who had considered conveying his final intent through telepathic resonance, stirred his vocal cords for the first time in ages.

“Hey.”

There was no need to ask who he was talking to.

His eyes were still locked onto the glowing gaze of the human. As if Enkrid were the only person left in the entire world.

Even the labyrinthal structure above his head—once formed by his mass—crumbled into ash like his skin.

In the midst of it all, Balrog spoke one final time.

“That was fucking fun.”

And with those last words, Balrog’s face collapsed and vanished. As if he had never existed to begin with—like winter snow melting under spring’s arrival—Balrog disappeared, followed by the labyrinth and everything within it.

No—not everything vanished.

His outer shell, the hide that once covered his monstrous form, dropped to the floor in heavy chunks.

The black mist that had once served in place of bone, flesh, muscle, and blood dissipated, leaving behind a husk. Save for its limbs, wings, and horns, it resembled tanned leather.

With even Salamandra and Urt gone, this was the only trace left behind.

Audin, who had been silently watching, finally spoke.

“May you find the moment you long for in the heavens.”

And then, everything that had been blocking the sky above was gone.

The ultramarine sky came into view.

It was evening.

Far off in the distance, fading sunlight gave way to two moons peeking out. The sky was cloudless and serene, radiating its usual, solemn beauty.

Enkrid looked past the fading aftermath and into Oara—beyond the ultramarine sky.

“Thank you, Enki.”

She spoke.

“You’re welcome,” Enkrid replied lightly.

Every soul that had been bound by remnants of thought or by Balrog himself ascended.

One misty light rose upward from the ground.

It was the first.

Then came dozens more, soaring into the sky. It was a breathtaking sight.

Among them, Enkrid recognized three familiar faces. The woman with the one-edged sword tilted her head between beams of light; Donapha, no longer a Dullahan but a burly old knight, stood firm; and Rino, the artifact specialist.

Rino gave a small nod.

Donapha raised his axe.

The one-edged sword woman pressed the hilt of her sword with her left hand and jerked her chin downward.

Military types to the very end—right down to the salute.

Some others simply ascended in haste. A few glanced down at Enkrid’s group, as if to express their thanks. Their gestures said enough.

“They’re all grateful,” Oara said.

Her body, too, was dissolving into a shimmering cluster of light. Should he have brought Roman here? No... if they were going that route, he should’ve brought that soldier who had a crush on Oara.

Enkrid couldn’t quite remember the name. It hovered just out of reach.

Millio—something like that.

Even as she turned to light, Oara smiled.

The same smile she’d worn when they first met.

Her smiling face didn’t change.

“If I say, ‘See you again,’ it’d probably sound like a curse, huh?”

And with that, Oara vanished into light.

Enkrid didn’t so much as flinch from the pain in his arms. His gaze swept over those who had survived the fight.

A large dent was visible on Audin’s chest. Even though Enkrid had intercepted the blow and Audin wore holy armor imbued with divinity, it had still left a mark. A constant, faint glow trickled across Audin’s entire body.

“I’m fine,” Audin said.

But it was only words. To survive, he had to circulate divinity through his entire body—even if it strained him.

Thankfully, he had a sturdy enough frame to pull it off.

Ragna was leaning on his sword, Sunrise, bracing against collapse. His eyes were half-glazed, and his muttering made it clear he was halfway to unconsciousness.

“Should’ve switched to the blade there...”

It wasn’t an immediately clear statement. Most likely, it only made sense from his perspective.

Still, hearing something like that from a man so packed with talent was rare. It sounded strange coming from him.

He wouldn’t do it for long, but Ragna was clearly replaying the fight in his head.

He must’ve caught sight of his own shortcomings in the previous battle. Even if he hadn’t been overwhelmed, he hadn’t fulfilled his role perfectly. That must’ve stung his pride.

Not that Enkrid knew the full depth of it. Truthfully, he was just as exhausted.

His skin tingled. His whole body throbbed like he’d been clubbed by dozens of giants.

“Mmh.”

Jaxon groaned and reappeared. He wasn’t exactly unscathed either. The horn-blade Enkrid had thrown had bought them time, not a shield.

The tip of Balrog’s wing had slashed across Jaxon’s chest. Even with artifact-grade armor, the gash ran deep, and blood flowed freely from the torn wound.

Of course, he didn’t just leave it alone.

He had immediately slathered on the ointment Anne had mixed using fairy secrets, then covered it with fairy leaves.

It worked as a bandage substitute, boosting natural regeneration and staunching bleeding.

Then he spread a refined poison inside the leaf to coagulate the blood—forming a membrane over the wound.

That was the extent of treatment he’d performed the moment Balrog died, leaving only his husk behind.

Honestly, if he hadn’t done that, he might’ve bled out.

Jaxon would definitely have a massive scar on his chest.

“Easy win,” he muttered dryly.

It was an offhanded remark.

Enkrid chuckled.

A trace of omnipotence still buzzed painfully in his head, and Jaxon’s comment cut through the high-strung senses left over from the fight, dulling them slightly.

Jaxon had recognized Enkrid’s state and offered a kind of half-joke.

“Everyone’s so damn weak.”

And then came Rem.

His cheeks sunken, legs dragging as he walked, barely managing to move at all.

Yet he acted like he was totally fine—and said that.

Compared to Jaxon’s “easy win,” Rem’s madness was the real deal.

“Man, if things had gotten worse, your vice captain here was ready to just, you know, chop it up with my axe. Snip snip. Mm.”

Snrk.

While Rem spoke, a nosebleed began to trickle down. There were already clear traces of blood wiped from the corner of his mouth. He wiped the rest of the blood from under his nose.

