Desperate Stand Against the Wight Knight
"Isn't this too much? What did we do to deserve this? We just believed some rumors and set out on a potion expedition, and now we're stuck on a date with these monsters!"
"Rapilta, where's your sense of adventure, young man?"
"One wrong adventure and we're done for."
Rapilta, Alber, and Pol cracked grim jokes as they glared at the Wight Knight.
"Think we can take it?"
Alber's question drew a shrug from Rapilta.
"A wooden shield's still a shield. It's my main weapon. As long as I've got that, I could handle an ogre."
"Right. You tank, I attack, Pol provides support fire...?"
Pol nodded.
"We've got a shot. The other Wights are manageable too."
"Yeah? Then..."
Rapilta gripped his wooden shield tight.
"Let's go."
Loki arrived late to the gruesome sight of mercenaries and slaves—not just slaughtered, but being devoured. The Wights feasting on their entrails lifted their heads at the noise, black eyes locking onto him.
-Grrrrowl...
Black blood bubbled from their mouths like froth.
Loki sighed.
One Wight lunged, jaws gaping wide. He snatched its head mid-air, twisting away as flecks of black blood and Worm Pest sprayed out.
He glanced at Salat in his arms, then hurled the Wight at the oncoming horde.
What a pain.
Another charged. He booted it aside.
Dozens more swung swords or thrust spears. Loki dodged fluidly, pressing forward.
Quite a few behind and ahead. They called it a rural village, but this is way more.
Villagers and fortress soldiers—all infected. The numbers were endless.
Loki weaved to avoid the filth as much as possible. At the secret passage's end, in a vast chamber, he spotted familiar faces.
"...Hah... hah... Damn it! Shit!"
Rapilta panted raggedly, clutching the wooden shield the mercenaries had ditched. Beside him, Alber lay bleeding from his head. Pol was unconscious too, staff slipped from his grasp.
Only Azarman remained unscathed, cowering behind Alber and Pol like human shields, trembling in terror.
A Wight Knight loomed before them.
"...Not bad."
As Loki spoke, the Wight Knight swung its Morningstar at Rapilta. A simple left-to-right swipe, yet blindingly fast and devastatingly powerful.
Rapilta twisted his shield left—his specialty. Divine Gift: [Iron Wall]. It amplified the durability of anything he touched, even his own body.
A translucent glow enveloped the rotten, moldy shield. This'll block a knight's strike easy, Rapilta thought.
But...
Crack!
The technique shattered effortlessly. The Morningstar's spiked head dulled on impact, but cracks spiderwebbed the shield's center, exploding it into splinters.
The Wight Knight grinned through its visor, swinging relentlessly—harder now, aiming to launch Rapilta away.
He spun mid-air to dodge, charging the knight and snatching a nearby sword. He stabbed at the plate mail.
Or tried. It bounced off.
"...Ha, this... is ridiculous."
Rapilta froze, sword lodged harmlessly. His power maximized defense, not sharpened dull blades. This toothless edge couldn't pierce knightly armor—or even Wight hide without it.
"As expected... too much..."
Suddenly, he was flung back. The Wight Knight spun 360 degrees, Morningstar connecting fully.
Rapilta slammed into the ceiling, then crashed to the floor like a sack of meat. Bones crunched horrifically.
"Argh! Damn it! Shit... This is why... the Worm Pest... is so gross."
Infection turned ordinary folk into monster-surpassing beasts. Trained soldiers? Knights? Unmatched.
This Wight Knight could fell three forest-lord ogres without breaking a sweat.
"......"
Loki advanced silently. Wights encircled the knight, sealing every path. Dead end.
Cornered Azarman spotted him, grabbing Loki's pant leg in shakes.
"Hey! Nord! Do something! Save me and I'll give you everything! My whole fortune! Everything I own, just get me away from these...!"
Loki tilted his head, then lifted his leg—and kicked Azarman away.
"Gah?!"
He tumbled into the Wights.
