When mages duel, they are said to open their spell worlds against each other.
Each of them wields the spells accumulated within their domain as weapons.
Galaph drew upon the rivers flowing through his own world.
“Strike with force.”
A staff appeared in his hand.
At its tip, a white gem gleamed, and from that point, a portion of the river gushed forth.
The torrent coalesced into a massive, concentrated mass before transforming into water shells, hurtling through the air like artillery.
“You think you can beat me while cursed?
Idiot!”
Galaph jeered as he unleashed his water shells.
Even as he attacked, Esther’s hands formed signs.
She revealed not her emotions, but her spell.
Fwoosh!
The instant her fingers completed their movements, flames ignited within her eyes. A fiery sphere manifested before her gaze and shot forward.
Two opposing elemental spells collided midair.
Boom!
A deafening explosion rang out as steam burst into the air.
The fireball vanished, while the torrent of water was knocked off course, crashing violently into the ground.
Splash!
The earth caved inward as plumes of steam veiled the surroundings.
Like a dense fog, the mist obscured their vision.
But just because they couldn’t see didn’t mean they would lose track of each other.
Mages followed the flow of mana, not mere eyesight. Their opponent’s presence was clear, even within the thick mist.
“You stupid bitch!”
The repeated insult irritated Esther.
She’d already decided on the words she’d say when she killed him.
Now wasn’t the time for them.
While Galaph hurled his taunts, he secretly sent two of his disciples behind Esther.
The others had been sent elsewhere for “business,” but he had kept these two.
This chapter is updat𝙚d by freeweɓnovel.cøm.
Neither was an exceptional mage, but both were adept swordsmen.
‘Stupid bitch.’
Galaph repeated the words in his head as he chanted again and again.
His two disciples moved stealthily.
The mist provided the perfect cover, making it nearly impossible for Esther to detect them.
They had yet to establish their own spell worlds, meaning they wouldn’t register in her mana perception.
The disciples crept forward, slipping through the mist like phantoms.
One of them gripped his sword tightly, eyes darting through the fog for their target.
He planned to strike the moment he spotted her.
Then—
Thwack!
The disciple at the front was suddenly blinded.
Something wrapped around his face and squeezed.
“Ggk—!”
“You fuck—!”
The second disciple instinctively drew his sword and thrust.
Clang!
Ting!
“Urgh—!”
It was like stabbing into solid rock.
His blade was knocked away, his grip shattered by the recoil.
Then—
Grab!
A massive hand emerged from the mist, seizing the second disciple by the throat.
He reflexively clawed at the hand, trying to pry it off.
Useless.
If even his blade couldn’t cut through, his nails meant nothing.
“Gkkk!”
Both disciples dangled helplessly in the air, their feet kicking.
They couldn’t even scream.
The one held by the head struggled, but the pressure was relentless.
The one choked by the throat turned purple, his lips darkening.
His tongue lolled from his mouth as the lack of oxygen took its toll.
Meanwhile, Esther calmly chanted once more.
“Drumuller’s Scythe.”
The same spell.
A vacuum blade sliced through the mist, momentarily clearing it.
“You’re using the same trick?!”
Galaph blocked it the same way.
A blue barrier dispersed the vacuum slash.
And then—
He saw it.
A figure standing motionless before Esther.
“A golem?”
But this thing resembled a human far too much.
His eyes then fell on his two dead disciples.
One had died with his tongue lolling out, strangled to death.
The other lay on the ground, blood leaking from his ears, eyes, and nose.
His skull had been crushed, twisting his face into an unnatural shape.
“A summoning?”
“I picked it up on the way.”
Esther’s face remained devoid of amusement.
Galaph clenched his teeth.
Losing to a half-baked fool who couldn't even fully open her spell world was unacceptable.
Meanwhile, Esther found him laughable.
Why else had she earned the title of "Warfare"?
Because she excelled in battle.
Her spell world had been forged in combat and bloodshed.
“Aah... it’s been a while.”
A worthy opponent.
After this, she would likely be stuck as a leopard for over a month.
But this fight was worth that price.
***
Thwack!
If they got close, he struck them.
If they tried to retreat, he closed the distance and struck them down.
Enkrid alone was an unbreakable siege weapon, tearing through the enemy ranks.
His raw power was on full display.
Some soldiers, overwhelmed by fear, began backing away.
“Don’t retreat!”
A commander drew his sword from behind.
Retreating meant death at the hands of their own allies.
The soldiers gritted their teeth and charged once more.
