Chapter 128: Suppressing Bandits (Part 3)

  Sylka’s words to strike were not softly spoken, loud enough for the two who had yet to act to hear. One was a plump middle-aged man, the other the young man who had demanded gold from Sylka. The middle-aged man sighed almost imperceptibly and donned a strange helmet, while the young man drew his sword.

  The helmet was a lifelike wolf’s head, appearing as if freshly severed, with green light flickering in its eyes. As the middle-aged man put on the wolf-head helmet, he chanted incantations in a low voice. His body began to tremble slightly, and as it did, his form gradually transformed. He grew taller and more robust, his bones emitting strange creaking and groaning sounds. Skin exposed through his clothing sprouted thick fur. In the blink of an eye, he transformed from an ordinary, plump middle-aged man into a werewolf nearly as tall as Sylka.

  "A druid?" Everyone except Sylka was utterly astonished. This mystical group had vanished from the continent over a century ago. These humans, who like elves were attuned to nature and worshipped the God of Nature, possessed their own unique magical system. The most remarkable of their abilities was the power to transform into various animals. Unlike the reclusive elves, however, these nature devotees tirelessly sought to convert others to their cause, preventing anyone from harming forests and nature—even resorting to force against those logging forests, farming land, or mining.

  No ruler would favor such extreme methods and beliefs, and the Church viewed them as thorns in its side. After years of pursuit, ostracization, and suppression, the group had nearly vanished from the continent. To think one could be seen here, in this basement filled with bandits.

  The female knight naturally witnessed the man’s transformation too. After her initial surprise, she suddenly dropped to one knee, pressing the flat of her sword against her forehead.

  Everyone, including Sylka, froze. In this tense, volatile atmosphere, the central figure in the conflict performed such an act. Several overly nervous bandits instinctively covered their heads and crouched, mistaking it for the stance of some strange, powerful technique.

  "I thank the Lord," she said, her voice and expression devout and earnest, as if truly praying in a chapel. "Not only for allowing me to capture these wicked scoundrels in one net here, but also for letting me encounter this stray heretic. Let me cleanse my sword and soul with the blood of these devil-worshippers, and add to the glory of the Lord’s light." Before her stood over a hundred of Erathia’s most vicious bandits—any one of whose names could frighten children. In her eyes, they were less than rats, not even worthy of her vigilance.

  The bandits naturally sensed the contempt behind the knight’s composed demeanor. Unfortunately, the disparity in strength was too great; they lacked even the courage to shout curses. The faces of the three who had been injured and retreated earlier grew even uglier. The newly transformed druid werewolf’s oily green eyes flashed, his fangs slightly bared, the low growl rumbling in his throat identical to that of a true werewolf.

  The man standing beside Sylka suddenly sighed. He turned to Sylka and gave a slight nod. "This woman may be foolish, but she’s genuinely difficult to handle. Stop holding back. Let’s all go together."

  Sylka nodded. They both stepped forward toward the female knight.

  Sylka held the knight’s lance she had thrown earlier. A solid steel war lance that an ordinary knight needed both hands to level horizontally felt as light as a toy in his grasp. With a single hand, he swung and flicked it, creating a flurry of spear shadows in the air, displaying skill even more seasoned and fierce than a regular knight. With each step of his massive frame, the basement trembled slightly. The bricks beneath his feet cracked and sank with every footfall. This was due not only to his bear-like weight but to the power concentrated throughout his body. He advanced toward the female knight step by step, like a moving mountain.

  Beside him, the other man moved silently, until he drew the blade from his back.

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  As the blade left its sheath, a strange humming sound instantly filled the entire space. Dark crimson shadows flowed across the blade like living things. Both the sound and the flowing color carried an indistinct aura of bloodshed. This aura wasn’t smelled; it seeped into the marrow and body, felt deep within the heart. Every watching bandit shuddered.

  One was majestic and formidable, the other sinister and eerie. The combined aura of these two was enough to steal one’s spirit and shake one’s soul. Yet, the female knight’s face showed not the slightest trace of fear. Her gaze as she watched them approach was filled with condescending disdain. When she saw the dark crimson blade shimmering in the man’s hand, her expression did flicker with shock. But shock was quickly replaced by fury. She shouted loudly, "Servant of darkness! How dare you wield such a filthy, evil weapon before an emissary of God? You will shriek and repent on the pyre for this!"

  "Stupid woman," the man sighed again, shaking his head slightly. Though his expression remained unchanged, the disdain in his tone and eyes was undeniable. "So much pointless chatter. Did you come here to kill or to preach?"

