To the onlookers, Black's gesture was nothing more than a confusing, meaningless motion—it did not look like the opening stance of any combat art they knew. But Daros, standing in the eye of the storm, understood its meaning all too well. It was a knight's battle declaration. When a knight made this gesture, it signaled one irrefutable truth: their enemy was going to die—no matter the method, no matter the cost, no matter how hard the enemy fought. Resistance was futile.
In his youth, Daros had witnessed such a declaration firsthand—an experience that had haunted him ever since. A knight had faced off against a foe who held his five-year-old son hostage, a cold blade pressed to the boy's trembling throat, its edge a hair's breadth away from drawing blood. When the knight raised his sword and made that fateful gesture, the villain—who had been gloating in his supposed victory—suddenly paled, his confidence shattered in an instant. He stumbled backward, screaming pleas for mercy, threats, prayers—anything to beg the knight to spare him. But his words fell on deaf ears. The knight marched forward without hesitation, his blade piercing through his son's small body and into the villain's chest, cleaving both of them in two.
From that day on, Daros had held a profound, almost primal fear of knights. Their unwavering resolve, their terrifying single-mindedness—righteous or not—was enough to drown their enemies in absolute, crippling terror.
And now, as Black made that same gesture toward him, Daros knew he was doomed.
There were only two paths left: kill the young man, or die trying. Everything else had become irrelevant.
Daros did not believe he stood a chance of victory. In fact, the moment he'd witnessed Black's Sheath Flash during their brief exchange, he'd known defeat was inevitable. Sheath Flash was a top-tier High-Tier technique—a skill Daros himself had spent years trying to master, only to fail miserably. Yet this young man wielded it with effortless precision. That single feat alone had laid bare the vast gulf in their abilities. And now, seeing Black's battle declaration, a strange calm washed over Daros's turbulent heart.
Of course. How could he not have seen it earlier? If the young man could master Sheath Flash—the most difficult of all High-Tier sword arts—then it stood to reason he had also trained in Knight Swordsmanship. A combat system reserved exclusively for those who had attained High-Tier strength, a style only knights could wield to its full potential. In the Age of Luminous Moons, countless High-Tier Swordsmen had studied Knight Swordsmanship, eventually rising to become formidable knights themselves. And now, standing before him, was a knight in the flesh.
But would he surrender to defeat? Would he meet death without a fight?
No. Never.
"DIEEEE!!"
It was a roar of despair, a final, desperate struggle—a primal fight for survival in the face of certain death.
Daros raised his longsword high, the soul energy blazing along its blade reaching a blinding crescendo, so bright it was almost impossible to look upon. He poured every last drop of his life force into the weapon, then brought it crashing down with all his might.
A crescent wave of soul energy erupted from the blade, streaking toward Black like a bolt of white-hot lightning. Daros did not pause after unleashing the attack. He roared, swinging his sword again and charging forward, determined to close the distance. Even if he had only a slim chance, Daros would not yield. The young man might be a knight, might wield Knight Swordsmanship—but so what? He wore no armor, only thin, flimsy clothing that would offer no protection, even if infused with soul energy. He was far too young—even if he had mastered Knight Swordsmanship, he could not have had the years of training needed to perfect it. And then there was that strange, pitch-black sword of his. Daros did not know what it was forged from, but the soul energy flickering along its surface was erratic, dim one moment, bright the next—a clear sign the blade's energy was unstable.
In that moment, Daros was like a gambler, clinging to every possible flaw and weakness he could find, desperately trying to convince himself he stood a chance, trying to overcome the paralyzing fear of death gnawing at his heart.
Pull yourself together, Daros! Don't let fear consume you! Kill him, and you'll be the only man on this continent to slay a knight as a High-Tier Swordsman! You'll become a legend!
Faced with the overwhelming force of Daros's soul energy wave, Black did not dodge. Instead, he raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. Then, a wisp of inky black aura seeped silently from his blade—forged from Dark Adamantite—and merged with the sword, concealing the faint blue runes etched into its surface.
Compared to Daros's explosive display of power, Black's actions were unremarkable, almost mundane. Most onlookers' eyes were fixed on the dazzling, destructive wave of soul energy, waiting for the inevitable impact. Only Ofalil, standing beside the spirit warriors, kept her gaze locked on the young man's slender, unimposing figure, waiting for her master to claim victory.
But at that moment, Black shifted his grip, holding the sword in one hand and angling it to his side. Then, he raised his free left hand high.
The spirit warriors, who had been standing at the ready, moved instantly. They spread out in a flash, forming a vast encircling formation around the battlefield. The bandits, however, were too transfixed by the clash between Black and Daros to pay any attention to the warriors' movements. The only thing that struck them as odd was that the young man was holding his sword with one hand. Did he really think he could block Daros's soul energy wave with just one hand? A strike powerful enough to shatter a boulder into dust?
Then, the bandits' eyes widened in disbelief.
