Chapter 373
Chapter 373
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 373
Chapter Title: Kingsgate Battle (4)
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Fernandez was enduring what he considered his own personal hell. In that brief moment, he had forcibly gathered natural mana and infused it into Abel, then manipulated Abel's mana from afar to cast a counterspell.
It was an advanced incantation that would have been impossible with mana circuits just beginning to bloom. Without the techniques from his past life, he wouldn't have even attempted it. And after unleashing such spells in succession, he still had to engage in a magical duel with Fairn's mages, causing his mana circuits to overheat from the strain.
If overheating was all it amounted to, that would have been fine. But the lingering echoes of mana rampaging through his body were shaking his organs. If not for the body newly reconstructed with the Staff of Creation, he wouldn't have held out.
"Tch, it's been ages since I last bled."
"A-Are you okay?"
"Of course. It's nothing. You have to get your hands dirty in the field now and then if you want to improve your magic."
"I wonder if you really need to push yourself that far."
"Kirhas. A person should always aim higher."
"Benefactor, you know you look your real age when you say stuff like that?"
"Nothing you won't hear from an eighty-year-old. Cheeky girl."
Fernandez chuckled and waved her off. He had succeeded in lightening the mood, but there was no helping the wreckage of his body. It was backlash so severe that he couldn't cast spells, let alone fight.
'Now this is a familiar sensation.'
Not a welcome one, though. The dull ringing in his head from mana depletion, the sharp tang as blood trickled from his nose. This exhaustion was definitely something he hadn't felt in ages.
Unlike the past, when he wielded magic through artifacts, now he drew it directly from his own mana circuits and internal reserves. It allowed for more precise and powerful spells, but he had to bear the backlash in his flesh.
And this buildup of strain from mana echoes in the body. How long had it been? He paused to calculate. Even in his previous life, he hadn't experienced it after sixty, so it had been over twenty years at least.
"Ah, it's starting."
Fernandez pressed his bleary eyes and looked straight ahead. Fairn's advance, which had paused for a moment, resumed.
And standing alone before them was a single knight. With the blazing early morning sun at his back.
* * *
What is a knight? Vicente had been a proud steed of the Dane royal house, taught from childhood that he must first become a knight before he could claim royal blood.
By eleven, his hands were callused like a drum. At fifteen, he killed his first man. At twenty, he began his wanderings, and by twenty-three, he earned his knighthood.
So, was he a knight? Vicente couldn't answer easily. Was a knight merely a warrior skilled with the blade?
-Kwang!
With one step forward and one swing of his sword, a well-armored soldier flew backward. As if entranced, Vicente swept his greatsword aside.
"He's alone! Charge! Go!"
"Archers! What are you doing? Shoot!"
-Tudududung!
No matter how strong the bows, they couldn't fully pierce plate mail. Vicente deflected only the arrows aimed at his visor gaps, shoving, slashing, and smashing down on the approaching soldiers.
Blood and flesh flew. Within reach of his sword, nothing lived or moved.
He pushed back the charging soldiers and thought once more. What is a knight?
Royal blood, heir to the throne, member of the Round Table. Knights were those who bore such duties. Protectors of the people, guardians of the weak, unyielding against injustice.
But in this era, most "knights" staked their lives on their fief, a single field, and the taxes from serfs as they marched to war. For greater honor, greater fame, greater reward.
So, was a knight a rank? A formless measure dividing noble from commoner?
"No."
No. Some were born knights the moment they drew breath, others rose from foot soldiers. Those born with stronger warrior blood did so easily, others through hardship. He had met knights of all kinds, regardless of birth, throughout his life.
Of course, it was rare for knights to emerge from the poor. Those toiling daily needed innate talent, luck, and effort to stand equal with lifelong swordsmen.
But that didn't make it impossible. His distant ancestor Dane had been a war orphan refugee, and even the Round Table wasn't without commoners and upstarts.
Thus, a knight was not merely a rank.
So, what is a knight? A fearless blade-wielder? A murderer by trade? Cold-blooded killers who loved steel so much they gained steel-cold blood?
"No!"
-Kwang!
Dane severed soldiers' necks, their hot blood cooling in the chill autumn dawn air as it poured over him. He fought like a lion amid a flock of sheep.
When his blade flashed, everything between men shattered. Shields, raised spears, armor—without fail.
A swordsman at his peak infused mana into his body. Dane's cloak fluttered regardless of the wind. Mana, that invisible faint energy, swirled around him.
Enter that range, and you die. Fairn's soldiers could scarcely believe the figure before them was human.
-Kwadududuk!!
Vicente's blade carved horizontally down the narrow pass. Even a glancing thin edge gouged a deep furrow like a harrow through a field. Panting, his voice like crumbling iron, Vicente spoke.
"I can't stop you all. But."
Beneath his helmet's visor, in the narrow slit of shadow, blue killing intent gleamed.
"Exactly thirty. The first thirty to cross this line will die without fail."
The soldiers halted at the vicious aura. Silence fell. Vicente, gasping, planted his sword in the ground and glared at each soldier watching him.
How many had he killed? Over twenty, not yet fifty. His blade grew heavy, armor cumbersome. The drying blood on his body crumbled repulsively. Sweat soaked beneath his plate, head light.
Even then, Vicente pondered. What is a knight? What turns a man, a sword-bearing warrior, into a knight?
He straightened, assuming a stance. Tall between firm earth and vast sky, gripping his single sword.
'A man with a sword stands between heaven and earth.'
Terrified foes, the furrow he had drawn, and the people behind him watching.
