They first treated the hide with salt and the juice of a special blue berry that only grew in this region, crushing it into a preservative paste. After that, they soaked the leather in a black liquid made by mixing various herbs and poisonous plants. This was the softening process.

Once the leather was supple, they coated it with a special oil used only by the residents of the Demon Realm.

“We mix animal fat and brain matter, and to mask the smell, we add fruit peels, torreya nuts, and other ingredients.”

Naturally, the brains and fat of demons and demonic beasts were also used. Among them, that of the Giant Boar, a massive boar-type monster, was considered excellent.

But such high-quality fat was rare, and even when obtained, it had to be refined and aged for at least ten years before it was usable.

Led by the village chief and commander, Zoraslav, everyone rolled up their sleeves and joined in.

The village’s most precious medicinal herbs and rarest materials were all used.

That didn’t mean they threw things in haphazardly. They treated the leather delicately, gauging its reaction to each ingredient—so precise that it reminded one of Aitri at his forge.

For a full fifteen days, they worked the leather. Then, four of the most skilled women in the village—those with the best hands—began sewing.

They wove, stitched, shaped.

Among them, one sharp-eyed woman visited Enkrid often.

She was careful in her manner, but when it came to touching his body and taking his measurements, she showed no hesitation.

Will.

Again, Aitri came to mind—a craftsman utterly devoted to his work. This woman was the same.

Most of the Demon Realm’s residents had decent handiwork, but she was exceptional even among them.

Her fingertips, stained blue, worked with cautious boldness as she measured and gauged the expansion of his muscles.

Even those who weren’t knights but merely first-class warriors would see their muscles swell in battle. She seemed to understand this instinctively.

“You’re skilled.”

“You flatter me.”

She spoke, but her eyes and hands never stopped. This was a woman with rare skill.

That sort of talent didn’t appear out of nowhere. And after observing them for half a month, Enkrid had noticed something without even trying.

These people hunted to survive, tanned hides, crafted leather goods, and also farmed.

'Of those skills, leather was likely the most special.'

More precisely, tanning and leatherworking were probably the only crafts that had real trade value. That would explain why the quality of their clothing was so high.

'If they wanted to barter, the leather had to be of excellent quality and condition.'

Even if only once in a while, merchants would pass through, and leather was the only thing they could reliably trade.

And the goods those rare merchants brought were naturally valuable to the villagers. No matter how self-sufficient they were, there were things they could not provide for themselves.

So, in this self-reliant society, some must have devoted themselves to leathercraft. From among them, a few would have become true masters.

Perhaps it was the recent events that had refined their craft... or perhaps it was simply the result of experience showing them the way.

After every battle, there was always something to gain—a reward in the form of lessons learned, skills refined, and experience etched into the body.

Enkrid’s thinking had broadened. He had broken the frame of having to fight alone.

Maybe that was why.

In truth, the reason didn’t matter. He simply let his thoughts flow.

'If you define “battle” more broadly, it doesn’t have to mean crossing blades.'

The residents of the Demon Realm fought to survive. They fought against unjust violence, against the plundering of the Demon Realm, against the threats of monsters.

They lowered their stance, found what they could do, and struggled on.

'What they gained by staking their lives to survive in this land...'

That was the skill of leathercraft—and perhaps why Enkrid sensed a faint trace of Will in these artisans.

In them, he saw a reflection of his past self. Of course, not everything was the same. It simply reminded him of those days when he had struggled.

Because that time had existed, he now existed. Because the past existed, there was a today. And only with today could one head toward tomorrow.

It was simple logic, but it struck him anew.

In any case, they had tanned and worked the Balrog’s hide that Enkrid had brought, crafting it into a thin leather armor that clung perfectly to the body.

Its color was pitch black, but when it caught the light, a sleek sheen revealed the uniqueness of its material.

This was the item Zoraslav had brought, tightly wrapped in cloth. Shff—the cloth fell away, revealing the armor.

“Ominous.”

Shinar said with a faint shake of her head as soon as she saw it. She still couldn’t run without difficulty.

Beside her, Rem—who had been getting nosebleeds every other day—also furrowed his brow.

“Is that thing safe?”

At that, Jaxon stepped forward. When it came to handling artifacts or spell-objects, there was no one more capable than Jaxon.

“Not good.”

He pressed a broken finger—the one twisted while dodging Balrog’s wing—against the leather and tested it.

“Lord...”

