秋霞特色在线大片

“Come at me again, beast!” My Uncle waved his sword in wild arcs before him. The Warlord grabbed his sword and wrenched it back. It looked as if a wild beast was toying with the prey it had caught. Even while his hand bled, the Orc enjoyed wrenching the blade this way and then that way, pulling the Count after it like a staggering ragdoll.

“Adrian, it’s over. We’re done for.”

I was still trying to muster and maintain the flow of my mana lines, yet my Uncle interrupted me.

“Now, Adrian! Stop trying to reap poetry.”

His voice was a firm whisper that punctuated our desperate situation. He channeled his powers then, and as I let mine dissipate, the pain that had thundered in my breast began to fade away.

“Our plan seems to have come to naught, anyway.”

“Not yet, this is not over yet!” I shouted. I still had mythic poems within me, including [The Poetry of the True Dragon]. By fully unleashing this part of my soul, I could reverse the situation. I could do this; I knew that I definitely could do it.

“Uncle, it is not over!”

I did not get the chance to unleash my wrath. My Uncle’s fist, charged with mana, slammed into my stomach and my internal organs shuddered under the impact.

“Why?” I managed to sputter before my legs gave in, and I fell into his arms.

“From here on out, this fight is for me alone as the Veil of Winter.”

“What are you doing?” I asked as he propped my head against his shoulder.

“Someone needs to remain and take care of this mess. The difficult work, I leave to you, nephew.”

Someone picked me up in a bear hug from behind. “Sir Quéon, please, I…”

“Your Majesty, I have been dismissed from my Lord’s side,” he stated, his voice heavy and his suffering raw.

“What are you doing now?” I asked, trying to resist his strong grapple, yet not possessing enough strength.

“It was an honor serving you, Count Bale.”

“You gave me little trouble, Quéon. Now go!”

I gritted my teeth and tried to speak, yet only a whisper escaped my lips.

“What… what are you doing, lancer?”

Nobody answered me. I was on horseback, and the damnable Quéon Lichtheim had even tied me to the pommel of the saddle.

“Good luck, Quéon!”

“Honor to my Count Bale, honor to the Sword of Balahard!”

The Black Lancer bade his lord farewell and wheeled his mount away in a canter. I caught glimpses of my Uncle as we sped away. Orcs rushed onto his position, and he was soon buried in that dark green wave of monsters. All I could do was stare at that horrible scene. My body grew numb and cold as I beheld the horror. Knights who followed us in retreat, knights who had held the Orcs at bay while Queon had rescued me, fell one by one as they were pulled from their horses or peppered with missiles.

The knights leading our fleeing formation were also risking life and limb to clear a path for us. As we neared the castle, I saw that fewer than fifty of the original two-hundred knights still lived. Soon enough, less than thirty remained.

This realization wrenched at my soul, and I reached my hand out toward my waist. My fingers brushed over the rough texture of the trumpeting horn at my side. I released its clasp and brought its mouthpiece to my lips.

‘Buhooooo…’

As we ran, I blew into that horn, yet so weak was the mana that remained that it did not resound with its usual power.

‘Buhoooo… buhoooo…’

I blew into that horn until I became dizzy, all the while reciting countless war poems in my mind. A Wolf Rider was harrying our flanks and thrust his spear at me. I just blew into the horn, with that cold sensation continuously piercing my chest.

A new noise washed over the battlefield then, and it sounded as if a giant snake was hissing. The Wolf Rider erupted into screaming as he slammed into the ground, dead. Screams now erupted all around us as dozens of shadows appeared between the pursuing Orcs. Forest green cloaks fluttered in the winter wind as flashes of silver ended Orcish lives left and right.

It was the elves. Damn it, why now? Why did they choose to attack only now? My eyes became hazy, my head swooned.

Finally, the darkness came to claim me.

* * *

Bale Balahard turned toward his foe once he saw that Prince Adrian had left the battlefield with the Black Lancers.

“I thank you for waiting.”

The Warlord merely gave a deep and guttural growl at his words. If there were any words in that growl, Bale did not understand them, yet their meaning was clear. The Warlord considered it a brief show of mercy; his arrogant face showed this all too clearly. The peace lasted for only the shortest of whiles. The Orc’s explosive nature quickly came to the fore as his hands, gripping the spear, started to glow red with battle fervor. While Bale felt exhausted, the King of the Orcs was still filled with great reserves of power.

Even in this most desperate of situations, Bale Balahard laughed in the face of death.

“Laughing comes so easily now! It feels like ages since my heart has felt this light.” He knew that his responsibilities as commander and as Count were no more. It made him feel freer than ever before, and he was glad that he had given the knights the chance to escape from this monster.

It was a glorious last-stand for a Knight of Winter, for the keeper of the north.

