Chapter 652: Three, Spells, and Even a Wraith

The Apostle did not repeat himself. Instead, he gripped the staff in his right hand and extended his left.

To Pell, the hand gestures were strange. He brought together his thumb, middle, and ring fingers, then spread them open, swung them, and finally extended only his index and pinky fingers before curling them back in.

After a few motions, unintelligible words came from his mouth, and black liquid dripped from his fingertips.

Then, audible words left the Apostle's lips.

"Huarin's hound."

Lua Gharne had seen the cultists use this spell before. The black liquid expanded on its own and landed on all fours.

Grrrr—

As it shook its head and growled, black vapor leaked from its mouth and rose above its head.

The difference in power between a normal cultist and the Apostle of the Second Coming was unmeasurable. That thing clearly wasn’t some ordinary mutt.

“Kill him.”

At the Apostle’s command, Huarin’s hound joined the battle. It launched itself from the ground with a thunderous crack and darted forward like a black blur.

Enkrid sensed the presence coming at his back, turned, dodged, and slammed his elbow into its snout.

Crack.

With a crisp sound, Huarin’s hound was flung backward, landing on its back.

Despite the force, it got up without a groan, shook its head a few times, and bared its fangs again. It wasn’t threatening—but it was annoying.

Meanwhile, the Apostle chanted continuously.

"Your body is over there. Go take it."

"The one who killed your mother is right there."

"Hear my prayer, and leave the holy mark upon that human."

During that time, Enkrid managed to find an opening and swung his sword, slicing Huarin’s hound vertically in two.

It didn’t just get hit—it was cut. The creature turned to ash and vanished.

In that brief window, the vampire’s claws came down at his head, but Enkrid managed to punch them away.

BOOM!

A loud explosion followed, an invisible pressure pushing the air outward and stirring a gust of wind. The ash of Huarin’s hound scattered into the sky.

Huarang!

The breeze carried a burning heat as if the red moonlight’s warmth had soaked into it. There was no helping it. In a fight where swords clashed endlessly—even though it was winter and night—the heat was tremendous. Sparks flew, explosions echoed. It was a festival of war.

Of course, in this festival, the wine was blood, the bread was flesh, and the cups were made of bone.

At some point, a pale blue light, like moonlight, began flowing from Enkrid’s blade.

Between the black whip-like sword, the crimson spells of the vampire, and the pale blue light of Enkrid’s blade, the sky looked like three lights clashing.

When was the last time something like this happened?

It was reminiscent of when Oara fought Balrog.

Though this time, Enkrid stood at the center, scattering pale light as he swung his blade—there was no one standing back to simply observe.

The hound that looked like it could endure the first strike was dead, and the flying wraith—something one wouldn’t expect to see under a red moon—was also cut and stabbed by the pale light and vanished.

There was no wraith that could survive a single strike. But even if it hadn’t died in one blow, he would’ve killed it anyway. That’s how it looked.

Enkrid didn’t speak—he had no time to. He only swung his sword in silence.

The Apostle, too, stopped talking and continued chanting without rest.

More necromantic spells poured from his lips, things never seen or heard before.

Dark figures flickered in the air, charging with swords. Blobs of darkness flew across the field.

Pell, Lua Gharne, and Zero weren’t just watching.

All three drew their weapons. Lua Gharne, in particular, puffed her cheeks.

Every time she saw a cultist, she remembered her dead lover. They were her enemies. Even if the hatred had faded slightly, she could never laugh it off in front of a cultist.

Especially when these people were trying to turn the world into a demon-infested hell.

Letting that happen—how could that be sane? Anyone who agreed with them had to be mentally broken.

“You crazy cultist bastards.”

Lua Gharne held the Loop Sword in one hand and a whip in the other.

CRACK!

A spark burst from the whip as it struck the ground. Pell drew the Idol Slayer and took position. Zero retreated, unsure if he should intervene.

Should he join in? He might just be a burden. Still, he didn’t want to run away.

