Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C76

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Chapter 76: The King Beneath the Earth, Part 27

With two bodies lying silent on the arena floor, the outcome of the duel was clear. As expected, quickly repeated his earlier feat, dispatching Eberton with ruthless efficiency. Though the had fallen to him twice now, Brandon couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. There was something tragically poetic about the scene, as though fate itself conspired to mock the fallen warrior.

But the White Knight bore no such sentiment. Its corpse dissolved into a wisp of black smoke, vanishing from the arena entirely. This confirmed what Brandon already suspected: the knight’s manifestation here was never truly real—it had always been part of the arena’s essence, a projection rather than a living entity.

The historical figure of the White Knight had perished long ago in the mountains outside , just another nameless casualty among countless others buried by war.

The remaining elder before him shared a similar fate.

Brandon raised his sword, and the old man mirrored his stance. Both adopted the starting position of —a style familiar to them both. It seemed this final confrontation would be decided through their shared knowledge of the blade.

What followed was a flurry of intense exchanges.

Brandon had never imagined the grandfather he knew could possess such strength—though Kulan, observing from the sidelines, likely saw only a fraction of the elder’s true potential. Had Brandon realized the full extent of his grandfather’s abilities, he might have reevaluated everything he thought he understood about the man.

Even now, he found himself reassessing the figure who stood before him. A veteran of the , a recipient of the —such distinctions suggested skill slightly above that of Marden, the aging guard captain. But nothing extraordinary.

Yet the power displayed by this elder far exceeded those modest expectations.

Who was he?

Brandon couldn’t answer that question. He stepped back instinctively, narrowly avoiding a cunning thrust aimed at his chest, then retaliated with a simple, unremarkable stab. His blade pierced the elder’s torso without fanfare.

The old man froze, momentarily stunned by his own defeat. Slowly, he lifted his head and met Brandon’s gaze. “Well done, kid,” he said, his voice calm and approving.

Then, like the others, he dissolved into black smoke, disappearing from the arena.

Brandon knew these words came not from the physical man but from the projection embedded within his memories—or perhaps they were echoes of something the elder had once said to him in life. Such details were lost to time, buried beneath layers of forgotten recollections. All that remained was the faint whisper carried on the wind, a fleeting reminder of days gone by.

For a moment, Brandon remained still, his sword extended forward in a single-handed grip. Then, shaking his head, he returned to the center of the arena, his expression serene.

The air walls vanished instantly, causing Kulan to stumble forward. Barely catching himself with one hand, the old swordsman scrambled back to his feet, muttering curses under his breath. Yet for all his indignation, he forgot to question Brandon about the elder or the .

“It seems awakening me wasn’t mere coincidence,” a voice echoed softly in Brandon’s mind.

The woman spoke again: “It seems awakening me wasn’t mere coincidence, young one.”

“Your talent for the blade transcends mere brilliance.”

Her words sent a pleasant shiver down Brandon’s spine, leaving him wanting to hear more. “Now,” he asked, “can you tell me who you are?”

“My name is ,” she replied, emerging from his body in spectral form.

This was the first time Brandon saw her clearly. Her shoulder-length black wavy hair framed her face neatly, exuding an aura of precision and strength. Her eyes, a deep purple-blue unique to , seemed endless, drawing him in like an unfathomable abyss.

Yet what caught his attention most was the striking dark purple eyeshadow accentuating her features. Though he initially perceived her as dignified and serious, this touch of eccentricity only heightened her mature allure. For a moment, his breath hitched.

He recalled reading accounts from the era of mist elf women adorning themselves with facial markings, but none so perfectly executed as hers.

“Wait—you’re one of the Twenty-Four Knights…” Realization struck him, and he interrupted her abruptly. While he’d suspected she was tied to the of the Holy War era, the knights of the Wind Sovereign Saint Orlso were different—they weren’t ordinary warriors.

The twenty-four knights who followed the Wind Sovereign, Saint Orlso, were in fact the most outstanding heroes of the elven race in that era. Of course, they were not yet known as wind elves at the time, but rather as Mist Elves of the Silver Folk—renowned alongside the Silver Elves. Each had perished battling the , with Otaris being the last—the founder of the Blade Knight class. She fell heroically during the Gray Swamp campaign, covering King of Flames’ advance at the tender human equivalent of sixteen years old.

