373. King’s Gate Battle (4)
Fernandez was enduring his worst moment in his own way. He had to forcibly gather natural magical energy in a short moment, infuse it into Abel, and manipulate Abel’s internal magic from a distance to cast a counter-spell.
It was an advanced technique that was nearly impossible with his newly blossoming magic circuit. If it weren’t for the techniques from his previous life, he wouldn’t have even attempted it. Despite continuously using such skills, he also had to engage in a magical battle with Phaeirn’s mages, causing his magic circuit to overheat from the strain.
If it had just been overheating, it would have been fine. But the lingering magical energy raging inside his body was shaking his organs. If it weren’t for the body reconstructed through the Vessel of Creation, he wouldn’t have been able to endure it.
“Tsk, it’s been a while since I last bled.”
“Are, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing. Sometimes you have to push yourself on the field to improve your magic.”
“Do you really need to improve any further?”
“Kirhas. People should always aim higher in life.”
“Your Excellency, you know you look really old when you say things like that, right?”
“Nothing is off-limits to an eighty-year-old man, huh? You brat.”
Fernandez chuckled and waved his hand. He succeeded in lightening the mood, but there was no avoiding the fact that his body was falling apart. The backlash was so severe that he could barely fight, let alone cast magic.
‘This feeling is nostalgic.’
Though not a pleasant one. The ringing in his head from lack of magic, the sharp sensation of blood dripping from his nose. This sense of exhaustion was definitely something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Unlike the past when he wielded magic through relics, now he was drawing magic from his own magic circuit and internal energy. While it allowed for more precise and powerful spells, the backlash had to be endured by his body.
And this sensation of the burden of lingering magical energy accumulating in his body. How long had it been? He briefly calculated. Even in his previous life, he hadn’t experienced this since turning sixty, so it had been at least twenty years.
“Ah, it’s started.”
Fernandez pressed his blurry eyes and looked forward again. The halted advance of Phaeirn had resumed.
And standing before them was a single knight. Against the blazing blue of the early morning sun.
* * *
What is a knight? Vicente was a proud steed of the Dane Royal Family, taught from a young age that before being of royal blood, he must first become a knight.
Before he turned twelve, his hands were calloused like iron, at fifteen he killed a man for the first time, and by twenty-three, he had earned his knighthood.
So, was he a knight? Vicente couldn’t easily answer. Is a knight merely a skilled swordsman?
-Bang!
With one step and one swing, a well-armored soldier was sent flying backward. Vicente swung his greatsword as if possessed.
“He’s alone! Go! Go!”
“Archers! What are you doing? Shoot him!”
-Thud thud thud!
No matter how strong the bows, they couldn’t penetrate fully plated armor. Vicente deflected arrows aiming for the gaps in his visor, pushing, slashing, and cutting down the approaching soldiers.
Blood and flesh flew everywhere. Within the reach of his sword, no one moved or breathed.
He pushed back the charging soldiers and thought again. What is a knight?
Royal blood, a descendant of the royal family, and a member of the Round Table. Knights are those who bear such duties. To protect the people, defend the weak, and stand against injustice.
But in this era, most ‘knights’ risk their lives for their territories, a piece of land, and the taxes of their tenants. For greater honor, fame, and rewards.
So, is a knight a class? A nameless measure separating nobles from commoners?
“No.”
No. Some knights are born as knights, while others rise from soldiers to knights. Those born with stronger bones do so easily, while others struggle. In his life, he had met a variety of knights, regardless of status.
It’s difficult for a knight to emerge from the poor. Those who must work daily to survive need innate talent, luck, and effort to stand on the same ground as warriors who have trained their swordsmanship their entire lives.
But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. His distant ancestor, Dane, was a war orphan, and even the Round Table, the pinnacle of knighthood, wasn’t without commoners and lowborn.
Therefore, a knight is not merely a class.
Then what is a knight? A swordsman? A murderer who kills for a living? A cold-blooded being who loves steel so much that they have steel-cold blood?
“No!”