The moment the massive crescent wave of soul energy collided with Black's pitch-black sword, it froze—just for a split second. Logically, such a brief pause should have meant nothing. Even a raging flood or a towering tsunami would hesitate for a fraction of a second when hitting an obstacle, before surging forward to crush it. But instead of continuing its advance, the soul energy wave suddenly swelled, as if its immense power had nowhere to go, then erupted into a shower of harmless, glowing motes of light, vanishing into the air without a trace.
At the same instant, Daros's sword—still blazing with soul energy—pierced through the fading motes of light and stabbed toward Black.
Daros did not slow down. He was fighting with reckless abandon now. To him, it made perfect sense that a knight would be able to effortlessly dispel his strongest attack. So when Black blocked his sword with casual ease, Daros did not even feel anger or frustration. He did not waste time wondering why his attack—infused with his Attribute Power, powerful enough to send a bull flying hundreds of meters—had been stopped so effortlessly by a single hand.
He was already in despair.
Just like their earlier clash, the moment their blades met, Daros felt the soul energy surging through his sword vanish without a trace. Or rather, it was as if his attack had been snuffed out before it even began, robbed of all its power and momentum.
Unable to land a hit, Daros immediately retreated, his speed boosted by soul energy—slower than a Charge, but still fast enough to put distance between them. In the blink of an eye, he was five or six meters away. Then, he saw Black swing his sword and transform into a streak of inky black light, charging toward him.
Damn it!
Daros cursed himself, quickly bringing his sword up to block the attack, shielding his chest. How could he have been so stupid? The black-armored warriors could use Accelerated Charge—a Lost Sword Art—so of course the young man could too! Why had he been foolish enough to retreat, to give the young man the space he needed to charge? Had he lost his mind?
But Daros's self-recrimination was short-lived. Because Black quickly proved that retreating had been a pointless gesture anyway.
A Charge was a technique that unleashed a burst of speed, pushing the user's body to its absolute limit. Distance, in truth, had never been a requirement. It was just that most swordsmen used the technique to close in on their enemies, so people had come to assume it required space to be effective. Modern Charges required time to build up energy, and no sane swordsman would stand within striking distance of an enemy to charge—an invitation to death.
But Accelerated Charge was never meant to be just a tool for closing distance. It had been created specifically to counter mages, who were masters of keeping their foes at bay. Any experienced swordsman knew that closing the gap with a Charge was useless if you couldn't keep the mage trapped—mages had countless ways to create distance, more than you could ever imagine.
And now, Daros was "lucky" enough to experience firsthand the terror a mage must have felt when facing a knight in the Age of Luminous Moons.
Black's sword swept to the left, pressing down on Daros's blade, then flicked upward, trying to disarm him. The sword suddenly accelerated, appearing in front of Daros in the blink of an eye. When Daros blocked it, Black's blade only twitched slightly, then traced a perfect semicircle and lunged forward again, moving with the same terrifying speed. Daros felt his sanity slipping away.
He could no longer see Black's sword clearly. His own blade moved purely on instinct, swinging wildly to shield his vitals, desperately trying to parry Black's relentless attacks. He looked utterly, pathetically helpless.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Daros's Attribute Power was Burst of Strength. He could use his soul energy to push his physical strength to unimaginable limits—he could hurl a man into the sky with one hand, smash a boulder twice his size to dust with a single punch. Now, he poured every ounce of that strength into his blocks, expecting Black to be sent flying backward with each clash. But it never happened. His soul energy was still there, but every time their blades met, it vanished without a trace, as if it had never existed at all.
"GODDAMN IT!!"
Daros's panic turned to outright terror as he realized he had no chance of winning. He roared, lifting his right foot and slamming it down hard on the ground.
**BOOM!!**
A dull, thunderous crash echoed across the battlefield, the ground shaking violently as if struck by an earthquake. The earth around Daros shattered upon impact, cracks spreading outward like a spiderweb. Daros parried Black's next attack, then gripped his sword with both hands and drove it into the ground with all his might.
Under the force of his blow, the shattered rocks around him exploded upward, hurtling in all directions like shrapnel. Bandits who were too slow to dodge were struck by the flying stones, collapsing to the ground screaming in agony. Some were hit square in the head, their skulls caving in before they even had time to react, falling silent forever. Stones hurled by a High-Tier Swordsman carried enough force to kill or maim—even a glancing blow could be fatal.
Ofalil huddled behind Judy, watching the battle unfold with a mix of awe and terror.
Then, the dust settled.
Daros still stood frozen in the motion of driving his sword into the ground. But Black was no longer in front of him. He had circled around, moving so fast no one had seen him.
The pitch-black sword pierced through Daros's neck, bright red blood dripping down the blade and onto the ground.
"This ends here," Black said calmly. "Your soul is mine."
As he spoke, the pitch-black sword in his hand began to change—slowly, but unmistakably.