Chapter 308
When mages duel, they say they open their [Worlds of Magic].
The spells stored within each world are their weapons.
Galaf drew the rivers within his world.
“Crush her.”
A staff appeared in his hand. From the white gem at its tip, a torrent burst forth.
The water massed into a giant sphere, then broke apart into countless cannonball-sized drops that launched forward.
“You think you can beat me while still cursed? Foolish!”
Galaf shouted as he fired his water bombardment.
Even before he finished, Esther’s fingers had already formed a seal.
She showed no emotion—only her magic.
Whoosh!
As her hand movements ended, flames rose in her eyes, and a fireball burst forth toward her target.
Two spells of opposing elements collided midair.
Boom!
A loud explosion, followed by a hiss as steam billowed out.
The fireball vanished, while the mass of water veered off course and slammed into the ground.
Thud!
The earth dented deeply, and thick steam enveloped the area, clouding everything like fog.
Even so, the two mages didn’t lose sight of each other.
They didn’t need their eyes—the flow of mana guided them.
“Stupid wench!”
Hearing it again, she couldn’t help but feel defiant.
Esther decided what words she’d say when she killed him.
But now wasn’t the time to speak them.
While shouting, Galaf secretly sent two of his disciples to flank behind her.
He’d kept those two back while sending the rest to complete “the task.”
The two weren’t great mages but skilled swordsmen.
‘Stupid wench.’
Galaf muttered the same words inwardly as he continued chanting spells.
The two disciples crept through the fog.
The steam cloaked their presence—Esther would not sense them.
They hadn’t yet formed their own [Worlds of Magic], so their mana wouldn’t register in her senses.
They quietly advanced through the mist.
One tightened his grip on his sword, scanning for her silhouette.
The instant he spotted movement—something suddenly came flying toward him.
Crack!
The first disciple’s vision went black.
Something had wrapped around his face, and a crushing pressure gripped his skull.
“Ghhk!”
“You bitch!”
The other disciple drew his sword and stabbed forward.
Clang!
Ting!
“Ugh!”
It was like stabbing a boulder.
The sword bounced off, and pain numbed his hand.
Then—snap!
A massive hand shot out of the mist and seized his throat.
He reflexively clawed at the grip, but it was useless.
Even steel couldn’t resist that hand.
“Khk!”
Both disciples hung in the air, strangled before they could scream.
Their legs kicked, but the grip didn’t loosen.
One’s face turned purple, his lips darkening until his tongue lolled out limply.
Meanwhile, Esther calmly recited another spell.
“[Scythe of Dmüller].”
The same vacuum-slicing magic cut through the air, clearing the mist around her.
“The same trick!”
Galaf countered again.
A blue barrier rose to block the invisible blade, then scattered.
And then he saw it—the figure standing silently before Esther.
“A golem?”
It looked far too human to be an ordinary golem—a monstrous being shaped like a man.
Behind it lay his two disciples.
One dead with his tongue out; the other bleeding from his eyes, ears, and nose, his face crushed out of shape.
“Summoned?”
“Picked him up along the way.”
Esther’s face was expressionless as always.
Galaf ground his teeth.
There was no way he could lose to someone who couldn’t even open half her [World of Magic].
But Esther found him laughable.
After all, why was she called the Witch of Strife?
Because she fought well.
Her world began with battle—with struggle.
“Ah, it’s been a while.”
A worthy opponent.
She would have to remain in panther form for over a month after this, but it was a small price for such amusement.
—
Smack!
When they came close, he struck.
When they backed away, he advanced and struck again.
Encrid alone was a siege engine tearing down the wall of enemy soldiers.
He truly embodied that power.
Some of the enemy began to back away in fear.
“Don’t fall back!”
A commander drew his sword from behind.
Retreat meant death by one’s own allies.
The soldiers braced themselves and pressed forward.
Watching their reactions, Encrid thought—as always—about swordsmanship.
About how to swing, how to fight.
‘Commander Sinar built her sword style around reacting to me.’
Why?
Because she used what the moment demanded.
Then what should he do now?
He replayed his techniques, reflected, absorbed.
It was routine.
Immersed in thought, he swung his sword again—
Whish—
A killing intent brushed his chest before the wind did.
