Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C10

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Chapter 10: The Territory Part 4

raised his head, the forest before him a dappled green reminiscent of a dream. Around him, knights lay sprawled across the clearing—thirty-seven bodies resting silently among the layers of dead leaves, their lives extinguished. The young viscount felt the dull throb of the sword wound beneath his ribs, each breath sending sharp, needle-like pains through his body, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy.

From behind a cluster of chestnut trees, he saw the emerald-armored knight watching him with cold, unyielding eyes, like a specter in the gloom. It was then that Teste realized, with a sinking heart, that he had been deceived. The intelligence had come from within the , and —the commander of the —had even sent him a letter bearing the serpent insignia. Unless that cursed cavalry leader was himself a two-faced traitor... Teste exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath as his hand instinctively reached for his sword, which had been knocked aside during the fight. This was more reflex than anything else; even at the peak of his strength, a single exchange of blows with the knight clad in jade-green armor had left him grievously wounded. The force behind that strike was otherworldly, and what unsettled him most was that the knight hadn’t even activated .

A single stroke of pure swordsmanship had defeated him.

Teste glanced at the white stone altar at the center of the clearing. A plain yet majestic longsword rested atop the flat rock. Its hilt was adorned with intricate patterns of gold and crimson, depicting the likenesses of three unknown . That was the , the legendary blade said to embody a king’s mercy, valor, and justice. But between him and the sword stood the motionless , an insurmountable chasm separating them.

The Knight of the Lake stood silently amidst the trees, adhering to the ancient code of chivalry: never to strike a foe who has lost the ability to fight. A prudent man might have chosen to retreat, but Teste only sneered, steeling himself to crawl forward despite his injuries. Though wounds to his thigh, abdomen, and ribs rendered him unable to stand, the young viscount dragged himself inch by inch using only his arms.

He knew he was dying, but if death was inevitable, Teste resolved to die closer to his goal than anyone else. Born the illegitimate son of the , he had endured scorn and learned early the harshness of the world. When nothing else could be relied upon, one could only depend on oneself—if you were weak, you lost everything. Every step of his rise to power had been driven by this relentless ambition.

An ambition fierce enough to defy even death.

Gritting his teeth, Teste crawled onward, unsure whether the Knight of the Lake’s blade would pierce his heart or if he would succumb to blood loss. But to his surprise, the emerald-armored knight merely observed him through the slits of his metal mask, sheathed his sword, and turned away without a word.

What was going on?

Teste hesitated for a moment, but quickly seized the opportunity. Time was fleeting, and he wasn’t about to let it slip away. Even if it killed him, he was determined to claim the sword from the altar. As he drew nearer, the distance between him and the pristine white stone altar gradually closed. Finally, his hand reached out and grasped the hilt of the Lionheart Sword.

In that instant, a surge of warmth coursed through his body. He felt his vitality return, every pore opening as if awakening. His wounds tingled, healing rapidly. Stunned, Teste looked down and saw that the gash beneath his ribs had vanished entirely, leaving only a faint bloodstain on his chest.

The holy sword...

Teste took a deep breath and struggled to kneel, lifting the blade to examine it closely. To his astonishment, the Lionheart Sword began to emit a faint glow, mending his remaining injuries. But just as quickly, its radiance faded, and the sword transformed into a simple stone.

Startled, Teste nearly dropped the now-stone sword. Yet, as he steadied himself and ran his fingers along its surface, he could no longer sense any trace of magic energy. It felt like an ordinary, cold stone, indistinguishable from others in the forest save for its peculiar shape.

“What is this…” Teste muttered, cradling the sword in bewilderment. From the earlier phenomena, there was no doubt this was the Lionheart Sword—but why had it turned to stone? Clutching the strange artifact, he felt an inexplicable resistance, as though the sword was both in his hands and yet somehow absent.

Tightening his grip on the stone sword, Teste pondered for a moment. Scanning the area—the narrow forest behind the rocks—they had already searched thoroughly, finding nothing else. Thus, the sword in his hands must be genuine, though its transformation remained a mystery beyond his immediate comprehension. After brief deliberation, he decided to take it with him for now.

Before leaving, however, he couldn’t help but glance cautiously over his shoulder.

The Knight of the Lake likely still lurked somewhere in the shadows, watching him with icy detachment. But the figure made no move to intervene, allowing Teste to exhale in relief. “What a cursed journey…” he muttered, shaking his head vigorously. Ignoring the scattered corpses around him, he clutched the sword tightly and staggered toward the edge of the forest, his steps faltering but resolute.

---

The finally came to rest in ’s hands, marking the longest sustained resonance he had ever experienced. In the dim dungeon, the group stood motionless, their eyes fixed on the mysterious rune etched into the stone slab until its trembling ceased. Silence enveloped the space, broken only by the occasional distant drip of water.

“This is a bound Philosopher’s Tablet, isn’t it?” spoke, neither humble nor defiant despite being both a prisoner and temporarily a vassal. His tone suggested he viewed his allegiance as temporary—a declaration that he might return to the loyalist cause at any moment. Yet, to his surprise, Brandon seemed unfazed by this implication, which left Beru feeling oddly disconcerted.

Brandon studied the old man, reading the subtle shifts in his expression. Nodding, he asked, “You recognize it?”

Brandon’s indifference stemmed from his lack of noble upbringing. Having led guilds but never ruled as a lord, he lacked the self-awareness typical of nobility—something his followers found refreshing. Antietta, though critical, admitted that his approach fostered unity within the group. Moreover, the unwavering confidence he exuded inspired loyalty, even among those of noble birth. Perhaps, they thought, this was the essence of charisma.

For now, Brandon’s curiosity was piqued by Beru’s knowledge. The Philosopher’s Tablet appeared in both and , the ancient chronicles of mountainfolk. and witches believed it to be fragments of stars fallen to earth, capable of linking to the threads of fate in the heavens. For millennia, mortals had used it for divination: binding the tablet to an object allowed star seers to predict its future. Similarly, the employed it to foresee events, placing the tablet on them to reveal desired answers—a truth confirmed by players in the game.

Yet, for Beru to identify the tablet as bound—and to discern its connection to Runes—was no small feat. Not everyone understood , especially given the tablet’s ancient sigils. While Beru’s familiarity with divine artifacts might be attributed to his role as a royal craftsman, his apparent mastery of ancient runes was unusual. Even Buga’s craftsman wizards weren’t universally versed in such arts. Still, Brandon considered the possibility that Beru was merely guessing and pressed further: “Indeed, but can you decipher what this tablet points to?”

Brandon’s question was deliberately challenging. He himself didn’t understand the cryptic symbols, though he suspected they were linked to the Lionheart Sword.

“It’s…” Beru paused, his face growing increasingly solemn. Trembling hands reached out as he stared at the tablet in Brandon’s grasp. “Sage… the mark of a ruler, embodying valor, justice, and mercy. How could it be…” He inhaled sharply, scrutinizing the runes again, his expression darkening with each passing moment. Finally, overwhelmed, he stepped back, disbelief etched across his features. Looking up at Brandon, he ventured hesitantly, “The Lionheart Sword?”

Brandon’s reaction was immediate—and far more astonished than Beru’s.

Beside them, gasped softly. Though unfamiliar with the Philosopher’s Tablet or Rune Magic, she recognized the story of , the merciful king, and his fabled Lionheart Sword—a tale every knew by heart. Whirling to Brandon, she sought confirmation, only to hear him blurt out:

“How do you know?”

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