Ahead was a cliff over fifty meters high. Throne jumped without a second thought. Gravity pulled his body downward, the ground expanding in his field of vision, then he forcibly twisted his body in mid-air. Whoosh! The Cleanrot Rapier stabbed into a crevice in the rock. A tearing pain shot through his arm, but the inertia of his fall came to a halt.
He pulled out the sword and dropped the final ten meters. Thud. The swordsman crouched on the ground, creating a shallow crater in the soil, then slowly stood up. Before him were two Nights Cavalry squires, panting for breath. Their stunned eyes seemed to ask: "Wasn't the signal on the mountain?"
No one knew how Throne had jumped down from a mountain hundreds of meters high in just a few short minutes. Only the blade and a ferocious, maniacal laugh reminded them of the reality—the swordsman was going to carve a path of blood! Setting up decoys and launching boulder ambushes could only delay the pursuers. To break through the blockade, he had to rely on the blade in his hand!
Madness swept away all his tactical cunning. Perhaps five minutes ago, Throne was still a clever hunter, but now, he had transformed into a mad dog. "Kill!" Before the two Nights Cavalry squires could react, Throne pounced. Facing the hastily raised shield, he slammed his shoulder into it, sending the squire flying back several meters.
Then, he held his long blade vertically, blocking the halberd that came slashing horizontally. Clang. As the blade and halberd met, star-frost remained motionless. The squire possessed the strength of a lower-tier knight, but he was still lacking when it came to pushing Throne back.
Almost at the same time the weapons collided, Throne twisted his wrist, sweeping the blade along the shaft of the halberd. A scream rang out as several fingers were sliced off. The swordsman took another step sideways, blocking a straight sword slashing from behind with his rapier, and used even greater force to push the squire backward. Tap, tap, tap...
Leaves flew, resembling a contest of strength. The squire dug his feet into the mud but couldn't stop, forced to hold his shield in front of his chest. Throne, however, withdrew his force first, jumped back with Bloodhounds Step, and then, without even looking, threw his rapier. It was too sudden and too fast.
The squire whose fingers had been sliced off was just drawing his sword to assist through the pain when a cold glint expanded in his eyes. Pfft! The rapier stabbed in through the eye socket and pierced out the back of the head. Inertia pulled the body backward as it collapsed.
At the same time, Throne saw the other squire leaning forward due to the sudden withdrawal of force, and twisted his waist to swing his blade. Clang! The sword struck the edge of the shield. Because the straps were tightly fastened, the shield didn't fall, but his defenses were left wide open.
As the squire steadied himself and drew his sword to defend, he saw the swordsman take a large stride forward and deliver a soccer-style kick to his crotch. "Ah!!" Even a well-trained warrior couldn't withstand the agony of a crushed groin. His expression twisted instantly, and he flew half a meter into the air. Then, Throne leaned forward and thrust his blade through his throat.
The sound of heavy objects hitting the ground echoed. The smell of blood filled the forest. Throne wiped the blood from his face, turned back to retrieve his rapier, and continued on his way. Ten seconds, two men. His blood was still hot; the swordsman had clearly entered the zone.
Those deep blue eyes were pure and insane, and there was only one conviction in his mind—kill every enemy that blocked his path!
The forest whispered with light, rapid footsteps—tap tap tap—like a ghost weaving between the trees. The swordsman carved a straight path south, his body remembering Ashina's narrow alleys where Interior Ministry soldiers had come in endless waves. Only now the red armor was black robes, the katanas replaced by jagged Western steel. A flail screamed through the air—BANG—splintering an oak in half.
Wood shrapnel peppered his back. He wrenched his blade free from a corpse's ribs, dissolving into starlight as a spear thrust through where his heart had been. "Behind you!" The flail-wielder's roar came too late. The chain whipped overhead just as his descending slash hammered the man to one knee.
Steel shrieked against steel as the squire tried to bind his sword. A mistake. The swordsman pivoted—sidestepped—flung a bone-poison dagger mid-roll. CLANG CLANG—THUNK. Sparks. Blood. The blade buried itself in the squire's chest, drawing a wet gasp.
