Chapter 152: Unexpected

  Ethan drew his knife. The blood-colored light on the knife no longer pulsed or hummed, but instead brightened and dimmed at a steady rhythm—the rhythm of his heartbeat. His grip wasn't particularly tight, yet it felt as though his veins extended through the hilt into the blade itself. Beyond his veins, even his senses connected to it; he could feel the condensed energy within the blade, linked to his lifeblood yet seething with a mournful, ferocious presence.

  Lancelot frowned but didn't stop walking. Still slow, still natural. His hand didn't move toward the longsword at his waist but instead removed the small cross hanging from his neck. He held the cross loosely in his palm as a faint, white, mist-like aura began to gather in his hand. Gradually, this white light intensified, forming a sword condensed from pure white radiance.

  This sword resembled an elongated cross with a sharpened lower end. Its pure white light felt exceptionally bright yet paradoxically gentle and non-glaring. Gazing at it longer, one might even hallucinate the sound of sacred hymns chanting. By all sensory measures, this seemed no weapon at all.

  Perhaps through the trance-like intuition of his meditative state, Ethan opened his eyes. He could sense this wasn't merely the glow of fighting spirit or magic—or rather, not only those. This was a blade forged from a Paladin's fighting spirit, magical power, personal aura, martial skill, beliefs, and life itself. It wasn't just an extension of his body, but of his soul.

  "Holy Cross Sword!" the two Temple Knights exclaimed in astonishment. Aldric's dark face registered utter disbelief—this was the proof of a Paladin unleashing their full power.

  "That's a fine blade, but its malevolent aura is too intense. It doesn't suit you." Lancelot continued his measured advance. Removing the cross to form the cross-sword, speaking—all these actions flowed together seamlessly. His entire being remained like an ethereal phantom, moving without rhythm or trace, yet exerting the weight of Mount Tai.

  Ethan didn't respond. He could spare no focus. All his strength controlled every part of his body; every shred of his spirit and attention captured Lancelot's movements—slow yet harder to anticipate than any swift action.

  A waterfall plunging three thousand feet, though majestic and overwhelming in speed, still reveals the posture of its torrents and droplets, allowing one to foresee its next state. But a river so placid it stirs not even the slightest ripple or wave—though you know it flows, you cannot discern how.

  Sometimes, calm holds greater power than fury. Stillness reaches further depths.

  So Ethan perceived him as a mountain. Though the sea could summon storms and waves to obliterate all, that was mere destruction, breeding fear. A great, tranquil mountain, however, commanded awe.

  Is the mountain taller, or the sea deeper? Ethan had no leisure to ponder. The distance between them shrank to under five meters. Lancelot raised his hand first, leveling the radiant sword toward Ethan.

  The glowing blade seemed not a sword, but Lancelot himself. With it rose something vast, ancient, serene, and inviolable, standing silently between heaven and earth. Though this aura wasn't aggressive, all who witnessed it were enveloped and conquered by the sensation.

  Hilton and his companions, including the elves observing from afar, were all overcome by this aura, their spirits captivated. The two Temple Knights wore expressions of reverence and rapturous awe, like artists witnessing a masterpiece born of divine inspiration.

  When martial skill ascends to a certain realm, it becomes martial art. Any technique, infused with one's entire spirit and focus, becomes art—a medium expressing the soul. When this expression achieves perfection, it transforms into something purer, more direct, and more profoundly moving to others.

  The sword aimed at Ethan. What he felt was a thousand times more intense than anyone else. He sensed the aura filling heaven and earth pressing in omnipotently. He best perceived the perfection and inevitability of the coming thrust—his heart held only awe, nothing more.

  Not only did his fighting spirit dissolve under this aura, but even his body and consciousness grew immobile within its seemingly intangible yet overwhelmingly potent presence. He could only watch the Holy Cross Sword draw near.

  No—I must fight back! I must strike! I must strike!... Ethan's consciousness burned with his final resolve as he roared inwardly. Yet both will and awareness were utterly suppressed by the approaching sword, growing weaker by the moment.

  Just as he was about to be consumed by the aura, his withering fighting spirit erupted violently. A thunderous shout pierced through Lancelot's imposing pressure like an unyielding needle, finally shattering the tangible yet intangible atmosphere.

  Ethan's strike lacked heaven-shaking grandeur. It held no mountain's weight or sea's depth. It held only himself.

