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Chapter 20: The Knight of the Past Part 1
“This is where your road ends, young one,” Eberton held his sword in one hand. The blade, named Pale Fang, was no extraordinary magical weapon, but it bore witness to a lifetime of valor and glory earned by this knight.
With his left hand resting on his right wrist, Eberton spoke. As he did, a thin layer of frost-blue flames ignited along the edge of the blade. Brandon recognized it immediately—this was the famed technique that had defined Eberton's career: White Flame.
Compared to him, Eberton was the true royal swordsman. He became a knight at seventeen and mastered his swordsmanship by the age of forty. For all his life, he fought for Eruin and died as its hero. Yet, ironically, ‘White Knight’ Eberton gained even greater renown after becoming undead.
In his time, Eberton had been one of Madara’s Four Knights of Revelation. His title, Conqueror, struck fear into the hearts of many—not merely enough to silence children.
Brandon took a step back and immediately felt the weight of the challenge before him. Among Targus’s commanders, there were two whose presence he dreaded most: the Conqueror, ‘White Knight’ Eberton, and the Warlord, ‘Red Knight’ Ladios. And of the two, Eberton posed the greater threat. It seemed Marsha had played another cruel joke on him.
But the White Knight moved with blinding speed. Before Brandon could finish his thought, Eberton unleashed a vertical slash—a crescent-shaped arc of silvery-white flame descending like the cold light of the moon. Even before the sword reached him, Brandon felt an icy chill pierce through him. Choking back panic, he rolled to the side just in time.
The flame swept across the ground, and with a sharp crack, the rock beneath split cleanly apart, its edges frosted white.
Seeing this, Brandon couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down his spine. This was the power of the lowest tier of silver rank. In contrast, his White Crow Swordsmanship, even when augmented by Strength Surge, could barely cut through wooden materials.
But as Brandon rolled aside, Eberton spurred his nightmare steed forward. Ignoring his skeletal minions entirely, the undead knight leapt over a sea of bones, closing the distance between them in an instant.
Bone fragments flew everywhere as Eberton raised his longsword high. With the momentum of his charge, he brought the blade crashing down toward the young man.
There was no escape. Brandon raised Lustrous Stinger to block. A deafening clang rang out as the two blades clashed, bending backward under the force of the impact. Brandon’s arm screamed in agony as he was sent flying like a cannonball, tumbling several times before scrambling to his feet.
At least twenty-five units of strength.
Brandon steadied himself with one hand on the ground, silently thanking his luck. He had managed to activate Strength Surge at the last moment; otherwise, his arm would have been shattered. Even so, his right hand still tingled painfully, and for a brief moment, he feared he might lose sensation entirely.
It was terrifying. This was the raw power of the Second Level Strength—a Silver-ranked swordsman. A single strike from one hand exceeded seven tons of force, nearly reaching the point where technique became irrelevant, capable of slicing through wind itself. As Eberton charged toward him once more, Brandon found himself longing for his Holy Sword Card. Defeating such a monstrous opponent seemed impossible without access to that kind of power. But alas, he lacked the necessary Earth Element to pay the cost.
Eberton and his mount closed in again. Gritting his teeth, Brandon raised his sword once more, gripping it with both hands above his head. Tilting the tip slightly downward, he assumed the starting stance of one of the military sword techniques best suited for deflecting force.
"Jack of all trades, master of none."
The White Knight looked down at him, his voice cold and raspy beneath the helmet. Raising his sword, Eberton slashed downward. Brandon met the blow with the hilt of Lustrous Stinger, carefully adjusting the angle of the elven blade in that fleeting moment. Sparks flew as Eberton’s sword slid along his own, redirecting the force—but the remaining energy still sent Brandon stumbling backward. Reacting instinctively, he planted his foot against the ground, sliding smoothly to the side while maintaining balance in a low crouch.
Dodging that strike left Brandon drenched in sweat. In the game, he often performed similar maneuvers, but those actions were guided by the system, which calculated trajectories, adjusted positions, and corrected movements. Here, every motion depended entirely on his own precision—and one misstep could mean death.
Yet somehow, he had succeeded.
Shaking his arm, Brandon winced as the numbness persisted. Each clash felt like colliding with a speeding truck. Even after deflecting the force, he could hear his muscles and bones groaning in protest.
From beneath his helmet, Eberton let out a low grunt of surprise. The young man’s technique was nothing extraordinary, but his experience clearly ran deep. Finding the right countermeasure so quickly—this was the reflex of a seasoned veteran.
Turning his horse, Eberton began another charge.
But Brandon, having finally escaped the rhythm of the White Knight’s attacks, wasn’t about to give him the advantage again. Quickly raising his right hand, he aimed the silver ring at Eberton and shouted, “Oss!”
"A magic activation phrase?" The flames burning in Eberton’s eyes flickered briefly as he readied his sword, holding it diagonally across his body.
