"I invoke the power of Red Foot."
The Witch muttered the same phrase five times in a row. All the while, her eyes kept darting back and forth.
Both of those Swordsmen were too threatening for her. Was she going to die here, just like her already dead twin? No, she couldn't let that happen.
She refused to meet the same end.
Memories of the days when they were called the Twin Witches briefly surfaced in her mind, but she forced them away and concentrated on reciting the spell.
It was the forbidden magic called Ravenous Maw.
"Die, all of you."
To use this forbidden spell, part of her intestines had to be destroyed.
Her body had been modified for exactly this, but that didn't mean it came without pain or suffering.
Black blood dripped from the corner of the Witch's mouth.
'It hurts.'
The pain of her intestines tearing made her lips tremble violently. Still, pain was better than dying.
The Witch knew this.
The moment Enkrid took a step, he sensed that something was changing beneath his feet. This spell wasn't as fast as Hellfire Lightning, but it was a lot wider.
The ground, which had been writhing underfoot, began to shift and formed gaping holes. Each hole was filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth.
If anyone got caught, flesh wasn't the only concern—even bones would surely be torn apart. Centered around Enkrid, the earth rippled, and snarling mouths strained to devour him.
Sensing the danger, Enkrid kicked off the ground and leapt to the side.
Strangely, more of those monstrous maws instantly sprouted from the earth in his new location, as if they were chasing him.
Clang! Clang!
The sound of those jagged teeth snapping shut echoed like iron bars clashing together.
'Is this a vein?'
Enkrid glanced down, thinking.
There were dozens of mouths—not something that would vanish with a single slash like Hellfire Lightning.
And since the main body wasn't here, he couldn't do much about it.
Whether shredded or caught, anyone who got bitten would be sucked away to some Demon, somewhere, who lay in wait, jaws wide open and ever hungry.
He didn't know all the details, but his instincts told him enough. A Forbidden Spell.
Nothing by that name was ever easy to handle.
The living fire, Hellfire Lightning—they were bad enough, but this was just as dangerous.
As soon as Enkrid tried to move again, mouths popped up in a wide ring around him—wide enough to fit several dozen grown men standing haphazardly.
Whenever he stabbed at one of the maws with Dawnforged, it vanished, but he also saw that a new mouth would immediately appear right next to it, even faster than he could destroy them.
"Cutting one down is pointless, and they just keep chasing me wherever I go."
It was relentless and persistent—that was the feeling he got.
He had watched the spell take shape, and seeing its form, he could guess the basic principle behind it.
"A sustained-type spell, I suppose."
He was the target.
Whatever the Witch had sacrificed to cast this spell, he didn't know, but these things wouldn't stop until they had chewed up and swallowed something.
"Even if I cut one down, another forms."
So, just how long would they keep reappearing like this? That question soon led to action.
He moved to a spot with the fewest gaps and swung Dawnforged again and again.
If the other side kept producing more maws, then he would just keep cutting them down.
Maybe it was a battle of sheer quantity—his Will against the total mana the Blue-Eyed Witch had at her disposal.
One thing was certain: the Witch had chosen the wrong spell.
She'd already burned up half the offerings she'd prepared and even sacrificed some of her organs, but the forbidden spell she was using now only served to harass the opponent relentlessly.
It was a power that wore you down, exhausting your strength until you finally collapsed and got devoured.
Holding out only to die from exhaustion—of course, from her perspective, it was unfair.
On his way into the Demonic Domain, he'd fought the whole time—cutting through the castle wall and even slicing apart spells.
It was only natural that his Will would be running low, not to mention the physical toll it must've taken.
But in the end, in a contest of who would tire or give up first, there was no way Enkrid would lose.
His unbothered demeanor and steady, tireless swordwork made him seem like a laborer utterly absorbed in monotonous work, and the Witch, seeing this, began to panic.
Is it really possible for him to endure like that?
Even when tentacles occasionally shot out for unpredictable attacks from inside the Ravenous Demon's veins, that Swordsman would simply turn his body halfway and swing his sword as if it were nothing.
The momentum from his rotating cuts slashed through the tentacles, sweeping the ground as if his blade had stretched long enough to slice whatever it touched.
The illusion of an elongated blade soon became a reality, slicing yet another maw clean in two.
"Aaaaah!"
The Witch screamed.
Was it because of her exceptional spirituality? Or maybe it was just simple insight.
She saw her end clearly before her eyes.
Maybe it was because, even after taking on an inhuman form, she knew from what happened to her twin sister that being cut into dozens of pieces meant death.
Or perhaps it was just a scream born purely from terror.
"I'll join in too."
At that moment, Audin leapt into the fray as well.
