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Chapter 22: The Knight of the Past Part 3
Eberton raised his head, momentarily stunned.
Brandon seized the opening, leaping from the rubble like a shadow stretching skyward. His movements blurred into discontinuous afterimages, crossing ten meters in an instant.
Eberton realized too late that Brandon’s trajectory was unreadable. The surge of speed—tenfold his normal agility—propelled him to forty-four units of agility. He moved like the wind, or perhaps was the wind. By the time the white-armored undead knight turned, Brandon was already behind him.
Eberton had anticipated this burst of speed; it had seen it once before at the battle's outset. But experiencing it firsthand was another matter entirely.
This young man… he is no ordinary foe.
The White Knight unsheathed his Pale Fang in a flash, instinctively swinging backward to parry Brandon’s elven blade. The clash rang out, transcending mere swordplay. Both combatants fought now on pure reflex and experience.
But Brandon, denied a clean strike, retreated as swiftly as he had advanced. For a fleeting second, he became a ghost slipping through Eberton’s blind spot, lunging with his sword aimed at the knight’s left chest.
Eberton countered immediately, sweeping aside Brandon’s blade without leaving an opening. “So troublesome,” muttered Brandon through gritted teeth, his body riddled with wounds.
Yet it was the undead knight’s turn to falter. Suddenly, he sensed two Brandons—one to his left, one to his right—flanking him in a pincer attack. What sorcery was this? A projection technique? Skilled in both magic and martial arts?
Eberton pivoted, sensing danger behind him, only to see a gargoyle cleaved cleanly in two by his own sword. The creature tumbled away, dissolving mid-air in slow motion. Though mesmerized by the sight, Eberton felt unease creep into his hollow core.
On the opposite side, Brandon struck again—the final blow of his charge-enhanced state. Strength Surge, paired with the White Crow Swordsmanship.
But just then, Eberton lowered his sword. Beneath him, his nightmare steed collapsed, its legs buckling outward as it died instantly. In the same moment, an irresistible force erupted outward, hurling Brandon backward before he could react.
Wall of Will.
Though Brandon had suspected Eberton might employ Sun Knight Egwinson’s aura tactics, he’d clung to a sliver of hope. Now, that hope shattered. Yet seizing the briefest opportunity, he retreated seven steps, then charged forward once more.
The White Knight rose to meet him, tossing back his pristine white cloak. With cold precision, he swung Pale Fang, striking Brandon three times in rapid succession. Each blow sent the young man staggering backward, pain lancing through his chest until blood threatened to spill from his lips.
At last, Retto and Mano broke free from the skeletal soldiers’ grasp. Spotting the scene unfolding before them, they spurred their horses toward the fray.
“Eruin.” Eberton watched dispassionately as Brandon’s defenses unraveled. Raising his sword for what seemed the final time, the pale flames burning in his eye sockets froze over like frost. "Has grown far too ancient.”
He thrust forward.
But Brandon smiled—a faint, knowing curve of his lips. Releasing his elven blade with his left hand, he raised it to intercept Pale Fang. His reinforced leather gauntlet flared blue briefly before tearing apart under the pressure.
The smile faded, replaced by grim determination. Ignoring the searing pain, Brandon pressed down with both hands, his protective gauntlets igniting from magical overload. Still, the sword descended, slicing open his palm, biting through chainmail, and piercing deep into his abdomen.
Blood spilled vividly, crimson as aged wine—but Eberton saw no victory in it.
Instead, he saw Brandon’s blood-soaked left hand gripping his skeletal right wrist—slowly, inexorably forcing Pale Fang to remain embedded. Then, with his right hand, Brandon raised the elven blade high.
In the White Knight’s frost-flame eyes, the weapon blazed with radiant silver fire. Inscribed upon it were ancient runes: “Born amidst the radiant glow, Striking fear in every foe.”
A single step forward.
Eberton raised his left hand to block, but the holy flames burned through flesh and bone alike, searing through his palm and bursting from the back of his hand in a spray of ash before piercing into his chest.
Two swords bound the two knights together.
Only the cold wind whispered through the valley.
“I told you,” Brandon rasped, “you missed one thing…”
“You think you’ve won, boy?” Eberton’s voice was hoarse, distant—as though spoken from beyond the grave. Pain seared through his chest, yet he knew it wasn’t fatal. Rest would be required, but death eluded him still.