If his internal organs weren’t already throbbing like hell, he wouldn’t have been Rem.

And when Rem said something like that, there was usually a certain fairy nearby to joke about it being the "job of a life partner" or some such.

But she stood there silently, unmoving.

Her boots—woven from overlapping leaves—had crumbled, revealing her bare feet.

“Aars Pugnae,” she said—the ancient martial art of the fairies.

The name of a martial art passed down through the fairy race.

“Fairies are born with inherent vital energy. This technique doesn’t use external energy. It manipulates one’s innate life force.”

That’s why it couldn’t be used lightly. If misused, it could kill you on the spot. What Shinar had done was exactly that kind of thing.

She had exhausted the energy stored in Naidel, and the place she’d been standing was right on the edge of the Demon Realm—Balrog’s arrival had all but turned it into a dungeon.

Her options had been few.

Watch from afar, using faith as an excuse, and see everyone die?

'Or step in, even knowing it was beyond her means?'

Faced with only those two choices, Shinar chose not the long lifespan of the fairy race—but the spark.

“I won’t die, Enki.”

She didn’t call him “fiancé.” She used the shortened nickname—what close friends used.

“Shinar?”

Enkrid looked at the fairy. The light in her eyes was gradually dimming.

“When I wake again... I hope I can see you. Send me to the fairy city.”

Then Shinar collapsed. Her body folded like a felled log.

Enkrid’s arms were shattered. He couldn’t catch her—so he slipped his own body beneath hers to stop her from hitting the ground.

To keep her from falling.

Audin stepped forward to examine Shinar’s condition.

A priest who wields divinity is also a skilled physician. That’s because applying divine power starts with understanding the body. The idea that you just pour in holy light and a person heals is a misconception.

Precision was needed in every step of the process.

“She’s not dead.”

Audin spoke. A thin, drawn-out breath trickled from the corner of Shinar’s lips.

“She’ll be fine.”

Jaxon added. He, too, had a sharp sense for assessing a person’s condition. Her breathing was shallow but stable.

It resembled the state one entered after taking a paralyzing agent—something used in the assassin world to fake death.

To someone untrained, it would truly seem like she was dead.

'But she’s not.'

That much he could tell from observing her through his senses. The flame of her life wasn’t large, but it wasn’t something that would go out easily.

And indeed, that light did not go out. Which is why the fairy now found her own way to crack a joke.

“Oh, and if our wedding’s all prepared when I ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) wake up, that’d be nice.”

Shinar barely lifted her head and spoke her piece.

Wasn’t she unconscious?

Everyone was stunned.

But thinking about it, fairy breathing was naturally light and shallow. And of course, it was even more labored now—she’d exhausted her life force, after all.

No one here was breathing normally.

Even Jaxon felt something was off in the way he read Shinar’s condition, and Rem, of all people, was panting just from walking this far. Ragna was barely staying upright using Sunrise as a staff—and honestly, it looked like Rem was the one who needed that staff more.

“Surprised you, didn’t I?”

Shinar gave a faint smile. Enkrid just smiled in return.

Because yeah—he had been surprised.

The battle was over. With the ultramarine sky above, they gathered Balrog’s remains and returned to the village.

They had been in a large, open field outside the village.

Enkrid led the way, and the others followed slowly behind. And when they arrived, the survivors were there.

“No casualties.”

That was Rophod’s report upon seeing Enkrid. No one had died, but signs of a brutal battle were still everywhere.

Rophod himself had a deep gash on his left forearm. Even with divine healing and Anne’s treatment, he wouldn’t be able to hold a sword for at least two weeks. Frankly, it was lucky he hadn’t lost the arm entirely.

He was in the middle of wrapping his arm with bandages when he saw Enkrid and spoke up.

“That includes the villagers.”

Peld added to the report. Saying no one had died meant everyone here had been protected.

More precisely, they were able to protect everyone because none of the attackers had gone completely berserk.

“The Lord watched over us.”

That was Teresa’s comment.

“So? Did you have fun?”

That greeting came from Lua Gharne—missing both legs and her left arm, her right arm the only one left.

“Immensely,” Enkrid answered.

He looked around. Some people were watching him nervously—the ones who had stayed behind, the ones who’d been protected.

Those who murmured about the Demon Realm and its residents being demonic, bowing their heads.

That night, Enkrid had two dreams.

In the first dream, Oara appeared.

“Didn’t you already ascend?”

“Oh, this is just lingering attachment. The real thing. You could call it my final farewell. Honestly, you fight better than me now.”

“Is that so?”

“Sir Enkrid.”

When he silently looked at her, Oara gave him that same sly smile.

It was a dream. A lingering regret.

Just like Balrog had felt a desire to climb higher after fighting Enkrid, Oara had lingering regrets too. She had once dreamed of a life after defending her city.

'After saving it with a smile...'

She wanted to travel with a sword and look for something fun. This was that lingering feeling.

“I’ll go all-out this time.”

Oara spoke.

Since it was a dream, there were no injuries. Even if there were, the offer was tempting enough to ignore them.

Oara was gone. Truly gone. So this would be the last.

He crossed swords with her—savored her techniques.

Not just her chained blade techniques, but her very life imbued into the sword.

'Will is resolve.'

Resolve is life—and her sword extended from that life.

He studied her form. No—he recalled it.

The dream ended.

“Truly... thank you.”

Oara’s lingering will departed.

The second dream began on a wide grassland, with a blond man on horseback.

“I’ve never lost a duel,” the man said.

Hearing his voice reminded Enkrid of that damn ferryman with the nasty hobbies.