No pause. No mercy. The shadow lunged again. "Save me!" Panic cracked the voice. Veterans shouldn't sound like that. Three had entered the trees. One already lay cooling in the dirt, killed by a falling demon. Two more squads should've been ahead. Where were they? How long since the last scream?
WHOOSH—
The spear came hungry. He swung horizontal, aiming to drive Throne back. Metal kissed metal. Then Throne was inside his guard, close enough to smell iron and sweat. He tried to retreat. Couldn't. Glanced down. Throne's boot pinned his right foot to the earth. "Ha."
That grin. Feral. White teeth in a blood-streaked face. Throne dropped—shoulder driving upward—BANG—launching the man skyward just as the flail swung in. Not for Throne. For the teammate who'd tried to intervene. The flail found flesh instead. A red mist bloomed.
The squire froze. Who fights like this? The hesitation cost him. Throne's knee smashed into his ribs like a cannonball, driving him into the dirt. Mounted him. Reversed the grip on his long blade. Smiled like a lover. "Shhh. Almost over." THUNK THUNK THUNK. Crimson petals unfurled.
The giant—two meters of muscle and rage—twitched once. His chest and throat were now a sieve. Life pumped out with each heartbeat, soaking the soil. Around him, the forest floor was a butcher's tableau: severed limbs, glistening entrails, the copper stink of violence.
Throne rose slowly from the carnage. Blood painted his boyish features in grotesque strokes. He wiped it away with a tender swipe, smile never wavering. "Seven." Each squire equaled a Cuckoo Knight. Seven together might've killed him. Might've stalled him. But they'd come piecemeal. Now they fertilized Limgrave's roots. Two hundred meters left.
Throne turned around, pulled out his water flask, and drank like a man drowning. Every muscle stayed coiled, ready. He hurled the flask down—CRUNCH—stomped it flat, then scaled a towering oak with simian grace. His breathing slowed. Light. Long. The forest swallowed him whole. Moments later, three black-robed shapes sprinted into the clearing, blades drawn.
Two squires stood ready. The last figure loomed tall astride a monstrous warhorse—black-plated Funeral Steed, halberd gleaming. A Nights Cavalryman, Morgott's elite. The final obstacle. Monk's face beneath the bucket helm tightened. The witch hunt had failed. A whole night's pursuit, and they'd lost her trail.
Everyone had turned back north at the signal—everyone except Oleg. His squad had numbered thirteen. Two lay dead by noble blades. The rest had chased this far, only to see... this. "Where the hell is A? Where are the other three squads?" His grip on the reins turned white-knuckled. Questions festered.
A full Nights Cavalry unit. A famed hero. With that kind of strength, how had they been gutted like this? The rustling leaves sounded like laughter now. "My lord, he... might've held back." A squire's voice wavered.
No radios. No way to know how this bastard had barreled down the mountain, shaken pursuit, butchered the scouts. "Lord Oleg will return soon." Monk's options had run out. Retreat now, and he'd slit his own throat before the Prince's punishment could reach him. His voice sharpened to a blade's edge. "Find him."
"Yes."
The squires swallowed their fear and obeyed. Doubt had already taken root—their target wasn't human. South to north, then north to south, he'd carved a circle of corpses. The forest reeked of iron and opened flesh.
Bodies mangled by flail strikes littered the ground. At the center, a soldier sprawled on his back, blood still pooling. "Not even clotted yet?" The lead squire whirled, shouting— "He's here—"
Swish.
The warning died in his throat.
Black shadow dropping from above, timed to the second his eyes found the corpse.
The squire heard the wind, raised his longsword, knees bent, waist coiled—defensive stance perfect. But the descending blade erupted in sapphire light. Carian Descending Slash. Steel parted like wet parchment. Armor, muscle, bone—cleaved in one stroke. Throne's ambush was dirty, efficient.
His boots hit dirt. The air around his feet detonated. Storm Assault. No pause—he tore through the blood-mist. A halberd stabbed the earth where he'd stood, missing his heel by a finger's width. Dodging was attacking. Throne closed the gap to the sword-and-shield squire in a straight line, shoulder-checking him like a battering ram. Storm Assault—
Thud.
