“Roman, keep fighting. Learn from battle.”

Enkrid had been teaching Roman right up until the moment of departure, and Roman, while not dejected, asked his question with a serious expression.

“Is my mental fortitude a bit lacking?”

He had been bested by the parasite and even swallowed up by armor made from Balrog hide. Whatever lofty resolve he might have, knowing one’s own condition in detail was just as valuable for training.

A weak point could be built up through discipline.

“If you keep thinking and still see something missing, figure out how to fill it.”

You create a specialty, then round yourself out like a circle, and keep repeating the process.

The broader principles can be taught, but the inner, personal part—only you can wrestle with that yourself. A man can be told which path leads to knighthood, and he can be given the structure for training and discipline, but beyond that, nothing more can be done for him.

Enkrid had understood that truth long ago. So he explained it plainly, and those nearby offered their own wholehearted advice.

“So you thought you were strong?”

Rem cut in from the side.

“One must understand one’s present state before there can be a next step, weak brother.”

Audin chimed in.

“If you’re weak, you’ll die.”

Jaxon reminded him of the cold reality.

While Ragna gave him a sidelong glance before looking away, Pell suggested a training method that involved hammering himself on the head, and Rophod countered that it would only make him dumber, advising that resolve alone wouldn’t solve everything—he should always think twice, even three times.

“Some flowers never bloom in the end.” 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

Hearing that last one from Shinar drew a dry laugh out of Roman.

Wasn’t it said that no matter what you draw, it’s only complete when you paint in the eyes?

“Did you believe you could win?”

Teresa’s final, solemn question lingered in his ears, and Roman found himself recalling their names.

“A bunch of gloriously insane bastards.”

And did that make him angry? No, it didn’t. He had watched their fights from the sidelines up until now.

So while he couldn’t respect their personalities, he could respect their skill and ideals.

Roman brushed off the teasing and gave the same farewell he had back in the city of Oara. With a thump, he planted his sword in the ground and spoke.

“My promise still stands.”

“Yeah, I haven’t forgotten.”

Enkrid answered evenly and turned away, just as the High Priest of the Cult-Extermination Order approached.

“Thanks to you, I’ve found an interesting trail.”

The shine in his eyes could only mean he had found traces of the cult. Whenever they caught a whiff of the cult, these people became like beasts starved for three days, hurling themselves into the fray without the slightest concern for their own lives.

They said that while you could cross the Pope of the Legion, you must never end up on the extermination list of the Cult-Extermination Order.

They might wear such pleasant smiles, but in truth, they were lunatics who wouldn’t hesitate to commit mass suicide if it meant cutting a cultist’s throat.

'Still, they wouldn’t fight without thinking.'

If they had, they would never have survived this long.

“There’s no shortage of reasons to stay here, now that we’ve found signs of the Red Foot cult. All of it, of course, is the Lord’s will.”

The High Priest expressed his joy, and Enkrid gave a nod. Whatever they did, they would handle their own affairs.

Then Andrew stepped forward, distilling something he’d repeated several times over the past fortnight.

“You can’t exactly say the capital feels tense, but... it’s like there’s a strange undercurrent flowing there. In any case, be careful. There’s a saying: what kills a knight isn’t the battlefield, but the knife in his back, the pillow of his lover.”

Shinar and Jaxon took up the thread.

“A lover’s place is already decided.”

“Not a chance.”

Rem, perhaps a little regretful that his injuries had kept him from helping Andrew train, insisted they meet again.

“No, that’s really not necessary.”

Andrew shook his head again and again.

Zoraslav and all the inhabitants of the Demon Realm settlement came outside to see them off.

Enkrid carried a light pack, glancing back over his shoulder. It was a drawstring sack with a tanned-leather base—another gift from them.

None of them would be riding. Andrew’s side could have lent them mounts, but they had decided that walking would be better for recovery.

“If you’re grateful, you should just say so.”

