Chapter 224
Chapter 224
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 224
Chapter Title: Knight of Prophecy 3
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“You’re a peculiar wraith.”
“That’s why you’re still alive. You’re one of the Heralds, aren’t you? Some of those who killed me were Heralds too. If I were an ordinary wraith, you wouldn’t have survived.”
“…….”
“So, are you going to tell me your story or not?”
“Of course I will. But first… I need to eat something.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
Plank approached the water’s edge. As he swung his sword, wrapped in the chill of death, fish leaped to the surface, stunned by the cold.
“Cook them yourself.”
“Ah, got it. Then.”
The young man gutted the fish Plank had caught, roasted them over the fire, and began his tale.
*********
When Azadin awoke, he was adrift in the middle of the endless sea.
The small lifeboat he rode drifted along on its own with the currents, protected from the surroundings by a faint mist infused with magic.
Azadin ate the biscuits left in the boat’s hold and drank collected rainwater as he waited for the vessel to reach land.
Stranded at sea, he inevitably had plenty of time to think, and those thoughts brought regret.
He recalled Arael from his childhood.
Arrogant, irreverent, and cruel, yet beautiful—Arael.
Even if it had been camouflage to protect herself from threats around her, Azadin had no reason to forgive it. He was the victim, and she the perpetrator.
However….
Looking back now, Arael had been a child not yet ten years old.
In hindsight, Azadin realized he had misunderstood Arael too. He had assumed she was a flawless genius from the start, her heart as unfeeling as stone, devoid of blood or tears.
“Uwaaaah!”
When thoughts piled up and anger boiled over, Azadin would bellow at the sea for no reason.
He hated Aragsa for dooming him and Arael to kill each other, hated the arrogant Hatir, and hated Arael for arrogantly handling everything alone.
But above all, he loathed his own powerlessness.
When people feel the seven emotions and six desires, they naturally crave respect for their dignity—but this world tramples the dignity of the weak.
The problem was Azadin’s current state.
Thanks to Arael’s sacrifice, his permanent injuries had healed, allowing him to move again, but the mana inside his body was a tangled mess.
From the start, it was the way of Kazas of the Kazas Strait—called the double-edged sword, the mana-devouring demon king.
Originally, Azadin had wielded power by converting the mana generated from triggering his innate, incomplete Flower-Bird-Wind-Moon grimoire with the colorless mana grimoire passed down from Kazas into physical strength.
Later, after obtaining a copy of the New King Formation Book, he had incorporated that too, making it even more complex—but Arael’s spells went far beyond.
Her grimoires overflowed with Flower-Bird-Wind-Moon far more potent than his, intricate colorless mana grimoires, and multicolored mana grimoires that were said to be impossible for humans to handle.
When all of that flowed into Azadin, he became unable to control his mana.
Even drawing a bowstring, once as light as a feather, now felt impossibly heavy, cold sweat beading on his brow.
“Hmm.”
He had avoided becoming a cripple, but until he sorted out the grimoires inside him, he could no longer call himself a Herald anywhere.
Azadin immediately tried to settle into himself and organize the grimoires, but managing them without proper knowledge—merely stored in his body—was no easy task.
He finally understood why Kazas, who killed and devoured others to steal their grimoires, had used the brutal Kazas Strait method to forcibly extract mana from them.
Should he clash Arael’s grimoires with the Kazas Strait?
He couldn’t.
Doing so would shatter his body with the overload of mana already crammed inside. He couldn’t unleash an uncontrollable storm.
“My god. I need a teacher. This… I can’t handle it alone.”
Azadin felt dismayed. With Aragsa’s elder council collapsed and himself branded their arch-traitor, who would teach him magic now?
The lifeboat washed up at a fishing village in the Kingdom of Arangi.
Azadin, surviving on fish and rainwater, begged the villagers for food.
But they were strangely, overly kind. Most refused even to take his money.
At first, he didn’t understand why, but soon he did.
Arael’s eyes had formed in his body, and the scars on his face had vanished.
The striking purple eyes of the peerless beauty Arael—now in Azadin, who bore the eyes of the Heralds’ founding leader, Harconia—made people see him as noble blood. They feared and were enchanted by him.
Beautiful, exuding elegance, untouchable—he terrified them.
To Azadin, who had been shunned as a eyeless monster, it was utterly novel.
But he was ashamed of those eyes. His sister had said she was returning what she took, but to him, they were unmistakably Arael’s.