No sooner had Eberton completed the motion than a thunderous roar erupted. A violent gust tore through the battlefield, carving a deep trench into the rocky ground as it surged toward the undead knight. However, upon striking Eberton’s blade, the cyclone split apart with a resounding boom, leaving behind a perfect Y-shaped scar on the earth. Every skeleton soldier caught within the path of the scar was hurled into the air, disintegrating mid-flight and landing far away on the riverbank.
A cacophony of snapping bones followed, like a rainstorm of splintered remains.
Eberton lowered his sword, ignoring the settling dust, and raised it once more. A clear ringing sound echoed as Brandon burst through the smoke, leaping into the air to exchange another blow with the White Knight.
Flawless.
Brandon wasn’t surprised. An elite of this caliber rivaled or surpassed the likes of the Golden Magic Tree. Back then, he had relied on his Holy Sword Card to defeat the Golden Magic Tree. Without it, victory would have been uncertain. Against ‘White Knight’ Eberton, he dared not entertain any wishful thinking.
Challenging someone of a higher rank required meticulous preparation and absolute focus.
Their swords clashed again, and as Brandon landed, he countered with a wave of wind slashes. Eberton calmly deflected it, extinguishing the gust with a burst of silver fire.
For the third time, Eberton lowered his sword—but this time, he didn’t rush to attack. Instead, he sat silently atop his nightmare steed, gazing at Brandon. It was as if he were recalling a distant tale—one filled with the haunting melodies of highland flutes and banners fluttering atop the plateaus of Baltar.
“White Crow Swordsmanship,” Eberton rasped, his voice like that of a visitor from hell.
“Are you of the new royal generation?” Eberton asked coldly from atop his horse.
Brandon hesitated. Did Eberton have ties to the Colcova dynasty? That wasn’t mentioned in the game, but either way, he decided to deny it outright. After all, provoking old grudges alongside new ones might trigger some hidden ability boost—he’d heard tales of level thirty bosses surging to level forty elite status. Such an opponent would surely annihilate them in a single strike.
Realizing this, Brandon hastily shook his head.
To his dismay, Eberton tilted his sword and replied coldly, “If not, then killing you won’t violate my oath.” Upon hearing this, Brandon nearly coughed up blood. He regretted his decision bitterly. Had he known about this vow, he would have claimed the identity of the royal heir without hesitation. Truly, self-inflicted misfortune was the hardest to bear.
Of course, these thoughts remained unspoken.
Brandon knew claiming royal lineage wouldn’t be easy. The Colcova dynasty carried the blood of mist elves—legendary beings born with silver bloodlines, part of the fabled Silver Clan.
And Brandon’s crimson blood marked him as mortal.
Meanwhile, Eberton resumed his unity with his steed, gripping his sword tightly as he spurred the nightmare horse into another charge. Facing such a relentless killer, Brandon felt momentarily overwhelmed. He considered using White Crow Swordsmanship enhanced by Strength Surge to deflect blows, but each use cost nine stamina points. At seventeen levels, even twenty-seven or thirty-seven wouldn’t sustain such expenditure for long.
In truth, he was already beginning to feel drained.
As for Eberton, an elite monster with at least thirty levels, Brandon estimated him to have around two hundred health points. The earlier wind blast that dealt thirty damage was little more than a scratch, barely registering as a minor shock. While Brandon believed landing two or three strikes with Lustrous Stinger could fell the knight, doing so would require getting close enough to strike—a daunting prospect.
Sucking in a breath, Brandon glanced toward the distance, hoping Retto and the others would arrive soon.
But the cavalry had only just engaged the skeleton soldiers. Though they held an advantage thanks to Brandon’s earlier efforts, extricating themselves anytime soon seemed unlikely. His only hope now lay with the militia behind them—praying they would hurry.
At the same time, Freya, leading the militia, shared the same thought.
Yet, glancing back at the stumbling citizens of Ridenburg, she couldn’t help but frown. They were, after all, ordinary militiamen, and their current performance was already commendable given their morale. She couldn’t ask for more.
Looking ahead at the chaotic frontline, though she couldn’t see Brandon, she knew the commander of such a vast undead army must be formidable.
She was no longer the naive country girl of days past. Unlike others who blindly trusted the young man, Freya understood that Brandon was likely locked in a desperate struggle. Turning her gaze to Chael and Su beside her, she spoke.
“Su, can you do me a favor?”
“Hm?” The girl blinked in surprise.
“Take command of the militia.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m going to help Brandon,” Freya replied firmly, turning her horse. “Chael, come with me.”
“Lady Freya, I don’t mind, but are you sure about this?” Chael hesitated. Brandon had instructed him to keep an eye on the injured Freya, but he also worried about the safety of the person he served.
Freya met his gaze and nodded resolutely.
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