Chapter 21: Deadlock Broken (Part 1)

"Stop! What are you planning to do to Her Majesty the Queen?" The elderly Marquis Minsk shouted at the priest standing at the front. Rodhart's earlier revelation of this man's identity had already caused everyone's hearts to leap into their throats. Now, the priest had reached the queen's bedside and placed the same hand that had sent Rodhart flying onto the immobilized queen.

"Naturally, I will let her explain to you all exactly what is going on," the man replied indifferently. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand on the queen, and it began to emit a magical glow. A black mist, like rising ink, spread from his hand, emanating an aura of necromantic magic. The black mist seeped into the queen's body, filling the chamber with a gloomy, corpse-like atmosphere that sent chills down everyone's spine. Though few had ever seen such magic before, its sinister nature was obvious.

"Necromancy?" All the ministers gasped in horror. Their already shocked faces now showed unrestrained panic. Minister Jensen, Marquis Minsk, and General Thomas lunged forward simultaneously. Even though they knew they were no match for a man who had so easily overpowered Rodhart, they did not hesitate. After all, the queen was on the line. Even though she had become a vampire, she was still the emperor's beloved wife, the woman they had sworn to protect for life.

Yet someone stepped in to block their way—a figure smaller in stature compared to the three of them but determined enough to be knocked back several steps by their momentum. Still, this person used all their strength to hold them back, shouting urgently, "Stop! Trust him!"

"Trust him? That man is the murderer of Bishop Ronis and the Duke! And you can't see that this is necromancy?" General Thomas roared as he tried to push the person aside.

But the person stood their ground, pushing back against the general's massive frame with all their might. Looking up with firm, unyielding eyes, they said clearly, "If you can't trust him, then trust me."

The three hesitated and stopped in their tracks. Anyone else might have been ignored or brushed aside, but this person was the Empire's Prime Minister, the queen's elder sister. Of all those present, she had the most reason to care about the queen's well-being. Her plea carried weight.

By now, the queen's body was completely obscured by the dark magic. The black mist emanating from the priest's hand had transformed her bed into a swamp-like mire of deathly aura. Sweat dripped from the priest's brow, pooling on his chin before falling in droplets. His exhaustion was evident.

The three senior officials, blocked by the Prime Minister, watched the scene unfold in confusion and dread, while the other ministers stood frozen, paralyzed with uncertainty. Only Rodhart, who had been knocked to the ground, managed to struggle upright. After coughing up blood, he shouted as loudly as he could, "All Holy Knights, hear my command! Stop that man at once—kill him if necessary!"

But his order was unnecessary. Three swordsmen who had accompanied him earlier had already entered the chamber, drawing their swords as they charged at the priest. The Prime Minister tried to intercept them, but the swordsmen, trained and skilled, swiftly bypassed her. Meanwhile, hundreds of Holy Knights stationed a hundred meters outside the chamber began rushing in.

Despite the mounting threat, the priest did not release his hold on the queen. The black magic grew darker and more intense, its deathly aura thickening. Sweat poured from the priest's head as three swords bore down on him. These swordsmen were not ordinary fighters; each was a skilled master in the Holy Knights' ranks. Their strikes were precise and lethal—one aimed for his head, one for his chest, and the last for his abdomen. The coordinated assault, executed with perfect timing and angles, was far more challenging to defend against than a single straightforward strike.

The priest moved neither his body nor his hand from the queen. Instead, he raised his other hand—the same hand, now bloodied, that had parried Rodhart's strike earlier. The deep gash on his palm revealed bone, the injury far more severe than it appeared. The magical energy he was channeling with his other hand was so intense that even the non-magical ministers could feel it. In contrast, the white combat aura on this raised hand was faint and barely visible.

As the three blades closed in—one for his head, one for his chest, one for his abdomen—his bloodied hand acted. With precise timing, he caught the blade aimed at his face, pressing and striking it so that it shattered. However, the sharp fragments scraped against his bones, nearly severing half his hand. Blood sprayed as his pinky finger flew off completely, and his ring finger broke, held together only by a strip of muscle and skin.

The swordsman's lunge faltered as his blade broke. In the same instant, the priest's elbow struck the man's jaw with brutal force, sending him crumpling to the ground. The broken blade fragment deflected the second sword's trajectory, giving the priest just enough time to drive his foot into the swordsman's shoulder. The sickening sound of shattering bones accompanied the second man's collapse.

The third blade aimed for his chest reached its mark. The priest, unable to counter, used his single standing leg as a pivot, twisting his body with all his might. The blade pierced his flesh, leaving a deep, inch-wide gash across his chest. Blood gushed from the wound, but the swordsman's thrust lost its momentum, halted by the elasticity of the priest's muscles and the force of his twist. The sword slid out from his side, leaving the priest with a grievous injury, but no fatal wound.