Enkrid watched their reactions, his thoughts turning to swordsmanship.
The way to swing his sword.
The method of combat itself.
‘Commander Shinar crafted his sword to counter me.’
Why?
Because he adapted to the moment.
So—what should he do now?
This was the process.
Reflect. Adapt. Engrain.
He swung again, fully immersed in his thoughts.
Swish.
Before even the wind could move—
A killing intent reached his chest.
Enkrid pulled back his blade.
He shifted his right foot behind his left, turning his body and raising his sword to block the attack.
Clang!
A wise move.
The enemy’s blade clashed against the center of his steel sword.
A moment slower, and he would have been cut deep.
The attacker stepped back.
A small warrior, barely reaching Enkrid’s chin, with broad feet and no helmet.
Just one glance told Enkrid everything.
‘An offensive style built on explosive charges.’
A "swift blade" style.
The southernmost tongues called it Jung Jung Hwan Quae Yu.
Translated into the continent’s language—
Straight blade. Heavy blade. Deceptive blade. Fast blade. Soft blade.
Swordsmanship divided into five forms, further branching out with footwork and additional techniques.
His opponent wielded speed in both feet and hands.
A fast-fast blade.
The warrior bounced on his feet a few times, then lunged.
A lightning-fast dash.
The blade he swung resembled a scimitar.
If anything was caught by that curve, it would surely be severed.
Enkrid stepped back.
Bang!
Tatata!
Bang!
Two, three, four, five consecutive strikes, yet the attacker did not falter.
No hesitation.
No sound of breath.
Not slowing down.
It was as if he could swing his blade all day.
Enkrid wasn’t concerned.
Lykanos was faster.
After blocking nine strikes and retreating ten steps,
Enkrid shifted.
Holding his primary sword in one hand, he reached for the second blade at his waist.
The name of the sword—Fulti.
A blade so light it was almost difficult to handle.
But for a single thrust—it was the perfect choice.
The enemy leaped.
From the ground to midair in an instant.
No sound.
Like he had teleported above.
A gravity-assisted downward slash.
A decisive kill attempt.
Enkrid did not retreat.
He thrust upward.
Swish!
The curved sword brushed his chest.
It failed to cut through.
The man staggered, stunned.
"Faster than me...?"
His body collapsed onto the ground.
Enkrid murmured,
“I’ve been playing with faster opponents lately.”
The man blinked a few times—then died.
Pierced Through the Heart, Yet He Spoke.
Enkrid swung his sword through the air, shaking off the blood.
The impact from the last exchange left a dull ache in his chest.
His gambeson and leather armor bore deep cuts, the fabric and hide scored open.
But his bandage armor remained intact—no wounds.
Still, his bones throbbed from the sheer force behind that strike.
Enkrid didn’t know who he had just killed, but Azpen’s commander did.
The man had been Janus the Swift Hand, one of the top mercenaries operating within Azpen.
His rapid strikes and nimble footwork had haunted many before—but his nightmare ended here.
“Shall we finish this?”
Enkrid moved forward, speaking to the enemy soldiers.
There were allies watching from behind.
One soldier in particular—the same one who had been whining moments ago—couldn’t look away.
‘I’m an idiot.’
He fought disgustingly well.
No, beyond that—disgustingly, overwhelmingly well.
The enemies rushing toward him weren’t straw dummies or rotten logs, yet they fell just as easily.
‘And I... had the audacity...’
It was Helma.
She had caught his eye, and he had secretly liked her.
But now—she was utterly mesmerized by that man.
It bothered him.
Jealousy.
Humiliation.
Shame.
He wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.
What kind of bullshit had he spouted about Enkrid?
‘**Told him to lead from the front?
Asked if he even knew how to fight?**’
He had mocked him so many times, subtly and outright.
And now?
Now that bastard was out there, chewing through the enemy like it was nothing.
“...Ah, fuck.”
The soldier converted his rage and embarrassment into raw physical force.
“Kill them all!”
His frenzied shout ignited those around him.
And it wasn’t just him.
Enkrid’s rampage had pushed the entire army into a state of feral excitement.
“Come at us!”
Helma roared as well.
Azpen’s forces staggered.
They still held the superior military strength, yet morale was plummeting.
And in battle, morale outweighed numbers.
Enkrid alone had tipped the scale—now, Naurellia held the upper hand.
Yet, something was off.
The enemy’s movements seemed... strange.
They fought, but it was as if they were following a hidden rhythm.