-Bang!
Dane cut down soldiers, their hot blood cooling in the cold autumn air as it poured over him. He fought like a lion amidst a flock of sheep.
When his blade flashed, everything separating man from man was shattered. Shields, raised spears, and armor alike.
A swordsman at their peak carries magical energy. Dane’s cloak fluttered regardless of the wind. Magical energy, that invisible, faint force, surged.
Enter that range, and you will die. Phaeirn’s soldiers found it hard to believe the being before them was human.
-Crash!!
Vicente’s blade cut diagonally across the path. Though the thin blade merely grazed, it left a deep furrow like a plowed field. Vicente panted, his voice like crushing metal.
“I can’t stop all of you. But.”
Through the small gap in his visor, a cold, blue killing intent shone.
“Exactly thirty. The first thirty to cross this line will die.”
The soldiers halted at that vicious killing intent. Silence fell around them. Vicente, panting, planted his sword in the ground and glared at each soldier staring at him.
How many had he killed? Over twenty, but not yet fifty. His blade grew heavy, and his armor cumbersome. The blood caking his body felt disgusting. Sweat soaked him beneath his armor, his head burning.
Even in that moment, Vicente was thinking. What is a knight? What makes a man with a sword a knight?
He straightened his posture. Standing firm between the solid ground and the high sky, holding a single sword.
‘A man with a sword stands between heaven and earth.’
The terrified enemy, the furrow he had drawn, and the people watching him from behind.
‘I stand between the enemy and the people.’
What, then, is a knight?
In this fierce battlefield where life and death intertwine, throwing his life away like a straw to buy an hour, half a day, or a full day for his people. In this moment of struggle.
Vicente felt he could finally answer the question that had defined his thirty-some years of life.
A knight is one who draws the line.
Between enemy and ally. Between cowardice and courage.
Oh, the victim, injustice, and justice.
Those who serve as the benchmark for people to live as humans.
A knight is that precarious line. They are the ones who shout to others on that faint line called morality and law.
The gap I face is the cause.
The air trembles. Arrows and magic pour down upon him. The cheers and shouts of enemy generals, screams and cries echo in his ears. Death approaches. As it always has.
But a knight stands alone on that line, setting an example for all.
The boy who always wanted to be a knight, now grown into this king, never backs down. He raises his blade straight and gazes at his enemies.
For the cause, against those cruel and ruthless beings who slaughter humans and build their evil deeds with the blood of the innocent.
“Come, I am Vicente of Altberth. A knight.”
Beyond status, age, class, and nation. As a single knight, Vicente charges at his enemies with his sword.
* * *
Zigismund was prepared to watch the king of this fallen nation meet his death with satisfaction. In that place where magic rained down, destruction was prepared to such an extent that even a dragon would not survive.
“Quite bold, isn’t he?”
“A true figure, indeed.”
The generals nodded at Vicente’s fierce struggle. Though their ideals and goals differed, even as enemies, they could not help but acknowledge him. A noble who sacrifices for the people is undoubtedly noble, but his struggle could not be defined by mere nobility.
He was shouting to his people through his fight. That there is hope. That the enemies are cowards who cannot even easily overcome a single man, and that Dane will never bow to them.
He would become a symbol of hope and perish. The king of the fallen nation was shouting his struggle to his people and his son. To set an example, he willingly embraced death. It was the kind of leadership only the highest leaders could show.
Not sacrifice, but hope. Even the same death carries a different weight.
The generals silently paid their respects as they watched death charge at Vicente.
But at that moment—
-KWAAAAANG!!
The magic disappeared. Along with the explosion from the rear. All the commanders turned around in shock. It was not far from where they were positioned.
“What’s the commotion?!”
“Your Majesty!! Enemy forces are attacking from the rear!”
“Enemy forces…? What enemy forces are there? Didn’t Dane’s main force disband? Could they have joined late?”
“No!! Your Majesty, it’s not Dane’s flag!!”
