Chapter 600: The Walking Flame

What is the Walking Flame?

It is a taboo spell—a cursed incantation that should never be used.

So why was it forbidden?

There are two main kinds of spells: borrowed spells, which channel the power of an otherworldly being, and creation spells, which manifest power from within the caster's own magical domain.

The Walking Flame belongs to the latter: a creation spell.

Its origin was a catastrophic event stirred by a singular, monstrous entity—the Salamander.

“All things that burn are beautiful.”

That was the creed of the genius mage consumed by those flames. Entranced by the fire, he became obsessed with shaping magic into forms of flame.

The Walking Flame was one such manifestation. And among them, it was the most corrupt and most failed.

To cast it, the spell demanded sacrifice and the caster’s life span.

The required sacrifice: one hundred people, regardless of race or background—so long as they were capable of suffering as they burned to death.

Along with that, the caster’s very lifespan had to be spent. Theoretically, the spell’s completion guaranteed the caster’s death.

It was no coincidence that this was labeled a taboo spell. Although it was technically a creation spell, its conceptual roots borrowed from the summoning of the unknown entity Salamander, giving it qualities of a borrowed spell as well.

To cover for its fatal flaws, the genius invoked the name of a fire-wielding demon god from the Demon Realm.

Could you just brainwash a moderately trained mage into casting it?

Absolutely not.

The Walking Flame was so overwhelmingly difficult that only elite mages could even attempt it.

From magical control to the incantation itself—any mistake meant instant death, either by combustion or detonation.

It was a spell that only the gifted could cast—at the cost of their lives.

No sane mage would ever attempt it.

But should one succeed, it would become a spell of unmatched devastation.

The Walking Flame does not disappear until its purpose is fulfilled.

It draws fuel from the natural flow of mana around it.

Esther—witch, scholar, seeker of magical truth—processed all of this in an instant when Enkrid asked his question.

The spell strips away the domain of control, expanding instead the domain of destruction. If you’re caught in its path—if it targets you—it’s nearly impossible to escape.

“What would I do?”

Esther instantly produced a handful of solutions.

But that was only possible because she was a witch and a stargazer—someone who had stared into the abyss of magic and returned with understanding.

For a mere swordsman, there was nothing to be done.

“Why?” she asked.

The mirror she had given Enkrid reflected only his own face.

It was a spec-object she had made herself, but its stored mana was limited. Long conversations were impossible.

“I need it. Just tell me what you know.”

The urgency in his voice made her stop questioning. She summarized everything she’d recalled just moments ago.

“What if someone holds out against it until its mana runs dry?”

Enkrid cut her off, speaking without preamble. Clearly, he was desperate.

Esther understood and replied.

“Even if it’s possible, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

From her tone, it was obvious—he was considering doing it himself. If he did, he’d either burn to death or end up a cripple.

Of course, her advice went unheeded.

“Maybe that’ll work.”

Enkrid murmured, then vanished from the mirror. It returned to its dull, lifeless state.

Esther rose to her feet.

She now understood what was happening. The pieces had clicked.

If the Walking Flame had already appeared, even if she left now—it might be too late.

But she’d learned something from Enkrid.

“Nothing happens if you stop just because it’s too late.”

The instant you recognize what needs to be done—you move. That’s the fastest way forward.

And so, Esther moved.

***

The mirror Esther had given him was a spec-object: it reacted when held in both hands while thinking of her.

Enkrid let go, and it returned to its inert form.

No time for goodbyes. He placed the mirror aside and began stripping off his scale armor.

If he was going to endure it, that armor would only get in the way.

Off came the navy cloak. He left himself in only a thin short-sleeved shirt, sword belt, and his weapons.

He’d equipped and unequipped himself so many times that his hands were faster than a soldier who’d spent twenty years in the service.

“What are you doing?” Lua Gharne asked.

“Too hot.”

Odd words for early winter.

“Fire! FIRE!”

“IT’S WALKING!”

“SAVE US!”

Shrieks and incomprehensible screams broke out across the city. Given the situation, “too hot” didn’t sound so strange after all.

“Huh?” Lua puffed out her cheeks in confusion.

Enkrid didn’t answer. He took off running.

He barely made it across the square before he saw it—the Walking Flame.

Still the same as ever.

When it stretched out its arms—like long, bony fingers—people burned. Buildings caught fire.

BOOM!

An explosion erupted from a fuel depot. Black smoke rose into the sky, choking the air and blinding vision.

Panic worsened.

“Shit, what the hell is that!?”

“IT’S TOO HOT!”

“AAAAAAAAH!”

Screams filled the air.

But Enkrid didn’t need his eyes. His knight’s instincts were enough to sense the enemy—the spell itself.

He crouched, left knee bent, and acted.

WHUMP!

With a burst of strength, he dashed forward and slashed horizontally.

His ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) blade—refined from blackened steel—cut along the outer surface of the Walking Flame.

The knowledge he’d gained from countless deaths hadn’t been in vain.

“If you cut through the core, it explodes.

Cut too deeply? Also explodes.

Even slicing off a large enough chunk causes detonation.”

And that detonation creates a backdraft that devours everything. Followed by another blast, spreading embers in every direction.

Each ember is equivalent to a high-level fire spell.

So don’t cut. Endure. Until its mana burns out.

The moment he committed to that strategy, Enkrid realized—this would be a battle of patience.

What should he do right now?

“Slice it down.”

Not enough to make it explode. Like filleting a fish—he’d trim away at it to hasten mana loss.

It wouldn’t even look at him, no matter how loud he screamed. But perhaps, if he trimmed it just enough, it might shift focus.

