Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V2C154

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Chapter 154: The Dawn Part 8

A beam of magical light pierced through the layers of darkness, ascending into the sky—

It illuminated the vast expanse of land, its edges shifting and dancing over the ruins, outlining the jagged remnants of Cold Fir City’s southern gate.

The harsh, angular features of Frein, leader of the Firelands Warband, were softened momentarily by the glow. The towering man stood motionless in the night, his hands crossed over the hilt of a sword engraved with the visage of a demon’s head. His heavy gaze was fixed ahead—on the horizon where the forest formed a faint, shadowy line beneath the shroud of darkness. A thin veil of mist hung in the air like nocturnal haze, but from beyond it came the steady, rustling footsteps of an approaching force. The sound grew louder, closer, as though the earth itself groaned under the weight of an army marching forth from the depths of hell.

But this was no mere illusion—it was a massive host advancing in perfect unison.

Despite her fiery red hair and striking beauty, the female mercenary commander had guessed wrong about one thing: Frein had never been a knight of Eruin. Yet the long scar across his neck bore witness to battles fought long ago—he was a retired cavalryman who had once waged war against Madara in Karasu. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel the source of that rustling noise deep within his soul.

Madara’s undead legions stretched endlessly, like an ocean without shores. Row upon row of skeletal warriors marched forward, their footsteps resonating within him like notes plucked on a taut string.

Amidst the darkness, tiny points of crimson fire began to appear, growing brighter and more numerous, flickering like ghostly flames behind the fog. The mercenaries grabbed their weapons, rising grim-faced from the ruins. Behind the makeshift barricades hastily erected atop the debris, the crowd thickened. No one spoke; even the sound of breathing seemed swallowed by the rhythmic pounding of boots drawing nearer. Every eye was fixed on the unfolding scene:

The undead army emerged slowly from the shadows.

Someone approached Frein—members of the Firelands Warband. Among them were several wizards, who had always served as the strategic minds of the group. Yet they remained uncertain whether this battle was worth fighting, torn between loyalty and survival. The crux of their dilemma lay in whether they wished to offend the young viscount whose favor they sought. But now, as they beheld the tide of skeletons spilling across the land like floodwaters, each of them involuntarily gasped.

This was Madara—a rose entwined with thorns, vibrant yet deadly amidst the darkness. It represented an irresistible force, the breath of death that all living beings must eventually face.

“Commander?” Beneath his hood, one of the wizards revealed a pale face, speaking softly.

Frein said nothing.

“Commander, there are thousands of them,” the wizard murmured cautiously. “Even with reinforcements, we barely number two hundred. And those outside our ranks? We can’t trust them. Are we really going to fight these bone-clad monstrosities to the death for the sake of a promise? Even if it means sacrificing every last brother?”

“Where would you run?” Frein turned his head slightly, fixing the wizard with a cool stare. “I know their habits better than you do. This city is already surrounded on all sides. I learned a lesson in Karasu: never try to guess how many undead there are—they’re always more numerous than you imagine.”

He raised his head, gazing ahead. “However, though their numbers are great, most of these skeletons are freshly summoned low-tier undead. If we hold out until dawn, they’ll retreat naturally.”

“Commander?”

Frein raised a hand to silence the wizard. “Our only hope now lies with that young lord. Two golden-rank existences are enough to lead us through this siege. Send up a magical signal—tell him we’ll stand firm for two hours. The Firelands Warband will not retreat or fall until then.”

With a sweep of his arm, he commanded, “Raise the banner of our warband. Even if we die, I want to see it flying proudly under the first light of morning.”

“Hmph. That young noble asked me to hold until dawn,” Frein muttered, fully aware of Brandon’s intentions. “Let’s see how the first rays of sunlight pierce through this suffocating darkness. If he succeeds, then whether I remain commander or not matters little.”

The wizards exchanged uneasy glances.

Two hours later.

Dawn broke—

…

“The Ancients?”

Metissa paused, frowning. The elven maiden tightened her grip on her spear and wheeled her horse around, every nerve in her body taut with vigilance as she regarded the figure standing before the undead line—a tall, cloaked figure adorned with a silver scale etched onto his black cloak. An aura of icy detachment emanated from him. She couldn’t fathom why he’d suddenly spoken such words. But in the ancient myths that predated the era of shared governance, there was indeed a legend: during the chaotic age of darkness, the Azure Knight led the first wave of Ancients out of their sanctuary, defeating the calamity known as the Twilight Dragon and ushering in the Year of Chaos.

But how could that Lord Brandon possibly be one of the Ancients?

The descendants of the golden generation, save for the dragons, had long vanished from the earth, reduced to mere legends. Even the heirs of Silver Lineage were considered rare and proud relics of an earlier time. After the devastation wrought by the Dragon of Darkness, bloodlines scattered across the lands, leaving even the continuity of the Silver Lineage uncertain. How could any Ancients still walk the earth?

Unless Brandon was a dragon.

But Metissa quickly shook her head, dismissing the thought. Even newly hatched dragonlings wouldn’t be as weak as Brandon appeared to be. Realizing her doubt, she flushed slightly and mentally apologized. Turning her horse back toward the masked figure, she demanded coldly, “What nonsense are you spouting?”

