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Chapter 21: The Knight of the Past Part 2
Brandon raised his sword to parry, and a gust of wind erupted from the clash between the elven blade and Pale Fang, whipping his hair back. He squinted, letting the force slide him backward, feeling as though half his body might tear apart.
Though he had yet to take a direct hit thanks to his experience, the life gauge projected onto his retina had already plummeted by over thirty points. Brandon knew this was due to the internal trauma—his body couldn’t fully absorb the impact. Still, his constitution, which hovered near seven units, far surpassed that of an ordinary man. Had it been anyone else, they would have perished instantly from ruptured organs after just one blow.
What troubled him more was that Eberton seemed acutely aware of this fact. Each strike came faster than the last, leaving no room for respite. Several times, Brandon wondered if the undead knight cared nothing for his own forces. Though his side teetered on collapse, the ranks of skeletal soldiers in the valley below were also nearing their breaking point.
Could it be that, in Eberton’s eyes, one man truly outweighed an entire army?
Little did Brandon realize how close his absurd thought was to reality. The White Knight Eberton, once a hero of Eruin in life, now existed only as a footnote to his former self—a twisted violation of nature’s laws. In Vonder, necromancy was deemed heresy against the living because it bound foreign wills to corpses meant for decay and return to the earth.
It was not the person but merely a shell, haunted by fragments of memory. Some claimed undead feared nothing more than these remnants of their past lives; some even became trapped within them, unable to escape. For most undead, forgetting was preferable to remembering, for when they remembered, fear consumed them.
Yet White Knight Eberton stood apart. This spectral knight often found himself lost in recollections of battles fought upon the Golden Flower Plateau. From a detached perspective, he relived those moments, each memory sharpening his resolve into something colder, more calculating.
Thus, as a high-ranking general of Madara, the White Knight of Revelation sought to eliminate any potential threat to his dark realm before it could take root. To him, the danger posed by a skilled commander far outweighed that of a disorganized mob.
He would gladly sacrifice victory in this battle if it meant slaying the young upstart before him.
But Brandon had exceeded the undead knight’s expectations. Eberton understood the schools of Eruin swordsmanship well enough to recognize that Brandon employed only the crudest techniques taught in basic training, perhaps sprinkled with rudimentary elements of royal swordplay. Altogether, Brandon’s skill barely warranted respect—yet time and again, Eberton failed to land a decisive blow.
Frustrated, Eberton resorted to brute force, grinding his opponent down through sheer superiority. Such tactics felt dishonorable, even to a noble-born knight like Eberton, but under the shadow of the three Black Scepters and bound by the Black Codex’s oath, he cast aside his pride. Many others would do the same, he reasoned, for Madara demanded such sacrifices.
“By Marsha’s grace, may Madara forever bask in your protection,” intoned the undead knight, his soulfire burning cold as ice. With merciless precision, he swung his longsword downward.
But Brandon had already sidestepped, anticipating the move as though reading Eberton’s mind. Every swing of Pale Fang missed its mark or was deflected with clumsy yet effective counters. To Eberton, this defiance bordered on miraculous.
His soulfire flickered in frustration. Since the duel began, he had cycled through three distinct styles: first the familiar Eruin military form, then the refined royal technique, both of which Brandon somehow predicted. Believing the youth simply knew Eruin’s methods too well, Eberton switched to Madara’s Black Cross Swordsmanship—only for Brandon to adapt even more swiftly. If undead could feel anger, Eberton might have cursed aloud.
What Eberton didn’t know was that Brandon’s knowledge of Eruin’s martial arts stemmed from his early days in the game, before reaching level thirty. Over decades of virtual warfare, he had encountered hundreds of fighting styles, ranging from advanced disciplines to common brawling techniques. Yet two stood out above all: the chivalric swordsmanship of the Church Knights and Madara’s Black Cross Swordsmanship.
Practice made perfect.
