(Updates will be delayed—feeling sick right now. Sorry 🤒)
Chapter 180 — New Template — Azor Ahai
Armored boots crunched into the snow with a steady, muffled rhythm.
Soft—yet each step felt like it landed on the hearts of the two men watching.
"Lance Lot…"
The giant's eyes locked onto the white-armored knight approaching through the storm. His deep voice rumbled.
"You. You killed Alio and Frelna."
His axe lifted, blade aimed at Lance Lot. Veins bulged along the massive arm holding the haft perfectly steady—raw strength made visible.
"They were my disciples. In Norvos, they were the most gifted bearded priests."
Hatred and battle-lust rolled off him.
But Lance Lot merely glanced over the man's heavy armor, then flicked his gaze toward Lyn behind him.
A faint, mocking smile curved his lips.
"Sorry."
"So many idiots have died to my sword… I can't quite remember the names."
The casual dismissal was pure insult.
Damn…
Kneeling in the snow, Lyn Corbray had an entirely different thought.
Why is his entrance even cooler than mine…?
"Hmph."
The giant snorted, chest heaving like bellows. His mountain-like presence radiated pressure greater even than the Mountain Lance Lot once made into a banner.
"No matter!"
His roar shook snow from the rooftops.
"Remember my name! Darat! The man who will take your head with this axe!"
"Darat? Hah…"
Even the hatchling dragon on Lance Lot's shoulder let out a sharp hiss, as if laughing.
"Alio, Frelna, now Darat… You people really lack imagination in naming yourselves."
"Arrogant wretch!"
Darat bellowed and charged like a siege engine.
Snow exploded beneath his feet. The massive axe came down with crushing force—
"Careful—!" Lyn shouted.
CLANG!!!
The impact boomed like thunder.
But Lance Lot didn't move.
He stood firm, feet planted. The small dragon had already flown up to the roof to watch.
Most shocking—
Lance Lot blocked the blow one-handed, holding that enormous black Valyrian steel greatsword in his left hand alone.
"Not bad strength."
He sneered slightly.
Though he held, the force drove his greaves deep into the snow. The blade held flawless—but his arm tingled faintly.
He had never felt such power from another man.
Stronger than the Mountain.
Beyond human.
And yet—
He had stopped it.
There's something wrong with this guy.
The thought flashed through Lance Lot's mind. His right hand slid onto the hilt, shifting to a two-handed grip. With a surge of strength, he forced the greataxe back.
"—Hnh!"
Darat stumbled two steps, shock flickering across his face. The white-armored knight before him didn't look especially massive—yet his strength matched his own.
And Darat carried the High Priest's runic blessing.
So this is the bloodline that hatches dragons…
A deeper, animalistic roar burst from Darat's throat. Like a bear challenged in its own territory, he attacked again. The enormous axe moved as if weightless—side cuts, diagonal chops, each blow carrying full killing force.
Fast. Too fast.
The weapon became a whirling gray wheel, afterimages nearly swallowing Lance Lot whole.
Steel rang like a storm.
Lance Lot planted his feet, both hands gripping the Valyrian steel greatsword Dragontooth, meeting every strike precisely. Sparks sprayed into the snow as blade and axe collided in a frenzy.
Each impact made Lyn's heart pound in terror.
Too strong.
Kneeling in bloodstained snow, Lyn Corbray could only stare. The man who shattered his arm with a single blow was now being matched head-on.
And Lance Lot had not taken a single step back.
Three full minutes of relentless assault passed before Darat's breath grew ragged. He retreated a few paces, leaning on his axe.
Lance Lot's white breastplate rose and fell, but he looked steadier.
Suddenly—
A jet of dragonfire shot from the watching hatchling, Ilyon.
Darat swung his axe like a fan, dispersing the flames.
"Coward! Sneak attack!"
Ilyon flapped indignantly, then hid behind Lance Lot.
Lance Lot rested the greatsword on his shoulder.
"I take it back. Your axe is soft. Your technique worse."
"Those two I killed before? Just as weak."
"Maybe try worshipping a bear god instead—might give you some strength."
Ilyon hissed in agreement.
That did it.
"Blasphemer—DIE!"
Darat smashed his fist into his chest plate.
BOOM.
Runes flared to life—complex, earthen yellow symbols swirling across the gray steel like living contracts etched in metal.
A heavier pressure spread outward. The axe blade erupted in dense ochre light.
"Careful!!" Lyn shouted. "His axe—magic—!"
Too late.
The empowered blow crashed down.
Lance Lot blocked—
—and was blasted backward like a cannon shot, smashing into the stone wall. Cracks spider-webbed across the masonry as he hung embedded, head bowed.
Ilyon dove down, spitting fire again—but the hatchling's strength failed. The flame was thin. Darat swept it aside and advanced.
Each step boomed like a funeral bell.
Shadow swallowed knight and dragon alike.
The axe rose.
"Time to depart… heretic."
Lyn tried to move—couldn't.
Ilyon screamed helplessly.
Then—
At the brink of death—
The white-armored knight's bowed head snapped upward.
In his deep blue eyes, two flames erupted, vivid and tangible, like the first light of dawn tearing through eternal night.
Under that gaze, Darat's breathing stalled.
It felt as though some indescribable, ancient presence was peering through endless time and space—watching him.
"Magic… is that it?"
The voice that followed was low and steady, as though molten lava churned beneath steel grinding together.
"Interesting."
In the instant the words fell—
An unimaginable torrent of heat exploded outward from the white knight's body.
The air twisted and wailed.
Snow and ice lingering nearby vaporized instantly.
[Current Template: SSR —
Azor Ahai, Wielder of Lightbringer!
(Assimilation: 40%)]
Chosen by fate.
The sole hope in the Long Night.
The one who sacrificed his beloved to the forge, creating an immortal blade.
This body is flame.
This sword is dawn.
[Unique Skill — Dawn Brand]
Mastery of fire. Radiant damage. Double effect against creatures of darkness.
(Permanent Skill) — Dragonrider
(Permanent Skill) — The Unburnt
(Permanent Skill) — Weapon Master
His body shifted slightly.
White armored boots stepped firmly onto the icy ground.
The jet-black Valyrian steel greatsword rose slowly—and then, in an instant, pure, compressed flame erupted from the blade, as if countless infernos had been crushed into a single edge.
Blinding heat and light swept across the courtyard, driving away every trace of darkness.
Like a blade born to cleave the eternal night itself, the sword of dawn awakened in Lance Lot's hand.
He planted his feet amid the broken stone, leveled the blazing greatsword at Darat, and grinned.
"Perfect."
"I've got magic too."