He did it so others could escape.

Was it acrobatics?

Yes.

Incredibly dangerous?

Yes.

But impossible? No.

He’d honed his five senses under Jaxon. Mastered battlefield isolation through Audin.

Now, combined with One Point Focus, his swordsmanship reached the level of artistry.

Through the smoke, his twin glowing blue eyes carved lines in the air—artful, surgical slashes.

They sheared pieces from the Walking Flame’s body. The fragments disintegrated mid-air.

A fight that began as an act of endurance... was becoming one with a chance of victory.

He gripped his sword tighter and focused. The Heart of the Beast granted him boldness—let him unleash his instincts fully in combat.

But boldness was not its only power.

It erased hesitation—the urge to flinch or close his eyes when facing a blade.

This meant he could act in the sliver of time others used to panic.

That same principle powered Rem’s split-second axe strikes.

Enkrid used it now.

But still—the Walking Flame ignored him.

“THE WALKING FLAME!”

Lua Gharne shouted from behind.

He kept slicing.

Then came another voice.

“Idiots! Get to the mansion!”

He’d heard it all day—Lord Louis, the castellan, yelling at the fleeing civilians.

Enkrid’s sensory web caught the movement—people rushing together.

The Walking Flame’s hand turned toward them.

If he didn’t act, dozens would burn.

“A baby! The baby!”

Someone dove to the ground, curling protectively around a child.

Enkrid didn’t need to see it. He could picture it.

A child, fallen mid-run. A mother shielding her.

To save everyone, he’d need to keep doing what he was doing.

But that would mean the child and mother die.

Sacrifice the few to save the many?

He didn’t hesitate.

His black-steel blade flew upward—like a swallow in flight.

It sliced off the Walking Flame’s arm.

WHOOMPH!

A massive burst of fire followed.

Enkrid tackled the creature, both of them tumbling to the side.

He should have blistered. His flesh should have boiled.

But it skipped all that.

He just burned.

Clothes. Skin. Everything scorched in an instant.

Pain surged like lightning through his body. He couldn’t help but drool. His whole body trembled.

Not that he had time to notice the drool—it all evaporated.

“Idiot! ENKI!”

Lua Gharne rushed toward him.

Even in the agony of burning alive, Enkrid felt this was... worth it.

The winter flower was ash.

But Delma was still alive.

Lua hadn’t died yet.

WHOOSH.

Another day ended.

Then—darkness. The Ferryman appeared again.

Same demeanor as before.

Sometimes he acted like a moody child, changing from moment to moment.

But this time, his mood stayed consistent.

“You sure do dream big,” the Ferryman said.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t want to run alone, so I let you take a few to protect. And now what? ‘Protect tomorrow,’ you say? Arrogant. Utterly arrogant.”

“Mm. I see.”

Enkrid replied flatly, already deep in thought.

There wasn’t much time after waking. Even with accelerated thinking, it wasn’t enough.

He had experience now—built across dozens of repeated todays.

He should use that time wisely.

“You won’t surpass it that way.”

No sooner had the Ferryman spoken than another day began.

He woke at the same point again.

"That way?"

The words echoed—but Enkrid had no time to reflect.

He had another idea to test today.

The Walking Flame always entered the city on foot, burning everything in its path.

He woke when he sensed its presence.

What if he intercepted it before it entered the city?

A hypothesis.

He sprinted.

But it was already there.

His plan failed.

He couldn’t even properly engage it.

“I should’ve taken off the armor first.”

He’d rushed to save time—and paid for it.

Taking off armor while running wasn’t exactly easy.

He leapt across rooftops, trying to gain a few extra seconds.

But it was too late.

Still, he witnessed its beginning.

It incinerated a wagon outside the gate. Then the hay and horses in the stable.

No people—yet.

A few watched, confused.

Some screamed at the dying horses.

An old man—probably the stable master—struck the Walking Flame with a pitchfork.

WHOOSH.

Not even a scream. Just a silent cremation.

Enkrid saw that—and had only one thought:

“I need to know more.”

Then he fought.

And died.

“Fool.”

The Ferryman’s rebuke echoed as the next day began.

Running while removing scale armor—was it like catching an arrow in midair?

Easier, maybe. But it still required skill.

Taking armor off was hard.

Time for a new method.

“Don’t take it off.”

Enkrid used the shortsword he’d gotten from Aitri to cut the armor straps.

“It was expensive, wasn’t it?”

Lua remarked—but it didn’t matter.

He ran the moment he woke, slicing the armor off—and died again.

“Dull-witted.”

The Ferryman chided.

Another day.

“Let’s skip the sword belt too.”

No time for upper garments either. Just one black-steel sword in hand.

More days passed. He gained nothing tangible.

“Information.”

Next day, he ran and pulled out the mirror.

By now, he was a master of undressing mid-sprint.

Even he hadn’t expected to gain such a skill.

“You know the Walking Flame, right? Taboo spell. Burns until the mana runs out. Tell me everything.”

Esther, on the other side of the mirror, looked briefly startled—then began listing what she knew.

Running. Asking. Dying. Repeating.

He learned more.

“It did seem to grow bigger...”

The Walking Flame absorbed ambient mana.

By killing life.

It fed on new sacrifices to grow stronger—just as it had been born from a sacrifice.

So it was weakest before it killed anyone.

Each death made it stronger.

He learned this—but still failed.

“Not just arrogant—empty-headed too?”

The Ferryman sounded irritated now.

Which was strange.

He was supposed to enjoy Enkrid being trapped in this endless cycle...

But now, he looked annoyed.