Chapter 607: How to Cut Through Momentum

It was a pitch-black night, but sleep wouldn’t come. That was probably to be expected. Very few could rest peacefully under such circumstances—and Noah was no exception.

Unable to sleep, he wandered the monastery, letting the cold night air wash over him.

All the ornamental trees in the monastery garden had been snapped apart to build palisades. Drying and shaping the green wood had turned the once-lush garden into a ruin. The devastation felt like a grim omen for the monastery’s future.

Why did the moon have to shine so bright tonight?

Is the Lord calling me? Demanding an answer for my sins?

Was this retribution for the events Noah had once chosen to ignore within these walls? Did the people now inside have to suffer to settle that debt?

A night steeped in anguish.

The self-proclaimed apostles of the Gray God had caused a stir across the continent, only to target a small monastery housing a few dozen people.

Who could’ve foreseen this outcome?

Noah felt the weight of futility bearing down on him.

The monastery was surrounded, and the enemy refused every offer of negotiation.

When he offered his own life in exchange for an end to the siege:

“Don’t talk nonsense. Even the chickens in that monastery are heretics.”

And when he begged them to at least spare the children:

“Didn’t I just say? Saint or not, that place is already a pit of evil.”

All he got in return was an ironclad refusal to compromise.

Even the monk sent as an envoy came back with a bruised, swollen face and a limp.

“Send one more, and we’ll return only the head.”

That was the message.

Ahh...

The dread only deepened.

The child once believed to be divinely chosen would now be branded the spawn of a demon.

Because that’s the narrative the enemy would force into existence.

“Are we going to die?”

Even the children could feel the peril looming overhead.

Noah smiled gently.

“The Lord will protect us.”

A lie.

But the child smiled in return. And even if that lie landed Noah in the prison pits of the underworld, he wouldn't regret it.

Even if he died, he didn’t want the child spending their last hours in fear. More than anything, he wanted to believe—truly believe—that the Lord would protect the innocent.

He didn’t care if he died. But the children... the innocent... they deserved to be saved.

Noah had no options left. But that didn’t mean he gave up and waited. He reached out in every direction for help.

Even that had been almost impossible, with the siege wrapped tight around them.

Even if someone got through, even if they spread the word—who would come? Who would lift a finger for a mere monastery?

These people? They had no connection to the outside. Why save them? What profit was there?

None. Noah was clear-eyed enough to know this.

The whole continent would see it as just another civil conflict in the Holy Nation.

No one would come.

And if, by some miracle, a force did arrive to oppose the cult...

It’ll be after the monastery’s already burned to the ground.

Ironically, both sides of this war seemed to want that outcome.

The Gray God cultists’ first excuse had been to "purge a monastery corrupted by demons."

They couldn’t very well let the place stand.

Their "god" was supposed to be born from the eradication of evil—how convenient would it be if their sacrificial altar was already waiting?

Even if the Holy Nation sent troops, it’d be the same.

They had no reason to protect Noah or the monastery.

“If those who burn monasteries aren’t heretics, then who is?”

The monastery would burn in the name of a holy war.

The people would die for a supposed cause.

And those who killed them would come out smelling like roses.

It was the perfect political sacrifice.

Especially now, with so many rallying under the Gray God’s banner. They needed a pretext—something to rally around.

So a massacre was the monastery’s fate.

And amidst all that, these idiots appeared.

“What are you doing?”

Noah spotted them near the gate—men unwrapping the chains wound around the monastery’s front door. They’d padded the metal with cloth to avoid making noise, working in nothing but moonlight.

There were more than five of them, sweating despite the cold.

“We’re opening the gate,” one of them answered.

Noah wasn’t even surprised. He half-wondered if it was a hallucination from sleep deprivation.

But no—his mind was clear, sharp and cold as the moon above.

The one who spoke stood and straightened his back. He was a head taller than Noah and carried a short sword clearly visible in his hand.

Why?

Opening the gate wouldn’t change anything. Did they not understand that?

Did they not know the enemy would never accept surrender? That the monastery was doomed to be scapegoated either way? That to the watchers beyond, this place had already been declared demonic?

Are they simply stupid?

Or had fear robbed them of reason?

Probably both.

“You think opening the gate and announcing surrender will make them let you live?”

“...We must repent,” the man said.

This is why Lua Gharne said we should've crushed their skulls from the start.

But this wasn’t purely their fault. If the monastery had followed its original path under Noah’s guidance, had they shared a meaningful life together, perhaps these men wouldn’t be here now.

Noah wanted to believe that.

Still, who could know the future?

Maybe these same men would’ve done this even after years of peace.

Are people inherently evil?

Or inherently good?

That was an unanswerable question.

Noah simply wanted to believe in goodness.

“Why come out here at night to do this?” he asked.

Another man, pulling out a dagger from inside his sleeve, responded, “Do you really think killing me will change anything?”

Noah replied, “No. But I won’t change either.”

“That’s just your opinion.”

They were already beyond reason. At least it was only five of them.

Didn’t expect to die like this, Noah thought.

