The Apostle did not repeat himself.
Instead, he gripped his staff with his right hand and stretched out his left.
To Pel, the gesture looked bizarre.
Thumb, middle, and ring finger pressed together, then spread, then waved, ending with index and little finger extended, the rest closed.
With each odd motion, incomprehensible words spilled from his mouth.
At the end, a droplet of black liquid fell from his fingertip.
And then, from his lips came words they could understand:
"Dog of Huarin."
Luagarne had seen this spell before, when facing cultists.
The black liquid swelled and took shape, hitting the ground on four legs.
Grrruhh—
It shook its head and loosed a growl.
Black vapor seeped from its jaws, rising above its head.
The spells of an Apostle of Advent could not be compared to those of mere cultists.
One look was enough—this was no trivial hound.
"Bite them to death."
At his command, the Huarin Hound joined the fray.
It kicked off the ground with a thud, turning into a black blur as it lunged.
Sensing the threat at his back, Enkrid twisted aside and smashed his elbow into its snout.
Crack!
With a crisp impact, the beast was hurled back, hitting the ground spine-first.
Yet even from that blow, it rose without a whimper, shaking its head and baring its fangs again.
Not deadly—but troublesome.
The Apostle did not relent, chanting spell after spell:
"There lies your body—take it!"
"There stands the one who slew your mother!"
"Hear my prayer, leave the stigmata upon that man's flesh!"
In that window, Enkrid drove his sword straight through, splitting the Huarin Hound in two.
Cut, not struck—the beast dissolved to ash and scattered.
But in that instant, the vampire's claw fell from above.
Enkrid struck it away—with his fist.
Boom!
A detonation burst outward, air and pressure rippling violently.
Ash of the slain hound swirled into the gust and scattered skyward.
Fuuuaaahhh!
The wind blew hot—as though infused with the heat of the Red Moon.
It was unavoidable. Sword clashed against sword, spells and force colliding without pause.
Even though it was winter, even though it was night, heat seared the battlefield.
Sparks burst. Explosions echoed.
What should have been a quiet night had become a festival.
A festival where blood was wine, flesh was bread, and bones were cups.
And now, from Enkrid's blade flowed a pale-blue light—akin to moonlight.
Against the crimson moon, his blade's azure brilliance clashed endlessly with the black serpentine whip of Ele's sword and the blood-red sorcery of the vampire.
Three colors warred in the air.
It recalled that time—
When Oara fought the Balrog.
Though Enkrid, standing at the center, scattered pale light with every swing.
Unlike then, no one could simply watch.
The Huarin Hound was slain by his cut.
Then, the wraiths that had emerged under the Red Moon were pierced and scattered by that same pale-blue radiance.
No spirit survived a single stroke.
And even if they could not be cut in one blow—somehow, Enkrid would have destroyed them anyway.
It was clear.
He had no breath left for words. His sword alone spoke.
The Apostle too stopped wasting words on him—chanting instead, weaving necromancy without pause.
Unseen before, unspoken spells poured from his lips.
Dark forms took shape in the air—phantoms with swords, black masses hurling themselves forward.
Pel, Luagarne, and Zero did not remain idle.
Each drew their weapon.
Luagarne's cheeks puffed wide.
The sight of cultists always brought her dead lover to mind.
They were enemies. Always would be.
Even if her hatred had dulled, she could never see cultists and smile.
And more—these were people who sought to turn the world into a Demon Realm where devils roamed free.
How could anyone accept that? To agree with them meant something broken in the head.
"You damned cult bastards."
Luagarne gripped her Loop Sword in one hand, a whip in the other.
Slaaap!
Her whip cracked the ground, sparks rising.
Pel too drew the Idol-Slayer, bracing his stance.
Zero retreated back, uncertain.
Should he join? He feared he'd only be in the way.
But he did not want to run.
All his life he had fled.
If lack of skill means I should always retreat, I'll never truly fight.
In Enkrid, his idol, Zero saw a man who fought his limits all his life.
His fairy senses told him—this was his essence.
Zero wanted to be like him.
Even if he could do nothing now.
So he kept silent.
But inside, he swore—
If he lived, he would train until death itself, even if he only had a brief stay in the Celestial Flower Fields before.
That was where fairies went in death—like heaven.
A place where sweet fragrance filled the air without ever cloying.
While Zero steeled himself, Pel's eyes fixed on the Apostle.
Truthfully, he was ready to charge if pushed—but saw no opening.
The Apostle's temple vein bulged as he chanted without end.
No gap. Should I still force it?
He shifted subtly, resolved—
And the Apostle's eyes flicked toward him.
Was it instinct? Or honed perception? Either way, it didn't matter.
The Apostle continued his incantation.
"Huarin's Hunt."
He shook his staff.
From its tip, black liquid dropped and swelled into a dozen beasts.
Not just hounds—but horses too.
Pel tightened his grip. It was time to adjust his thinking.
I need to ease the burden.
Left unchecked, the Apostle would drown Enkrid in spells.