Roman said to Zoraslav. But instead of thanks, Zoraslav asked a question.

“With bodies like ours, people like us—do we have the right to live longer? To enjoy more?”

The leader of the Cult-Extermination Order weighed many things so that none of his brothers would die in vain. Anyone leading a group should do as much.

So what did the leaders here—people busy scraping by, offering sacrifices to some Red Foot or Blue Foot Apostle—consider as they lived? Was it enough just to survive? Or should they have been striving for something better?

Enkrid had seen the effort the villagers put into not dying pointlessly. He had seen them work leather, handle herbs and poisons, trying to make their lives even a little better. He had heard them sing songs of hope.

Was there anyone among them clawing for death? Anyone unwilling to live?

“If you’ve decided you want to live...”

Then you may.

If you’ve decided to sing of hope, dreams, and tomorrow—not surrender, despair, and defeat.

Then you may live.

There was no standard here for who to save and who not to. He simply followed his own heart.

And that was why Enkrid knew he was not kingly material. Standards, rules, laws—these are set by a king. A leader uses them to govern all.

He was a swordsman. A mercenary. A warrior. A knight.

So there was only one thing he could say.

“By my dawn, I swear I will protect you.”

When Enkrid spoke those words, hand gripping his sword, Zoraslav bowed his head. Then, as though his legs had given out, he fell to his knees and wept. The other villagers followed suit.

Old men, grown men, women, children—all looked at Enkrid. Even the ones too young to understand were swept along by the mood. Most of the villagers knew.

They had been struggling to live outside the bounds of humanity. That if these people decided to punish them and raised their blades, there was nothing they could do.

But there was someone who had fought purely for their sake. Someone who said he would protect them. Someone reaching out a hand to them, balancing precariously on the edge.

What do you call someone who saved you without asking for anything in return?

Instead of the slogan Demon Knight that Lua Gharne had drilled into her mind over and over, they called Enkrid the Savior of the Last War.

“Savior of the Last War.”

Most of the villagers spoke as one, calling out to him.

Zoraslav carved the name and face of his hero into his soul. If the day ever came to repay him, he would not spare his life to do it.

It wasn’t just Zoraslav who felt this way. There was a reason they had worked the Balrog’s hide to the point of exhaustion.

“Well then—”

The sky was blue with a light scatter of clouds. They hadn’t purged the entire Demon Realm, but perhaps because the Balrog was dead, the color of the heavens was clear. Maybe it was the sky’s way of saying that this border of the Demon Realm was now human land.

Sunlight slipped through the clouds and bathed the former inhabitants of the Demon Realm—or rather, the people of the Naurillia frontier.

They might still face discrimination for their violet skin, but at least for now, life would be better than before.

Enkrid thought back on the moments he’d been unable to protect and let go, but chose instead to focus on the quiet comfort of the present.

“You look like you’re in a good mood,” Shinar said.

“Can’t be a bad thing,” Jaxon added, while Rophod and Pell scratched their heads for no reason.

The villagers’ gratitude wasn’t only for Enkrid. They thanked everyone. In the middle of it, Rem and Ragna found a reason to compete.

“I put in a bit ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) more suffering than you did.”

“No, you just got lost wandering inside the Demon Realm and only showed up at the very end.”

Rem’s eyebrow twitched at Ragna’s jab.

“If I’d been in top shape, you’d be dead already, so count yourself lucky.”

“You?” Ragna replied flatly as he scanned the villagers.

“Yeah. Let’s just settle it now. Won’t take long to kill you before we leave.”

“If you’re that grateful, then dig a grave here and bury him in it for me,” Rem said to the villagers.

They didn’t actually fight—Enkrid stepped in to stop it.

“Enough.”

They had come without hesitation in their steps, and they left the same way. With their backs to the sun, the group departed, and behind them, a song mingling endings and peace lingered for a while.

