On the brink of death, even though they knew it was futile, their bodies kept moving.
They understood; even if a lone adventurer came to their rescue, there wasn’t much they could do against the horde of cavalry bearing down from behind.
Even if that adventurer were renowned enough to be celebrated in poems and whispered about as a legend.
There was no escaping the approaching spear tips.
Still, despite the futility, their bodies moved, trying to flee. They strained every sinew, fully knowing that two human legs were no match for the trained warhorses ahead.
The goblins stationed at the rear considered whether turning and fighting would buy them a few extra seconds.
The leading minotaur contemplated setting down his burden hastily to stand in the way – could he stop one or two knights?
And the men and elders, despite knowing it was unlikely, wondered if forming a shieldwall with the adventurer might allow the women and children a chance to escape.
But that fragile hope was shattered by a single, commanding voice piercing through the air.
“Keep running! Don’t look back! Head straight for the square!!”
The voice resounded with unnatural clarity, cutting through their labored breathing as if shouted directly into their ears. Though he was still far away, likely too exhausted to even spare a breath for shouting, the golden-haired figure’s voice pierced them deeply.
Strangely, no one felt the urge to defy it. The resolve they had clung to moments ago melted away, and their feet kept moving forward. An impossible hope swelled within them, though they didn’t know why.
The clearer the face of the golden-haired stranger grew as he approached, the more they felt an inkling of recognition. Beneath the helmet, obscured by the nasal guard and veil, the joy of battle was unmistakable in his grin, his lips stretched wide as if ready to split.
They were all grown adults; they understood that reality doesn’t mirror the hero’s tales. A sole adventurer could never defeat a horde of cavalry—if they could, the military branch of cavalry would never have developed from ancient times to the present day.
Yet they ran, driven by an inexplicable expectation, clinging to the faint hope that perhaps, just perhaps, they might survive.
Three cavalry knights surged ahead, mocking their futile struggle as they closed in. Just as the spear tips were about to pierce, chaos erupted among the townsfolk in the rear.
Horses reared up, neighing loudly, hooves hitting the ground with a thunderous sound.
Though warned not to look back, everyone couldn’t help themselves. There before them were the mounted beasts refusing to obey their riders, bucking wildly. Some were thrown off, while others fell to the ground, crushed under their mounts.
“Don’t concern yourself with aiding us! Just go!!”
Though they didn’t know exactly what had happened, the group was certain of one thing: the golden-haired adventurer, while drawing his sword, had done something. After all, there was no doubt that he believed in being able to protect them.
This was indeed the truth.
The technique used, small yet highly effective, was one the golden-haired adventurer had favored ever since his days in the Imperial Capital. It was his own creation— the sorcery of “Flash and Roar.”
The catalyst, wrapped in oiled paper, was hurled by an unseen hand at incredible speed through the air. It exploded between the townsfolk and the cavalry, momentarily turning the night into day.
Horses, naturally timid creatures, couldn’t endure the loud, piercing sound. Even war-trained steeds used to the battlefield’s clamor and cannon fire weren’t prepared for this high-pitched noise that tore at their ears. The lead three horses collapsed as they recoiled from the blinding flash and thunderous roar. Following horses also faltered, stopping their advance or turning around.
And as for the riders? They suffered too. A technique potent enough to cause permanent loss of vision and hearing for those too close, the majority faced impaired eyesight and inner ear function, many of them falling from their steeds.
The golden-haired adventurer couldn’t help but smile in triumph.
For him, it was a gamble. Undead beings don’t rely on their senses to perceive enemies. Burning their eyes or destroying their inner ears would make no difference; animated corpses smelling the scent of souls would remain unaffected.
If all these cavalry were necromantic constructs, their lances would have already pierced the backs of the townsfolk. But he had surmised—likely with eight out of ten certainty—that these cavalry were not undead. If they were, then perhaps only the horses.
Why? Because creatures “manufactured” to serve dark delight don’t reveal such human-like malignancy. If sent to terrify the townsfolk, they would have methodically trampled down all in one swift motion.
They wouldn’t take their time harrying with spears and especially not a mere trio of three riders.
A favorable gamble won, the golden-haired adventurer held his beloved sword aloft as he passed by the townsfolk, then faced the partially blinded cavalry alone.
However, while fortune had favored him, fortune had also graced the enemy. Some were distant enough to avoid the direct impact, and some were shielded by their comrades ahead.
Most terrifying were the heavily armored knights, clad in plate armor that, though somewhat archaic, had remained steadfast. Neither the flash nor roar of magic affected their synchronized gallop, and their cries to restore order amongst their subordinates rang out loud and clear.
All thanks to the high-level magical enchantments woven into the armor, which commoners could never hope to afford. The magically-forged robust full-body armor could reportedly deflect bolts from even the dreaded “Knight Killer” crossbows, let alone lesser projectiles. Furthermore, they were warded against any enchantments that might disrupt their advance.
