The Amber Sword V1C0

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Volume 1: The War of the Black Rose

Preface Monologue

The instructor of the militia training camp didn't lie to me. Necessary experience can really save your life at critical moments.

If it weren't for the training I underwent for that month, I might not have been able to avoid that fatal blow just now, as it came unexpectedly in my sleep. The sudden attack triggered a tingling sensation akin to an electronic shock, directly pulling me out of deep slumber. 

As I opened my eyes, I was greeted by the gleaming blade of a sharp longsword, instantly evoking a chilling sensation surging from the depths of my heart.

It was truly heart-stopping!

But to be honest, I'm not sure how I reacted at that moment. Perhaps it was an instinct developed through rigorous training. In the nick of time, I instinctively turned my head, causing the sword to graze my ear as it thrust downwards.

In the nick of time—

And then I saw the emblem of the Black Rose of Brovento flourishing on the cold, shining steel of the longsword, embedded in a square iron disk. It took me a moment to identify the object. "The Undead Army of Madara!" It was like a bucket of cold water poured over me, jolting me awake completely. 

Damn it, why are these damned things here?

I distinctly remembered that I was vacationing at an old house in the countryside of Buchi. It was a property left by my grandfather, and with my old man's permission, I stayed there temporarily to help him manage this old place.

My mother was from Cardarego, which probably gave me the closest thing to noble blood in my veins. But my father was just a humble miller—he didn't even participate in the famous November War like my grandfather did, nor did he receive the Candlelight Medal. He was just a simple, honest middle-aged man.

As for me, I was just an ordinary young man seen everywhere in the kingdom. My greatest dream was to join the army or go on adventures, earn a sizable fortune, and then come back.

Perhaps eventually find a beautiful and charming wife to spend the rest of my days with—it would be perfect!

But enough of that. The fact that there was a terrifying undead creature by my bedside trying to kill me had me feeling like my mind was in chaos. Luckily, the things the instructor had taught me were still in my head, not thrown into oblivion due to my scattered thoughts. 

In an instant, I recalled that my sword should be by the bedside, but that skeleton surely wouldn't give me the chance to reach for it—now I realized that it was really not a good habit; I must remember to keep it under my pillow next time.

Of course, these thoughts existed only for a moment in my mind.

Instinctively, I lunged outward, rolling off the bed and knocking down the bony skeleton standing at my bedside. At that moment, I remembered every word the instructor said during our first combat training:

"Remember, these Madara foot soldiers are the lowest rank, driven by pure soul fire. They move slowly, lack intelligence, and are weak—"

But before I could finish my thoughts, a tremendous force surged from below me, as if I were wrestling not with a skeleton but with a bull. In short order, an unstoppable force flipped me outward, crashing into the nearby cabinet. 

I heard my bones and the cabinet groaning in unison, and the intense pain coursing through my body made me grit my teeth. But I quickly shook my head to dispel the dizziness—because I remembered what I had to do. In my swaying vision, the skeleton had already stood up to retrieve the sword stuck in the bed.

Its movements indeed seemed stiff, but how could this force be called weak?

But I was about to turn and run because that 'thing' had pulled out the sword and once again became a dangerous entity. And me, I knew my strength wasn't its match, or I reckon even three of me wouldn't be enough for it—and the crucial part was, I didn't have a weapon—

My sword was conveniently separated by it, though I believe it was just a coincidence, because skeletons didn't have intelligence.

I crawled and scrambled just to get to the doorway, then couldn't help but curse my luck—because I saw the door to the hall burst open below, and outside, the cold moonlight poured in, poetic and picturesque, if it weren't for it accentuating another white skeleton frame.

I noticed this low-rank Madara soldier had obviously just walked in—it held another gleaming steel longsword in its hand, wore Madara standard chainmail on its skeletal frame, and also sported a dark helmet.

However, what frustrated me the most was when it lifted its head, revealing a pair of dark eye sockets with fiery crimson flames dancing within, perfectly locking onto me.

It seemed that it had spotted me.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, it was not a good sign.

Oh Marsha! I couldn't help but pray to the goddess in my heart. I'm only nineteen this year, I can't die so unceremoniously in a backwater village. 

Oh right, I haven't confessed to the woman I admire yet. Just thinking about that charming merchant girl made my heart beat faster. And then I suddenly remembered that her house was just opposite mine. 

I couldn't let my admired girl be in danger.

Only then did I calm down and try to find a way out. My thoughts raced, and at this moment, the lessons from that instructor came to mind—

"Only by staying calm can you fight!"