The Warlord rushed at him, its spear ready to strike. Bale readied his blade as he summoned its aura. The spear’s thrust was parried, and Bale’s sword swung at the Warlord as if it had a mind of its own. The Warlord turned his spear in his hand and smacked the sword aside.

On any other Orc, such an attack would have shaken the beast to its core. The Warlord didn’t even blink. Still, Bale’s eyes were clear, and his body lithe. The tip of his sword was alive with an aura that shined brighter than ever before. Dozens of strikes and parries from both combatants followed one another in what seemed an instant.

“This feels so good!” Not one of the combatants could hide their excitement, even as they sought to end one another with every strike. The waves of fervor were parted like thin paper, and, at long last, the Warlord’s skin was scratched. Still, Bale had taken many wounds to inflict this single cut.

The decisive difference between the combatants had been established. On the one side, there stood a tough, fleshy monster, and on the other was an elderly human. Bale Balahard bled the most and was hampered by so many old wounds. Still, Bale was not completely overwhelmed, for the mana streaming from his rings made up for the difference in bulk between him and the Orc. Four rings constantly resonated and strengthened his body. Then, the change occurred.

A strong current started to flow through the rings. At first, it was a simple line that connected them end to end. And then… It formed itself into a new ring entirely.

“Ah hah!”

A huge, impossible-seeming ring of energy rose from within Bale’s body. He felt ecstatic within that overwhelming torrent of energy.

He had become, at that moment, a penta-chain knight. It was the state that every Knight of Rings dreamed of attaining. He had reached the level of power he had always desired.

Bale loosely dangled his sword before him. The Warlord had stepped back instead of rushing in. His face had become a study in caution, for he too had felt the change.

Seeing the Warlord’s hesitation, Bale clucked his tongue and gave a grim little chuckle.

It would have been nice if this had happened earlier in their bout. The fervor of the Orc had reaped its grim harvest, as evidenced by the bloody and torn body of Bale Balahard.

The fifth ring gifted him with immense strength, yet he had little ability to employ it.

After all, what more could a body as broken as his withstand and dish out?

The probability of his imminent collapse greatly dampened the joy he held in his heart. At the moment, the sound of a far-away horn washed over the battlefield.

The tonality and rhythm were very familiar.

“I piled up green carcasses, raising myself a mountain!

Red streams flowed from it, as bloody nails.”

The song was sung very roughly as it resonated through his mind.

“I can still give this beast a small gift before I head on my way,” Bale chuckled.

He fixed his blade before him and spread out his legs as he adjusted his stance. The blue energy flashing from the tip of his sword increased in intensity by the second.

Then, the red energies summoned by the Warlord rose like a great wave threatening to engulf the earth. It slammed into the blue barrier of the old man, the ground itself carrying the Orc’s fell energies. It was as if a giant sword had cut from the heavens into a sea of glowing crimson. Bale held onto his blade, even as pain racked his entire body.

Here was the first and the last sword that Bale Balahard, penta-chain knight, had wielded and would ever wield.

Adrian, my nephew…

“For Your Majesty, the First Prince!”

The blue aura of the blade broke through that grim red sea.

* * *

Bert was the Count of Shurtol, a northern province. Ferocious nightmares have hounded Bert’s spirit as of late, and all of them were caused by the mishaps that had taken place in the north.

Requests for reinforcement had come from the Balahards, the keepers of the northern pass. Bert had immediately dropped all else and started to recruit troops to aid his northern counterpart.

Before he had sent these troops north, though, other lords had come to his hall. They told him that it was all a political ploy by Bale Balahard and that he had forced a thousand pieces of gold from other lords without investing it into an army.

Bert refuted this rumor out of hand, seeing it as utterly absurd. He knew the nature of Count Balahard and gave little regard to such nonsense. He was on the cusp of sending his five-hundred infantrymen to Winter Castle.

Then, the second son of Count Guern spoke up: “The ambassador of the empire has advised my family to watch events unfold, rather than rush unheedingly into them.”

There were many changes in the kingdom at that point, but to openly follow the advice of a foreign ambassador? Another lord gave his own account of the empire’s opinion.

“He told me that the empire would be very sorry if somebody did not follow their friendly advice. He even said that some might get… angry if we were to refuse such sage suggestions.”

Upon hearing this, Bert had almost beaten the lord with his own hands for daring to speak such treason. However, he could not; his hands were tied.

The nobility of a poor and powerless province could not hope to go against an entire empire.

Count Bert knew all too well what happened to those who rebelled against stronger houses.

Even Count Eli, once called the greatest sword in the kingdom, had been forced to fall from grace by various agents from the empire and the kingdom alike.