Audin reflexively called upon his divine power. Small motes of light, like fireflies, gently swirled around his body. He still couldn’t summon his full power without strain, so this was the best he could manage for now.

He’d been using his divine power daily for healing—on Enkrid’s arm, and on others.

Ragna just stared blankly.

'What is that?'

His expression said it all—why get involved in something that had nothing to do with him?

In truth, his attention was focused on something else entirely.

The Demon Realm villagers simply bowed their heads. They had seen dozens of people working day and night for fifteen days to make this.

And yet, the gift they brought overflowed with foreboding. Even the makers hadn’t expected this.

After Jaxon, Rem placed his hand on the leather. His body was a wreck, his senses dulled, but assessing an object like this was hardly difficult. It was just a matter of brushing its energy using basic sorcery.

Still—his nose started bleeding again.

Srrk.

Wiping the blood on his sleeve, Rem spoke.

“It’s full of lingering thoughts.”

Jaxon examined the leather armor more closely, then gave his verdict.

“The lingering will in this Balrog hide—the will of the Demon of Strife—will stir changes in the wearer’s mind. The desire to fight will surge uncontrollably.”

“You should purify it.”

Audin offered, but Jaxon shook his head.

“Those lingering thoughts are what give this leather armor its uniqueness.”

He drew a dagger and slashed it in a smooth, almost invisible motion, leaving a mark across the armor’s surface. It was hard to believe the move had come from someone with a broken finger.

“It won’t just stop a blade—it won’t even transmit the impact inside.”

He pressed his palm inside the leather armor and drew the blade across the outside as he spoke.

“Again.”

This time, Jaxon infused the blade with his Will—manifesting that intangible power along the edge.

Whether he’d always been able to do it, or had only recently reached this level, Enkrid didn’t know. But Jaxon now performed Will-materialization effortlessly.

It was natural—without that ability, he wouldn’t have been able to shatter Balrog’s crystal.

Balrog had fought with layers of Will-forged iron armor encasing his crystal. He had probably even achieved Endure.

Just as you can guess the process from the result, seeing what Jaxon had done made it clear.

In any case, this leather armor was based on Balrog’s own specialty. So “durable” didn’t even begin to cover it—it was extremely tough.

And yet, it wasn’t stiff. It was soft to the touch and had plenty of elasticity.

Even so, Jaxon pushed his Will into the blade and slashed the armor—overexerting himself to the point of dizziness.

'Rrrip.'

“Which means... an ordinary cut won’t pierce it.”

He handed the armor over. Even a Will-infused slash had only left a deeper mark—it hadn’t cut through.

“Pathfinder, try it.”

He tossed the armor lightly into the air.

Ragna’s body wasn’t fully healed yet, but one swing of the sword should be no problem for him.

'Thunk.'

But the leather armor fell limply to the ground.

“Orders?”

Ragna asked in a calm voice. The implication: 'Just because you tell me to, do I have to?' He remained seated, not moving a finger.

Ah, right—he wasn’t the type to listen just because you said so.

Jaxon, unfazed, picked the armor back up, dusted it off, and said,

“Even if it’s cut, it’ll regenerate. That’s how artifacts of this type usually work.”

Enkrid’s gaze turned to Ragna.

“Fine.”

Ragna replied and stood up. Jaxon tossed the armor again, and Sunrise was drawn.

Ting.

Born in the east, a blade that dominated half the world and devoured darkness. The blazing-hot edge flashed out, sliced across the armor, and slid back into its scabbard—an unsheathing and resheathing so clean that even a knight would have nodded in approval.

It was almost like answering the display Jaxon had shown earlier with his dagger.

Not that anyone actually nodded in admiration.

“Bit over the top, you bastard,”

Rem muttered.

A thin red heat-line appeared across the middle of the armor. It had been cut. But as Jaxon had said, the leather crawled together like living flesh, knitting itself back together.

The process was plain to see.

Of course, Ragna wasn’t an idiot—he’d only cut the surface layer. And to add another point—

“If I’d gone all in, I’d have cut it clean.”

He said this as a reply to Rem’s comment.

In truth, he’d gained much from the battle with Balrog. It was enough to make him want to start swinging his sword for training right now.

Only the certainty that overexerting himself would delay his recovery kept him still.

Even their commander, Enkrid, was hunched up, restraining himself. Seeing him, Ragna felt that resisting this urge was nothing special.

'The commander’s holding back too.'

That maniac for training wasn’t even doing his morning warm-ups. It was an example—almost like he was preaching the importance of recovery and rest.