“No… not yet. Eruin may be old… But there are still those who love it.”
Brandon exhaled shakily. The White Knight seized the chance.
Both wrenched their blades free, launching simultaneous attacks. Brandon twisted left, allowing Eberton’s sword to pierce his right lung. Simultaneously, his elven blade severed the undead knight’s left arm entirely.
They broke apart, retreating.
Brandon collapsed to his knees, coughing violently. His lungs burned as though aflame. He had never felt such agony in the game—but he had felt it once before, in Buchi.
His indomitable talent activated, Brandon forced himself upright, leaning heavily on his sword.
Eberton rose first, his injuries less severe. Though impressed by Brandon’s tenacity, the undead knight craved victory above all else. Without his left arm, balance eluded him, but compared to Brandon, who struggled even to stand, he fared better.
Glancing left, Eberton noted Retto and Mano closing in. Time was short. Lifting Pale Fang, he charged once more.
But then—a flash of golden light streaked across the mountaintop.
It was no illusion.
All eyes turned to witness the blinding ray of gold-red brilliance. To most, it appeared as a straight line emanating from Freya’s ring, piercing directly toward Eberton. But to the White Knight, it manifested differently: a roaring fireball hurtling toward him. Its speed created the illusion of a fiery streak cutting through the night.
“Flame—!” Freya’s clear command echoed moments later.
Eberton raised his sword, but too late. The fireball struck the tip of Pale Fang, detonating into a massive explosion. A shockwave rippled outward, visible as a wave of force racing along the valley floor. Hair whipped backward, fir trees toppled, and needles spiraled skyward.
Then, debris surged past Retto and Mano’s horses, startling the beasts into rearing up. The fiery orb lingered only briefly before vanishing, plunging the night into deeper darkness. Those standing could barely see their hands before their faces.
But Brandon, thrown back by the blast, lay amidst the smoke. Through the haze, he glimpsed the White Knight kneeling motionless.
Eberton didn’t stir.
Brandon touched his forehead, scarcely believing he’d prevailed. Thirty points from the initial wind blast, nearly a hundred and forty from his own strikes, and another forty-five from Freya’s fireball—it was impossible for anyone to withstand such punishment.
He chuckled weakly, realizing Eberton hadn’t accounted for one crucial secret: Indomitable, his talent.
Gazing at the fallen knight, Brandon wondered what thoughts occupied the former hero’s mind. Was he contemplating defeat? Or reminiscing about past glories?
Coughing, Brandon prepared to rise when a cascade of noise drew his attention. Turning, he saw Freya and Chael scrambling down the slope, faces etched with worry.
“Brandon!” Freya rushed to his side, forgetting everything except the need to support him. “Are you alright?”
Brandon started to respond but hesitated, lying back instead. “Freya… is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me! Can’t you see?” Tears welled in her eyes as she took in his injuries—blood pouring from his chest and abdomen. Panic gripped her. “Don’t talk. Let me bandage you…”
“Freya, I need your help with something.”
“What… what is it?” Her heart clenched involuntarily.
“Well…” Brandon smirked despite his condition. “How about a kiss first?”
“Huh? Wha—what?” Freya blinked, caught off guard.
Seeing her earnest expression, Brandon couldn’t suppress a laugh. Struggling to sit up, he clarified, “Just kidding, Freya. Help me stand, will you?”
“You… your wounds! Don’t move, Brandon! You shouldn’t…” Flustered, Freya thought he was teasing her. Lowering her head, cheeks flushed, she blurted, “Fine! I’ll do it!”
Brandon paused, realizing how far he’d pushed the joke. “Freya, I’m fine, really.”
“How can you say that?”
“I’m not just a knight—I’m also a wizard, remember?” Brandon tried to reassure her with a playful lie.
“Are you… truly okay?”
“Of course.”
To prove his point, Brandon forced himself into what he hoped looked like a healthy pose, sweat pouring down his face as he reached for the vial of Holy Water No. 9 in his pack.
But Freya stared at him, her face flushing red, then pale, then red again. Clenching her fists, she whispered, “Brandon… you…”
“You shameless rogue.”
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