Count Burt was not prepared for house Shurtol to follow a similar doomed path. He eventually relented and disbanded all the troops that he had meant to send north. He was able to shore up his financial losses through generous gifts that the Marquis of Montpellier had gifted to the Countess. Still, even with a barn full of treasure, his guilt and anxiety would not leave him.

His every night was filled with nightmares, and he knew he would never be at peace until he answered the plea from the Balahards. He once more gathered the northern nobles to his court.

“What if we send reinforcements, even at this late a hour?”

Several lords nodded their consent timidly, yet the heads of the powerful families made their voices thick and mocked the suggestion.

“Oh, oh, Count Shurtol. Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Even if we send these men, what do we gain from the endeavor? Nothing.”

“Hmmm, yes, indeed. Two full legions from the capital had already gone to aid old Balahard. Adding his own forces to the count, he has a whopping three legions. That is six-thousand men. Beside, Balahard’s men are known for being brave, so why the worry?”

They spoke without a care on the matter, their tones insulting Count Bert as if they were speaking to a child. Bert did not dare to evince his displeasure. Just because these men were also Counts did not mean they were on an equal footing to him. They had real power behind them, the power of high-ranking lords, and they could easily make things difficult for the less able Count Shurtol.

Bert could only lament the state that the north now found itself in. He hoped that no misfortune would strike Winter Castle.

All his hopes, desires, and even prayers were in vain.

“A messenger arrives from Balahard!” the captain of the guard announced as he opened the doors to the hall.

“Hah, must be another request for support. That old Count should really stop relying on such cheap and very transparent trickery,” one of the Lords of another house sneered.

“Huh hah hah, let us just create one more reasonable excuse, then!” Count Ghurn piped up.

Bert raised his hands to call for silence in his hall. The guard captain was pale and had surely heard grim news. Count Bert’s heart thundered in his chest, his mind calling up many ominous premonitions.

“What message does the man bear?” Bert asked.

“You do not have to listen to his prattle! Just tell him-“

“Balahard has fallen!” The guard captain shouted before Count Ghurn could finish his dismissal. Count Ghurn opened his mouth wide, too shocked to even demand punishment for the captain’s interruption. “Winter Castle has fallen, and the whereabouts of Count Bale Balahard are unknown.”

“What!? What!?’

Shocked nobles all shouted as one as they jumped from their seats. In the next moment, a filthy man entered the hall, his clothes reeking and encrusted with filth.

“Ah bloody hell, who’s this then? Who are you to enter our noble hall? You dare to intrude without permission, peasant?” Count Ghurn was in full swing once more, despite having heard the dire news. The messenger did not even blink upon facing the Count’s petulant tirade.

No, his expression was set into one of ferocious determination, his jaw clenched. Somehow realizing that the momentum was against him, Count Ghurn took his seat as he belched greatly, the wine finally having met his guts. Bert’s voice trembled as he addressed the messenger.

“Sir, you clearly are a Ranger of Balahard. What is the situation in those lands?”

Upon hearing this request, the Ranger started to shout out his message, almost retching with every word, like a poisoned man who would vomit blood at any moment.

“Third Legion casualties: Three-hundred and forty-three Rangers. Two-hundred and fifteen Heavy Infantrymen. Four-hundred and ninety-two Light Infantrymen.”

The Ranger met the gaze of each and every noble, then, daring them to insult Winter Castle’s honor but once.

“Seventy-nine Black Lancers have perished. Eighty-eight Winter Knights are no more.”

The aristocrats who had been snapped from their stupor began to speak up once again, yet the Ranger soon ended their hasty need to make their voices heard.

“The accounting is not yet done!”

They could not help but shut their mouths and focus upon the Ranger. The direness of the news had finally gotten to them. Seeing them settle down, the Ranger continued, his voice rising in cadence with every report he gave.

“Royal Relief Force Casualties: One-hundred and ninety-eight Heavy Infantrymen! Three-hundred and twenty-three Light Infantrymen! One-hundred and seventy-two Archers. Sixty-four Templars of the Wire!”

Bert almost fainted, bringing his hand up to support his head.

“The final casualty: The Commander of the Third Legion! The Count of Winter Castle! Head of the Balahard family, Bale Balahard, keeper of the north!

Count Bert slumped back into his seat, his face ashen. The Ranger pressed on.

“Winter Castle has fallen to the monsters, they have captured it. Even now, the survivors are… are in full retreat.”

At this last statement, the voice of the Ranger had almost broken. Count Bert had begun to sob like a bereaved child.

“As a messenger to Count Vincent Balahard, I bring his words to the northern nobles!” The Ranger shouted once more.

“He… All the nobles in the north are to muster any and all troops that they can. Shore up your defenses and form up your lines. The nobles of the north must now be fully prepared to face the ten thousand monsters that are to march into their lands.”