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Chapter 161: The Planeswalker's War, Part 5
Six obsidian-black bridges of cold, unyielding stone erupted from beneath the tip of Chael’s wand, slamming into the inner city walls with a thunderous roar. The ground trembled violently, and Grudin’s knights scrambled to their feet behind the battlements, only to find that the path between them and their foes was now an open expanse—no barriers remained.
For a moment, silence blanketed the battlefield, as though some unseen angel had passed over every head, stifling all sound.
The young mage lowered his staff, stepped back, and tilted his head upward, offering a faint smile to the pale-faced knights atop the wall.
At that instant, the dull thud of hooves echoed behind him—
From within the ranks of mercenaries, cavalry surged forward in a gallop, overtaking the young mage in the blink of an eye. They charged across the rocky bridges, swords drawn. Brandon, the youthful lord at their helm, held his blade steady before him. Its edge gleamed like starlight, unwavering—as if responding to a single, unified command:
Advance. Destroy the enemy.
The earth rumbled beneath the weight of armored steeds. The noble knights’ faces twisted in alarm as waves upon waves of mercenaries swarmed the walls. But Brandon’s summons were faster still. He had recalled two Archangels of Sanctity, injured earlier in clashes against Kabirus and White, and now he ordered them to strike anew. With swift beats of radiant wings, the angels soared over the heads of friend and foe alike, descending upon the parapets. A flash of steel followed, and severed heads rolled down the walls. Though their strength was middling compared to powerhouses like Kabirus or White, these celestial beings stood as insurmountable giants before the nobles. From where they landed, panic spread like wildfire; knights stumbled backward, retreating en masse, desperate to escape the carnage.
Soon, a breach opened wide in the castle’s defenses.
Witnessing this, White let out a cold snort. Without uttering a word, he dragged Grudin toward the keep. To him, the fate of these humans mattered little so long as his charge remained intact. Brandon, ever watchful, caught sight of this maneuver and smiled faintly. "White still doesn’t understand human nature," he murmured under his breath.
Turning slightly, the young man leaned down to whisper something to Cinnabar beside him. She blinked, casting him a dubious glance, then moved off hesitantly. No sooner had she disappeared than cries began to ripple through the battlefield:
“The baron has fled!”
“Baron Grudin has abandoned us!”
Hearing this, even those few knights who’d clung stubbornly to their posts faltered. Their eyes darted about, searching for their liege—but the result was predictable. Like the final straw breaking the camel’s back, the line crumbled completely. Grudin’s forces collapsed entirely, many turning tail and fleeing down the stairways in disarray.
As the tide turned decisively, mercenaries poured into the stronghold like floodwaters breaching a dam. They lowered the drawbridge, and Brandon led his troops inside. For him, there was yet one final confrontation awaiting.
---
Deep within the fortress, shadows clung thickly to the air, and corridors spiraled downward endlessly. Grudin likely believed himself the sole keeper of Cold Fir Keep’s secret passages—but such knowledge held no secrets from Brandon. This advantage stemmed not from wit alone but from the innate gifts of his other soul. Thus, when the Baron and the Madara’s undead general entered the hidden chamber alongside Grudin, Brandon trailed close behind.
Both parties froze simultaneously upon entering the hall—Brandon, Cinnabar, and Chael on one side, Grudin and White on the other. The baron visibly paled, momentarily convinced someone must have betrayed him. For several tense heartbeats, neither group moved, separated by a long table.
The scene mirrored eerily the events of the previous day—the same room, the same suffocating atmosphere. An uncanny stillness hung heavy in the air, as if even the breeze dared not disturb it.
Brandon broke the silence first, glancing up at the crimson crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling. “History,” he mused aloud, “has a way of repeating itself.” Yesterday, he had chosen compromise here. Today, however, he came to reclaim what was lost. Lowering his gaze, he fixed his eyes on Grudin and the spectral knight standing protectively before him.
White regarded them impassively, unsurprised.
The undead knight raised a massive scythe, positioning himself firmly between Brandon and his charge. His voice rang hollow, like rusted metal scraping against stone. “Human, you are far more capable than I anticipated. It astonishes me that Eruin harbors such talent among its lesser nobility.”