Enkrid had mercilessly shattered the Witch's hopes by cutting through her forbidden spells again and again.
While the Witch split her focus between fending off Jaxen's attacks and everything else, she suddenly had to block a Divine fist—massive as a bear's—with nothing but brute force.
Her modified body might have mustered the strength of a knight, at a glance. Crack, smack, slam!
But it was useless.
The man imbued with Divine Power spotted the joints in the fleshy, deformed arms the Witch threw out in her panic.
He twisted and broke them, closing in relentlessly, until finally he drove his iron fist straight into the Witch's head.
Clang!
It really was like watching a fist made of solid steel.
With a single blow, the Witch's skull caved in, and dark blood streamed down her face.
Before new flesh could even form in the crushed spot, that radiant, white-glowing fist struck her again and again.
Thud! Bang! Thud! Bang!
His rhythmically delivered punches used the Witch's head like a percussion instrument, beating out a gruesome tune.
"Pl... please—"
Between blows, the Witch, sprawled on the ground, pleaded—no longer screaming, no longer cursing—just begging.
"Yes, I'll send you to the Lord. Poor soul."
Audin showed no mercy.
He finished it with a final punch that crushed the Witch for good. Bang!
Audin pummeled her with his fist.
Her body, now nothing more than a hunk of meat, was pressed into the ground—her end. Naturally, the Witch could no longer say a word.
Both witches, who had clung to life in disgrace for over a hundred and fifty years, were now dead.
Meanwhile, the Apostle was being chased by Ragna's blade.
"This is impossible!"
The Apostle refused to accept reality.
Enkrid, now able to catch his breath after the forbidden spell ended, nodded in silent agreement.
A solid castle wall, forces specialized for the Demonic Domain, countless monsters, and their individual might, too.
It was a group even two or three ordinary knights wouldn't dare face. So such words made sense.
"Why are you nodding along with him?"
Fel, considering there were actually fewer monsters here than outside, approached and spoke, thinking this would be easier to clean up.
He just figured the more monsters there were, the more swinging and slashing would be needed, making it more exhausting and time-consuming.
After all, whether elite monsters or ordinary ones, they all died the same when cut, burned, or crushed.
"I am an Apostle of Red Foot!"
And then, in the distance, the Apostle made one last desperate attempt.
His whole body was covered in red muscle like an outer skin, and he began to grow in size. The blue veins bulging through his muscles were as thick as rope.
That's how much his body had grown.
Even as Audin, if you saw him up close, you had to crane your neck to look up—but now, this guy was bigger than a giant.
In the blink of an eye, he'd shot up to a height equivalent to two or three grown men stacked together.
The transformation itself was astounding; his muscles had exploded all over the place, swelling at such a rapid pace it looked like he was undergoing supercharged growth in mere moments.
"V—e—r—m—in!"
The Apostle bellowed, while the swordsman standing before him simply raised his sword with a calm demeanor.
That sword's name was Sunrise, and the man wielding it was Ragna.
The blade in Ragna's hand glowed crimson, driving back the darkness gathered around him. A small light source was born on the ground.
A god, born in the east, ruling over half the world, devouring the darkness—now stood here.
"Hey."
The one who carried that god's power in his sword called out to the Apostle.
The Apostle's eyes, wide and red, bulged with thick black veins snaking between them. In place of an answer, the Apostle swung his fist.
It hurtled in like a massive hammer, a weighty mass as solid as a boulder. Bang!
With a sound that ripped the air, the space along the path of that swing twisted and warped. His monstrous strength tore apart the air, even distorting space itself.
Ragna, standing before him, looked as if he was about to be crushed into a bloody pulp, but that didn't happen.
He spread his legs and braced himself, raising Sunrise.
Will surged from his core, spreading strength throughout his whole body. Boom!
With a deafening roar, a shockwave rippled outward in concentric circles.
Enkrid could feel the force behind that blow and judged that the Apostle's might was above even the Minotaur who had rampaged with two swords.
'But he has no technique.'
That's how it seemed.
Those with real experience put intention behind every attack—there were no meaningless gestures.
Yet the Apostle's punch had no follow-up, nothing considered beyond that single blow. In other words, he seemed inexperienced when it came to real combat.
Still, the raw power packed in that punch was no joke. Breaking down a castle wall?
The Apostle could do it too. Wiping out monsters?
Annihilating the entire Corrupted fairy group? All fully within his capability.
If he stepped out onto the Continent like this, he could conquer an entire city and pick off the humans inside as he pleased.
That's how much power the Apostle possessed.
But there was just one man standing before him with a sword whom he couldn't kill.
The fist that struck down onto Sunrise couldn't do a thing to the human who held that blade. Drip, ssssss.
