Enkrid instinctively snapped his head around. Reflexively, his body moved in response to the faint sensation of an attack.

He quickly scanned his surroundings, taking in the situation.

“Kraiss, a stick, a chest, a sword?”

What caught Enkrid’s attention was the sword lodged in the altar, emanating a dull gray substance.

The gray mist spread out and enveloped the surrounding void.

Esther launched herself forward, aiming for the path they came through, but the gray barrier blocked her just in time.

Thud!

The leopard collided with the barrier and was flung back. Enkrid reached out and caught her in one fluid motion.

It was a movement as swift as the wind.

He gently cradled the leopard in his arms while scanning the area. His hand rested on the grip of his sword, ready for whatever might emerge.

“Finn.”

At his call, Finn took position behind him.

Lua Gharne pulled Kraiss, who was holding a stick, back to safety. She too adopted a defensive stance, her guard raised.

Enkrid didn’t have the luxury of checking on Esther further. His danger sense, honed through countless deaths, was blaring.

It was a skill unique to someone who had died innumerable times—an instinct for sensing imminent threats.

And yet...

“Hmm?”

Nothing. There was nothing there.

“What the hell…”

Amidst the silence, Kraiss muttered something to himself, drawing Enkrid’s gaze.

“Meow.”

Esther, seemingly uninjured from the impact, let out a low growl.

Enkrid lowered the leopard and approached Kraiss, who appeared to have opened the chest with his stick.

Inside the chest, instead of the anticipated poison arrows, were only dust and a small letter.

Kraiss unfolded the letter, muttering to himself, “Already looted? Or has Dolph gone mad?”

“Let me see.”

Enkrid reached out and took the letter to examine it.

Only the one who claims the treasure may leave.

Sorry for the setup, but this is the only trap here.

The sound of crackling flames echoed as the torch burned, and Enkrid let out a small groan.

He could almost hear the laughter of the letter’s author, Dolph, a man with an undeniably wicked sense of humor.

Treasure? The chest was empty. Perhaps the other chest held something?

As if reading his thoughts, Kraiss used his stick to open the remaining chest.

“Nothing here either.”

That one was empty too.

“This era must have referred to traps as ‘setups.’ Damn it. Treasure, my ass.”

Kraiss clutched his head in despair.

An ancient trickster had managed to stump a clever modern soldier, leaving him completely dejected.

It couldn’t be helped. This was a magically intertwined trap, something no one could have anticipated.

“Anyone would have fallen for this,” Finn chimed in.

Ignoring their lamentations, Enkrid turned his attention to the sword on the altar.

Earlier, it had been covered in moss and dust, but now its blade glowed faintly with a bluish-silver hue. Although the handle was still rusted, and the blade appeared dull and worn, something about it had changed.

“The blade’s color has shifted.”

How could it have been maintained in a place like this? Who would maintain it? Perhaps a skeleton soldier had been stationed to oil the blade over the years?

Even so, the blade wasn’t sharpened, and the handle looked like it could crumble if gripped too tightly. Yet, for something that had endured centuries, the blade was in remarkable condition.

Weapons typically deteriorated without proper care, and this one had been sitting in an ancient dungeon. Most swords from such places would shatter upon a single swing.

For a mercenary, weapons were life itself, and those who lacked confidence in their skill relied heavily on them. Over the years, Enkrid had learned to scrutinize weapons closely.

This sword, despite its aged appearance, was still intact.

“It’s alive.”

The weapon’s essence remained. It needed maintenance, of course, but it was undoubtedly functional.

It seemed this sword was the only treasure in sight.

“How long ago did Dolph create this setup?” Enkrid asked.

“At least fifty years,” Kraiss replied, his expression a mixture of amazement and exasperation. Everyone’s attention naturally turned to the sword, the sole item remaining.

A sword left untouched for fifty years, still in this condition? If that wasn’t a treasure, what was?

“I’ll give it a try,” Kraiss declared, momentarily shaking off his despair. Muttering a curse about Dolph under his breath, he stepped forward.

Kraiss, for all his talent at hiding and evading, had a curious inability to ignore messes he’d created.

Before anyone could say a word, Kraiss grabbed the sword’s hilt—and immediately let go.

“Ugh!”

