Chapter 85: Act 21 – The Knights of the Past (Part II)
Brendel raised his sword to block, a blast of wind erupted at the intersection of the elven blade and Pale Tooth, tossing his hair backward in the draft. He squinted, sliding backward with the force, feeling as if half of his body was about to tear apart.
Even though he’d managed to evade being struck so far, entirely due to experience, the life points projected onto his retina had already dropped over thirty. Brendel understood this was a result of internal injuries caused by the inability to completely counteract the impact. This was despite his constitution nearing seven energy levels, much tougher than ordinary people—otherwise, anyone else would have died instantly from the shock-induced organ rupture on the first strike.
What troubled him more was that Aibodun seemed aware of this. Each sword strike came faster than the last, not giving him a moment to breathe. There were times when Brendel couldn’t help but think, does this guy not care at all about his army? Although his side was nearly collapsing, the rows of skeleton soldiers in the valley were struggling equally.
Could it be that in this man’s eyes, he alone was worth more than an entire army?
Brendel might not have realized that his absurd thought was closest to the truth. ‘White Knight’ Aibodun, while in life considered one of the heroes of Erluin, had become only a footnote upon awakening as a zombie. In Vaunte, zombies were a distortion of the natural laws—a blasphemy against the living in many doctrines of light, for they were merely shells meant to rot and return to the earth, now controlled by another force, an alien will.
It was no longer human—memories from life for a zombie were but fragments. A saying goes that zombies are not without fear, and their greatest fear comes from the memories of life; some zombies even get lost in these memories eternally without regaining control.
For them, this was more repugnant than annihilation. Almost all zombies avoid remembering, for upon recollection, they descend into fear inevitably.
But ‘White Knight’ Aibodun was perhaps a unique individual. This knight often reminisced about the past. He recalled the battles of the knights on the Golden Bloom Plateau, as if observing it all from another’s perspective, memories of slaughter making him calmer and more ruthless.
Thus, in this moment as a high-ranking officer of Madara’s Apocalypse ‘White Knight’, it was more about ensuring potential enemies were eradicated in their cradle for this dark nation.
Evidently, in his view, the threat of a latent, outstanding commander far outweighed a chaotic crowd.
He’d even rather forsake victory in battle than allow this young man to live.
However, Brendel’s performance had far exceeded the undead knight’s expectations. He was well-versed in Erluin swordsmanship, Brendel clearly learned the most basic style employed by the army, perhaps a touch of courtly swordsmanship sprinkled in, but overall it was a three-penny level of skill. But even this sub-par skill continually thwarted Aibodun’s every plan.
In the end, Aibodun could only revert back to out-grinding him through brute force—a playstyle so deplorable that even for a knight, exalted in life and death, it was hard to take. Yet, for that pledge under the three black scepters and the Black Code, it coldly renounced its honour—
Because Aibodun knew that many would make the same choice. Madara must act thusly.
“Martha above, Madara forever under your protection.” The flame in the undead knight’s eyes was cold like ice, its longsword already cutting down mercilessly.
However, just as soon as it struck, Brendel had already evaded to the side as if anticipating the move. Every slash from the undead knight’s Pale Tooth either missed or, when anticipated correctly, was cleverly deflected by crude swordplay—
All of this left Aibodun astonished.
Again! Aibodun’s soul fire flickered in frustration. From the start, he’d already cycled through three sword styles. Initially, he used the most familiar Erluin swordsmanship, followed by Erluin courtly swordsmanship, but both had been anticipated by Brendel. Initially, Aibodun thought it was because the boy was especially familiar with his country’s swordsmanship, so he switched to the military black crosses of Madara, only to find that Brendel adapted better—
If undead had emotions akin to the living, White Knight Aibodun would probably be cursing right now.
What he did not know was that Brendel’s familiarity with Erluin military swordsmanship stemmed from before level thirty in his previous game. In subsequent long adventures, he encountered hundreds of different levels of swordsmanship, high-level or not. But if there was one type of swordsmanship he was most familiar with—
It would be the knightly swordsmanship of the Church Knights and Madara’s Black Cross Swordsmanship.
No other reason but practice makes perfect.
