Knight: from Apprentice to the Almighty

CLANG! CRACK!

Van Buren precisely parried the desperate counterattack.

The terrifying Power contained within the bright silver Longsword was not fully deflected. Instead, it smashed down upon the rusty Iron Sword in Roland’s hand like an invisible sledgehammer.

Unable to bear the force, the Iron Sword let out a mournful cry as its blade snapped in two.

The broken half of the blade went spinning toward the gloomy sky.

The immense impact tore open the flesh of Roland’s hand, drenching it in blood. The force sent him staggering back several steps, leaving him wide open.

A crimson light flashed in Van Buren’s eyes. He didn’t hesitate for a second.

His decisive blade became a cold, silver flash of lightning, thrusting straight for Roland’s undefended chest.

But the moment his weapon shattered, Roland’s mind—pushed to its limit by [Concentration]—felt no panic. Instead, it sank into a strange state of serene clarity.

[A Knight Does Not Die Unarmed]!

He hadn’t even regained his footing from the retreat when his body, in the nick of time, reacted faster than thought.

He didn’t reach for a new weapon. Instead, he went with the imbalance caused by his shattering sword. Kicking his left foot back and to the side, his body spun and dropped as if pulled by an invisible string.

[Martial Combat Step]!

HISS!

Van Buren’s sure-kill thrust, carrying a bone-chilling cold, grazed past Roland’s raised arm, only managing to tear his tattered sleeve.

As Roland dropped, his body coiled like a spring. He landed right beside a huge Warhammer, half-buried in the scorched earth with only its bloodstained head exposed.

His right hand formed a claw, grasping the cold end of the handle with a precision so natural it seemed rehearsed a million times.

The momentum of his descent had yet to fade. The instant his fingers closed around the handle, the muscles in his waist, back, and legs engaged in perfect unison, like a set of precision gears.

He wasn’t "lifting" the heavy Warhammer. He was using the handle as a pivot, channeling the kinetic energy of his spinning descent to twist the strength of his entire body—and the earth itself—into one furious spiral.

WHOOM!

A dull, intimidating sound suddenly tore through the air.

The massive, dented Warhammer, like a roaring meteor freed from the Hell Abyss, swung upward in a deadly arc, aimed squarely at Van Buren’s ribs, which were exposed as he leaned into his thrust.

Speed! Power! Angle!

This strike completely surpassed any limit Roland had shown before.

It was no longer mere brute force, but an art of killing—a perfect fusion of the environment, the debris, his own movements, and the weapon’s Traits.

Guided by [Martial Combat Step], the heavy Warhammer seemed to come alive, becoming an extension of Roland’s own limbs.

Van Buren’s crimson pupils contracted sharply.

For the first time, the cold indifference in them was replaced by pure astonishment.

He had never seen such a bizarre and lethal fighting style.

From a desperate retreat after being disarmed, to using that imbalance to dodge, to instantly launching a decisive counterattack with a heavy battlefield weapon, all with impossible coordination...

It was perfectly fluid, without a single wasted motion!

The arc of his bright silver Longsword was complete; he couldn’t pull it back in time to defend.

Facing a blow that could shatter mountains, the bright silver Armor around Van Buren’s body instantly erupted in a blinding radiance.

A translucent Shield formed of pure Holy Energy materialized at his side in the nick of time.

BOOM!

The Warhammer, carrying the force of a thunderclap, smashed squarely into the Holy Shield.

An indescribable boom shook the entire Will Territory.

A violent, circular shockwave erupted, instantly clearing the ground of countless tiny weapon fragments and dust.

The Holy Shield vibrated violently, its light flickering as it emitted the cracking sound of something pushed beyond its limit.

The immense Power smashed through the Shield. Even with Van Buren’s physique, he let out a muffled grunt as the force sent him sliding back several steps, his bright silver boots plowing two deep furrows in the scorched earth.

Roland knelt on one knee amidst the swirling dust, his right hand still clamped tight around the huge Warhammer’s handle, its head now buried deep in the cracked earth.

Simmering Blood Qi and cold Spiritual Energy swirled around him like steam. The wound on his ribs began to seep blood again from the violent motion, and his hand was a mangled ruin.

But he raised his head, his eyes burning with battle intent, and locked his gaze on the retreating Paladin.

The dust had not yet settled, but the fight was on again.

’A Broken Sword?’

’A Warhammer?’

In this Will Territory built from the wreckage of countless weapons, to a Roland who had activated [A Knight Does Not Die Unarmed], everything was a weapon.

The aftershocks of the Warhammer strike were still reverberating as Roland’s figure lunged like a phantom toward another pile of weapons.

His movements were no longer bound by the conventional form of any weapon.

He hurled a rusted, broken lance like a javelin to obstruct Van Buren’s vision.

A heavy fragment of a Tower Shield became a bulwark for parrying and counterattacking.