  The female knight’s phoenix-like eyes suddenly widened. With a furious roar, she lunged forward like a bolt of white lightning, swinging her sword in a slash. Clang! The deafening sound of blade meeting blade echoed through the basement. All the bandits clapped their hands over their ears. This was the first person to completely parry one of her strikes.

  The figures instantly separated. Though he had blocked the thunderously furious sword blow, the man was staggered by the force, stumbling back two steps.

  Over a dozen white magic spells layered on—even a mouse would be empowered enough to kill a cat, let alone a Temple Knight, who was certainly no mouse. The white magic gave her an overwhelming advantage even in pure physical strength.

  But as the man staggered back, the female knight’s figure was sent flying backward, stumbling and swaying. She barely managed to regain her footing. Her face was a mask of shock and rage, which was followed by an involuntary cough. A pallor spread across her face, and a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her lips. There was a significant dent in her chest armor.

  Sylka’s eyes widened to the size of wine cups. For the first time, he wore an expression of utter horror. He looked at the fine steel knight’s lance in his hand—it was twisted beyond recognition.

  Given his strength, even a wooden staff would have been enough to pierce a rhinoceros. Moreover, this lance had been prepared since the man started speaking; it was a full-power strike. Yet, the result was merely this.

  "She’s wearing Radiant Battleplate! Don’t give her a chance to breathe!" the man who had been repelled roared, raising his blade and charging at the knight. The druid werewolf also let out a roar and charged forward.

  Radiant Battleplate. Even within the Church, renowned for having the finest magical items and artifacts on the continent, this was considered a treasure. In two to three hundred years, the Church had produced only a handful. Beyond the priceless materials and the master craftsmen—both human and dwarven smiths—the most difficult aspect was its enchanting method. It required the lifelong magical power of a top-tier Light Mage to complete. Typically, it was a Cardinal nearing the end of their life who would, in their final days, transform their life’s mastery of light magic into the armor’s power. Such armor was seen as the Church’s glory, a testament to faith.

  Even as the man shouted, the female knight’s hand was already touching the dent in her armor. The glow of restoration magic flashed. Her pale face immediately regained its color, and the dent in the armor even began to gradually mend. Seeing this, everyone’s face changed drastically—some turned green, others red, but most turned deathly pale.

  Sylka cursed, throwing away the twisted lance like a piece of scrap metal. He snatched the two-handed greatsword from the slender man’s hands and charged forward. His sword shadows formed a mountain, his momentum like thunder, wielding the massive blade almost better than its slender owner. But after only two swings and parrying one of her strikes, he roared again, his thunderous voice now tinged with obvious anxiety and fury, shaking loose dirt from the ceiling above. "Who the fuck has a way to dispel the magic on this bitch?! Axsis, did you hear me?!"

  "I heard you! But I really can’t!" Axsis sounded on the verge of tears. He hadn’t stopped casting from the back since the fight began, but failed Dispel spells, Slow spells, and other minor magics had drained his mana completely. Now he could only watch helplessly from behind.

  The druid werewolf, the black-clad woman, and the man with the punching daggers all joined the fray simultaneously. The weapons of the five formed a whirlwind, trapping the female knight within. The cacophony of weapons clashing and striking armor filled the air. Yet, the female knight handled it without apparent difficulty. Except for the dark crimson blade, which she still guarded against and wouldn’t let strike her directly, she paid little mind to the other weapons. Even Sylka’s swinging greatsword she sometimes didn’t bother to dodge deliberately, instead turning with the momentum to let the blade slide across her armor. Meanwhile, her long sword, while protecting her head and face, delivered lightning-fast thrusts that kept the others scrambling.

  The female knight relied not just on the Radiant Battleplate. Sylka’s roar had made the problem clear: whether in speed, strength, agility, or reflexes, this Temple Knight layered with over a dozen white magics far surpassed everyone present. Moreover, her fierce swordplay was unstoppable. Eighty percent of her attacks targeted the man with the blade; only then could the others barely manage to involve themselves.

  Clang. A long, resonant sound of weapons meeting echoed. In an instant, the female knight’s long sword and the dark crimson blade struck each other dozens of times with blinding speed. The man staggered back again, nearly losing his grip on his sword.

  A clear, resonant war cry erupted. The female knight spun, her long sword transforming into a silver-white curtain of light around her. Sylka and the other three were forced back. The druid was a fraction too slow in withdrawing his hand; three fingers were caught in the curtain of sword light and crushed to pieces.

  The female knight paid no heed to these four. The white glow surrounding her blazed with unprecedented intensity in that clear cry. Man and sword merged into one, carrying a trail of white light behind her as she flew forward in a deadly strike toward the staggering man ahead.