Encrid pulled his sword back.
He shifted into the defensive stance of the [Proper Sword Style].
Right foot behind the left, body twisting aside, blade raised to guard his center.
Clang!
A perfect response.
The enemy’s blade struck the middle of his steel sword.
Had he been a moment slower, he would’ve been carved apart.
The attacker withdrew, stance steady.
He was short—his forehead barely reached Encrid’s chin. No helmet, sturdy build, large feet.
A quick glance told Encrid all he needed.
‘An explosive, charge-based attacker.’
In sword classifications: [Swift Sword]—fast and precise strikes.
From the southern tongues, it was called [Proper Heavy Recovery];
in the continental tongue: Straight Sword, Heavy Sword, Deceptive Sword, Fast Sword, Soft Sword.
Five broad categories—mixed footwork and timing birthed countless hybrids.
This man’s style was exactly that: fast feet, faster hands.
The man bounced lightly in place, then lunged.
Lightning-like movement.
He swung a curved blade resembling a scimitar—one wrong move and it would slice anything it touched.
Encrid stepped back, moving lightly.
Clang! Clang-clang! Clang!
Two, three, four, five—he parried each strike, yet the enemy never stopped.
No heavy breathing, no pause in rhythm.
It was as if he could swing forever.
Encrid didn’t mind.
He was slower than Lykanos.
After deflecting nine strikes and stepping back ten paces, Encrid switched grips—one-handed now, intending to deflect rather than block.
The enemy feinted a heavy swing, then abruptly dropped low, bending his knees.
Encrid left his right hand steady while his left reached for the sword on his belt.
The blade named ‘Blazeblade’—so light it was difficult to control, yet perfect for a single thrust.
The man vanished from sight—no footstep, no sound.
Then suddenly, he was above him.
Aerial slash—his downward strike carried both speed and weight, half a beat faster than before.
It was his gambit.
Encrid didn’t step back.
He moved his left hand.
The downward slash and his upward thrust crossed paths diagonally.
Fssh!
The curved blade grazed his chest—but failed to cut flesh.
It lacked the final ounce of power.
“Y-you’re faster than me?”
The man’s sword had pierced Encrid’s chest armor, halting his motion.
The blow had ended there.
His leather and gambeson layers were sliced, but the inner armor held firm.
The armor he’d taken when saving Big Eyes had proven its worth.
The man fell to the ground, gasping, a hole in his chest.
“Been sparring with someone even faster lately,” Encrid said to the dying man.
The enemy blinked a few times, then stopped breathing.
A clean death.
It was remarkable he’d spoken at all with a pierced heart.
Encrid swung his sword through the air, flicking off the blood.
His chest throbbed faintly from the blow.
The leather armor bore a deep gash, but his bandaged undersuit was uncut.
The bone ache told him how strong that strike had been.
He didn’t know who the man was—but the Azpen command did.
That had been Janus the Quick Hand, one of Azpen’s top mercenaries.
His lightning-fast strikes had haunted many before, but that nightmare ended here.
“Let’s finish this.”
Encrid advanced again.
Among those watching from behind, one soldier couldn’t take his eyes off him—
the same one who’d spent all day whining.
‘I’m an idiot.’
He fought disgustingly well.
Disgustingly well.
Far beyond what words could capture.
The enemies weren’t straw dolls or rotting wood, yet they fell like them.
‘And I said that to him?’
It was Helma’s fault—
he’d fancied her, and seeing her so fixated on Encrid made him jealous.
It stung.
It was humiliating.
He wanted to crawl into a hole.
He remembered what he’d said—
“Tch, go to the front if you’re so confident.”
“Do you even know how to fight?”
He’d mocked him more than once.
And that guy—he’d just been eating grilled eel beside them.
“Damn it.”
The soldier turned his shame into fury.
“Kill them all!”
His madness spread.
Encrid’s rampage had driven every soldier into a frenzy.
“Come on, then!”
Helma shouted too.
The enemy lines broke.
Azpen’s troops had the numbers and equipment, but their morale shattered.
With Encrid alone, the balance tilted in Naurilia’s favor.
Yet something felt off.
The enemy’s movements were strange—
they fought, but as if following some hidden pattern.