He had spent his whole life avoiding conflict.

‘If I have to flee every time I’m outmatched, I’ll never truly fight.’

To Zero, Enkrid had always been someone who fought his limits.

With the keen senses of a fairy, Zero could see Enkrid’s true nature. He looked up to him. He wanted to be like him.

That’s how Zero felt. [N O V E L I G H T] But that didn’t mean he could do anything right now. So it was better to stay quiet.

He thought to himself that if he survived, he would train until death—until he lay in the celestial flower field.

The celestial flower field—where fairies go when they die. It was their version of heaven.

Its scent was said to be sweet and never tiring, no matter how many days you smelled it.

While Zero steeled himself and observed, Pell kept his eye on the Apostle. Frankly, if things went south, he was ready to jump him.

But he couldn’t find a single opening.

Pell saw the Apostle was clearly angry. A vein throbbed on his forehead as he kept chanting.

‘Even without an opening, maybe I can force one.’

As he subtly shifted his stance, the Apostle’s gaze flickered his way.

Was his sense that sharp? Or was it just that his intuition was refined?

Either way, it didn’t matter. The Apostle casually cast another spell.

“Huarin’s hunt.”

He swung the staff as he spoke. At its tip, black water clumped and dropped—then became over ten dogs.

And not just dogs. Were those horses?

Pell readjusted his grip on his sword and assessed the battlefield. It was time to change plans.

‘I have to reduce the pressure on him.’

At this rate, the Apostle would suffocate Enkrid with spells alone. So if Pell could threaten him from here—it might help.

Just as he made up his mind, the Apostle cast a new spell.

“Come forth, Warrior of Death.”

Once, the Apostle was known for memorizing over a hundred spells—he’d earned the title “Collector of Spells.”

Compared to a magician like Galaph, who could grasp a river with one hand, how big was the gap?

Without Esther, no one here could really know.

But one thing was clear.

The Apostle could fight everyone here alone.

“You think meeting me here was a coincidence? It wasn’t. I’ve been waiting for this moment. Once I kill all of you, I will bring despair down like rain on Border Guard. My forces are already heading toward the city you lived in. What? Still not getting it? Then I’ll say it again. As many times as it takes.”

He must really be pissed.

Pell thought, watching a pale-skinned warrior appear in the black fog. He held a wide blade. His eyes were pitch black.

A creature formed of spells—was it a monster?

The Warrior of Death was said to be used against mid-level knights. The only spell above it was the Death Knight.

But neither were easy to use.

Unless the caster offered up their own body to the gods, they needed a proper warrior or knight's corpse as a base.

The Apostle could summon up to fifteen Warriors of Death.

Pell didn’t know that—but he knew what he had to do.

The moment the Apostle looked his way and cast a spell, Enkrid glanced at him too. If this went on, he wouldn’t be a comrade—just baggage.

‘These genius bastards... I’ll catch up no matter what.’

Pell steeled himself, similar to but different from Zero.

Anyway, Pell knew his job. He had to support Enkrid, who was dealing with knight-level enemies and spells at once.

That meant he couldn’t waste time with his own opponents.

He steadied his breath and focused. The black warrior raised its broad blade.

It took a proper stance—legs apart, sword pointed skyward. The weapon looked light. Its arms were thick.

A gamble, to some extent.

‘Thanks to that bastard Rophod, I’ve made this kind of gamble dozens of times.’

Pell had a certain talent. And he had gotten beat up plenty by Enkrid along the way.

He hadn’t just learned how to provoke.

The black sword slashed down diagonally. There was no visible opening. The flow of power from its feet to its thighs was clear. A master’s technique.

The warrior’s sword seemed poised to cleave Pell apart.

Then Pell moved.

He lunged forward with his left foot and swung his sword upward.

Not a single wasted motion. Every finger and toe used solely for this strike.

While Enkrid had been stealing glimpses of Pell’s talent, Pell hadn’t been slacking.

