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Chapter 19: The Silver Blade, White Knight
Magus found himself suddenly stripped of his ability to control the battlefield. Despite commanding an army of nearly ten thousand undead, they were utterly useless. Ever since the refugee group had vanished from sight, everything seemed to spiral beyond his grasp. First, Gulob and Diran each lost a company, allowing their foes to potentially flank the entire army.
With his sharp acumen, Magus immediately detected something unusual. This half-zombie lord concluded that the refugees were heading straight for his flanks, intending to break through the encirclement of the undead horde. He promptly ordered Wesah and Eberton to spread out along the wings, hoping to cut off the enemy's path before it was too late.
But barely half an hour after issuing the command, ‘Blood Wizard’ Ladios and Gulob both lost their left flanks—no, not to refugees, but to what could only be described as a mysterious army. In Magus’s mind, Brandon’s forces had now ascended to the level of Madara’s regular army.
In truth, even Madara’s regular army might not possess such capability. Judging by the decision-making and combat prowess displayed by Brandon’s army, they rivaled at least the Royal Guard of Eruin. Magus couldn’t help but wonder if he’d encountered either the Royal Guard or the Free Cavalry Corps of Eruin. Could there be someone extraordinary hidden among those "refugees"?
Regardless, the enemy’s tactical intent was glaringly obvious.
Their purpose was clear—they intended to break through. The positions where Ladios and Gulob’s left flanks collapsed formed a striking line on the map, resembling a sharp blade piercing directly into the heart of the undead army.
The half-zombie lord stared at that line, feeling a chill run down his spine.
Magus stood tall, tossing the bone in his hand aside. His eyes flickered as he gazed into the shadowy forest, where his vast army awaited deployment. But was his judgment truly sound? For once, Magus hesitated.
Who were they?
Who commanded them?
When had Eruin produced such a commander?
…………..
The night wind swept through the ravine like icy hands brushing over rocks and streams, casting a cold sheen across the landscape. Trees rustled softly, echoing the whispering waves atop distant hills.
Cavalry surged through the valley like a torrent—the earth thundered beneath their hooves.
Brandon appeared ahead of all others, raising his longsword high. The elven blade emitted a continuous glow in the darkness, forming an undulating plane of light—a silver banner. To those who followed him, this banner represented victory brought forth by the young man leading them.
The riders were utterly devoted. If ever they were to believe in a myth, it would be that a true king could never be defeated.
Some among them were veterans of the November War’s final days; others had fought in the Battle of Flower Moon or witnessed the rout at Karasu Plateau. Time and again, Eruin had disappointed them. It seemed the nation’s spirit had sunk into history’s dust, its former glory buried beneath layers of despair. They fought now for coin, becoming mercenaries, abandoning the honor and creed of warriors.
Yet no soldier lacked the desire for victory—not even these grizzled veterans of countless battles.
Today, Brandon made them pick up banners trampled underfoot a thousand times over. He told them they could still achieve glorious triumphs. Even if they fought simply as cavaliers—for the right to live, for survival itself—all they needed to do was follow him, and victory would come easily.
It stirred their blood.
They charged forward—Sasal’s company crumbled. They pressed on—Gulob’s company shattered. They advanced further—Ladios’s left flank dissolved into nothingness. Onward still—Gulob’s forces evaporated entirely. What was Madara’s army compared to this? The fearless undead proved just as fragile. Armies that once struck terror into Eruin’s regular army fled before them.
For a moment, the cavaliers believed themselves invincible.
Brandon pointed his sword forward—the cavalry roared with cheers, forming a black tide that rolled onward relentlessly. Neither man nor horse showed signs of fatigue, and even the militia behind them surged with renewed vigor. One thought consumed them all: forward, always forward.
Faster, ever faster.
No one spared energy for anything else. Every ounce of focus fueled adrenaline, dilating pupils, exhausting lungs, expending every last vestige of life to charge toward whatever foe awaited—and drag them into hell together.
To hell with Madara.
Even exhausted men and weary horses sought only one thing: the final victory. As they looked ahead, they saw the young man’s sword pointing toward an open gate.
Beyond it lay miracles.
Finally, Brandon spotted another undead army ahead. Convinced he had breached the second and third defensive lines, he wondered whether he had entered Eberton or Wesah’s territory—or perhaps even ‘Corpse Grub’ Magus’s domain.