If someone were watching from above, the battle might have appeared bizarrely structured.
Enkrid pushed in deeper, the enemy fell back.
Yet, rather than scattering, they formed a pattern as they retreated.
And between Enkrid and his allies, more and more enemy troops were piling in.
But no one felt alarmed.
The battle was as ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) good as won.
This was the final stretch—the moment when the enemy would crumble and flee.
Enkrid kept advancing.
Even after Janus fell, two more famed mercenaries challenged him.
Then—
“My name is Joy Hurrier.”
A swordsman from the Hurrier family entered the fray.
Enkrid cut them all down in five to seven exchanges each.
“You fucking monster!”
The enemy shrieked, their words reeking of defeat.
No one could doubt Naurellia’s victory now.
Yet—
Azpen’s forces were still squirming within their own ranks.
In that chaos, they had begun severing the battlefield, separating Enkrid from his allies.
Far away, watching the battlefield unfold, Abnaier muttered to himself:
‘Come in deeper.
More.
Just a little more.’
The terrain played to his advantage.
The front was a plain—but the rear was hills and ridges, rising in irregular formations.
Beyond those, a valley lay ahead, and further to the right, the forest loomed.
Every area—carefully prepared by Abnaier.
***
Kraiss was blocking the enemy’s retreat.
He had held back his trump cards—Shinar and Dunbakel—and it had paid off.
“We’ve stopped them!”
Nurat ran up and shouted.
Kraiss clenched his fist.
Good.
Now, all they had to do was hold them here.
Even now, the enemy refused to retreat.
They fought like cornered beasts.
It was foolish.
‘Do they really intend to fight all night?’
That would only destroy them faster.
Azpen would suffer irreversible damage from this battle.
Yet—they weren’t withdrawing.
Naurellia couldn’t withdraw first either.
This was their victory.
Undeniably so.
‘So what the fuck is going on?’
Kraiss couldn’t figure it out.
Even while winning, his expression remained grim.
“Block him with your bodies.”
The Gray Dog mercenaries had been lying in wait.
They were known for their tenacity.
“Keep pushing him back.”
Crazy bastards.
Even as Enkrid thought it, he kept cutting them down.
But this wasn’t just them.
The entire battlefield had shifted.
Azpen’s forces were barely holding together, relying on corpses and sheer numbers.
By tomorrow, victory would be absolute for Naurellia.
Yet—
The enemy refused to break.
And then—
Their eyes changed.
Something snapped.
“Kill him!”
“Kill him now!”
Enkrid didn’t know.
Some of them had family members held hostage.
Some were criminals.
They had sacrificed their futures to survive the present.
If they lived through this, their crimes would be pardoned.
If they lived through this, their families would be fed.
And if they killed this man, they would earn more wealth than they ever dreamed of.
They had come to die for a price.
At first, even they had tried to run.
Fighting Enkrid felt like throwing their lives away.
But retreat wasn’t an option.
“Anyone who flees—shoot them.”
From behind, their own forces turned against them.
Their "Morale Division" existed for this very reason—to cut down deserters.
There was only one way forward.
So they charged.
And the battlefield warped.
Enkrid kept fighting, cutting, killing, but—
He couldn't move backward.
“My name is Dolce Hurrier.”
Another Hurrier swordsman attacked.
Mercenaries lunged in waves.
The mindless zealots threw their bodies at him.
Enkrid’s muscles began to tremble.
The human wall was too thick.
Naurellia’s main army pushed forward, trying to support him.
But Azpen’s forces threw their lives away to block them.
And then—
It happened.
Enkrid was isolated.
This was due to three key reasons.
First, the enemy had willingly sacrificed themselves to create this situation.
“Fuck, what is this...?”
Kraiss realized it first.
They had thrown away hundreds of lives just to trap Enkrid.
The Gray Dog mercenaries had even charged straight into the waiting blades of Naurellia’s reserves—just to split the battlefield.
Second, the enemy’s resolve.
This wasn’t just desperation—this was Abnaier’s will.
Those fighting Enkrid died clutching at him, refusing to let go.
And third—
The battlefield itself.
Abnaier had planned for this.
Enkrid tried to break free, but he had lost his way.
Magic was at play—subtle enough to go undetected.
It had been laid in place, step by step, long before the battle even began.
This wasn’t random chaos.
This was a trap, designed for him.
The stars above were hidden.
The night had fallen.
And as Enkrid found himself trapped in the dense foliage of the ridges,
Abnaier stood within his camp and declared—
“Got you.”