Chapter 27: You Are Worthy of Battle
Just as the Sword Saint’s blade blazed with renewed radiance.
In the former territory of the Ulan Empire, deep behind the final battlefield between the dead and the living, there lay an empty, desolate plain.
A long wind howled, sweeping through forests and hills. Withered yellow leaves, carrying grains of sand, scraped across the parched ground. A long-decayed, tattered banner was planted in the earth, flapping noisily in the wind. Before this banner stood an aged man, riding a gaunt, skeletal warhorse.
The old knight wore a suit of ancient armor that seemed like nothing more than scrap metal. The leather between the plates had apparently rotted away, leaving only thin strands of sinew to hold them together, as if he had just been dug from a grave. Yet even so, the old man’s back was as straight as the most upright pine, and his decrepit horse stood as steady as a carved statue. Even if the earth trembled and roared, even if thunder cracked across the sky, it would not cause the beast to stir by even a hair.
At this moment, the sun above was extinguished. All light faded, and a dead, icy stillness spread across the world.
The old knight remained unmoved. He simply watched everything in silence—the surging winds, the dimming sun and moon—his gray pupils filled with reminiscence.
A cold wind, like a thread, coiled across the plain. It seemed he could see, see far back in time, when a warm breeze had blown across this land, making the lush grass ripple like waves. As cattle and sheep lowered their heads to graze, a shepherd child followed the Saint, listening to her teachings.
But all of that was gone. The old knight came back to his senses. All the illusions of the past vanished. The Saint’s blurry face, which seemed to carry a faint smile, shattered like glass. The warmth of bygone days had dissipated, leaving only the power of deathly stillness flowing between heaven and earth.
And he was one of them.
The old knight suddenly looked up, as if sensing something, toward the far end of the continent. There, a golden sword-light streaked across the sky, cleaving clouds and stars alike. Mountains toppled, the earth collapsed, and countless shadows of the dead were annihilated in that light, reduced to nothingness. His subordinate, the third-ranked swordsman, had also been obliterated in that single strike.
“Aryan Astorea.”
He nodded slightly on his horse, offering a somewhat emotional compliment: “Truly a dazzling sword-light. Worthy of being called the strongest Sword Saint in the history of the Grandia World.”
Indeed, his reputation was well-deserved.
But the old knight did not dwell on it. Regaining his focus, he turned his head and continued to look ahead, toward the end of the plain.
There, a dark red light moved across the earth. At the center of that crimson glow, a man advanced, sweeping away a thousand miles of the dead. Millions of troops tried to intercept him, but all failed, shattered head-on by supreme martial might.
That was the target he had been waiting for. The existence he had awaited for a thousand years.
The gaunt warhorse let out a soft neigh, as if in anticipation. For some reason, the old knight’s mind drifted into a daze once more.
Time flowed backward, returning to a scene a thousand years ago. The Sage, holding a staff, stood in the center of the plain. His form was somewhat ethereal as he gazed upon this new and prosperous world, and the countless people living peacefully within it. His expression was calm, but carried a firmness that would never change his decision.
“Cynthia, to first give hope, and then destroy it, is more painful than giving despair from the very beginning.”
The Sage spoke softly to the Saint kneeling behind him, his tone devoid of any emotion—whether it was reproach or a warning was unclear. “Are you prepared to bear the consequences of everything?”
The elf, whose surname was Star, nodded firmly. In a slightly hoarse voice, she replied, “Yes, Teacher. I am prepared for everything.”
The Saint slowly turned her head, looking into the distance where a shepherd child was secretly watching them. She smiled and said, “I have already chosen my student.”
“He will surely fulfill my wish.”
The long wind blew the drifting clouds.
A mournful wind howled across the wasteland, as if the world itself were weeping.
The old knight remained silent and expressionless. Scenes flashed before his eyes—the first newborn in this world, the shepherd child receiving the Saint’s teachings on the grassland, learning the most extraordinary martial arts and knowledge in the world. Then, decades later, he unified the descendants of the one hundred and three thousand ancient people, founded the first and greatest empire in the world, and accomplished feats of unparalleled grandeur that ordinary people could not even imagine.
And then this founding emperor of the Central Empire, a hero among heroes, watched his teacher die before his very eyes.
“Akhar, do not grieve. I am merely merging with this world, and from now on, I will always be with you.”
Lying on the bed, still as beautiful and young as she had been decades ago, the elf reached out to touch her student’s face. Then, bit by bit, she dissolved into a sky full of starlight, merging with the world. The expressionless middle-aged man could only grip the now-empty bedding beneath her, his veins bursting from the force of his grip, yet he did not let go for even a moment.
Only the Saint’s final voice echoed in his ears.
“Do not forget your mission. Let everyone find salvation.”
“I have not forgotten.”
A thousand years later, the founding emperor of the Central Empire, Akhar Akayev, who had risen from death, whispered to himself, “But I have disappointed you, Teacher. Not everyone can be saved.”