He saw rows upon rows of skeletal frames turning on the riverbank, far more than he had faced before. Narrowing his eyes, Brandon noticed at least two squads of Black Warriors flanking the enemy commander.
A column commander.
Brandon realized he had stumbled upon a prize—but swallowing it whole remained uncertain. Still, retreat was impossible. There was only one option left.
In narrow paths, courage decides.
Raising his sword, the tip of the elven blade shone so brightly it seemed blinding. Wind howled around him, drowning out all other sounds. With a desperate roar, he shouted:
“Cavalry, charge with me!”
“Charge!”
Though only forty-nine voices responded, it sounded like a storm. As thunderous hooves echoed through the valley, heaven and earth seemed to unite, merging man and beast into a single entity.
‘White Knight’ Eberton’s expression changed in an instant.
Like Magus, he had been pondering the identity of the human commander and the origins of this mysterious army. Yet he never expected to meet them under such circumstances.
Turning back, he saw the charging cavalry approach through eyes that blazed with frost-blue flames beneath his snow-white helmet. For a fleeting moment, he felt transported to an era when chivalry reigned supreme.
The ‘White Knight’ faltered, recalling the proud cavalry of the Cruze Empire on the Golden Flower Plateau decades ago. Those arrogant knights disdained tactics, relying solely on relentless charges to secure victory. Their pride and honor burned so fiercely that death itself became their ultimate accolade.
Facing such an army rendered all resistance meaningless. Eberton felt his resolve waver, almost believing he had returned to a century past.
His hesitation cost him dearly. By the time he snapped out of his daze and tried to order his skeletal minions to turn, it was too late.
Brandon, wielding the elven blade, led the charge like the spearhead of destiny—a silver thread guiding the knights of kings forward.
Yes, the skeletons were slowly pivoting, but it was futile. Too slow, far too slow.
“Skeletal wizards!” Eberton unsheathed his sword, a shrill cry escaping his soul.
Ten skeletal wizards raised their bone staves simultaneously.
A dark storm erupted before the undead army. As it formed, the ground shattered, jagged rocks shooting upward and disintegrating instantly. Trees on either side turned to black smoke, screaming skyward.
‘White Knight’ Eberton held his breath, unsure if what he saw was real. How could Eruin field such cavalry today? Then he remembered—he no longer breathed. He sighed.
But the next moment, the frost-blue flames in his eye sockets froze. Mouth slightly agape, he watched the young man emerge from the storm, hand raised, a faint blue rune glowing transparently.
Though the storm of negative energy whipped his hair backward, Brandon raised his hand higher, redirecting the tempest.
Forward he went, and the storm followed—as though Brandon commanded the very winds. Shouting with effort, “Energy Drain!”
The storm shifted direction.
Rows of skeleton soldiers fell, rear ranks colliding with front ranks, collapsing en masse.
Yet Brandon too was nearing his limit.
Then, everyone saw it—the young man’s steed collapsed. Not just the undead, but every soul on the battlefield watched Brandon tumble from his horse. For a heartbeat, the entire valley fell silent. Refugees behind halted, eyes wide.
Freya tightened her reins, urging the militia onward, but turned just in time to see the fall. Hand covering her mouth, she uttered no sound.
Roma paled, lifting her skirts to run forward.
Retto, Mano, Barthom, Voltaron, and Uriel loosened their grips on their reins, realizing even this young man could fall.
But in the instant Brandon hit the ground, he adjusted his stance, waiting for his chance.
Charge initiated.
As his feet touched the earth, he spun mid-air, launching himself like an arrow loosed from a bow. Forward he went, sword extended—a silver streak.
All eyes followed that unmistakable silver line—a symbol of miracles.
Behind it, twelve skeleton soldiers split cleanly in two. Brandon landed amidst countless undead, his sword still held high.
He saw the towering white-armored undead knight.
And the frost-blue flames burning fiercely in his eyes.
“So it’s you, ‘White Knight’ Eberton, former hero of Eruin.” Brandon met his gaze, tilting the elven blade slightly. Its radiant edge unleashed a gust of wind pressure.
“This is where your road ends, young one,” Eberton said, parrying Brandon’s strike.
Silver-rank strength. Using the momentum, Brandon withdrew swiftly.
This was going to be tricky.
He couldn’t help but think…
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