The chivalric swordsmanship was what Brandon had used longest in his previous life, while the Black Cross Swordsmanship was what he had seen most frequently. After seventy years of simulated combat against Madara, understanding their standard military techniques came as naturally to him as breathing.
Still, familiarity did not guarantee survival.
Under Eberton’s overwhelming strength, Brandon struggled to find even a sliver of opportunity for counterattack. No matter how predictable the patterns, Eberton’s agility—sixteen units strong—left Brandon grasping at shadows. At times, he couldn’t track the knight’s movements, relying solely on instinct and experience.
Moreover, Brandon’s stamina was waning dangerously. When a fighter’s endurance dropped below half, their strength and reflexes began to falter. Below a third, maintaining proper form became nearly impossible.
And yet barely three minutes had passed since the fight began. Sweat poured down Brandon’s face as Eberton pressed his advantage, leaving little room for thought. Initially, Brandon managed glimpses of the battlefield, but as fatigue mounted, dodging each strike required near-maximum effort.
The exchanges grew more frequent, creating a vicious cycle. The harder Brandon fought, the more exhausted he became. And the more exhausted he became, the harder it was to evade Eberton’s relentless assault.
Brandon gritted his teeth, clinging to consciousness. His perseverance transcended mere survival. Each movement wrung potential from weary muscles, each dodge cheated death anew. Yet beneath it all lay a profound weariness, a longing to surrender to eternal rest.
Then, unbidden, images surfaced: Freya, little Roma, and the cavalrymen who fought beside him. A surge of fiery determination reignited within him. Responsibility anchored him—to his actions, his words, his promises.
For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, then opened them to a world bathed in snowlight. Clarity struck him like a thunderclap. With a desperate roll, ungainly but effective, he evaded certain doom.
But Eberton’s latent power finally unleashed itself. Thrusting forward, the White Knight channeled silver rank strength, unleashing a wave of silvery flame that swept across the landscape. It resembled moonlight incarnate—silent, inexorable, shattering rock and felling trees in its wake.
From the valley upward, a single strike carved a barren slope nearly a hundred and fifty feet wide.
A chill breeze swept through the silent valley.
Utter stillness reigned.
All present stared in awe. Though tales of the Second Level Strength—the power of the silver rank—were known, none had witnessed it firsthand. Now confronted with this near-divine display, mortal hearts swelled with reverence—not fear, nor despair, but pure admiration for power beyond comprehension.
Even Retto and Mano stood frozen, incredulous that Brandon had endured such a foe for so long. Guilt gnawed at them for failing to assist sooner, yet Brandon said nothing.
Instead, their shame deepened as they recognized the weight of responsibility he bore—for every promise made, every life entrusted to him. What once seemed casual resolve now revealed itself as steadfast duty.
If their earlier admiration for Brandon was blind devotion, it now transformed into something deeper: belonging.
But where was Brandon? Could he possibly survive such devastation?
The White Knight sheathed his sword with a resonant ring.
“BRANDON!”
Freya spurred her horse toward the battleground, rounding a hillside, but she arrived too late. Before her stretched a scene of finality.
Her sword clattered to the ground. She couldn’t believe what she saw—the young man who had freed her from Buchi, who showed her a world beyond the well, reduced to this?
Was this truly the end?
A hand touched her shoulder. Startled, she turned to see Chael, the young mage apprentice, gazing fixedly at the rubble below.
“Lady Freya,” he murmured, “as long as I’m here, it means Lord Brandon isn’t dead.”
“What…?” Her tail swished in confusion, struggling to grasp his meaning.
But clarity dawned as she spotted a familiar figure rising from the debris.
Pain coursed through Brandon’s body, every joint screaming in protest. His shirt hung in tatters, blood streaming from countless wounds. Yet despite it all, he grinned—a defiant, triumphant smirk.
“Old man, didn’t think you’d slip up like that in the end, did you?”
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