The cowardly may not always be cowardly, and the brave may not always be brave. The old knight could make his knights and armies fearless of death, but he could not make that spirit eternal. In this world, there would always be escape and betrayal. Even a vast empire, seemingly an immortal achievement, could be toppled in a series of conspiracies and betrayals.
The aged founding emperor was not defeated by old age or time, but by a cup of poisoned wine served by a maid. The old knight did not care which of his sons was so eager to seize the throne, but he was indeed disappointed.
If even one’s closest kin could not be trusted, then what in this world was worth believing? If even one’s own descendants would betray, then what conviction could be upheld under heaven?
It was not until a thousand years later, when the old knight was awakened by the Ulan Empire at the cost of its entire national strength, that his heart was still filled with disappointment. So, relying on preparations made long ago, he unhesitatingly activated the final steps left by the Saint, plunging the world into apocalypse.
It was only now that this view had begun to change.
In the distance, at the four Holy Cities, the last of humanity, led by their commanders, fought against the endless legions of the dead with unparalleled courage and will. An old man with a mechanical body and a spellcaster manipulating crystals chased each other through the air. Huge vines coiled around summoned icy bone dragons. Dwarf warriors and formless mist-like humanoids clashed in the center of the battlefield. A giant, wielding a sword, blocked arrows shot by archers who had regained physical bodies.
At this final moment of life and death, on the eve of the world’s destruction, the stubborn and flawed human heart was finally hammered by the iron fist called despair, blossoming into a light worthy of admiration.
Look, Teacher, this is the light you hoped for. Even the descendants of betrayers can, one day, possess such courage and resolve.
But all of this had little to do with the old knight anymore. Akhar lowered his head and looked toward the end of the plain. There, a warrior was striding forward.
This was a warrior with black hair and red eyes. He wielded a dragon-hunting spear. Rocks and dust swirled around him as if gravity had lost its hold. The Steel Force that shaped this world trembled at the warrior’s will, emitting a long, solemn war horn.
Countless dead chased behind him, but they could never break through an invisible barrier to touch his body.
“I have been waiting for you, inheritor of the Sage.”
The old knight laughed loudly as he pulled the banner from the ground. Now it was clear that it was not a banner, but a long lance. The blade was pulled from the mud and sand, and the tattered flag wrapped around the tail of the lance. Akhar urged his decrepit horse forward, slowly approaching the warrior.
“The brief history of the Grandia World will end here. I know what you are thinking, and I know what you seek.”
The lance was burning—along with the old knight and his horse. A golden-red flame ignited from the tattered banner, then instantly enveloped Akhar and his mount. Then, with a wild neigh, a robust warhorse, its muscles as if forged from steel, emerged from the blazing flames, carrying its now-youthful master back into the world.
As if crossing an entire millennium.
The damaged armor was now intact. The cracked plates were now smooth and new, connected by dragon sinew between the silver-gray steel. The no-longer-aged knight gripped a sharp orichalcum lance. Gray pupils blazed with fierce fire. Space and energy condensed around him, forming an invisible barrier.
The First Great Commander of the Dead, Akhar Aliyev, raised his lance. An arc of light flashed, splitting the clouds. He spoke calmly to the warrior, who was now not far away: “Defeat me, and you will know all the truth, and grasp the fate of this world.”
And on the opposite side.
The warrior nodded seriously.
“That is exactly my intention.”
——————
At this moment, at the edge of the plain, Joshua, who had swept across nearly half the continent, watched the lone knight at the center of the desolate wasteland.
The robust warhorse and the knight in silver armor stood like an indestructible stone statue, towering like a mountain peak. Though it was just one man and one horse, it was more terrifying and more powerful than the crushing army of the dead behind the warrior.
The wind blew, causing the rocks swirling around the warrior to tremble. Joshua narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze somewhat distant.
—The multiverse, with its countless worlds. Why, from the endless sea of people, was I chosen to come here, to the Mycroft Continent, to this world?
Perhaps to set everything back on the right track.
Perhaps to change a future of despair.
Or perhaps there is one, or many, things that only I can accomplish.
Changing the future, altering fate, seizing the throat of what is called “destiny,” twisting the trajectory called “inevitability”—these might all be reasons for him to stand here.
But who cares? A warrior never delves into such deep thoughts.
Joshua Jinglin of the former world, Joshua van Radcliffe of the Mycroft Continent, would not ponder such things. He only knew that in the face of chaos and despair, humanity should fight tirelessly and never retreat.
That is his truth.
And now, the warrior had just crushed an endless tide of the dead. Before him stood a formidable enemy who had stepped out from the river of history. He knew this, and only this.
That was enough.
“The Sage.”
Whispering the name of the one who had caused all this, Joshua raised his sword-lance. Spiral energy coiled around its tip. He pointed the weapon at the knight, who was accelerating into a charge, and let out a heartfelt exclamation.
“You are worthy of battle.”
[Power Release Level: 99%]