Even a twisted metal pole became a vicious, stabbing cudgel in his hands.

The essence of [Martial Combat Step] was on full display.

It was no longer the weapon dictating his movement; under the dominion of [A Knight Does Not Die Unarmed], weapon and movement became one.

He leaped from the spine of a broken blade, spun on the head of an upturned War Axe, each step precisely borrowing power from the scattered wreckage. His movements were unpredictable, yet his attacks were inescapable, striking at Van Buren from every direction.

What shocked Van Buren even more was the berserk aura emanating from Roland, which grew more intense by the second.

The effects of [Fermented Battle Intent] grew more pronounced as the fight dragged on.

Roland’s skin turned crimson as a branding iron, his muscles swelling to the point of tearing his clothes. Every strike he made was accompanied by a sonic boom that ripped through the air.

His Power and speed escalated in his frenzy, his onslaught a relentless, furious tide.

But the price was just as heavy.

Deep within Roland’s eyes, which burned with battle intent, the cold light of reason was being consumed by a frenzied web of red. His spiritual Perception became dull and hazy, as if sinking into a swamp.

He no longer considered complex tactics, driven only by the primal urge to kill and destroy.

As Roland’s power grew, Van Buren’s defenses waned. The Holy Light flickered frequently across his silver Armor as he parried, dodged, and summoned his Energy Shield.

He was still powerful, but Roland’s endlessly inventive and improvised use of weapons—coupled with attacks that grew ever more savage, swift, and heavy—forced him onto the back foot like never before.

This style of combat was completely beyond his experience and comprehension.

Every weapon switch was impossibly fluid, and every movement exploited the most awkward and advantageous footholds in the environment.

His Holy Shield was repeatedly brought to the brink of shattering under the bombardment of heavy weapons, and his exquisite Sword Techniques were brutally interrupted by savage, overwhelming Power.

"Absurd..."

A flicker of gravity crossed Van Buren’s crimson eyes.

He swung his sword to parry a whistling Chain Whip Hammer Head, and a jolt of numbness shot through his arm.

But Roland’s ferocious assault gave him no more time to think.

During a head-on clash of colossal force, the impact knocked Van Buren’s arm slightly upward, momentarily exposing his chest.

It was an opening that lasted only for an instant.

Roland, driven to the brink of madness by [Fermented Battle Intent], seized the opportunity with the last shred of sanity maintained by [Mental Self-Formation].

He stomped on the hilt of a Broken Sword, shattering it as he launched himself forward like a blood-red arrow loosed from a bow.

Abandoning the broken shaft of a Giant Axe he had just picked up, his right hand clawed into the scorched earth and pulled out a half-buried greatsword, its blade riddled with jagged nicks.

There were no fancy techniques.

There was only the channeling of his boiling Blood Qi, his cold Spiritual Energy, and all the Power that had been suppressed to its absolute limit, pouring it all into one heavy, vicious strike.

[Flowing Slash]!

The serrated Giant Sword dragged a Residual Shadow of interwoven crimson and ice-blue as it slashed upward in a diagonal arc, carrying with it the resolve to sever everything in its path.

Too fast! Too vicious!

Van Buren’s bright silver Longsword was only halfway back to defend, the light of his Holy Shield just beginning to flare...

SKRAAAK!

An ear-piercing sound, a mixture of tearing metal and shattering bone, echoed across the deathly silent battlefield.

Like a hot knife through butter, the battle-scarred, jagged Giant Sword met no resistance. It severed Van Buren’s left arm, which he failed to raise in time to block. Without losing momentum, the blade bit deep into the joint where his neck met his shoulder, right through the bright silver Armor.

An explosion of Power.

It tore through flesh and severed his spine.

A head, its expression frozen in astonishment, went spinning high into the air, a lock of brilliant gold hair trailing behind it.

The last image reflected in those crimson pupils was Roland’s bloodshot eyes, burning with both cold killing intent and wild fury, and the blood-soaked, savage Giant Sword.

The headless body stood stiffly for a moment. The light on the silver Armor rapidly dimmed, then extinguished. Finally, it collapsed heavily to its knees, crashing onto the scorched earth and kicking up a cloud of dust.

The Will Territory began to tremble violently, flaking away like a shattered mirror.

The lead-gray sky faded, the desolate battlefield dissolving like an oil painting being wiped clean.

The scene at the top of the High Tower—the twisted core, the gloomy light, the cold stone walls—flooded back into Roland’s senses.

He was still standing at the pinnacle of the High Tower, his hands empty, as if the brutal battle had been nothing more than a phantom dream.

Only the seeping wound in his side, the searing pain from his torn hand, and the splitting headache—like a thousand steel needles driven into his brain from his plummeting Spiritual Attribute—silently testified to the reality and cruelty of that "phantom dream."

Clap... clap... clap...

Suddenly, the crisp, rhythmic sound of applause broke the silence at the top of the High Tower.