What Pell used now was Enkrid’s specialty—“full-force slash.”

His sword cleaved the Warrior of Death from belly to head. The enemy’s blade sliced through air.

Pell stepped forward, stopping in a raised slashing pose.

For a moment, it looked as if the red moonlight had been cut behind him.

You couldn’t survive here as just a master.

His sword declared: the waters he swam in had changed—and so must he.

“Huff.”

As he caught his breath and looked ahead, he saw the Apostle with tightly closed lips.

Should he say, “Didn’t catch that. Say it again?”

But he felt like no words would really rattle him now. So Pell stayed silent, sword in hand.

“Molmon.”

The Apostle spoke. At his word, the man beside him—his sleeves and ankles bound with cords—stepped forward.

Pell naturally assumed he’d be the target.

‘Another one?’

But he wasn’t. The man headed for Enkrid.

The sound of his footsteps alone told Pell—this guy was no joke.

He didn’t know exactly what was great—but he felt it. His instincts warned him.

‘If he’d come at me, I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.’

Three of them now. All headed toward Enkrid.

Could Enkrid handle them?

“Fine. Let’s do it this way. We’ll just sit back and watch. But our limbs mustn’t grow idle. Come forth, Sham.”

The Apostle summoned four more Warriors of Death—one for Lua Gharne, one for Zero, and two for Pell.

Then he raised eleven more corpses—all aimed at Enkrid.

They weren’t all equal in strength, but they were at least mid-tier knights.

They couldn’t act as meat shields—but as corpse shields, they could bog Enkrid down.

Facing three knight-level foes, spell pressure, and now a dozen undead.

“Shouldn’t we be calling reinforcements?”

Pell muttered.

Had they been too careless? Should they have expected the cultist to go all in?

Did Kraiss miss something?

If so, they’d all die here.

One look at the Apostle’s eyes toward Enkrid said—escape wasn’t even a dream.

‘Three of them are knights.’

Once again, it hit home—he was in a different world now.

The Black Snake, Ele. The vampire. The final warrior. All of them knight-class.

The last one clenched his fists and charged. While the first two used irregular techniques, this one was pure and orthodox.

Now that two undead had him busy, Pell couldn’t go all in again. He had to buy time.

Lua Gharne had to fight while protecting Zero.

Just because she hated cultists didn’t mean she could let her comrade die.

She had learned much from Enkrid. Including how to protect someone.

Zero’s expression darkened. He hated being a burden—but he could do nothing else.

So he shut his mouth and swung his dagger as best he could.

If Enkrid died, they all would.

It was just a matter of time.

This fragile balance wouldn’t last.

And yet—they held on surprisingly well.

Was it the Goddess of Balance lending aid?

Or was it the Goddess of Fortune?

“Damn... seriously.”

Lua Gharne muttered. Her voice betrayed her surprise.

Pell, dealing with two warriors and keeping an eye on Enkrid, felt the same.

But if Lua Gharne knew something and said that—Pell had no idea what.

If he had more time, he might’ve tilted his head and even tried to negotiate or debate with the undead warriors attacking him.

“Hey, how long do you think you could last against three knights?”

Even if just to talk.

The Idol Slayer could cut wraiths—but not instantly stop the Warriors of Death. That had been frustrating.

But all that frustration vanished in an instant.

Everyone’s eyes turned to where Enkrid was fighting.

Something unimaginable was happening.

“...What the hell is that?”

The cult’s home was in the Demon Realm. But they wouldn’t run this diocese sloppily.

The Apostle of the Second Coming had the strength to face a knight alone. Each of the three under him could kill a knight by themselves.

But no.

He saw Enkrid’s sword split the vampire.

GRAAAAAAH!

The pale light cleaved through the vampire’s body three times.

The red moon empowered the Demon Realm’s denizens.

Right now, the Vampire Apostle should have been able to fight Enkrid one-on-one.

But his limbs rolled on the ground, torn apart.

‘Is this a dream?’

That was the Apostle’s thought.