He recoiled in shock.

As everyone stared at him, Kraiss stammered, “Someone… some lunatic was chasing me with a sword!”

What?

Simply gripping the sword had conjured the image of a madman in pursuit?

“Let me try,” Finn said, stepping forward.

Reckless bravery—or sheer foolishness—was often the hallmark of rangers.

Without waiting for a response, Finn grasped the hilt and immediately released it.

“It’s true.”

Enkrid’s gaze settled on the sword’s handle.

“A cursed blade?”

Lua Gharne narrowed her eyes at the weapon. She flexed her fingers in the air, then puffed out her cheeks.

“A cursed blade, huh?”

With those words, she stepped forward and placed her hand on the sword’s grip.

Swoosh.

“Hmm.”

Enkrid frowned as Lua Gharne attempted again.

Slip.

Her hand slid off the hilt without managing to secure a grip.

“I saw something. Just briefly.”

Lua Gharne’s slimy skin—an inherent trait of her kind—made gripping smooth surfaces difficult. That explained her preference for looped weapons.

But this sword lacked even a proper pommel for support.

“It’s the only treasure here,” Kraiss muttered, sneaking another glance at the sword. It seemed inevitable that someone would have to draw it.

“Can Dolph’s words be trusted?” Enkrid asked. Claiming the sword could trigger a fatal trap. If Dolph’s instructions were a lie, there would be no escape.

“Well… we’ll have to trust him, won’t we? That bastard lived his whole life by a code of honor. He never lied. His words are fairly reliable.”

A man like that would never risk the consequences of lying. For now, trust was the only option.

Enkrid nodded at the reasoning and stepped toward the sword.

Slip, slip.

Lua Gharne was still attempting to grip the sword.

“I can see it—a man holding the sword,” she murmured, her gaze half-lidded as she focused.

“A cursed blade, seriously,” Kraiss muttered, fidgeting with his fingers. The thought of being chased by a sword-wielding lunatic again was not something he relished. He shuddered, his back drenched in cold sweat.

Lua Gharne finally gave up and dusted off her hands.

“It’s not just cursed. It’s possessed by a malevolent spirit.”

A malevolent spirit?

Enkrid, a man who had wandered the continent for years, had encountered such entities only once before.

It had been a Wraith—a spirit that thrived on human fear and anxiety. He’d been hired to deal with it, only to find the task impossible.

It was a ghost town, every inhabitant already transformed into malevolent spirits.

The memory was grim. Ordinary mercenaries, no matter how well-armed, had no chance. Only priests wielding divine power could handle such situations.

“How much did that cost back then?”

Enkrid recalled the staggering expense. He had emptied his savings to resolve the situation, driven by his sense of duty.

The irony? The client had been a ghost—a remnant of a human soul, desperate and sorrowful. It had disguised itself as a street orphan to deliver the request.

Enkrid had honored the girl’s plea, purging the village of its malevolent spirits.

“Wiped me out,” he muttered to himself. Summoning a priest capable of destroying such entities required a fortune.

In short, malevolent spirits were not something ordinary mercenaries could handle.

As Enkrid reminisced, Kraiss muttered, “If I had kept holding it…”

Lua Gharne interrupted with a chilling response.

“It would’ve split your skull.”

The reply sent a shiver down Kraiss’s spine. He rubbed his arms nervously as Enkrid nonchalantly placed his hand on the sword.

Drawing the sword and leaving—simple as that. Besides, he was curious.

Enkrid Grips the Sword

The moment Enkrid's hand wrapped around the grip of the sword, he knew something had changed.

Even without blinking, he could tell the environment had shifted.

The air itself felt denser.

Beneath him was thick, sticky mud, the kind that seemed to pull at his feet.

And then, from above, something descended—a sword, its blade plummeting straight down toward him.

His body reacted instinctively. With a swift motion, he unsheathed his sword and swung it horizontally to meet the vertical strike.

Clang!

The blades collided, and Enkrid pushed back with raw strength.

With a heavy metallic noise, the floating sword retreated into the mist. Enkrid, using the recoil to his advantage, stepped backward. The sticky mud made his footing awkward, but he managed to retreat, kicking at the ground with each step.

Whoosh!

