The Crimson Aura of the Fallen Knight
Gulp.
Had swallowing once ever been this hard?
From the moment the mana-forged orbs detonated, Sir Isra and Emilia had traded countless exchanges.
A barrage of attacks fired in rapid succession after a Vanishing push. Sir Isra nullifying them all in a single stroke was impressive enough. Just when it seemed she would overwhelm her opponent in one go, Emilia escaped the crisis with Blink, briefly halted Sir Isra’s movements with Dig, then bound her with a memorized gravity spell and unleashed a one-sided storm of magic.
“My master’s fan. She’s rather skilled.”
Ingrid’s arms remained crossed, her gaze never leaving the two locked in collision.
“Will she be all right?”
“No need to worry about that iron-headed one.”
Emilia was an A-rank Hunter. The fact that she had stored even powerful spells with Memorize meant she was at the peak of her rank. Skill worthy of a direct disciple of one of the Twelve Heroes.
“She’s not so weak as to fall to attacks lacking precision.”
“Is that so?”
To look at that savage assault and still nitpick its refinement… A woman who had once been the strongest witch of her age truly was on another level.
In that instant, a chill ran down my spine and my eyes snapped toward the crater.
Whoooooosh!
A dark-crimson whirlwind swallowed every last rain of magic without leaving a trace.
“Aura?”
Yes. It was Aura.
Goosebumps prickled across my skin. The energy Sir Isra usually raised was nothing like this. It was thick with killing intent—an overwhelming force that forced everything to its knees, as if the very word “rage” had been dragged into reality.
“This can’t be…”
“That energy… isn’t it that?”
“It is. No—more than that, I would say.”
Elders. Would you mind translating what you’re talking about for the rest of us?
“Gerard’s sword. Do you know its true name?”
“The Bloodied Longsword of the Fallen Knight.”
“See? There’s a reason I put him forward as my proxy.”
Alfons waved a hand dismissively.
“Heh heh. That dark-crimson Aura can only be seen when the sword’s true power is drawn out.”
“That is why the fellow was called the Black Knight.”
“I never imagined your summon would be able to draw it forth.”
Of course she could. The original owner of that sword was Sir Isra herself.
I forced the words rising in my throat back down.
The ferocious Aura she radiated was terrifying—and yet it made me sad. Why did the final moments of Sir Isra I had seen in my dream overlay so perfectly with this dark-crimson light?
Soul of the Blacksmith
Even without a weapon in my hands, looking at that Aura let me feel Sir Isra’s heart.
There was a reason the Bloodied Longsword of the Fallen Knight carried such a savage energy. The countless grudges that had soaked into the blade. The bitter grief of Sir Isra, who had failed to protect the lord she served. The fury of betrayal. And blood. The murky Aura was the result of converting every negative emotion dwelling in the sword into pure power.
“Truly, you command summons of unbelievable strength.”
“Thank you.”
“I do not say it lightly. Had they still been among the living, they would have become the strongest Hunters in the world.”
He was right. Both of my retainers had stood at the absolute peak of their respective fields in life.
Every spell Emilia poured out vanished into the dark-crimson whirlwind without leaving so much as a scar.
Riiip!
A sound like tearing paper rang out, and—
“Haaah!”
—Sir Isra’s form shot up from the crater.
Emilia used Vanish again, but perhaps because the spell had already been cast once, the distance it pushed was cut in half.
Kwa-kwang! Kwang!
Every simultaneous spell was blocked by the blade. Emilia desperately tried to open space. Sir Isra, cloaked in terrifying killing intent, pursued her without pause. It was a game of tag with death itself.
“To shatter Weight Gravity with a single sword stroke!”
“Hmm. Beyond expectations.”
“You damn old coot! If you lend a sword like that to someone of that caliber, what am I supposed to do with my disciple?!”
“Keh keh. Still going to claim magic is greater than the sword?”
“Then I should have lent out my treasured weapon!”
“You should have said so before we started. Tsk tsk.”
Just from listening to the fierce verbal sparring—no, the outright bickering—of the Twelve Heroes, it was clear the scales of victory had already tipped hard to one side.
“If my master’s fan had a little more experience, it would have been a fine match. A shame.”
“That’s unexpected.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re giving Emilia high marks.”
“Looking purely at talent, she could become a Witch of the Solar Eclipse.”
Huh? Wasn’t that a seat reserved only for the greatest magical prodigy of an era?
“That’s right.”
“You’re saying she’s as great as your talent?”
“Oh my. Of course not.”
Not a shred of doubt colored her answer. Ingrid’s confidence was second to none in the world.
“I was the strongest among every Witch of the Solar Eclipse in history.”
“How would you know that?”
“Because we inherit the knowledge of our predecessors.”
Well. If she said so, it was probably true.
The nail-biting game of tag that had lasted more than five minutes ended the moment—
Ssshhhk!
—a boulder the size of a house was cleaved clean through, and the tip of the sword came to rest against the nape of Emilia’s neck.
The blade hovered at Emilia’s throat. It had felt like they had traded blows for ages, yet a glance at the time showed only about a minute had passed.
