Chapter 724: Even If I Die, You Must Keep Fighting

"To snap a taut rope, all it takes is one snip of the scissors."

They say it only takes a single well-placed stone to tilt a balanced scale.

Enkrid wondered if Drmul had foreseen this situation before he did. Maybe Heskal had advised him. Or maybe it was just a bad feeling. But if not...

‘Just two swordsmen and a girl.’

Why say such things and go to such desperate lengths to kill Anne?

‘If he hadn’t known something, he wouldn’t have tried to pick a fight.’

That’s the conclusion he reached.

If Heskal had gone all in, saving Anne would’ve been damn near impossible.

Looking back with time, that became clear. Even with Ragna guarding her day and night, Heskal could’ve found a gap. But that never happened.

Small stones had piled on one side of the scale, and even those pebbles—two swordsmen and a girl—were enough to tip it.

***

The shudder that followed seeing the family head's sword ran through his whole body.

Enkrid didn’t have a talent for predicting the end of fights, but reflecting on the outcome afterward was never hard.

Alexandra had accelerated her Will, enhancing her strength, senses, and vision beyond their usual limits. That’s how she triggered the Explosion of the Line.

To put it more simply, it was like lighting a candle and holding on until it burned all the way down. And Tempest, he changed the shape—he detonated his Will.

It was the Explosion of the Dot. A single sword strike that risked everything.

This wasn't like a candle—it was the spark of flint. A burst that happened only in the moment of impact. Except, its firepower was several times stronger than a candle’s. Like unleashing all the energy meant to burn the candle in one violent burst.

‘That’s not a move a sick man should be doing.’

Reality, briefly forgotten in the thrill, crept back into Enkrid’s mind.

Drmul /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ still reeked of decay, even with half his body severed. Thick black sludge oozed from his mangled guts, and rain poured into his split torso.

Still, he wasn't dead. As if to prove it—

"Die."

Drmul’s left hand, the one still attached to the less-damaged side of his body, lifted. With it, the words he muttered became a spell, charged with determination and magical power.

Dark mist gathered at his hand, forming into a long black rod and shooting forward. It looked no different from the ones wielded by the Scalers.

Nobody had to say it—its poison was obvious.

Whoosh.

As the conjured rod solidified, the air split with a tearing shriek.

Could such a stick kill the family head? Unlikely. Normally.

But Tempest had just unleashed a slash so powerful it burst the blood vessels in his eyes. Blood seeped from both his eyes.

And not just his eyes—his nose, mouth, ears, every opening on his face began to bleed.

Then came the incoming spell.

Ragna saw it but couldn’t stop it. Frankly, it was a miracle he wasn’t unconscious already. Trying to move was reckless, but his body responded instinctively—he managed to half-rise. But someone had moved before him.

Enkrid.

He’d snapped out of the euphoria fast enough to act. He already knew—monsters like Drmul always had some last card to play. He’d killed the One-Killer, and still nearly lost Shinar. That last desperate stab, trying to pour his soul into her—that grotesque move—how could he ever forget?

No, he hadn’t forgotten.

Even though his entire body creaked in protest, Enkrid moved in front of the family head.

Simple, sequential motions. He forced his legs to move, squeezed out the strength, and reached Tempest just before the spell was released.

Once in position, he twisted his wrist, flicked Three Iron, and struck the black rod mid-air.

Clang.

The rod shattered into pieces and scattered across the ground.

He didn’t have the power for a full swing—he’d only rotated his wrist, relying on the sword’s weight and centrifugal force. But it worked. Just barely.

Had he missed the core of the spell, the rod would’ve torn through his chest instead of breaking.

‘This body...’

His condition was a wreck. No denying it.

Even dodging the past barrage of spells had been barely within his limits.

Honestly, if he hadn’t risked recklessly letting some of those spells pass by, his body would already be riddled with holes.

Catching his breath, Enkrid looked forward—only to see Drmul, half-dead, glaring at him with murderous eyes.

He could practically hear the monster's voice, even without his tongue moving.

Though, Drmul did speak.

"I hate you. I hate you."

"What do you hate so much?"

Enkrid asked softly, as if willing to grant the dying monster one final wish.

Everyone else probably thought the same.

But Enkrid spoke again, his voice mild—

"Is it 'cause I look young?"

No, that wasn’t it. Enkrid kept scratching at Drmul’s pride.

Not because it amused him. Not entirely.

There was calculation behind it. A combination of Lua Gharne’s tactical fencing and Kraiss’s dirty tricks.

‘Drmul still has energy left for a final move.’

If he wanted to use it fully, he’d need focus. So it was better to keep him agitated.

Don’t let him stay calm.

Even the smallest edge mattered.

Enkrid wasn’t ashamed of it. If this weren’t Lua Gharne-style, there’d be no reason to provoke. All of this was thanks to what Frokk had taught him.

And besides, Drmul didn’t come at them with honor—he lurked behind shadows and tried to murder Anne.

So yeah, provoking him felt justified.

Drmul was speechless.

"You... y-you..."

If he’d somehow reached enlightenment at this point, he might have ascended.

With that much detachment, even becoming a god wouldn’t be far-fetched.

But he didn’t become a god.

Realizing all his plans were falling apart, rage surged inside him. His emotions and reason aligned into one sharp intent.

He didn’t care about the family head anymore—he just wanted Enkrid dead.

No matter what. He would kill him.

And Drmul wasn’t a fool.

‘No, killing him alone isn’t enough.’

He wouldn’t just leave Zaun alone either. Was Enkrid the only problem?

No. The entire Zaun family, the swordsmen—all of them were to blame.

And he realized something else.