Knightly swordsmanship was what Brendel used the most in his previous life, and Black Cross Swordsmanship was the one he encountered the most. In the in-game battles against Madara that spanned seventy-eighty years, his understanding of the widespread military swordsmanship of the other side was as natural as eating and drinking.
Unfortunately, this didn’t mean things were going well for Brendel.
Because under Aibodun’s absolute strength, he couldn’t find a single opening for retaliation. Even if the routines were old, it was hard to resist with a dexterity of sixteen energy levels. Sometimes, Brendel couldn’t even capture the movements of his hands and was relying purely on experience to guess.
And very quickly, Brendel felt his strength nearing the warning line—because if someone’s stamina drops below half, their strength and response will begin to weaken. If it drops below a third, it becomes difficult to maintain proper form.
But from the start of the fight until now, less than three minutes had passed—
Brendel was already sweating profusely, under Aibodun’s relentless pressure, and gradually lost the ability to think. Initially, he still managed to check the status of the battlefield, but as his strength waned, now every time he dodged Aibodun’s blade, it took all his effort.
The frequency of blade clashes also increased.
It was a vicious cycle. The more he crossed swords with Aibodun, the more powerless he felt. The more powerless he felt, the harder it became to avoid Aibodun’s attacks.
Brendel gritted his teeth to endure—this endurance seemed to no longer relate to death. Rather than repeatedly squeezing potential from his aching bones or scraping back from the brink of death, it was almost as though an overwhelming fatigue was creeping from the depths of his soul, urging him to give up entirely.
But this time, he strangely remembered Freya and Romain, remembered the cavalrymen who fought alongside him. That surge of intense fervour from the chest renewed his resistance. He knew it was a responsibility, to take accountability for everything he had done and everything he had said.
At one point, he closed his eyes, only to reopen them to be bathed in a blinding snow-like glow. In that moment, Brendel finally regained clarity, his scalp tingling with apprehension. He rolled away from danger in a pose far from graceful.
But the force contained within Aibodun’s sword finally burst forth—
A single strike forward, the power of the second level—Silver, propelled a sheet of silver flames sweeping through the wilderness ahead; resembling silvery moonlight, it surged forward silently, shattering rocks and felling cold firs, one after another.
From the base of the valley upward, a single strike carved out a barren slope nearly fifty meters in cone shape.
Cold winds blew, bringing an eerie silence to the valley.
A moment of stillness.
All were stunned. Although they had heard of the so-called second level—Silver level power, they had never seen it with their own eyes—witnessing this almost superhuman miracle, everyone couldn’t help but feel a profound reverence for such overwhelming force in their core.
This reverence was neither fear nor despair, but pure veneration for incomprehensible power.
Even Retao and Mano were frozen on the spot, unable to believe that Brendel had been fighting such a monster and for so long?
But they wasted time on the sidelines instead of rushing to help that young man—
Brendel said nothing.
Yet the mercenaries felt an even deeper shame within. They felt the heavy sense of responsibility on that young man who had been fulfilling every commitment to each of them sincerely all along.
If in the past, they idolized Brendel blindly, then at that moment, these mercenaries felt a sense of belonging for the first time.
But where was Brendel? They worried. Could he have survived such a blow?
The White Knight ‘Aibodun’ retracted his sword with a clear ring.
“Brendel!”
Freya was just galloping from the slope toward the battle site between Brendel and Aibodun. When she arrived, it seemed like everything had ended.
Her sword clanged to the ground. She almost couldn’t believe what she saw—the young man who had taken her from Buche, the one who showed her a world outside the well, that shameless rogue.
Had he come this far?
But someone tapped her shoulder. The future Valkyrie turned dazedly to see Charles.
The young wizard guard was staring intently down the slope, unmoving.
“Miss Freya, as long as I’m still here, Lord has not died.”
“What…?” The girl with a ponytail froze, not fully understanding the meaning in Charles’s words.
But she understood enough—
Because she immediately saw that familiar figure climbing out from beneath a heap of stones.
Brendel felt like his whole body was about to fall apart in agonizing pain. His shirt was shredded entirely, his forehead covered in blood, and it was impossible to count how many wounds he had.
Yet he grinned despite the pain, with an almost smug satisfaction.
“Old man, didn’t expect you to miss me in your final move, did ya?”
…
(PS. Good evening everyone, and that’s all for now, goodnight!)