A flag approached the entrance of the pass, facing the rising east. The emblem of a red inverted cross keyblade. The metallic glow, burning white under the sunlight, dyed the ridge beyond—
“Vaitas… the Papacy…!”
Zigismund’s expression twisted as he confirmed the flag. A blue streak of light descended from the sky, and another explosion echoed. The unprepared combat mage squad was bombarded with light.
* * *
Fernandez also saw the scene. To be precise, he noticed the sudden knot of magical energy in the sky while Vicente’s fierce battle was ongoing.
He stared blankly at the approaching army for a long time. They should not have been here.
“Haha… this. The Pope…!”
The Order of St. John. One of the two armed forces of the Vaitas Church. The core of the relief knights of the Temple of the Gods, the most powerful armed force of the Church of the Temple of the Gods. A large expeditionary force of 1,500 combat priests, 1,000 temple knights, and 2,000 accompanying knights suddenly appeared in the rear of the battlefield.
They should not have been here. At least not until Zigismund of Phaeirn had clearly proven his demon-worshiping heresy.
The current situation was merely a conflict between nations. Although Phaeirn had openly condemned the Church, that did not mean the Church’s armed intervention was justified.
The Church should not intervene in the disputes of secular royal families. That would only undermine the Church’s authority. All secular royal families would feel the pressure that the Church could meddle in their internal affairs at any time after this day.
But at this moment, Fernandez felt a fate that transcended all those conditions.
“I was foolish, Kirhas.”
“Yes…? Yes?”
“Haha, I was foolish.”
Political reasons made it impossible. Strategic reasons made it difficult. Realistic issues were problematic. He had hidden his identity in the shadows, weaving schemes while listing these trivial excuses.
At least in every phase of this war, he had never revealed himself. He thought it was the right place for him, and it was the most rational choice.
But he was foolish. Was it really necessary? Did he really need to limit his vision and options, clinging to the ways of a dark mage?
Killing heroes, using sovereigns, turning soldiers into puppets for profit? Was the profit gained that great? Fernandez burst into laughter.
Kirhas stared blankly at Fernandez. It was the first time she had seen such laughter since his return. Fernandez laughed for a while, then roughly tousled Kirhas’ hair.
“I’m ashamed to face you. Perhaps it was I who was buried in myself.”
“Your Excellency…?”
“Haha, Faijashi. I got a taste of my own medicine.”
After merging his soul with Faijashi, he was no longer the same person as the Fernandez of the past. Now, with not only past memories but also temperament and disposition inherited, he was becoming more like Faijashi.
There was no way for him to realize that he was becoming continuous with his past self. Every choice seemed natural. Fernandez laughed heartily and straightened his back.
A handful of magic circuits. A pitiful power compared to the past. Did he really give up so much for just this?
In the battle with Karadskar, facing death head-on with dignity, did he really hide his identity and hold back?
Had there ever been a moment worse than this? Yet he had always made the best choices in those moments, stacking them up to always claim victory. But now, did he abandon the situation with the excuse that the war was unfavorable and it was too late for a reversal?
This was not Fernandez’s way. It was the choice of an old dark mage, a ghost of the past. And that was not the direction of this life.
He was not just an old father struggling to save his son. He was a man who vowed to save this hellish world to gift his son a future, a simple but fulfilling, happy family.
“Vaitas. This time, I admit it. You were right. If I had stuck to my ways, I wouldn’t have come this far.”
What was the reason for splitting his soul to let Faijashi and him live as separate beings? It couldn’t just be a lesson to face past misdeeds!
Vaitas knew. Faijashi’s ways were fundamentally twisted. And now, Fernandez realized it too.
“Let’s go, Kirhas. Let’s save the king.”
“Yes…? But Your Excellency, King Vicente’s death would ignite Dane’s hope…”
“We will be that hope. Do we really need to package death as hope?”
Shedding the ways of the old dark mage, what remained was the way of a saint. At that moment, Fernandez felt a liberating sensation as if his chest would burst, and he tightly gripped the reins.
Two mounted figures charged toward the struggling king.
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