'And I stand between foe and folk.'
So, what is a great knight?
In this brutal battlefield where life and death intertwined, hurling his own life like chaff to buy an hour, half a day, or a single day. In this moment of struggle.
Vicente felt he could finally answer the question that had pierced his thirty-odd years.
A knight is one who draws the line.
Foe from friend. Coward from victim, injustice from justice.
Those who mark the boundary so people may live as people.
Knights stand on that razor edge, that faint line called morality and law, proclaiming to others.
This gap I face is the greater cause.
The air trembled. Arrows and spells rained down on him. Enemy leaders' urgings, shouts, screams rang in his ears. Death approached. As always.
But knights stand alone on that line, showing the way to all.
The boy who always yearned to be a knight, grown into this king, never retreats. He raised his blade straight, facing the enemy.
Toward those inhuman butchers stacking their evil on the blood of the innocent, for the greater cause.
"Come. I am Vicente of Altbert. A knight."
Beyond status, age, rank, nation. As one knight, Vicente charged the foes, sword raised.
* * *
Sigismund had planned to watch this fallen king meet his end with satisfaction. Amid the saturation of spells pouring down, even a dragon wouldn't survive the destruction prepared.
"Quite the bold display, isn't he?"
"The whelp is still a whelp."
The generals nodded at Vicente's valor. Ideals and goals differed, even as enemies, they couldn't deny it. A noble sacrificing for the people was admirable, but this struggle transcended mere nobility.
He proclaimed to his people through his fight: There is hope. The enemy cowards can't even pass one man easily, and Dane will never yield.
He would burn as a symbol of hope. The fallen king urged his people and son to fight, choosing death to set the example. It was leadership by example only the highest could show.
Not sacrifice, but hope. The same death carried different weight.
The generals silently commemorated Vicente as death rushed at him.
But in that moment—
-Kwaaaaang!!
The spells vanished. With an explosion from the rear. Everyone in command turned in shock. It wasn't far from their position.
"What's the commotion!"
"Your Highness!! Enemy raid from the rear!"
"Enemy...? What enemy? Didn't Dane's main force disband? Did they join late?"
"No!! Your Highness, it's not Dane's banner!!"
Facing the rising east, an army approached the pass entrance. Red inverted cross key-sword emblem. Gleaming metal under the sun dyed the ridges beyond—
"Beitasser... Papal forces...!"
Sigismund's face twisted upon recognizing the banner. From the sky, a blue light beam struck, another explosion resounding. Untimely combat mages were bombarded with light from above.
* * *
Fernandez witnessed it too. More precisely, as Vicente's fierce battle raged, he sensed mana knots forming in the sky.
He stared blankly at the approaching army for a while. They shouldn't be here.
"Haha... of all things. The Church...!"
Order of St. John. One of Beitasser's two military arms. Core of the Pantheon relief knights, the Church's strongest force. A massive expeditionary: 1,500 combat priests, 1,000 temple knights, 2,000 attendant knights, bursting suddenly at the rear.
They shouldn't be here. Not until Sigismund of Fairn openly worshiped demons, until heresy was proven.
The current situation was mere state against state. Though Fairn had condemned the Church outright, that didn't permit military intervention.
The Church must not meddle in secular royal disputes. It would undermine its authority. All royals would fear constant overreach in internal affairs thereafter.
Yet in this moment, Fernandez felt a fate transcending all conditions.
"I was a fool, Kirhas."
"Y-Yes...? Yes?"
"Haha, I was the fool."
Political reasons forbade it. Strategic hurdles. Practical issues. Spouting such excuses, he had hidden his identity in shadows, plotting repeatedly.
In every phase of this war, he never revealed himself. It suited him, was the rational choice.
But foolish. Was it necessary? To limit his vision and options, cling to the black mage way?
Kill heroes, manipulate lords, puppet soldiers for profit? Was that profit so grand? Fernandez burst into laughter.
Kirhas stared blankly. The first laugh like this since his return. Fernandez laughed long, then ruffled her hair roughly.
"I'm ashamed before you. Maybe I was the one lost in myself."
"Benefactor...?"
"Haha, Feizashi. I got outplayed."
Since merging souls with Feizashi, he was no longer the old Fernandez. Inheriting not just memories but traits and temperament, he grew ever closer to Feizashi.
No way to realize one's continuity with past self. All choices seemed natural. Fernandez laughed heartily, straightening up.
A handful of mana circuits. Pathetic compared to before. Did he abandon so much for this alone?
In his duel with Karadskarl, facing death, he had stood tall. Now, hiding his identity, he cowered?
Had there ever been no worst moments? Yet he always chose best, stacking victories. Now, excusing with dire straits, too late for reversal, letting the situation rot?
This wasn't Fernandez's way. The old black mage, cunning ghost's choice. Not this life's goal.
He wasn't just a flailing old father saving his son. He vowed to save this hellish world for his son's future—a simple, fulfilling, happy family.
"Beitasser. This time, I acknowledge you. You were right. Clinging to my way, I wouldn't have reached here."
What split his soul, making Feizashi and him separate? Not mere lesson to face past sins!
Beitasser knew: Feizashi's way was twisted at root. Now, Fernandez realized it too.
"Let's go, Kirhas. Save the king."
"Y-Yes...? But Benefactor, Vicente's death would ignite Dane's hope..."
"We'll be that hope. No need to wrap death in hope's packaging?"
Discarding the old black mage's way left the saint's path. Fernandez felt chest-bursting liberation, gripping the reins tight.
Two mounts charged toward the struggling king.