Seeing him rest was more useful than hearing a hundred lectures.

Of course, Enkrid was just surprised Ragna had any interest in training at all. For a moment, he wondered if Ragna had somehow gotten the idea he was terminally ill again—but no. That lazy, directionless man’s lover might not be the best on the continent, but within Border Guard she was the top healer. There was no chance he’d make that mistake twice.

“The real question is how much it will affect the wearer.”

Shinar concluded. There was no need to prove further that it was an extraordinary item—cursed equipment, without a doubt. Calling it “demon armor” wouldn’t be wrong.

“Seems we’ve done something unnecessary.”

Zoraslav said hesitantly. He didn’t understand half of what they were doing, but from the way things looked, that seemed the right thing to say.

They had crafted it with their utmost skill—only for it to turn into armor not unlike a cursed sword, affecting its wearer’s mind and wearing them down.

In truth, neither Zoraslav nor his people were at fault. They had simply done their best work.

“I’m grateful, though.”

Enkrid said. And he meant it. One look was enough to see this was no ordinary item. The special properties of Balrog’s hide, combined with the experience and lives of the Demon Realm’s residents, had created something truly exceptional.

“I’ll try it on.”

Roman, unusually resolute, stepped forward before anyone could stop him. In truth, no one did stop him.

Even if he went half-mad wearing it, they could subdue him easily enough, and even if not, they had ways to handle it.

The leather was stretchy, soft to the touch, and easy to put on or take off. It was a pullover style with no fastenings, so Roman shoved his head through.

“Hm. Not bad.”

His hand naturally settled on the grip of his greatsword. Though his tone was casual and calm, the veins in his forearm bulged.

Just before the sword left its sheath, Enkrid raised his foot and pressed the pommel down with the sole.

“Mmf.”

Roman put strength into it, but it was useless. Then, in the next moment, he swung his other fist into Enkrid’s calf.

Thwack!

It made a loud noise, but Enkrid’s foot atop the pommel didn’t budge.

Though Audin and Teresa had been channeling divine power into his arms daily, they weren’t fully healed yet. That was why he used his foot.

This was the foundation of Extinguishing Embers, a technique he’d learned in the fight against Balrog. Despite Roman’s words, Enkrid had sensed the change in his energy and cut the attack off at the start.

“Ohh.”

Rem murmured in appreciation.

Ragna’s eyes widened slightly.

Jaxon twitched a finger as if intrigued.

“That’s it.”

But the one most impressed was, naturally, Lua Gharne.

Though she hadn’t fully recovered all her limbs, eating various insects here had regenerated her legs enough to walk. Her muscles weren’t fully restored, so she couldn’t fight yet, but walking for a bit was fine. Her tongue had never been injured, so she could still talk just fine.

She had recognized the subtlety of Enkrid’s move. She, too, had gained much from the last battle, and with Frokk’s keen eye, she could appreciate what she saw.

“Uwooo!”

After that, Roman lunged, drooling, and Rophod, Pell, and Teresa subdued him and pulled the armor off.

“Huff... why...”

Controlling one’s impulses—at a knight’s level, you could endure for a while, but putting it on and taking it off wouldn’t be easy.

“Impulse control is essential. The more you desire, the harder it’ll be.”

Jaxon said.

Seeing Roman’s frenzy, Zoraslav bowed even lower. He couldn’t have known it would turn out this way, so it wasn’t his fault.

Enkrid picked up the armor, thinking, and put it on.

“If you can’t control it, you’ll have to take it off.”

Jaxon added as Enkrid slid into the armor. It went on smoothly and clung to him perfectly—it had been made to his measurements from the start.

Though it was elastic, on Roman it had looked like a child wearing clothes too small; on Enkrid, it fit flawlessly.

Over the thin undergarment, the armor suited him perfectly.

You could almost call it a dress uniform for the battlefield. It even matched his hair color and texture, enhancing the fit.

The subtle sheen, like velvet, set it apart from the ordinary and hinted at its extraordinariness.

“Hm.”

Enkrid stood there in the armor. The others rested their hands—casually—on their weapons.

Back in their troublemaker squad days, someone could have just stepped forward and knocked him out, but things were different now. Unless they meant to take off a limb, they’d all have to pile on to subdue him.

Tension lingered in the air, but Enkrid felt no trace of the armor’s lingering will at all.

'Why?'

He wondered, but no one ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) knew the answer.

“Well, that fits perfectly.”

Rem’s words brought the matter to a close.