Brandon shook his head. “Enough talk, Tiamas,” he said curtly. “You know why I’m here. You can’t take the baron with you—and I won’t let you.”
He emphasized the last words deliberately.
A muffled chuckle emerged from beneath the metallic mask. “I don’t know who you are, but let’s assume you’re Viscount Stingham. Tell me, isn’t this behavior unbecoming of your kind? Behind me stands a true lord of this land, a baron whose lineage traces back to the dynasty preceding yours. And yet, today, you propose to spill noble blood—to set a precedent of slaughter among their ranks?”
“I could step aside,” White shrugged casually. “But tell me, would you dare kill him if I did?”
Grudin stood rigid behind the undead general, his expression darkening. “The kingdom’s honor does not grace traitors.”
“But mutual destruction isn’t part of your creed, is it?” White remarked.
Brandon smiled faintly. “If a mere Earl Jandel were enough to drive me to ruin, then why would I have come here at all?”
White paused, momentarily taken aback.
"What arrogance," Grudin hissed through gritted teeth, seizing the chance to interject. "A mere Earl Jandel? I fail to see what fuels such confidence, Viscount Stingham."
“Did I give you permission to speak?” Brandon’s icy stare pierced through Grudin like a dagger. The baron flinched, his pupils contracting, and fell silent immediately.
The undead commander applauded slowly, his voice grating like clashing steel. “Impressive resolve. Yet Ronian wisdom teaches balance between thought and action. Lord Stingham, surely you agree that Baron Grudin has learned his lesson. Why not call it quits? There’s room for everyone to retreat gracefully.”
Chael chimed in softly from behind Brandon, smiling thinly. “Ronian also said, ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’”
White raised an eyebrow. “But whose eye was taken? Surely not yours, Lord Stingham.”
“True enough,” Brandon replied coldly. “Nobility isn’t inherited—it’s earned.”
Silence stretched taut once more. Yet Brandon frowned inwardly. In his experience, Black Knight Tiamas of the Four Knights of Revelation was never one for idle chatter. Quite the opposite—he and White Knight Eberton were renowned for their taciturn efficiency. What purpose, then, did this delay serve?
Only one explanation made sense: buying time.
Was Grudin really that important? He couldn’t help but wonder what sort of agreement had been struck between Madara and House Jandel. But what troubled him more was the purpose behind the enemy’s deliberate stalling here.
Knowing that the best way to thwart an unknown trap was to deny the enemy their intent, Brandon chose silence. Instead, he extended his gloved hand, resting it lightly on the hilt of his sword. With deliberate slowness, he took a single step forward. In that instant, an icy aura surged forth, spanning half the hall.
White didn’t budge—but Grudin staggered backward three steps, nearly losing his footing. The baron steadied himself with effort, his face flushed with humiliation. He glared at Brandon, disbelief warring with fear in his heart. Though merely an iron-ranked swordsman, he could feel the raw power radiating from the young viscount—a power far greater than before.
How could anyone grow so strong in just a day and night? Grudin couldn’t fathom it. Unaware of the sensory distortion caused by the strength of a level 22 elementalist, he concluded that Brandon had been concealing his true strength all along.
Whispering urgently into White’s ear, Grudin relayed his observation. The Black Knight nodded thoughtfully, regarding Brandon with newfound curiosity.
Kabirus’s reports were never wrong.
But Grudin wouldn’t lie—not now, especially since he too had felt that overwhelming pressure. So whom should he trust?
Outwardly calm, White asked evenly, “Lord Stingham, do you not reconsider?”
“Tiamas,” Brandon responded, his grip tightening on his sword, “meddling in human affairs brings you no benefit. You know full well you cannot leave with Grudin. Why fight a meaningless battle? Stand aside. I know it’s not your style.”
White watched as Brandon advanced step by step, subtly using his massive scythe to push the baron further back and maintain some distance. Then, he spoke. “For you, perhaps this battle holds no significance. But for me, it’s different. Though Madara has no tradition of allying with the living, exceptions exist. Abandoning an ally at the first opportunity reflects poorly on us.”
He smirked beneath his mask. “Besides, you’re right about one thing. Protecting the baron amidst such formidable foes… poses a challenge.”
“Sir Tiamas!” Grudin gasped, his complexion paling further.
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