  The Holy Cross Sword abruptly accelerated from its slow state, striking the blade with a movement simple and unavoidable—no feints, no evasion.

  Blade met sword. No earth-shattering crash or impact occurred—not even a sound. Like two insubstantial phantoms, they connected silently. Instead of separating, the weapons clung together momentarily.

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  The weapons didn't part; neither man moved. Yet the outcome was undeniable. The dark red, vein-like light on the blade dissipated under the white holy light's assault. White radiance spread from the cross-sword along the blade. In an instant, the formerly dark blade gleamed like a sacred weapon blessed by holy power, overflowing with brilliant white magic.

  The light didn't stop at the blade. Like a tide, pure white radiance washed over Ethan—wrist, arm, chest. Though Hilton's trio sensed the danger, they didn't know how to intervene in such a bizarre exchange, nor dared to. In the blink of an eye, white light enveloped Ethan entirely.

  Ethan felt the mixed power of magic and fighting spirit surging within him. Yet it wasn't destructive. Though overwhelmingly potent, this force wasn't harmful; it flowed backward along his meridians, blood vessels, even his senses. He felt as if submerged in a great river of hot water, pulled and pushed by an irresistible force. Every part of him, every shred of strength, was submerged.

  A soft sound. Blade and sword finally parted. Ethan staggered back several steps before collapsing powerless to his knees.

  The Holy Cross Sword dissolved into motes of light in Lancelot's hand, reverting to the small, unremarkable cross. Lancelot sighed deeply, hanging the cross back around his neck. He gazed thoughtfully at Ethan on the ground. A hint of fatigue showed on his face; sweat beaded on his brow.

  The two Temple Knights exhaled in relief. They didn't even glance at the wanted man on the ground. They knew full well that even a Paralysis Spell plus dozens of steel locks couldn't match the binding effect of this single strike. Unlike a Paralysis Spell, which magically solidifies the body's life force, this sword's overwhelming power directly enveloped all vitality and function. Though profound and subtle, its effect stemmed purely from overwhelming force. Unless the subject's life force exceeded Lancelot's power, no technique—no matter how clever—could break this fusion of fighting spirit and magic.

  Yet the two Temple Knights remained puzzled. To subdue this opponent, there were at least a hundred methods. Even insisting on leaving him unharmed offered no fewer than twenty options. But Lancelot had clearly chosen the most exhausting one—likely because he'd seen the Cardinal's Paralysis Spell prove ineffective against this man.

  Lancelot stared blankly at Ethan, his thick brows furrowing deeper. Finally, he shook his head and waved to the Temple Knights: "Take him away."

  Christine looked at Jessica, hesitated, and didn't move. Aldric paid no mind, ignoring Hilton's trio entirely as he walked over and hoisted Ethan from the ground.

  Hilton and the druid didn't dare move rashly. Jessica clenched her paired daggers but ultimately didn't strike. The gap in power was too vast; intervention would be meaningless.

  Just as Aldric lifted Ethan and turned toward Lancelot, the teleportation circle nearby flared to life.

  Tulalion's teleportation circle was rarely used. Elves seldom ventured beyond these woods. Few possessed teleportation scrolls keyed to this location. Yet as the circle activated, two teleportation auras shimmered simultaneously.

  The blue light hadn't faded—figures within were still indistinct—when a killing intent thick as knives filled the air: a tidal wave of slaughter, an army's resolve to kill or be killed. It wasn't just felt on the skin; it was so tangible that ears could hear its hum and noses could smell its iron tang.

  Instinct honed in countless battles. Aldric, closest to the circle, immediately leveled his spear and leapt back. His movements were swift—Temple Knight reflexes were never slow—but he still held Ethan. Though he sensed the killing intent's ferocity and unmatched intensity, he didn't release his captive.

  He was fast, but two others were faster.

  One figure, still wreathed in the blue glow of teleportation, burst from the circle like an arrow aimed at Aldric. Yet no arrow possessed such momentum, such killing intent, such speed. In that fleeting instant, the Temple Knight's expression shifted from surprise to terror.

  The other, faster figure was Lancelot. In truth, he'd been alert the moment the teleportation light flared; the cross was already back in his hand. When the overwhelming killing intent erupted like a phantom, the Holy Cross Sword instantly formed. But this time, it wasn't held in his hand—it extended through his entire being. His body radiated light, forming a colossal sword. With a single pointing hand, he lunged forward. His body drove the great blade of light downward in a midair strike at the figure just emerging from the circle.