“Hoo.”
You may all breathe again, everyone.
“A disciple of the Twelve Heroes really is different.”
“Whoa. If it weren’t for you, hyung, I would’ve suffocated.”
“Sir Isra was way scarier than usual, right?”
“So that’s the Black Knight’s sword. Way more terrifying than it looked in the videos.”
The support team chattered among themselves. My own impression was no different. A disciple of the Twelve Heroes. Ingrid might have called the attacks imprecise, but if I had learned the same skills I never would have used them with that level of mastery.
“Naturally so. My Lord is not one who specialized in magic.”
“You have Ingrid’s talent, though.”
“Master has only just tasted the surface of magic.”
Ingrid crossed her arms.
“If you wish it, I can make you stronger than even your fan.”
The pride of a Witch of the Solar Eclipse rang clear in her words.
“Mage. Do not scheme.”
“Master said he wanted it, you iron-headed fool.”
“He never said any such thing.”
“One must also read the intent held within the breast. That is the duty of a retainer.”
“Do not try to fill your own desires with such talk.”
Sir Isra and Ingrid were at it again. The air between them was scorching hot.
“Sir. How is your body?”
“I am unhindered in my movements.”
Sir Isra’s condition was far from good. Her bone armor and clothing were torn, and burn marks covered her skin in places.
“Roan. Heal her, please.”
“I-I am fine, my Lord. How about you repair me yourself for the first time in a long while?”
“Iron-head. Trying to work Master like a servant.”
“That’s because you’ve never felt that pain!”
Force Heal
A black current of energy enveloped Sir Isra.
“Grrraaaagh!”
Force Heal. A healing spell Roan could still use under the Vow of Silence. Its effect surpassed that of most dedicated healers. The minor drawback, if one could call it that, was that the rapid regeneration process hurt like hell.
“Tone down the pain receptors a bit.”
“Even if I do, the pain of the healing spell cannot be lessened!”
Well, nothing to be done. Those were her wounds. Grit her teeth and endure with pure spite.
Emilia approached with a flustered expression.
“A-are you all right?”
Judging by the atmosphere alone, it looked as if Sir Isra had lost.
“Sir Isra is a knight among knights. She’ll be fine.”
“Kh-hhhk!”
“See? She says she’s fine.”
As long as the head remained intact, recovery or repair was always possible.
“B-but still…”
“Wounds are a knight’s medals. Pay them no mind.”
The voice squeezed out between clenched teeth.
“Hohoho. A brave knight truly is different.”
“Ugh-gh-gh. Indeed.”
Ingrid spun around sharply. Her shoulders shook. She was having a hard time holding back her laughter.
“Truly magnificent!”
“That summon—how did she draw out the sword’s power?!”
This time the two elders strode over. Why did they look ready to fight to the death?
“Minho, my boy. How about learning magic at the Clock Tower?”
“Nonsense. You’re telling my proxy to study magic?”
“A proxy, not a disciple.”
“Then from this moment he can become my disciple. Hah!”
What on earth were they saying? Why would a Necrosmith like me become either of their disciples?
“We can teach both you and your summons.”
“You’ve trained plenty with the sword already. Stop making excuses.”
A chilling light flickered in both elders’ eyes. I had to stop at least one of them.
I looked at Emilia with every ounce of “please help me” I could pour into my gaze. You understand, right?
Emilia chewed her lip for a moment before speaking.
“T-Teacher…”
“Yes, Emilia.”
The eerie light in Alfons’s eyes subsided. Whew. Thank goodness. He really did listen to his disciple.
“You did splendidly today.”
“Th-thank you!”
“Among A-rank Hunters, there is none who can stand against you.”
“Heh… hehe.”
“When you show your true ability, this is the result.”
The murderous atmosphere melted away. Good. The master-disciple conversation was wonderfully warm. If we could just keep this mood going and have Emilia persuade them…
“T-T-T-Teacher!”
“Speak.”
“I-if it’s Minho-nim… I-I wouldn’t mind him becoming my senior disciple!”
Excuse me? What did you just say?
The conversation was not supposed to go in that direction!!! I had barely managed to turn the atmosphere around, only to find myself in the calm before the storm.
I shot a glare at my two retainers. Because of you two, they’re trying to buy me in bulk as well. Say something.
“Hahaha. To recognize my Lord’s talent—the Twelve Heroes truly are different.”
“It’s nice to see them pleading with Master.”
Stop looking so proud!
Those elders looked ready to deliver the Judgment of Solomon at any second!
No choice, then.
“I am truly grateful for both of your offers.”
“Have you decided?”
“Of course he will choose the path of the sword!”
Ahem—
A light cough made both elders close their mouths.
“I am sorry, but I cannot choose either of you as my master.”
“Minho, my boy. Did I not even serve you black tea?”
It was milk tea, not black tea!
Well… milk tea wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t enough to make me take someone as my master.
Alfons cleared his throat loudly.
“Then at least tell us the reason.”
The reason for refusing the teachings of the Twelve Heroes. It was simpler than expected.
“I already have a master.”