Flesh grated against Sunrise, blood flowing and sizzling as it hit the sword's heated blade, wafting up as steam.
The air filled with a sharp, metallic stench. Ragna, still gripping Sunrise, thought to himself.
'My vow is this.'
To never stop—not until the day he dies.
The will to keep going, right up to his final breath, formed the foundation of his oath. Something that's easy for one person might be a lifelong challenge for another.
Because everyone's standards differ, so too do their limitations. Ragna's limitation was just that.
What came naturally to Enkrid might not be natural at all for him. The Apostle wielded both spells and brute strength.
From his limbs, black-blooded tentacles emerged—each one whipped through the air with a tearing noise, flying straight at him.
Mouths even opened up on his stomach and back, tongues bursting out, covered in bristling spikes.
Amid the darkness, the shining sword battered, blocked, and repelled it all.
Enkrid stood off to one side, watching everything unfold. The others held their positions as well.
In the space between toppled castle walls and the corpses of monsters, one swordsman and one monstrous being fought to the death Enkrid thought there was a real chance Ragna could die.
The Apostle's spells seemed likely to find or force an opening eventually.
Black vines sprouted from the ground, bursting apart and firing off needle-like projectiles. Some of them struck Ragna's arms and legs, making his limbs go numb for a moment.
Even so, it was still their side that won.
"What a disgusting thing to do," Shinar muttered. Spellwork that used tree vines was a fairy specialty. More specifically, it was a druid's specialty.
So, seeing the Apostle had shamelessly twisted and repurposed it for himself, Shinar's displeasure was only natural.
"…To think it would be by the hand of some mere knight," the Apostle murmured.
Within the Demonic Domain, monsters that devoured knights were everywhere—innumerable, in fact.
One of those monsters, its head half-crushed and bleeding, stared at Ragna.
Half of its head was pulverized, the iron-like flesh twisted and blistered as if seared by a blazing brand, its body carved to ribbons.
The muscle armor that had stopped anything and everything was slashed with ease by Ragna's blade.
The creature was gulping its final breath. Would it die even if left alone?
There was no way to be sure. Ragna raised his heavy arm.
This opponent had been a poor match to face with just one sword.
There was a moment when, even as he barely resisted a spell meant to snatch his mind away, he almost got skewered to death by one of those tentacles.
Just then, as Ragna gripped his sword, he suddenly sensed something flying at him from behind and twisted his body aside.
His reaction was half a beat slow, but it turned out the attack hadn't actually been aimed at him, so it wasn't hard to dodge.
Had he just stood still, he'd have gotten hurt, but evading was simple enough. Thwack!
The projectile hurtled through the air and lodged itself in the half-remaining head of the Apostle.
It struck with such force that it tore through the Apostle's neck muscle and skin, rolling off to one side.
The whole thing looked like someone had stuck something into a split pumpkin and let it topple away.
The weapon embedded in that half-destroyed head was a hand axe.
"I got it."
A low voice came from the direction where the lost Barbarian stood. He continued,
"The one who lands the last hit claims the prize. You know that, right?" Rem, his right hand extended as he grinned cheerfully, looked at Ragna.
There were small scratches on his forehead and forearms—evidence that getting here hadn't been easy for him, either.
After all, this was the Demonic Domain—a place untouched by human hands. The battle was over.
There might still be some monsters left, but the stronghold guarding this place had fallen, and the one who protected it was dead.
"It's only a single Fortress City, not even the heart of the Demonic Domain," Enkrid assessed coolly.
Still, he would've been lying if he said he wasn't proud.
Maybe the others didn't know, but he was fully aware that this was a place the Order of the Crimson Cloak Knights had tried to conquer several times before.
And now, the Order of the Madmen Knights had swept through it in one bold stroke.
Shinar, looking at the corpse of the Corrupted Fairy she'd already slain, wrapped a long leaf around the wound on her forearm—it was a fairy-style bandage.
She took a moment to scan their surroundings and could still faintly hear the wails of restless spirits.
If they just left now, another Thornbriar Fortress Wall would rise here again. Such determination was etched into those walls.
That's why purification was needed. And nothing purified quite like flame.
"Let's burn it down."
It was Shinar, the fairy who once hated fire, who said this herself.
Had she finally overcome her past, or was this a new resolve to move forward?
Enkrid didn't need to know the depths of her heart; he simply nodded in agreement. Their work was done—it was time to light the beacon.
As gray clouds covered the sky and darkness settled over the land, a red flame blazed, shining like the sun.
Dawn was still a long way off, but that flame burned as hot and long as the sun. And in that moment, it also fulfilled the one wish Enkrid had been holding onto.