A gust of wind swirled as the floating sword disappeared into the mist, leaving only faint trails in its wake.

Beyond the dispersing fog, his opponent came into view.

A figure clad in a helmet and plate armor, with blue flames flickering where its eyes should have been.

What is this?

It didn’t speak. It didn’t breathe. There was no sign of intent or emotion behind its movements—nothing that a human would naturally exhibit.

The only thing that moved was its sword.

Clang, clang, clang.

As the creature unleashed a series of strikes, Enkrid realized something was wrong with his body.

The Heart of Might isn’t working.

He was missing something essential. While his reaction speed was almost the same, his body felt sluggish, unresponsive.

Worse yet, his opponent’s swordsmanship was frighteningly precise. It was structured, disciplined, and always a step ahead, as though it could read his every move.

When Enkrid swung reflexively, his opponent parried effortlessly and transitioned to a counterattack.

This time, it was a thrust.

Enkrid inhaled sharply and pulled his body back. He had to retreat—had to find a way out of this place and back to reality.

Instinctively, he knew how to escape, but the problem was that his opponent was too close.

I’ll be cut down before I can get away.

It was an undeniable truth.

The enemy seemed to anticipate every move he made.

Thud!

A gauntleted fist slammed into his abdomen.

But Enkrid wasn’t one to go down easily. With a growl, he swung his sword with all his might, aiming for the enemy’s neck.

The blade struck the shoulder instead, deflected by the armor.

It predicted that.

His next swing narrowly missed as the enemy sidestepped, its armored elbow slamming into his cheekbone with brutal force.

Crunch.

There are things you come to understand after experiencing death countless times.

And this was one of them: This is how I die.

“Guh.”

A strangled sound escaped Enkrid’s lips as his consciousness faded. He was certain it was over.

But when his eyes opened again, he was back.

The surreal, oppressive world of the mindscape—or perhaps the playground of a malevolent spirit—was gone.

“Captain?”

Kraiss’s wide eyes stared down at him.

Beside him were Finn, Lua Gharne, and even Esther.

“You okay?”

“How long has it been?”

Enkrid’s voice was hoarse as he rubbed his neck, which felt raw and sore, as though it had been twisted the wrong way.

The pain lingered vividly, but he was alive. His neck hadn’t snapped.

“It felt like less than a minute,” Kraiss answered.

Enkrid frowned. It was rare for him to experience death without actually dying.

Inside that world, it felt as though he’d been stripped of everything—left with only his sword and forced to fight on equal terms.

For someone like Enkrid, it was akin to battling with his arms and legs tied.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Kraiss pressed.

“I’m fine,” Enkrid replied, nodding.

His gaze returned to the sword. It remained lodged in place, unmoved, like a dignified noblewoman looking down on them. Yet, it was nothing more than a hunk of metal.

“Did it get you?” Lua Gharne asked.

“It twisted my neck.”

“Inside there?”

Enkrid nodded, and Lua Gharne fell into thought.

Malevolent spirits couldn’t typically harm Enkrid. Even during a past mission involving a wraith that fed on human fear, the spirit had been unable to directly kill him.

Was this the same kind of situation?

No, it didn’t feel that way.

The experience had been terrifyingly real. Though he knew it was false, it felt as tangible as actual death.

And Enkrid, a man who had died more times than he could count, could tell the difference.

Meanwhile, Lua Gharne was examining the gray barrier, running her fingers over its surface and tapping it experimentally.

On the other side, Esther scratched at the barrier with her claws.

“What’s that leopard doing?” Finn muttered, bemused.

Probably something useful, Enkrid thought. He knew his Lake Panther companion was no ordinary creature.

Everyone seemed busy trying to figure out the situation.

Finally, Lua Gharne spoke. She had spent several minutes inspecting the barrier, examining the sword, and attempting (unsuccessfully) to grip its hilt.

“This is only a guess,” she began.

“What is it?” Enkrid asked.

Her tone was unusually solemn—difficult to discern for someone like Lua Gharne, but still weighted with significance.

Her words, spoken with crossed arms, sounded plausible.

“You’ll have to die dozens of times. Only then might you see something resembling treasure.”

For Enkrid, that was a simple enough task, but Lua Gharne had no way of knowing that.