None of the five would meet his gaze.

Then, something leapt over the palisade—a black blur landed, rolled, then straightened into a standing figure.

“Noah?” the figure asked.

“...Who are you?”

“A nameless crusader of the Cult-Slaying Order,” he said.

There were still those in the world who acted by their own will, no matter what the world said.

This crusader was one of them.

He quickly incapacitated the would-be traitors and joined Noah’s defense.

In the following hours, they reinforced the gate with thorn bushes. One more escape attempt was made—and thwarted.

Now, not even an ant could slip through.

“You should leave,” Noah told the crusader. He didn’t ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) want someone so principled to die in a place like this.

“No, I’m staying.”

The crusader remained.

Noah held the monastery for six more days, up until Enkrid’s arrival. All he could do during that time... was pray.

O Lord, help us. Watch over Your lambs. Gather the fallen fruit into Your basket.

Someone would come. Someone would help these poor children.

By midday of the second day without food, hope began to wane.

The enemy seemed intent on starving them to death.

The sun lit everything around them.

And then—through the wall of thorns outside the monastery, past the army of thousands encamped before it—they came.

***

In battle, the clearer the command, the better.

Enkrid knew that well.

“Break through.”

The objective was simple: breach the front lines and confirm Noah’s safety inside the monastery.

If that wasn’t the goal, there was no reason to come this far.

Just because it looked fine from the outside didn’t mean it was fine inside.

Rem moved first. He stepped ahead on the left and swung his axe.

Four “Gray Divine Army” soldiers died in a single stroke.

His axe carved jagged lines through the air, and every path his blade traced ended with a severed neck.

“I’ll take the front.”

Ragna stepped in—not so much to the front, more to the right side, but he moved decisively.

His black-steel greatsword stabbed, slashed, and smashed through enemy ranks.

Crack, snap, scream!

The soldiers collapsed like dominoes.

The entire group fought fiercely while still mounted.

Rem even stopped using his axe midway—he stole a spear from a soldier and began skewering them instead. No one managed to block even a single strike.

“Their training is awful,” Rophod commented, kicking his horse into motion and slicing through helmets and skulls with ease.

Compared to the Border Guard, these men were barely soldiers.

Their formation was a joke.

They had only just assembled. Training hadn’t even started yet.

Fighting these men was like fighting a swarm of crows. What could they possibly do against real knights?

Enkrid also swung from horseback—Odd-Eye steady beneath him. In his right hand was the silver sword from Aitri; in his left, his firesteel blade.

Everything was ready.

Just before his first strike, Enkrid took in the situation.

Do I have to kill them all?

No. That wasn’t necessary.

What mattered in battle was momentum.

If he shattered their momentum, they’d collapse.

How?

Not by building another Wall of Iron like before.

He’d trained that technique repeatedly since its last use. He could use it.

But it wouldn’t have the same effect here.

“Everything is shaped by circumstance and environment.”

Lua Gharne’s words echoed.

So even if he rebuilt that wall, it wouldn’t have the same presence.

Besides, this time, they needed to break through, not build walls.

Enkrid sharpened his senses. He spread them out like threads, casting a wide net.

From instinct, he broke the enemy force into mental pieces.

Together—they were a unit.

Scattered—they were individuals.

A military force existed because of shared momentum.

His web of perception caught everything: eyes, posture, center of gravity, weapon angles.

He judged who would attack, who would run, who would freeze—and struck.

He cut down those whose momentum surged too high.

Slice!

A neck flew, blood spraying.

A quick flick of the silver blade, and the target collapsed, rolling across the dirt.

Next, those trembling under pressure—he let them fall on their own.

Those bracing awkwardly—he lightly tapped aside.

Clang!

A helmet was struck and tilted, the man toppling sideways.

Enkrid adjusted his strength with care—measured every use of his Will.

He sliced, shifted, brushed, and flicked—again and again. And in that calm chaos, none remained standing.

The quietest strikes left the most corpses.

Rem turned his gaze.

Well, look at that.

Rem could kill anything in the path of his axe. If he were serious, none would stand before him.

But Enkrid wasn’t just swinging with power.

So you can do that too?

There was pride in Rem’s surprise.

He recognized pieces of his own teachings in Enkrid’s movement.

By advancing boldly, Enkrid had reduced hesitation—allowing more time to observe, judge, and act.

It was a technique to expand time, built on the foundation of Rem’s lessons.

And someone else was even more shocked.

What the hell is he doing?

As Enkrid felled more soldiers, the army itself began to unravel.

Jaxon felt it in his instincts.

The concept was clear now: momentum was everything.

But how did Enkrid see who held it and who didn’t?

Just by looking?

Jaxon could mimic it if told, but not like this.

It was precise. Detailed.

What Enkrid displayed now was something only he could do.

It was the fruit of rising from the bottom.

Sometimes, lacking talent lets you see deeper.

That’s the gift of long, grueling years as a rank-and-file soldier.

Now, Enkrid was showing the enemy what it truly meant to be unmatched.