Chapter 153
Chapter 153
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 153
Chapter Title: 64. Fire (1)
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Yalta had Graham by the throat, so one of the knights standing behind grabbed his shoulder.
“Sir Yalta!”
Several more knights piled on after him.
Yalta might have been an object of terror, but they couldn't just stand by and watch him threaten their commander.
“Calm down, sir!”
“Let him go!”
Yalta, his eyes bloodshot as he squeezed Graham's neck, irritably shook both arms when the knights clung to him persistently from both sides.
They all tumbled away.
“Annoying bastards!”
That gave Graham the chance to break free from Yalta.
Graham bent at the waist, coughing harshly. Then he glared at Yalta with wide eyes.
Yalta scratched his head vigorously, avoiding Graham's gaze.
“Sorry about that, Sir Graham. Damn it.”
With that, he turned and walked away.
The knights approached Graham.
“Are you all right?”
“Sir Graham!”
Graham raised a hand.
“I'm fine.”
The knight who had stepped in first chewed his lip, glaring at Yalta's retreating back.
“That son of a bitch...”
Most of the knights despised Yalta. He was always causing trouble, and countless innocents had died because of it.
“We have to do something, Sir Graham. We have to. That bastard's crossed the line now. Strangling the commander? By military law, instant execution wouldn't even cover it.”
“What he just did was beyond the pale...”
“He doesn't see anything in front of him anymore. Did you see how his eyes rolled back?”
“He used to at least listen to you, Sir Graham, but now he's completely off the rails.”
“We have to do something!”
Pent-up resentment boiled over. Graham shook his head.
“No.”
“But...”
“Do you think you can handle Yalta?”
His question silenced them all.
“Well...”
“We're just the Fifth Knight Order here, and even our captain's a prisoner. There's no knight left who can take him down.”
Same-rank elites or multiple knight captains might manage it, but with their current forces, suppressing Yalta was impossible.
Graham preferred seeking alternatives over wasting emotion on the unchangeable.
He looked around.
“Why do you think Yalta's flying off the handle like that? Wasn't anyone with him?”
“I was there, sir.”
One knight stepped forward.
“What happened was...”
He explained the forest encounter.
A hulking young man named Hopper had clashed evenly with Yalta.
Then the three sworn brothers, famed for their resolve in the sweet potato fields, joined in. Yalta found himself outnumbered, took a beating, and eventually turned tail and fled.
“Yalta fled?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was four against one, but the implications were significant.
Moreover, Yalta losing his reason and raging like that meant he felt real mental pressure.
This wasn't just a fluke loss—it was a defeat by skill.
Graham stared silently at Yalta's distant figure as he vanished.
“Sir Graham. What do we do?”
“We persuade Yalta. If he can't win alone, we fight together.”
“You think that bastard will go along with it...”
Graham knew how hollow his words sounded.
He doubted Yalta would listen to him.
“We have to try.”
In truth, Graham saw no justification for this war.
Unable to convince himself, he couldn't come up with a proper solution.
He'd come to minimize pointless deaths, but Joachim's resistance was fiercer than expected.
Graham even wondered if his own naive judgment was only prolonging the casualties.
“What if we just set the fire?”
One knight suggested.
“Yalta's not entirely wrong.”
The Empire's knights hated Yalta, but deep down, they sympathized with burning the forest.
That was how the Empire waged war—any means to crush the enemy.
Only Graham, doubting the war's premise itself, held back.
“I'll think about it.”
Graham said and left.
He needed time alone to think.
Yalta sat astride a rock, staring at the forest ahead while breathing raggedly. The battle from earlier replayed in his mind.
Hopper was decent, but beatable.
The guy spouted nonsense about needing depth in one's sword, but Yalta was confident he could overwhelm him with the weight of blood he'd spilled.
Then those ridiculous so-called sworn brothers jumped in, and everything changed.
He'd thought they were just clownish trash, but they wielded swords tempered by real bloodshed.
The eldest was the problem.
'So, you need to put in the effort,' he'd said, mocking him.
Yalta clenched his fist. Veins bulged on his hand.
They'd spewed obvious crap about his limits, how he couldn't grow further. No one had dared say such arrogant things to him since reaching the Ten Strong.
But deep down, Yalta vaguely knew they were right.
Even unconsciously, he recognized his rage stemmed from them hitting the mark.
But he refused to admit it.
He was the type of man who couldn't.
All he could do was stoke his anger at the enemy.
“Aim for the heavens? Hilarious. Heh heh...”
Yalta twisted his face into a grin.
A sword was a tool for killing enemies. That was it. Yet they acted like it could make you a god.
Carve flesh, sever necks, cut off breath.
That should suffice—why bother with 'study'?
His wandering thoughts converged into a massive blaze consuming all.
“Fire.”
Yalta muttered.
Burn that damned forest. Problem solved.
Yalta glanced back, glaring at Graham's tent.
Mad light flickered in his eyes, on and off.
We have to set it ablaze.
But Sir Graham, the knights' paragon, wouldn't allow it.
Part of him wanted to ignore him and do it anyway.