If one looked from above, the battlefield would’ve seemed oddly shaped.
Encrid pressed forward while the enemy retreated, yet their lines subtly reformed as they fell back, gradually separating Encrid from his allies.
No one noticed the danger.
Victory seemed certain.
A battle nearly won.
Encrid kept advancing.
After Janus, two more famed mercenaries fell, then a knight of the Hurrier family.
“My name is Joy Hurrier!”
He declared before falling after seven exchanges.
“Monster!”
The enemy’s cry was a confession of defeat.
At this point, no one could imagine Naurilia losing.
But within the Azpen ranks, something moved.
Their reformed formation slowly closed around Encrid.
Watching from afar, Avnaier whispered—
‘A little closer. Just a little more.’
The front was flat plains; behind, uneven hills.
To the sides lay a river valley and a forest.
Avnaier had accounted for them all.
—
Krys intercepted the flanking troops.
Saving Sinar and Dunbakel as his trump cards had paid off.
“We’ve stopped them!”
Nurat ran up, shouting.
Krys clenched his fist quietly.
Good.
Even a stalemate was fine now.
Yet the enemy kept fighting.
No signs of retreat.
It was madness.
‘All night? They want to fight all night?’
That would only destroy both sides—especially Azpen.
One more day of this, and they’d be crippled.
Still, they didn’t fall back.
And Naurilia couldn’t withdraw first either.
It was a winning fight.
A sure win.
‘What are they planning…?’
Even in victory, Krys’s expression darkened.
—
“Block him with your bodies.”
Some of the Gray Dogs pulled back, circling behind Encrid.
Relentless to the end.
“Don’t stop until he’s done.”
Crazy bastards.
Encrid thought so as he swung again.
He was pulling back when it happened.
Azpen’s army clung to life through sheer numbers and death.
If the battle dragged on another day, victory would’ve been Naurilia’s.
But they refused to yield.
It wasn’t just the Gray Dogs now.
All around, the enemy’s eyes had changed—mad, desperate.
“Kill him!”
“Kill!”
Encrid didn’t know.
Some fought with their families held hostage.
Others were criminals promised freedom.
They were men trading their futures for this one moment.
Survive, and your sins are forgiven.
Survive, and your family earns Krongs.
Kill one man—and earn more wealth than you could dream of.
It was a suicide squad lured by reward.
At first, they’d wanted to flee after facing him once.
But they couldn’t.
“Anyone who retreats—kill them!”
Those who stepped back were immediately skewered or shot by their own allies.
A penal unit.
A force that slaughtered deserters without hesitation.
If you wanted to live, you had to move forward.
And they did.
The air turned grim.
Encrid kept fighting, cutting, killing—
but he couldn’t break free.
“My name is Dolche Hurrier!”
Another Hurrier knight fell upon him.
Mercenaries followed, throwing their bodies into his path.
Encrid’s muscles began to tremble.
Even his strength couldn’t tear through a wall of men this thick.
Meanwhile, Naurilia’s main force tried to push forward, but Azpen resisted with suicidal fury.
And then—it happened.
Encrid was isolated.
For three reasons.
First, the enemy’s willingness to sacrifice.
“Damn it, what is this?”
Krys was the first to realize it.
They’d thrown away hundreds of lives just to cut Encrid off.
The Gray Dogs had charged the Border Guards’ elite head-on in hopeless terrain,
all to sever Encrid from his allies.
Second, the enemy’s resolve.
It was Avnaier’s resolve.
Even dying, his soldiers clung to Encrid’s limbs, holding him down.
Their death grip created an unbreakable wall.
Third, terrain, formation, and preparation.
Avnaier had planned everything.
Even rituals were woven into the battlefield itself.
When Encrid tried to cut through and return, he found himself lost.
A spell had twisted the terrain, though no one noticed.
It made sense—these traps had been laid slowly, deliberately, as Azpen advanced.
All of it to capture a handful of people.
Some were men. Others were formations built like those called [Magic Arrays] in the far east and south.
Even looking up, Encrid couldn’t find his way.
The spell blocked the starlight above.
By the time he realized it, night had fallen.
And amid the thickets between the hills—Encrid was trapped.
From his camp, Avnaier declared:
“Got him.”