So—he had to divide their focus.
Even as he thought it, the Apostle cast again:
"Arise, Death Warrior."
This man had once been called "Collector of Spells," for he had mastered a hundred incantations.
How vast was the gulf between him and sorcerers like Galraph, who could grasp entire rivers with their will?
No one here could judge—Esther was wasn't here.
But one thing was clear.
This Apostle alone was enough to fight all present.
"Do you think this meeting is chance? No. I waited for this day. I'll kill you all here and rain despair upon the Border Guard. Already, I have sent my troops to the city you once lived in. Tell me—did you not hear me before? Then I will say it again, as many times as it takes."
His fury boiled over.
Pel stared at the black mist forming a pale-skinned warrior.
It carried a broad sword, with black eyes.
Was this monster not also a demon?
Necromancy called them Death Warriors—strong enough to fight junior knights.
Above them stood the Death Knights.
But neither could be summoned easily.
Unless the caster offered their own flesh to a god, a warrior's or knight's corpse was required.
This Apostle could summon fifteen such warriors.
Pel did not know that.
But he knew what he had to do.
When the Apostle's gaze turned toward him with a chant, Enkrid also glanced his way.
If things went on, they would not be allies, but burdens.
Geniuses—you bastards, I'll catch up no matter what.
Pel's resolve matched Zero's, but was his own.
He knew what to do—support Enkrid, who was facing knights and spells all at once.
There was no time to waste.
He steadied his breath, facing his foe.
The black warrior lifted its sword skyward, legs braced.
Thick arms, heavy stance. The weapon seemed light in its grip.
It would be a gamble.
Lawford, you bastard, you've forced me into gambles a hundred times before.
Pel had grown. Beaten down by Enkrid, too, he had learned more than provocation.
The warrior's blade fell, diagonal and clean. No opening. Its force flowed from foot to thigh—a master's stroke.
Enough to cleave him.
Then Pel moved.
Left foot lunged, his sword rising upward.
No motion wasted. Not a finger, not a toe left idle. All poured into this one strike.
Just as Enkrid had stolen Pel's talents, Pel too had stolen from Enkrid—his signature All-Out Slash.
Pel's sword split the Death Warrior from belly to skull.
Its own sword cut nothing but air.
Pel stopped in his forward stride, blade raised high.
In that moment, the crimson moon seemed split in his wake.
No mere master could play in this arena.
His sword declared as much.
Breathing deep, he saw the Apostle—lips pressed thin.
Would he again demand they listen?
Pel said nothing. Only raised his blade.
"Mormon."
The Apostle spoke.
At his word, another of his followers stepped forth—wrists and ankles bound with cords.
Pel expected to be targeted—
Another one?
But no.
The man walked toward Enkrid.
Every step rang heavy.
Pel didn't know why—but he felt it. This man was dangerous.
If he came for me, I couldn't handle it.
And now, there were three.
All three were aimed at Enkrid.
Could he handle it?
"Very well. Then we shall watch. But our hands cannot be idle. Come forth, Sham."
The Apostle summoned four more Death Warriors—
One each for Luagarne and Zero, two for Pel.
And then eleven more, all toward Enkrid.
Not all equal in craft—but even the weakest were like half-knights.
Corpses, but enough to serve as shields, distractions, to bind his hands and feet.
Three knight-level foes. Spells unending. And a tide of Death Warriors.
"Shouldn't we call for reinforcements?"
Pel muttered.
Had they been too careless?
Should they have expected the Apostle to unleash everything here?
Did Krais miss this?
If so—they would all die.
The Apostle's gaze made flight impossible.
Three knights at once…
Pel realized again—this was a different playing field.
Black Serpent Ele.
The vampire.
And now, this martial artist—knight-class as well.
The last one clenched his fist, charging.
Where the others fought with strange tricks, this one fought straight, orthodox.
Now with two Death Warriors on him, Pel could no longer put everything into a single strike. He had to buy time.
Luagarne fought while shielding Zero.
Hatred of cultists was one thing—but she would not kill an ally to vent it.
She too had learned from Enkrid—
How to protect.
Zero's face was grim. He knew he was dead weight.
Frustration burned—but he had no strength.
So he stayed quiet, wielding his twin blades as best he could.
If Enkrid fell—they all would.
It was only a matter of time.
The balance, precarious, would soon collapse.
And yet—they endured.
Somehow.
Was it the scales of the goddess of justice that favored them?
Or the goddess of fortune?
"Ah, damn me."
Luagarne muttered, startled.
Pel too felt the same, even as he fought his two foes.
He glanced at Enkrid's battle—and wondered.
What is this?
He could not understand.
For in that instant—
Enkrid's blade cleaved the vampire apart.
Kkkkrrraaaaahhh!
Pale-blue light crossed his body three times.
The Red Moon should have granted the vampire great strength.
He alone should have matched Enkrid.
Yet his limbs were severed, rolling across the ground.
Am I dreaming?
The Apostle thought so.