But Graham was one of the few he respected.
He couldn't act on impulse.
“Sir Graham...”
Yalta was furious.
Graham's idea of war was just soldiers playing at swinging swords and loosing arrows.
They'd never win that way.
He might have to flee from those trash again.
Yalta's face flushed red.
Yeah, he'd fled.
Bled while showing his back.
Forcing the entire Imperial army to retreat.
“Graham...”
Yalta muttered.
“Graham, Graham, Graham, Graham...”
Chanting it endlessly, he rose slowly.
His face was expressionless, but dark red energy swirled in his pupils. Black smoke-like aura seeped from his body.
For an instant, his sclera turned pitch black, then reverted.
Yalta started walking toward Graham's tent.
“Sir Yalta?”
A group of passing knights blocked him.
“Where are you headed?”
“To see Sir Graham.”
“On what business?”
Yalta eyed them.
Normally, they'd never dare speak to him, but after he'd nearly killed Graham, they were showing some loyalty.
He smirked.
“To apologize for earlier.”
“Hmm...”
“Out of my way.”
Yalta brushed past, ignoring them.
The knights muttered behind him but let him go.
At the tent entrance, Yalta called out.
“Sir Graham. May I come in?”
Graham replied from inside.
“What is it?”
“To apologize for earlier. Sorry. I got too worked up. And I wanted to ask what we'll do next.”
“Come in.”
Inside, Graham was poring over a map.
Yalta nodded at him. Despite nearly dying earlier, he showed no fear.
This composure was part of why Yalta respected him.
Clearly stronger than Yalta, yet facing his explosive temper without flinching. He acted unafraid of death.
He simply followed what he believed was right.
That was why Yalta liked him—but now it was a problem.
“Sir Graham.”
“Yalta.”
“Sorry about earlier.”
Graham looked up at him.
His eyes were always sharp, piercing the soul.
“Apology accepted.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yalta took a step closer.
“Still, Sir Graham. I think we should set the fire. Unless you have another way?”
“Yalta, I'll put you at the vanguard, with the rest of the knights right behind. If the enemy blocks us, we fight together. You won't lose if you're not outnumbered. We break through the forest like that.”
“Yes, sir...”
Yalta nodded.
“Sir Graham.”
“Hm?”
“Those guys said it. That my sword lacks depth.”
“Hm...”
“A sword's just a sword. Why train for some lofty realm? I don't get it. Haha. I just swing it however I feel. Weaker guys with big mouths.”
“...”
“But honestly, they have a point.”
Graham's eyes sharpened with interest. Yalta kept rambling.
“The sword they talk about—you hold back when you want to swing, swing when you don't feel like it. Suppress yourself to master techniques. It's not that I can't; I just don't want to. Why bother?”
“I see.”
“So I have to hold back this time too.”
And Yalta's sword pierced Graham's gut.
Graham's eyes widened.
Yalta clamped his mouth shut to stifle any sound.
His sclera blackened again. Dark red energy leaked as he chattered.
“So fire, let's just set the damn fire, you bastard.”
“Mmph...!”
“No, I like you, Sir Graham. Respect you. Even a barbarian like me knows you're a fine knight. But damn it, just set the fire—why won't you listen, you stubborn old fart? Why go looking for death?”
Graham's eyes shook. Blood poured from his chest.
Yalta released the sword in Graham's chest and struck his head.
“Huh? Huh?”
Yalta pounded Graham's head with his fist repeatedly.
Graham's body crumpled.
Looking down at him twitching on the ground, Yalta asked.
“Dead?”
He scratched his chin.
“I didn't want to kill you, Sir Graham. Should've just set the fire, damn it...”
Yalta closed his eyes and pondered for a while.
He felt Graham twitching but didn't open them.
A breeze blew in.
“Ugh...”
After deep thought, he irritably tousled his hair.
“Screw it.”
Messy-haired Yalta opened his eyes.
“I really need to curb this temper. Did it again.”
Graham was dying on the ground. His eyes grew dim. Blood gushed from his chest.
Yalta muttered like a sigh.
“Hard to watch.”
Then he crushed Graham's head underfoot.
Graham, hailed as the knights' ideal, became a cold corpse.
Yalta grinned.
“See? Dead, and they're all the same.”
He kicked the body into a corner.
“No choice now. Time to set the fire.”
Killing Graham saddened him, but imagining roasting those irritating Joachim bastards whole lifted his spirits.
Yalta hummed as he left the tent.
Graham had no guards, so no one paid attention.
To avoid hassle if discovered, Yalta decided to act immediately.
This moment, unknown to friend or foe, was perfect.
That's what a surprise attack was.
“See? Don't need Sir Graham after all.”
Yuri sensed an inexplicable ominous aura and stepped outside.
Darkness gathered in the sky.
“What is it...?”
The moon shone brightly.
Suddenly, Yuri spotted what looked like fireflies flying toward the moon.
“Pretty...”
No—Yuri shook his head. His hairs stood on end.
Those weren't fireflies.
“It's fire.”
Embers burst forth as the blaze rose.