The Horseless Horse and the Speechless Knight (1)
The knight set off toward the sunset. His plate armor was a murky black, charred as if by fire. A massive sword nearly as tall as he was hung from his back. The armor might have passed for tidy if not for the scorch marks like burn scars—but fresh blood, vivid red, dripped from the sword he carried, lending the whole scene a murky air. Yet the blood never stained the ground. Black shadows pooled at his feet, slowly but greedily devouring the blood qi.
Suddenly, he halted and lifted his head. His gaze fixed on the dying sun. Backlit by the sunset glow, the forest loomed dark, but his blood-red eyes burned fiercely.
Should've picked mage.
His name was Kriel. A knight by title—literally "mounted warrior"—yet a former modern man who despised the system for starting him with neither mount nor a single coin.
At the foot of the mountains, in the modest chapel of a small village, head priest Zakabil was soothing the trembling villagers.
"Just a little longer, everyone. We've sent word to the commander. Soldiers will come soon to resolve this."
"But Father! It's been two weeks since Ivan left to deliver the message!"
"Stay calm. A reply will come soon. Soon..."
Zakabil's murmured words—were they for the panicked villagers, or for himself? It was hard to tell.
For days now, strange and sinister events had plagued Rolang Village, a frontier settlement near the Western Front. It started with the youngest daughter of a potato farmer. A wild child who loved wandering the mountain foothills, scolded endlessly by the village elders yet never reformed. She didn't return home one evening, and though her parents searched, she was gone.
The second was a girl weaving straw with her mother. One day, she simply vanished without a trace.
The repeated disappearances bred ugly rumors. Deep in the mountains, monsters lurked as a matter of course—no one could dismiss them outright. Tales spread of a mountain ghost devouring virgins, a beast haunting the rear hills.
Then someone spotted a shadowy monster, as if luring away a maiden. No one knew if the abducted girls lived or died. All Rolang could do was beg the priest, close to the highest authorities, to summon a knight to slay the horror.
But now even Ivan, the messenger, had vanished—naturally, fears spread that the ghost had sniffed out the humans' scheme and devoured him too.
Thud.
A heavy knock echoed through the chapel. Silence fell inside.
Thud—.
The second knock urged louder than the first. Zakabil, under the villagers' eyes brimming with fear and hope, opened the door.
A knight stood there—or so Zakabil's knowledge suggested; it was the closest word. Once a military chaplain on the Western Front, he remembered knights well: gleaming silver armor draped in surcoats embroidered with glorious crests, eyes alight with anticipation of honor and pride in their duty.
But this "knight" was different. His plate armor, symbol of knighthood, was blackened, not silver. The eyes glimpsed beneath his deeply lowered helm gleamed not with honor, but a fierce greed. Most alien of all was the greatsword slung over his shoulder—its black blade wreathed in ill omen, as if heralding curses rather than glory.
"Wh-who are you?"
"Dispatched from the Western Front."
The knight presented an order stamped with the commander's seal. Concise military phrasing, far from noble flourish: Resolve the disturbance in Rolang.
Clearly the savior they'd awaited—yet somehow, inviting him inside felt wrong. Zakabil shook his head to dispel the foolish thought and ushered the knight in.
Everyone's the same, Kriel thought to himself.
His career faking stern knighthood had long passed from months to years. The suspicious stares—"What kind of knight is this?"—were familiar now. More precisely, their doubts ran: Isn't this demon spawn?
Kriel knew their suspicions were justified. The class bestowed on this body wasn't just knight, but Dark Knight.
He could complain endlessly about the job, but other matters took priority now: Rolang's disturbance. Trivial to the whole Western Front, where ancient dwarf automatons still raided the front lines nightly. To Kriel, though, it mattered—his discharge hung on resolving it.
He'd been dragged to the front long enough. He wanted out of the army. Desperate for that, Kriel listened intently to the villagers' testimonies.
His silent focus merely struck them as ominous quiet. Amid their terror, the mountain ghost's image grew vague: a shadowy form, probably four-legged.
Nothing new from what Ivan had told him before departing. Kriel mentally searched for "black quadrupedal monster." Game knowledge didn't apply perfectly here, but it offered clues.
"S-sir Knight..."
A farmer who'd lingered approached Kriel, deep in thought. He seemed timid, likely roughed up by knights or nobles before.
"Speak."
Startled that the knight used honorifics toward him, the old villager blinked—then stammered his tale. He'd glimpsed the ghost abducting a maiden: racing on four legs, smoke-like wisps coiling its body, vanishing in a wind-like blur.
Nothing special. Kriel planned a polite nod to send him off.
"But... didn't it have goat-like horns on its head?"
"Goat-like?"
Large, curved twin horns. A crucial hint.
"Thank you, elder."
Four legs. Blinding speed. Grand, beautiful horns. Had to be a Bicorn. In the game, they devoured men, not virgins—but unicorns, close kin, fancied maidens. A mutant variant, its kin's tastes surfacing. Kriel quietly summoned Priest Zakabil.
"Tomorrow, I'll catch the mountain ghost."
Delivered in a tone as if stating the sun rose in the east, the declaration left Zakabil stunned.
Kriel attached odd conditions for hunting the ghost.
First: one maiden not yet taken. Bait to lure it—obvious, and the villagers accepted, though fearing another disappearance.
Second: a faithful husband from a happy couple. Utterly baffling. Kriel hinted to Zakabil: "If it's the monster I think, it prefers husbands over virgins." The priest nodded doubtfully, experience contradicting it.
But what choice? Most remaining maidens were children; faithful husbands, devoted fathers. Thus, Kriel's companions were father and daughter.
The priest gazed up at the knight, face haggard.
"...See that no one dies. The wife left behind is already weeping."
"It ends tomorrow."
Aristocratic hunts usually unfolded in bright daylight. But Kriel headed into the forest at dusk.
Forests after dark were perilous even normally—let alone now, the ghost's haunt.
The farmer, shielding his shivering daughter behind him, asked the knight, "...What now?"
"The ghost will come soon. Once I catch it, you return to Rolang."
Kriel led them to a clearing he'd scouted while crossing the woods yesterday. Rolang's wild woods had trees too dense for his greatsword. He'd cleared minor beasts then, prepping this spot—not vast, but better than thick timber for battle.
He placed the pair at the center, tracing a circle around them with his blade's tip.
"Don't step outside."
The farmer nodded vigorously. Feeling it insufficient, Kriel added, "No matter what. Suspicious voices, illusions will tempt you—but never."
Between them, he lit an incense stick from the Western Front. Monster lure. Normally, it'd draw every starving beast—but yesterday's sweep had beheaded them all. Only one would charge: the Bicorn.
A faithful husband—its preferred prey. A pure maiden— this mutant's target. And the lure. Perfect conditions for the mountain ghost to pounce.