White lifted his head, the half-laughing, half-crying expression frozen on his metallic mask. Beneath it, his golden-flame eyes sent a faint ripple of unease through Metissa. Though the undead knight remained motionless, gripping his scythe, the elven princess blinked rapidly, fearing she might succumb to his hypnotic gaze. One of the Four Knights of Revelation chuckled, his voice echoing with metallic resonance:

“As I said, take my words at face value—as you understand them.”

“Nonsense,” Metissa glanced left and right. The strength of this undead general far exceeded her expectations. Her pause caused the mercenaries’ advance to falter. Uncertain whether to call for Lord Brandon’s aid, she hesitated. Thick clouds of smoke obscured the street due to Brandon’s clash with Kabirus, and she feared diverting his attention.

Yet, as long as neither side could breach the inner city, stalling seemed the best course of action. Biting her silvery lower lip, she retorted, “The golden bloodlines have long been lost. There are no Ancients walking the earth today.”

White smiled faintly. “True, the Ancients were of golden lineage. But, elven lady, have you forgotten—the existence of ‘the Fool’?”

The princess of the Silver Elves couldn’t help but smirk. “The Dragon of Darkness? How amusing. Do you think Lord Brandon is the Dragon of Darkness? Such a lie holds no meaning. No one would believe it.”

“No meaning,” White agreed, shaking his head. “But in Madara, there exists a prophecy: ‘The master of darkness shall return. He sees into hearts and understands all things.’ Surely you’ve heard this ancient saying—it originates from Minarian’s Black Prophecy, the sworn enemies of your kind, correct?”

“And what of it?”

“Nothing much. I merely encountered a witch named Baba Sha in Ridenburg,” White replied casually. “Witches tend to possess heightened sensitivity to dark forces, after all.”

The elven maiden shook her head. “You seem to forget—the Dragon of Darkness was once the greatest enemy of our race. Compared to witches, I’m far more familiar with its essence. Moreover, the Black Prophecy states clearly: ‘Darkness shall arise from the non-human, and the honored peoples shall perish in flame.’ Lord Brandon is human—a descendant of Geert, King of Flames, and part of the honored lineage. You cannot deny that.”

“That is true,” White mused, lifting his scythe onto his shoulder and nodding absently.

“Stop sowing discord. Who are you, truly?” Metissa’s patience waned as she sensed his deliberate delay. She resolved to launch another attack. If unsuccessful, she would seek Lord Brandon’s assistance.

Beneath the metallic mask came a soft laugh. “As I mentioned, my name is White. White Tiamas Jyomir. I am the scale of war, the impartial judge of men’s hearts.”

The undead general placed a hand over his chest and gave a slight bow.

“A provocateur and instigator, more like,” Metissa snapped, raising her spear. To her surprise, however, White moved faster. Before she could act, he seemed to anticipate her movement despite keeping his head bowed. With a swift swing of his scythe, a streak of black energy lashed out at Metissa. The elven princess gritted her teeth and retreated, but the edge of the attack struck her protective barrier, igniting a brilliant explosion of light. The shockwave forced nearby mercenaries to stagger backward, and Metissa let out a stifled groan, visibly injured.

“Strong Soul Energy. Impressive, for a ghost of the Silver Elves.”

White observed the flickering soulfire surrounding Metissa and nodded approvingly. Then, raising his hand, he signaled the Bone Spine column.

At his command, the skeletons retrieved their bone javelins and assumed an offensive stance. Meanwhile, the mercenaries were still reeling from the previous assault, unable to regroup. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Metissa looked up and saw the impending volley. A flicker of panic crossed her silvery eyes, and she shouted, “No!”

But the undead general lowered his hand indifferently.

A soft whistle cut through the air, followed by a prolonged vibration that lingered in the ears.

Rows of bone javelins soared into the sky—

In an instant, the panic in the elven princess’s eyes turned to resolve. Pressing a hand to her chest, she cried out, “Ptyoona!” (Ancient Elvish: Wings of the Spirit.)

Her voice rang out like a melody of wind chimes, piercing the battlefield in an instant. Everyone watched as the soulfire enveloping the elven knight erupted spectacularly—it unfurled like a pair of immense wings, weaving into the night and forming translucent hexagonal networks that shimmered against the dark backdrop. In the blink of an eye, the entire street fell under the protection of the elven maiden’s ethereal barrier. The descending bone javelins crashed into the crystalline web, each impact bursting into dazzling sparks. Nearly every spear disintegrated into ash upon contact.

The mercenaries looked up, their faces illuminated by the flashing lights. Despite everything, they understood—they were saved.

White observed the spectacle silently, his golden eyes gleaming. “An ancient battle technique of the Silver Elves…”

He smiled, leveling his scythe.

With the soulfire spread wide, Metissa stood unprotected—

…

Project Update: Volume 2 is now fully translated! However, as I'm currently focusing on stacking chapters for Volume 3, the release of the remaining chapters in Volume 2 will slow down a bit.

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