Proof that he had taken not just her life but her flesh—he donned his mask tightly once more.
And he vowed to pay for everything he ate or received.
Just then, word came of monsters terrorizing people nearby.
*********
“But my power had weakened more than expected, so I couldn’t defeat those monsters. I fled until I collapsed from exhaustion.”
“Hahaha. The traitor who destroyed the Heralds couldn’t handle such pathetic beasts? You really have gotten weak.”
Plank let out a hearty laugh.
And it wasn’t wrong—from the moment he first saw him, Plank had thought Azadin wouldn’t last long.
He had survived the fusion with Arael, but both were already near death with little time left; they must have merged in their final moments.
But… what a strange fated youth.
Born under a curse, bearing the name of twin arch-nemeses, escaping death by receiving his sister’s blood. Above all, he was a true believer in the Order of Salvation Knights and had received a miracle.
‘And he’s seeking a magic teacher. Hm. Should I teach him? But that….’
Plank suddenly recalled the prophecy laid upon him: The one he knights last will become the flower of knighthood.
‘For this soulless irreverent from that clan to become the flower of knighthood… absurd prophecy. He’s burned through too much vitality. Even if I teach him now, who knows how many days he has left.’
Plank was of royal blood. He still harbored conservative disdain for the Heralds, even after becoming a death knight betrayed by his disciple.
Yet he was tormented by boredom.
“You there.”
In the end, Plank spoke first.
“You said you need a teacher?”
“Yes? Ah, yes, sir.”
“If you like, I’ll teach you. Help you sort those grimoires inside and regain your strength. As a former Knight of Wisdom, I figure I’m not entirely useless for it.”
“Yes? You’re serious?”
“Of course, it won’t be free—you’ll have to grant my wish.”
“Ah, yes. Of, of course.”
“Heh. Eager, aren’t you, young man? I haven’t even said what I want. What if it’s unreasonable?”
“Usually people demand agreement before stating their terms.”
“Call me Sir Plank. I’ll call you Azadin.”
“Yes, Sir Plank.”
“Right, Azadin. First, fetch a proper tent. Tents… the sun will rise soon, and those monsters won’t come out, so rummage through the bushes over there—you’ll find an abandoned one.”
Plank pointed to the spot where Cohen Lionheart had slain him.
“Yes.”
“And since it’ll take time, gather other supplies for long-term living besides the tent.”
“Understood.”
Azadin rose as if to prepare his load right then, then paused.
“Ah, but Sir Plank.”
“What?”
“Is Arael’s ghost still around?”
“No. It’s gone.”
“…….”
“Do you want to meet her ghost?”
“I’m not sure. I hope my sister has found peace, but… I do want to see her again. We barely talked, despite being blood. We… didn’t talk enough.”
While Azadin headed to the village, Plank was left alone in the wasteland again.
At first sight, he had inwardly disliked Azadin, mistaking him for one of the Heralds who ambushed him—but once he was gone, Plank realized how long he had endured solitude and tedium.
Azadin’s life story was far from short.
It had taken time enough to pierce the long night and burn a mountain of firewood to ash, yet Plank remembered every detail as if it were his own.
As he mulled it over to stave off boredom, Azadin returned.
“Elder.”
“Sir Plank!”
Plank snapped irritably. Azadin flinched and said,
“Yes, Sir Plank. Your body turns transparent during the day. You start becoming visible at sunset.”
“Amazing. Not invisible, but transparent.”
“Ah, yes. My eyesight is a bit special.”
“You said you see despite having no eyes? What if you close them now?”
“I can see.”
“So that special sight remains. Good. You won’t be blinded by dazzle lamps.”
Plank turned admiringly—then startled.
“…….”
A tent had been pitched beside him. Worn from age, but unmistakably the one he had when he was killed. But when?
He sensed Azadin watching him with concern.
‘I see. My mind’s wandering now. I think I’m fine, but much time has passed. As a death knight, it’s only natural. I can’t assume my mind and existence are fully mine. But then….’
Azadin calling him “elder” wasn’t forgetting his request—it was just catching him mid-wander, trying different honorifics.
Even in that situation, Azadin maintained humble poise without excuses. Was it his Herald upbringing, steeped in hierarchy?
‘…Promising material to teach. Shame. Neither master nor disciple is whole.’
Thus began the strange master-disciple bond between the death knight and the dying Herald youth.