Yet the woman standing before him now radiated maturity far beyond her recorded age.

“Don’t interrupt, young one,” Otaris chided gently, placing a finger to her lips. “Yes, I am that Otaris. But call me Kayah—it’s my nickname.”

“I thought…” Brandon studied her curiously. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t vanished but instead became Heroic Spirits—” Heroic Spirits weren’t conjured out of thin air; places like sanctums held fragments of their essence, much like the Temple of Flames’ Crimson Hall trained Flame-Blessed Knights. For a ring to possess sanctum-like properties was exceedingly rare.

It only reinforced the ’s status as a divine artifact.

Pausing, he remembered something else. “What exactly is a Sacred Seal?”

Otaris nodded. “Sacred Seal is shorthand for Soul of the Sacred Seal. In our time, powerful souls were invaluable resources—pure and indomitable spirits that formed the backbone of the resistance against the Dragon of Darkness. We were an army of Heroic Spirits.”

“An army of Heroic Spirits?” Brandon ventured.

She nodded again. “The powers wielded by the Wind Sovereign and the King of Flames stemmed from the concept of inheritance—a force originating from the dragons themselves. Even the sages drew upon this power. It was a brutal war, one you must experience firsthand to comprehend.”

Brandon understood the cruelty of the Holy War well enough. Memories surfaced of the Silver Elf spirits haunting the Chablis mountains—sanctums where they continued fighting even after death, guided by ’s will.

Yet he found it curious that this Heroic Spirit army went largely unmentioned in history books. Without Otaris telling him, he might never have known.

“Where did they go after the Great War?” he asked suddenly, a chilling possibility forming in his mind. “After the hundred races established their kingdoms, what happened to these Heroic Spirits? Did they return to Mother Earth’s embrace?”

He doubted it. Based on the Silver Elves of Chablis, many of these spirits likely still existed somewhere in the world.

Otaris shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Brandon wasn’t surprised. Having sacrificed herself before the war ended, she wouldn’t have witnessed its aftermath.

Nor did he dwell on it further. For now, simply surviving in Eruin felt challenging enough; pondering ancient history seemed trivial in comparison.

Otaris seemed eager to move past the topic as well. “The Sacred Seals represent the enduring power of inheritance. The Wind Sovereign divided the divine artifact ring into twenty-four sub-rings, each housing one of our souls. Bound by contract to Marsha, our purpose became nurturing future generations of heroes—like you and others with potential.”

“But the war is over,” Brandon countered. “And being eternally bound to a ring… do you regret it?”

“We had no choice,” Otaris replied solemnly. “Without sacrifices made generation after generation, the Dragon of Darkness could never have been defeated. And as for the latter—how can anyone foresee when the fires of war will finally die out across eras?”

“All we can do is ensure civilization endures.”

Brandon fell silent. Compared to the nobles of this age, the sages of the Holy War era truly deserved their title. Yet it seemed a common flaw among intelligent races: once comfort set in, civilizations grew complacent.

After a pause, he asked, “So, Lady Otaris, what can you do for me now? Will you grant me access to your skills again?”

“Unfortunately, no,” she replied, shaking her head. “That was merely a temporary measure. I can teach you the sword arts I know, but mastery requires gradual accumulation. There are no shortcuts, young one.”

This answer reassured Brandon somewhat.

Thus, the power of the Sacred Seal lay in unlocking the latent potential of individuals, guiding them toward greatness under the tutelage of Heroic Spirits from the Holy War era. With such mentors, the growth of a gifted individual was assured—but ultimately, success depended on personal effort.

Thinking of his grandfather and Kulan, both likely bearers of Sacred Seals, Brandon reflected on how vastly their achievements differed despite possessing similar tools. Kulan, though formidable as a mid-tier gold-rank swordsman, achieved mediocrity when considering the aid granted by his seal.

Finally, one last question lingered in his mind. “Lady Otaris, you mentioned earlier that this was the second time you saved me. What did you mean?”

The woman smiled softly.

“Have you forgotten the great fire at , young one?”

Brandon stiffened, realization dawning. His eyes widened as he stared at her, a wave of dread washing over him. Had he not found the Ring of the Wind Sovereign, he might very well have perished in the Red Pine Forest behind his ancestral home.

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