Andrew knew they had slaughtered monsters, but not that they had killed the Balrog. No one had explained it to him in detail during the past two weeks, with everyone focused on rest and recovery. Lua Gharne had dropped a few hints, but even that frog wouldn’t leave Enkrid’s side.

So they didn’t know. Even the Cult-Extermination Order had only learned part of what the Mad Order had done when they discovered that the Thorn Castle—infamous even in the Demon Realm—had fallen.

The villagers simply told what they knew: monsters had come in a horde, they had all been killed, and then some cave had appeared and there had been fighting.

Andrew and the High Priest could tell something strange had happened here, but they didn’t know the whole story.

***

As soon as they left the village, Ragna tried to take the lead but found his arms caught by Rophod and Pell.

“Not that way.”

“If it’s not that way, where are you going?”

Lua Gharne stuck close to Enkrid, telling him to put into words what he had just realized.

Thinking it was about time to start training again, Enkrid said,

“We’re stopping in Naurill.”

He named the destination simply, and everyone nodded. It was no trouble to pass through on the way. It was also in line with Crang’s summons, so there was no issue. That’s how they all saw it.

“Ahem. Carry me,” Shinar said, forcing out a cough.

Anyone could tell it was fake.

“Ahem, koff, keh-lock, klok—”

Her coughs weren’t even consistent. If this was supposed to be acting, then maybe fairy culture needed to import the concept of theater. Of course, that would never happen. For fairies, who do not speak falsehoods, acting would be akin to torture.

“Can we spar instead?” Enkrid ignored the coughing and focused on her earlier display of martial arts.

She had called it Aars Pugnae—a fairy style of unarmed combat. He could forget other things, but never something that struck at his core interests.

At his question, Shinar arched both brows and narrowed her eyes, plainly offended.

“I ask to be carried and you suggest a spar?”

She kept at it, pestering him.

“Carry me.”

It was the sort of thing a four-year-old might do, not a four-hundred-year-old. And even a tolerant man had his limits. This was excessive.

“What, should I carry you then?” Rem asked, unable to watch any longer.

“I refuse.”

Fairies, unable to lie, shook their heads decisively.

“Like I wanted to in the first place,” Rem muttered irritably, his slower recovery making him more short-tempered.

“Well then, shall I do it?”

“I refuse.” Shinar turned down Audin just as firmly. Meeting Teresa’s eyes, she shook her head again.

A breeze blew, scattering her golden hair, giving her the look of a wise sage—like one gently telling seekers of truth that they were wrong. Of course, the real message was simply that she didn’t want to be carried by anyone but Enkrid.

“Your back won’t wear out—just carry her,” Rophod said. He was always the one to find the quickest route, so it was only natural for him to suggest the most efficient solution.

Enkrid’s arms weren’t fully healed, but his legs were fine—he’d proved as much when he subdued Roman. So he carried her and walked on. He was still in armor, which remained light as air to him.

From her perch, smelling faintly of grass, Shinar said,

“This time I was first.”

First? The answer came to him instantly, without thought—he remembered holding Esther first, once. Shinar must have remembered too, and now she was pleased to have been carried before anyone else.

Enkrid didn’t dwell on it.

His mind had already shifted back to swordsmanship.

He walked in silence, training in his head. The others, realizing what he was doing, let him be. It was a good time for all of them to reflect on what they’d learned this time.

“Feels good,” Shinar would say now and then.

And so they made their way toward Naurill. Any monsters or beasts they encountered were swiftly handled by Rophod, Pell, and Teresa. Shinar sometimes walked, sometimes rode on his back.

By the time they arrived in Naurill, they hadn’t yet heard that he had slain the Balrog—but word had already spread that they had drawn monsters out of the Demon Realm and slaughtered them.

Andrew and the High Priest had been sending people here and there for supplies and other requests, and the story had traveled fast.

After all, word always travels faster than feet.

“Monster Butcher.”

The guard at the city gate spoke the rumor aloud.

It was Enkrid’s new title.