Comrade (4)
The wind, growing ever more ferocious, finally erupted into a full-blown storm. The gale heralding the Wraith King's arrival clawed at the forest and plains, scattering mournful wails far and wide. Thick clouds borne by the tempest blotted out the starlight.
While racing through the forest, now shrouded in even deeper gloom, Tuon whispered.
Master. It's close.
He must have sensed the Wraith King's presence. More versatile than Kriel had expected. He glanced at his magic sword.
Can you hold out until sunrise?
"I don't know."
Kriel admitted his honest feelings. He had his swords, and the situation was dire enough to charge ahead. Armed had tailored him a suit from Savvy's materials, securing at least basic defense. Enhanced by old man Judre's craftsmanship and mystical ingredients, it rivaled—or surpassed—any leather armor. Flawless as battle garb.
Yet the Wraith King was the strongest foe Kriel had ever faced. Even compared to demonkin like Gilla Decaire or the colossal automaton swarms on the Western Front.
When challenging the Wraith King, Kriel had reasoned, 'Wraiths brim with resentment—practically infinite supply.' Spot on, if anything too conservative.
He'd assumed absorption only after wounding, but the throne room overflowed with it already. Simply standing there flooded him with resentment like an endless tide. Effectively infinite regeneration.
Wraith power stemmed from resentment's magnitude, so each influx Kriel claimed simultaneously eroded the king's authority. Just grit teeth and endure—body mends, foe withers. How could he lose?
Kriel had been wrong. With every clash, the king grew stronger. His strikes fiercer, steps swifter, techniques sharper and more precise. He moved freer as resentment waned.
Without that ceaseless recovery, Kriel would've died dozens of times over.
Recalling that battle now, measuring against his current self—no certainty.
But did knights only draw blades for sure victories?
Kriel reminded himself once more: A knight who flees just ain't cool.
Black suit, ash-gray straight sword. The pale-haired man reached the western border of Ket County.
A modest village of about a dozen homes. The site of his clash with the Wraith King.
Neatly arrayed plows and hoes in the fields confirmed residents, but they'd hunkered down after the wails—no lanterns in sight.
Instead, the ghost army lined the central road on both sides.
As Kriel approached, they intoned in unison.
"The duel is not over."
So they'd been waiting for him. Kriel gave a wry smile. For a nobody like him, better to forget and never return.
"Inviolability promised for this territory—the duel is not over."
Kriel strode down the road. The chorus droned on.
The Wraith King's throne came into view. A stream marked the Ket County border; beyond lay the throne.
Identical to that day.
"Challenger reached the throne—the duel is not over."
The wind died. Here, the eye of the storm.
The Wild Hunt's tempest heart. Ghosts barred even the chill gusts.
Yet the outer thunderheads spared this place.
The throne room: a vast plain brimming with ghostly white funeral flowers. Each a soldier's restless soul bound to their king.
Dark Knight power surged. The king's psyche made manifest—a realm under alien laws, apart from Tirnanog.
Like the abyss as despair's otherworld, this flower-choked waste was the Wraith King's domain.
It shifted with his steps. Unlike the abyss's isolation, his legions deployed at will.
Dead center of the white expanse. The flower bed no lesser specter dared approach.
"The king receives him—the duel is not over."
The Wraith King stood there.
The Wraith King bore little resemblance to his grim title. Cloaked in white, his gleaming sword plunged firm into the earth, hands clasped atop the hilt.
His armor, noble despite faint tarnish, shimmered with ghostly gold—like echoes of lost glory.
Thorns coiled 'round his shoulders like cloak brooches, but sprouted straight through his pauldrons from his very essence. A fragment of his manifested will.
The helmet, mask-like with hollow eye sockets, unnerved without grotesquery. Fit for a masked ball or a leper's guise.
His faded laurel crown bore leaves and thorns—a torment to the wearer, envy to onlookers.
"Hero, draw your sword and declare your name. The broken duel resumes."
Kriel advanced to stand before the Wraith King. Sword tips would kiss if swung.
The king loomed a head or two taller—a true giant. Kriel, no short man himself, looked up; the king gazed down.
Gripping Tuon two-handed, Kriel drew breath to name himself—
『Cease.』
From the helmet's shadowed depths, the Wraith King fixed on Kriel—on Tuon.
『So it has come to this.』 A lamenting murmur.
『Honorable knight. Why choose such a path? The road to Balor's throne is broad, yet crooked.』
Tuon's blade quivered—fury at being mistaken for Gratuon.
『Speak no name. That day's knight was not you.』
Per the king's plea, Kriel held his tongue. Instead, he raised his phantom sword straight—tip steady toward the zenith at chest height.
Fighting Spirit infused it. No crimson blood qi, no frosty resentment—but night sky's darkness, where stars dwelled in harmony.
Unlike the abyss's devouring black.
"We've met once. No need to repeat names."
『……!』
The king's silent awe washed over him.
"By knightly duty and right, by pride defying the abyss—I challenge you."
『I am a king bereft of realm and name. I beg pardon for the insult I offered. Yet one question more.』
Kriel nodded gravely.
『If not delusion from the abyss's false omniscience, what brings that guise?』
Armed slipped through the shadows. The Abyss Prevention Society's inept but diligent mages were unusually zealous tonight.
Childhood secret passages and their predictable habits let her pierce the watch. First, Kriel's guest quarters.
Something inexplicable always meant abyss meddling. Orishin and the Eve Kaha cloak would prove invaluable.
She opened the door. Orishin yelped.
No way! What's going on?! Ghosts from my era popping up outta nowhere! Weird chanting, then silence!
"Wild Hunt's here. Kriel went to meet their leader."
What?!
"Quiet. Now we hunt the puppet master who summoned them."
She donned the Eve Kaha cloak inside out. Deep black and storm veiled her form.
Peering below—no watchers. She unlatched the window.
Hey, what're you doing?!
"Wall climb. Front gate risks alerting the one in Dad's chambers."
Armed seized a jutting stone without hesitation. Her pilfered thief spells from society mages activated.
"Frog's grip, cat's tread, moon's blind luck—for a single silver's toll."
Silver catalyst bypassed novice limits. She scaled the spire wall effortlessly.
The castle bore anti-thief wards, but as a Ket, mere wall-clinging didn't trigger them.
"Who? Who's gunning for Dad this hard…?"