‘Heskal, you bastard...’

He’d been deceived. Looking back, it all made sense.

Heskal hadn’t wanted to usurp divinity—his goal was the life after stealing it.

He planned to survive. He had something left to do.

Drmul wouldn't let things end the way that dead bastard had planned.

‘I’m going to die.’

Maybe because he’d resisted death for so long...

Drmul knew he would die—and he knew the limits of what he could still do.

His death was certain.

‘Zaun dies with me.’

When he died, the seeds of the disease he’d spread would sprout instantly.

Most of Zaun would die.

Villages of hunters, mediators, retirees—eight out of ten would perish.

Even Heskal hadn’t known this secret. If he had, he’d be cursing in his grave.

Drmul had settled here decades ago. He’d spent much of that time dormant, but not in recent years.

He had prepared for this.

And that was all.

‘Then it’s over.’

That bastard barking up front—he’d survive. And that would be the end.

‘Will they praise him for killing me?’

People had called Drmul a snake all his life. He was full of envy. Some said he was a snake that became a man.

The idea of Enkrid being praised—he couldn’t stand it. The fact that he’d survive—it filled him with hatred.

As he faced death, Drmul put everything he had on the scale.

How could he kill Enkrid and destroy Zaun at the same time?

Things had gone awry, but he was still intelligent.

And now, he came up with a way to kill that detestable bastard—fast.

"I will die."

Drmul spoke.

"Even a passing dog-faced ghoul could see that," Enkrid interjected.

But Drmul didn’t get riled.

"Family head of Zaun, listen."

His voice doubled. Enkrid figured this must be the final play.

No matter what spell came, he could probably block it once more.

His body was strained, but his ability to cut down spells had improved thanks to Esther’s training—and just now, real combat.

He’d even learned from deflecting the last one.

‘Even if fifty of those black rods came flying, I could manage.’

He might get a few holes, but if they were clean, he wouldn’t end up crippled.

"You won’t do this alone."

Lynox approached with those words.

Behind him stood Zaun’s blades—Anahera, Riley, and more.

Their resolve was as firm as his.

This battle belonged to Zaun. They had drawn their swords to defend themselves.

The family head, eyes blurring, could see only Enkrid’s back as darkness swallowed his vision.

Was he going blind? Maybe.

The strike he’d unleashed earlier was beyond even his prime.

He’d thrown everything into it. Honestly, he’d been ready to die the moment he swung.

Using Will so harshly had left his body drained. He just wanted to sit and rest. But the man he cut still wouldn’t shut up.

Blood trickled from his ear canal. Everything sounded muffled, but he still heard.

"I’m listening."

The family head replied, and Drmul began his curse, his voice calm as ever.

"I’ll let you choose. Two options only."

The hell was he on about now?

The rotten bastard’s twisted tongue kept wagging.

"If I gather the rest of my strength and unleash it, everyone infected in Zaun will die. The seed of the plague was meant to grow slowly, but if I die, it will erupt and devour their lives in an instant. That’s how I designed it. But!"

He cut off, his tone rising.

Ragna felt a sharp ache in his skull.

Drmul’s voice now echoed in layers, as if a god-aspiring monster was pouring his last power into one final spell.

"In exchange, I will place all the curses I have left onto that man. Then the plague I seeded in Zaun will vanish."

He lifted a finger and pointed at Enkrid.

So he hated him that much—he thought killing Enkrid alone was enough?

No. Drmul knew people. More than that—he could manipulate people.

He’d used that talent to make Heskal his sword.

Thinking back, he’d definitely played on human desire to ensnare him.

‘I understand people.’

Drmul was confident.

Enkrid would refuse the offer. Nobody wants to die—that’s a truth.

‘Let alone dying for someone else.’

Sure, parents might die for their children. But for total strangers? Who would?

His words would place the family head on the scale—Zaun or an outsider. And that scale would clearly tip.

Enkrid would resist. And the family head would try to subdue him.

‘Even if I die, you must keep fighting.’

That was the first trap.

There was another, hidden one.

What if Zaun’s head and blades captured Enkrid?

He said the seed wouldn’t erupt—but he never said it would disappear.

Even if everything failed, it would only change when they died—not if they died.

"You expect us to believe that?"

Lynox cut in.

"Then watch."

Drmul waved his hand. A golden rectangle appeared in the air behind him, letters shimmering into view.

"You’ve heard of it, surely. The Book of Binding Oaths. I’ll write my will into it."

A rare artifact emerged.

Words inscribed in that book always came true. The price? The soul of the one who wrote it.

Legend said the book’s owner was one of the Demon Lords ruling the Dark Realm.

It was called the Commandment Book of Gold.

Lynox knew of it. It wasn’t just a death sentence—it was soul forfeiture.

"It’s real. That’s the actual Commandment Book."

A new voice joined. Schmidt—bruised but upright—stepped forward.

He trained in both magic and swordsmanship. His magical knowledge told him Drmul was telling the truth.

His face bore signs of hardship—a blackened, torn cheek.

Schmidt spoke again, this time logically.

"This isn’t something staged to deceive us. There’s no one here with magical skill in Zaun, and I wasn’t supposed to be here either."

If Tempest or anyone else chose not to believe... it would be disastrous.

Schmidt didn’t want that.

He couldn’t lose his half-sister and best friend in one blow.

"There are no lies in my words. Believe me or not—it doesn’t matter. But everything I’ve said is the truth."

Drmul’s tone brimmed with composure.

Brazen, considering he was about to die.

The people behind them murmured—asking what the Book was, whether it was real, whether they should trust it.

But one by one, their voices fell silent.

Because everything—the air, the atmosphere—said this was real.