The squire tumbled. Throne didn't glance at the warhorse charging his flank. His form flickered—Bloodhound's Step. He caught the rolling man, pinned his shoulder, drove his blade through the helmet's eye-slit. The squire's counter-thrust froze mid-swing.
A kick sent the corpse flying.
Whoosh.
The halberd bisected it midair, painting the trees red. Monk charged through the spray, horse and rider moving as one. Overhead slashes rained down, each whistling like a guillotine. Throne rolled, dirt and leaves sticking to his back as steel kissed the ground where his neck had been.
Leaves flew, mud churned, and the ground was being cut to pieces. The dense forest saved him—nowhere for the cavalry to wheel properly. But the Funeral Steed moved with uncanny intelligence. Just as Throne Bloodhound's Stepped behind Monk, just as crystal magic gathered in his palm—the warhorse jumped. Its hind legs lashed out.
Bang.
Caught off guard, Throne was sent flying on the spot. He rolled several times on the ground, rose with the momentum, and spat out a mouthful of bloody mud. The sound of horse hooves was already upon him. The Nights Cavalry charged over, dragging the halberd behind the horse, then swept it up along the ground. Whoosh—
The air screamed. Relying on the horse's power, how could he block it head-on?
Throne held his sword horizontally across his chest, felt a force surge through his wrists, and immediately flew into the air. He was launched into the air. The cavalryman below stopped abruptly, his gaze through the slit of the bucket helm full of killing intent. The heavy halberd spun in his hand and slashed toward the sky. Aerial Slash! Countless combos had formed muscle memory.
This horizontal slash was powerful and heavy; if the opponent blocked it, the next move would be the warhorse stomping. But the halberd cut through the air, and the person above turned into starlight and dissipated. "This move again!" Monk was furious. Riding his horse, he scanned the surroundings and soon spotted the figure reforming more than twenty meters away.
Without needing a reminder, the Funeral Horse was already galloping in that direction. As expected of the Nights Cavalry, the hunters of heroes. Throne appeared on a five-meter-high platform. Seeing the cavalryman charging furiously, this time he didn't seize the chance to escape. Instead, he gripped his sword with both hands, raised it above his head, and his heart pounded thump, thump.
Dragon Heart!! His entire face was flushed red, as if it were about to bleed. He gripped the hilt until it creaked. A few wisps of pale airflow swirled around the blade, mixing with the frost inherent to star-frost. Storm Blade. Frost Slash. Three different powers merged. Throne looked at the Funeral Horse leaping up, at the knight on its back, and at the halberd overflowing with cold light.
From his high vantage point, his will, body, and sword converged into one line—Secret Sword: Dragon Slash!! The brilliant sword aura seemed to slice through the dawn, carrying frost, swirling with gales, and rushing down with a howl. He was waiting for me to pursue? Monk was already in mid-air. When he saw this sword strike, he knew he had fallen into a trap.
The swordsman had used Starlight movement to seize the high ground, and then, from above, unleashed a simple yet strongest sword strike! Clang!! A massive force surged through the halberd, causing the webbing between his thumb and index finger to split instantly. The Nights Cavalry widened his eyes, seeing frost congealing at the point of contact between the blade and the halberd.
The metal was frozen, and then, the storm and tremendous power slammed into it—
Ding... The halberd shaft snapped, and the blade rotated. This force continued downward, cutting into his armor and piercing the warhorse beneath him. Neigh. The Funeral Horse whinnied in agony. It had already jumped to its peak, only to be forcibly slapped down. Its hooves buckled, instantly throwing Monk off.
The latter didn't even care to look at his partner; he rolled on the ground, instantly drawing the greatsword from his back into a defensive stance. Throne didn't pursue. He leaned his head over the platform and gave a thumbs-up to the Nights Cavalry lying on the ground, then made a throat-slitting gesture. "If you've got the guts, keep chasing."
The autumn wind brought a thick smell of blood. Monk froze. He looked at the warhorse whinnying in a pool of blood. His eyes instantly turned blood-red, and a violent rage surged from his chest, reaching the tips of his hair.