  The majestic, awe-inspiring aura displayed in his previous strike against Ethan had merely subdued. This strike unleashed all intangible grandeur and authority, converting it into the most tangible, lethal force. Like a drawn bow storing potential, its release was the true terror.

  Aldric retreated. The figure from the circle pursued. Lancelot intercepted. All three converged at a single point.

  A thunderous crash. Hilton's trio, standing slightly closer, were hurled backward by the violent air currents. This wasn't a magical explosion—merely the shockwave from physical collision.

  No one present, including Christine who hadn't caught up, clearly saw how the three figures collided or what actions they took. When they could focus again, the three had abruptly separated.

  The ground at their convergence point had sunken into a semicircular crater. Aldric, now back near Christine, wore an expression of astonishment, fury, and disbelief. His battle spear was bent beyond recognition—twisted and deformed like clay figures roughly molded by a child's hands.

  But everyone knew a Temple Knight's weapon wasn't mud. Indeed, these holy spears weren't conventional weapons. Like the Radiant Battleplate, they were top-tier magical items, specially forged by Celeste to combat Nighon—designed to withstand Minotaurs' strength, which far exceeded Ogres, and their massive axes. Their material, craftsmanship, and enchanted power were unparalleled.

  Yet Aldric's anger and surprise stemmed from something else: his other hand was empty. The captive he'd held was gone.

  Even when sensing extreme danger, he hadn't abandoned his prisoner—it was Lord Lancelot's order. But someone had forcibly torn the man from his grasp.

  Still, though furious, he had no thought of snatching the man back. He knew full well that without Lancelot's intervention, not only would the prisoner be lost, but he himself would be dead.

  Lancelot, also retreating, had already dispelled his Holy Cross Sword. His brown hair was slightly disheveled; he even panted slightly. His brown eyes locked onto the man before him, his gaze as heavy as a mountain.

  This man carried no weapon, not even armor. He was tall and slightly lean, his eyes like the black deep sea meeting the Paladin's gaze. Ethan, previously in Aldric's grasp, was now in his hands. This unarmed man had forcibly snatched a captive from the grasp of a Temple Knight renowned across the lands.

  Yet no one could walk away unscathed after facing a Temple Knight and Paladin together. This man's right hand was a mangled mess of blood and flesh. It was this hand—slender-fingered, seemingly elegant—that had bent the Temple Knight's spear with a single punch, then parried Lancelot's Holy Cross Sword.

  Crucially, he now appeared fatigued, sweat on his brow. He'd struck with his full power just now. And his injuries surely extended beyond the visible damage to his right hand. Yet no one, seeing his weariness and wounds, would dare consider him vulnerable.

  Though this man had seized Ethan, he didn't even glance at him. His full attention locked with the Paladin's across from him. Surprise dominated both their gazes as they spoke in unison: "You?"

  "Are we in time?" The other figure from the teleportation circle stepped down and asked. An old man with short silver hair and beard, standing ramrod straight. Were it not for his wrinkles, his bearing and vitality would never suggest age. Both Temple Knights recognized him: once a renowned sage, scholar, and adventurer across the lands, now the universally known master of Oufu City—Sedros. And the man who arrived with him could only be Gru, commander of Oufu's beastman forces.

  "I always said: better late than never." Gru kept his eyes on Lancelot. "Though I didn't expect to meet him here. But... he couldn't be one of the Necromancer's minions, could he?"

  "Impossible." Sedros looked at Lancelot, smiled faintly, and nodded. Then he added softly, for his ears alone: "I told you this plan was far too risky..."

  Hearing "Necromancer's minions," Aldric's dark face darkened further; two black veins throbbed on his temple. Had Lancelot not remained still, he would have lunged instantly. But the other Temple Knight, Christine, showed not a trace of fighting spirit. His gaze at Gru held anger and fear beneath the surprise.

  The elves in the distance, Hilton and the druid—all stood frozen, stunned by the sudden turn of events. Only one person stepped forward: Jessica.

  With trembling steps, she approached Gru, then knelt. She prostrated herself before his feet with the reverence of a devotee before a deity. Her voice, shaking with fear emanating from her soul, said: "O great Messenger of Moriel, your servant heeds your call. I supplicate for your forgiveness..."