"Lord Alistair, you sent for me?" Thorne, clad in his heavy knight's armor, pushed open the door to the private training room. He had just come from training the guards in the stables.
Alistair had been waiting for some time. The room he used for personal training was larger than the dining hall, sparsely decorated with training dummies and weapon racks. The floor and walls were tiled with slabs of Mana-Infused Obsidian.
"Thorne. I've acquired a decent suit of armor. Let's have a match and test it out," Alistair said, turning with a smile. The dragon crystal on his chest blazed with light.
Thorne stared at the armor in astonishment. He was a connoisseur of fine arms and could tell this was no ordinary set.
"Lord Alistair, 'decent' hardly begins to describe this masterpiece," Thorne said, his voice tinged with envy. Armor and a sword were a knight's lifelong companions. All knights yearned for better equipment, and Thorne was no exception. "In that case, I will be honored to help you test this new armor."
With that, Thorne made an inviting gesture. The two men walked to the center of the room and performed a slight bow. When Thorne looked up again, he drew the longsword at his hip. His entire demeanor shifted. In an instant, he transformed from a hale old man into a ravenous beast lying in wait.
Alistair marveled silently. This is the knight who held off countless Murderhobos for over two months by himself. The sheer killing intent—even as a fellow Earth Knight, Alistair felt a chill run down his spine.
But Alistair was not the worthless lord from the game. He was far stronger than that piece of trash who pursued nothing but flashy swordplay. He had learned from the legendary Sword Saint, whose famous style was the art of the heavy blade. It was a philosophy of overwhelming power: a heavy sword needs no sharp edge, and great skill appears artless. It was a simple style that crushed all opposition with tyrannical force.
Alistair gripped his greatsword with both hands, his eyes calm and focused. His entire being seemed to merge with his surroundings. Amplified by the Hero-grade armor, his presence was like that of a majestic brass dragon roaring at his back, carrying a weight so oppressive that the very air seemed to congeal.
Hah—!
Thorne initiated the assault with a forward thrust. A sharp hiss cut the air as his blade awakened, unleashing a venomous bolt of scarlet energy that lashed out at his foe.
Alistair raised his sword to block, his arms powerfully sweeping Thorne's blade aside. He then brought his own greatsword forward.
ROAR—!
The mighty blade, accompanied by the phantom image of a roaring lion, swung down on Thorne's parrying sword. The terrifying force sent out a shockwave, cracking the obsidian floor beneath the old knight's feet.
Facing Alistair's fierce assault, Thorne sidestepped, using the momentum to retreat while simultaneously thrusting his longsword out again, its scarlet gleam tracing a crescent moon through the air.
The two men moved back and forth, their movements so fast they were little more than blurs.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The sound of weapons clashing was incessant. Golden and scarlet sword auras intertwined, and in the space of a few breaths, they had exchanged dozens of blows.
After a hundred moves, they were still locked in a stalemate. Alistair voluntarily disengaged. There was no point in continuing; it would only become a test of stamina. This had been a pure contest of swordsmanship; neither had used their full aura, lest Snowmantle Citadel be reduced to rubble.
"Lord Alistair, in that armor, you are like a brass dragon. Without using my full aura, I cannot even scratch it," Thorne said with a wry smile. His sword skills were born of battlefield slaughter, yet he could find no advantage against Alistair. The armor perfectly complemented Alistair's style of breaking skill with overwhelming force.
"You were holding back. Besides, relying on equipment is not as good as relying on oneself," Alistair said. He wasn't being falsely modest; Thorne's strength was undeniable.
After the duel, he was even more satisfied with this suit of armor. As a practitioner of the creed of the survivor, Alistair had always believed in one principle: only the living can deal damage. The dead are just dead.
…
That night, a smug smile appeared on Alistair's face as he slept. He was dreaming. In his dream, he was surrounded by a horde of players, but not a single one could break through his defense.