"Wh-what the hell?! What was th—!"
Red hands clamped his mouth. Wights seized head, limbs, torso.
"Mmph?!"
Azarman thrashed futilely against their grip. They yanked outward.
"Gaaarghhh!"
Limbs stretched unnaturally, skin tore, muscles snapped, bones shattered. In a blink, he was ripped apart.
The Wights lapped spilled organs, devouring every scrap of flesh and drop of blood.
Loki smirked at the vanishing man. He'd hated the constant orders. No reason to save a dead man.
"...You've been yapping too much."
He set the still-shivering Salat down near Rapilta's group.
"...You alright?"
Rapilta's state was pitiful. Clothes in rags, blood streaming through tears. Shield arm twisted wrong. Face smashed—teeth and nose broken, bleeding.
"F-f...ine... not!"
Yet conscious, barely speaking.
"The others?"
Loki eyed Pol and Alber.
"...This old coot's still kicking. Just too ancient to move."
Alber's eyes were shut, bloodied—probably blinded. His steel boots crushed; feet unusable.
Pol stirred at Loki's words, flailing to grab his staff. Miraculously unscathed.
"I'm... fine. But..."
It's over. He couldn't say it.
The situation was dire. Even one Wight overwhelmed soldiers. Here: hundreds. Plus a superior knight.
No survival.
"Damn... If only I had a proper steel shield...!"
Rapilta laughed bitterly. Excuse? Regret? Even armed right, no chance. Killing Wights burst Worm Pest—one touch was death.
Loki eyed Pol.
"Can you use magic?"
Pol shook his head.
"...No mana. And even if... we couldn't win."
He rose shakily on his staff, biting his lip in frustration. Rapilta tanked, Alber struck, Pol supported. This perfect party crumbled in minutes. Even pristine, no hope.
"...Need mana?"
Loki pulled a blue potion from his pouch.
"This...?"
"...Picked it up in the Keltic Mountains by chance. Drink."
"A Potion? Blue one's new...?"
Pol fumbled the cork. Odorless, inert. Just blue water? No—
...Poison?
Maybe. Better than infection. Best end: suicide.
"Drink."
"......"
Pol's hands shook—unresolved.
-Kraaa!
Wights charged. Loki grabbed one head, hurled it.
As attacks flew, Pol's hesitation vanished. Eyes shut, he gulped the mana potion.
His eyes snapped open in shock. Heart raced; blue energy swirled.
"Mana..."
...restored? All capacity—in seconds?! Impossible. One sip. Yet full, like after focused ritual.
"...Hoon! How...?"
"No time. Cast defense."
Loki's tone shifted—commanding. He turned, crow mask's shadowed red eyes glaring.
Chill prickled Pol, but no pause. He slammed staff down, eyes closed, chanting shield.
Translucent barrier enveloped Pol, Alber, Rapilta, Salat.
Even casting, mana held steady—like regenerating.
...Universal Potion?!
Pol gaped at the 70% full vial. Their prize—here.
Loki smacked his lips at the weak barrier.
...One AOE breaks it.
"Then..."
Crossbow to Wight Knight—twang. Spear-sized bolt spun into plate armor. Lodged, no pierce.
Knight tilted head, raised Morningstar—unfazed.
Loki sidestepped casually, eyed the group. Pol chanted eyes-shut. Rapilta, Alber stared ceiling-bound.
No one watched.
Tried quiet travel for successor.
Fist clenched, unclenched.
...A little power's fine.
Black smoke wisped from fingers, igniting flame. Loki avatar skill: flames dealt magic damage over time.
He spun, punched. Knight raised beefy arm—
Pierced.
Flames melted armor, seared hide, muscle, blood, Worm Pest.
Loki withdrew, retreated. Knight stared at arm. Black fire spread. Thick limb dissolved—no ash.
Stump and partial forearm twitched on floor.
Knight cocked head. Face twisted—not pain, rage. Morningstar swung mercilessly.