This view coincided with my current situation, but I didn't have a weapon at hand now. I couldn't possibly fight a beast bare-handed, could I? I nervously leaned against the wall, panting, and looked around anxiously. Although this old house wasn't completely empty, there wasn't anything in the hall that could be used as a makeshift weapon.

If only my grandfather were a great noble. I've been to Earl Remington's house. Their main hall was five times bigger than the one before me, with shields, longswords, and axes hanging on the walls; I could easily find a suitable weapon if it were there.

Besides, my swordsmanship is not bad. Not to brag about it, but that old instructor praised me himself, saying that among our batch of trainees, my swordsmanship stood out the most.

Even that kid from the Breyson family wasn't my match, although I've always envied him for having a father who was a local officer. If my dad were also a local officer, I would definitely be able to join the militia.

Of course, talking about this now is useless. Anyway, there was still that skeleton soldier standing between my sword and me. Although they couldn't run, their walking speed was about the same as an ordinary person's, and their movements were a bit stiff, it was only slightly slower than an adult.

I bet I could handle it easily on the training ground, but in such a narrow space, rushing in would probably get me skewered.

The two skeletons were getting closer and closer, the clacking noise of their footsteps echoing in my heart, while my own heart pounded like thunder, incessantly.

I felt a bit at a loss— the skeleton in the bedroom walked out, paused, and then turned to stride towards me. I instinctively took a step back, bumping into something hard behind me.

Only then did I remember that there should be a painting hanging behind me, a painting passed down from my grandfather's generation, said to be a family heirloom. That cripple from Black Pepper Alley once offered ten gold coins for this painting, but my father refused.

My father was a stubborn old man, but I was not like him. If not for what was happening now, I'd often think that when I hit rock bottom in the future, I'd sell this painting and buy a beautiful horse, and travel the continent with the girl dreaming of becoming a wealthy merchant from across the street.

But now I couldn't think about that. This family heirloom was going to save my life. I turned around and grabbed the wooden frame of the painting, tearing it down. At this moment, I didn't care whether I would damage it or not—after all, this thing was worth at least ten gold coins, although I once suspected it might be worth more, because that cripple from Black Pepper Alley was notoriously stingy.

Ten gold coins were a great fortune, the most money I'd ever seen from childhood to adulthood was about ten silver coins.

I couldn't help but take a deep breath, feeling my hands trembling uncontrollably. I thought that after I took down the painting, I would throw it at the terrifying undead and slip away while it was distracted, then grab the sword and use my swordsmanship to smash these two skeletons to pieces.

Of course, I could do the same by running out onto the street. But I couldn't guarantee that there wouldn't be similar creatures out there; running out unarmed would be suicide. So I steadied myself and felt that it was better to be brave.

Although it was a somewhat idealized thought, maybe it'd ignore everything and just give me a sword thrust, and then I'd have to go meet Lady Marsha.

I couldn't help but think, would they put up a tombstone for me, saying—

"Poor Brandon, he clearly miscalculated—"

I shuddered and quickly shook my head to dispel the terrifying thoughts haunting me like ghosts—phooey, I won't die.

Then I looked at the dusty painting in my hand again, honestly, I couldn't see anything good about this thing—this is worth ten gold coins? I wondered if that cripple from Black Pepper Alley would feel pity if I threw it out. 

But the terrifying undead was already in front of me, and I had no time to lament the lost ten gold coins and the opportunity to travel the continent with that merchant girl, because I had subconsciously thrown the painting out.

I threw it accurately, the painting almost flew straight towards the white skeleton, which was perfect. And that idiot instinctively raised its sword for a horizontal strike, splitting the dusty painting into two pieces in mid-air.

What strength! But luckily the instructor didn't lie in crucial matters, these skeletons really lacked intelligence.

Almost as soon as this thought flashed through my mind, I rushed out instinctively.

The door to my bedroom wasn't far away, thank Lady Marsha, I just needed to take a few more steps to see my sword lying there quietly.

That sword was also one of my family heirlooms; my grandfather once used it in battle. It was said that he served as a squire for a knight for a while, and this sword was given to him by that knight—.

That sword should be a Year Thirty-second's standard issue, with an ivy imprint on the blade, in memory of the victory in the Goran-Elsun Plateau battle.

I remembered that year, His Majesty changed the standard issue of the knight's long swords, from the original two-arms length to one-and-a-half arms, and the copper decorations on the hilt were also replaced with ordinary iron flowers, to save costs to cope with the ever-prolonging 'November War'.

That's right, it's a knight's sword.

Hmph, as long as I get that sword—

"It's your turn to meet your doom, you Madara scum—"

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