Their commander, well-armed in this display of financial might, rallied his scattered forces with a shout. His unit was equipped with communication devices capable of transmitting sounds clearly even through the noise of panicked horses and thunderous hoofbeats, thus swiftly returning to order from chaos.
They knew well enough: cavalry losing formation and coordination were weak.
Still, the enemy saw them as just a lone infantryman. What threat could he pose? Perhaps the first one or two might get taken down, but several would survive. Mounted cavalry lances extended well beyond a common spear, and the one charging forward was merely a reckless swordsman.
Adventurers, favoring agility over long-range weapons, were fundamentally weaker against mercenaries and proper military units. And so the logic went.
“Hahahaha!!”
One of the heavy knights laughed mockingly at the sight.
Had the golden-haired adventurer lost all hope? For what else could explain him raising his sword and hurling it at a rider still blinded?
Surely, hitting a soldier protected by heavy armor with a thrown blade would have minimal effect at best. Just a desperate act born from despair over weapon range. A reckless act indeed.
But reality defied their expectations.
Against all odds, the hurled blade—an enchanted throwing weapon called the Fang of the Sending Wolf—pierced deeply into the shoulder, cleanly through the plate armor.
The armored knight screamed and fell from his mount. For several seconds, the others struggled to comprehend what had happened. How could a thrown sword pierce armor meant to repel such attacks?
Typically, soldiers wore plate armor specifically designed to withstand sword cuts, protected by the heavy, impenetrable steel.
That armor was effective precisely because it made swords ineffective, focusing more on bludgeoning techniques and striking vulnerable joints.
Such rational understanding couldn’t hold against the awe-inspiring sight before them.
As if a brighter light outshone the flash, an overwhelming clarity struck everyone’s vision as the golden-haired adventurer’s next cry rent the air once again.
The atmosphere groaned, as if the world itself was overloaded with despairing roars. A cacophony of sounds—like nails on glass, grinding gears, and splintering wood—merged into one dissonant scream.
No one knew the meaning of the sound, for it carried none. And yet, everyone understood.
This was the cry of a lover. Joy of being sought, delight of being swung, the ecstatic purpose of slicing down the master’s enemies—this was a declaration of the sword in its grand stage of love.
A split appeared in reality as a massive two-handed sword materialized into the golden-haired adventurer’s hand. This sword, darker than the shadow of the moon, gleamed dangerously with cryptic runes that flickered unreadably.
This was the blade that sang mad odes to its wielder—a swordsman who advanced, smiling cheerfully, sword in hand.
A hero’s tale was far too deadly for the onlookers to witness; everyone present held their breath.
The tip of the magical sword, the Fang of the Sending Wolf, had revealed the secret. With it, the adventurer cut effortlessly through the impossible.
The great secret weapon, meant to stay secret, now made its entrance. The weapon that had caused the commotion earlier—ready to be wielded, not as originally planned, but now necessary in this situation.
The battle cry resounded, echoing through their minds. For the first time in a while, the adventurer would unleash his true strength against a proper “enemy,” causing his joy and excitement to crescendo.
His massive blade, the Sword of Desire, moved with the agility of a one-handed sword. With a swing, the armored right arm of a knight floated lifelessly in the air.
Remarkably, there was no magic involved—just the sword’s own extraordinary nature and the wielder’s skill.
He wasn’t adept enough to cut precisely like a finger or two—but then again, the situation didn’t demand it. The frustration of fighting an irrational foe without knowing the reason was enough to ignite a lack of restraint. He wouldn’t kill unless necessary, but if someone died, so be it.
After all, if they came to kill, they shouldn’t complain when killed.
The adversary had assembled all their unreasonable tactics, bringing forth an unreasonable response. So be it. If they could trample over him and his allies wantonly, then he was merely reciprocating. Surely, they could understand that by now.
The crowd’s attention was firmly fixed on him. No rational decision like ignoring him to chase after the townsfolk would come to mind.
The cursed blade, adorned with blood dripping gleefully, seemed horrifying. Instinctively, facing this sword was not something anyone wanted to back away from.
That had been part of the plan, too.
It was time for the finishing blow.
The heavily armored knights—no doubt wealthy ones, likely important figures who cannot afford mistakes. The very kind that shouldn’t lose their heads under any circumstance.
“Head for the general! Don’t move an inch!!”
With all his might, he declared his intentions, leaving no room for the enemy to ignore him.
Come on, come on, surely you want to clear out those pesky infantrymen first? Certainly, you wouldn’t want this cursed blade anywhere near those esteemed families, would you?
If you came to kill, then fight with the resolve to die—because he, too, would fight with the earnest intention to kill.
His killing intent was received, and with a resonating cry, the sword responded. A beat later, the commanders spurred their horses with decisive purpose…