Seizing the opportunity, the priest swung his head forward, smashing his forehead into the swordsman's face. With a sickening crunch, the man's nose caved in entirely, and he fell backward, unconscious.

Through a series of movements—graceful yet brutal, almost like a deadly dance—the priest had fended off all three swordsmen without releasing his hold on the queen. Blood soaked his body, his mutilated hand dripping ceaselessly, and the gash on his chest staining his clothes. The skin on his forehead peeled back, hanging loosely, revealing the face beneath the mask of blood. Combined with the ominous black magic swirling around him, he looked like a demon risen from hell.

He exhaled deeply, his magic surging once more, spreading through the chamber and forcing the weaker ministers to retreat. Annoyed by the hanging flap of skin, he tore it away, revealing a lean, sharp-featured face beneath.

Gasps filled the room. Even though everyone had suspected his identity, seeing the infamous face of the most feared man on the continent sent waves of shock through the crowd. Some ministers screamed outright.

Only the Prime Minister remained calm, her gaze filled with joy and relief as she looked at him.

The black magical fluctuations that had been spreading everywhere suddenly contracted, converging completely onto the queen's body. The queen's figure was no longer visible, now transformed into an entity wrapped in black mist. The man finally released his hands. Though he appeared exhausted, he exhaled in relief and even managed a smile as he looked at the prime minister, who was staring intently at him.

Outside the hall, the swordsmen of the Holy Knights Order had almost reached the scene. But it was only "almost," as Rodhart and cardinal Jarvis had earlier instructed them to stay far away. Though they moved swiftly, it now seemed they might be too late.

On the ground, Rodhart struggled to his feet. Yet even standing upright took immense effort, let alone doing anything else.

At last, all the black waves fully retracted and were absorbed into the queen's body. But at that moment, the man's expression suddenly froze as he lifted his head to look toward the hall's exterior.

And it was then that a strange, piercing whistle sounded from outside the chamber.

Almost all the ministers instinctively turned their heads to look out of the chamber. It wasn't that they didn't care about the queen, but the sound was too fierce, too sharp, too laden with killing intent and overwhelming momentum. Just hearing it gave them the illusion of being torn apart. Out of instinctive reflex, they turned to see what was happening.

The source of the sound was a sword—one that was streaking through the air above the heads of the Holy Knights, hurtling toward the man inside the royal chamber.

It wasn't just a sword—it was a river, an ocean, a lightning bolt. Everyone who saw it was overcome by an inexplicable sense of awe and illusion.

It was clearly a sword in mid-air, yet it carried the unending flow of a great river, the vast and violent expanse of the sea, and the swift, dazzling strike of lightning. So much so that everyone's attention was drawn to the sword, and they failed to notice the cardinal wielding it.

Cardinal Jarvis' figure was almost entirely engulfed by the brilliance and overwhelming aura of this single sword strike. It was impossible to tell whether he was wielding the sword or if the sword was carrying him as it struck forward.

There was only that strange impression of something like a river, a sea, and lightning. Then, all anyone could see was a blinding, radiant white light, cutting across time and space, moving instantly from outside the hall to within. The tip of this light was aimed directly at the man standing beside the queen's bed.

Only those with exceptionally sharp vision could see that along the path of this light, one of the Holy Knights, who had just been kicked aside and had barely managed to stand, was obliterated. Like a poorly molded clay doll struck with a heavy blow, he disintegrated into a cloud of fragments that scattered into the air.

Anything at the tip of this light would turn into shattered fragments, like the broken clay doll. That was the sensation anyone would have after seeing Cardinal Jarvis' sword light. But what about the person standing at the very tip of this light?

As soon as this person saw the sword in mid-air, he drew a knife from behind him. The knife was jet black, ancient in design, and unremarkable in appearance, but he swung it towards the light that seemed capable of shattering anything in its path.

No one in the hall heard a sound—at least no one inside the hall did—because they had already been thrown back by the sudden wave of energy that preceded it. However, the Holy Knights outside the hall both heard and saw the clash. They saw the unmatched, sharp sword light collide with the knife, which was as solid as rock. Then came a thunderous roar, sending nearby people and the bed beside the man flying through the air.

The dazzling sword light had been shattered. The sword splintered into fragments and scattered from Cardinal Jarvis' hand. His palm was also torn open, and the once invincible and unstoppable body, which had advanced relentlessly like that light, staggered backward. His face flushed crimson, then drained to a paper-like pallor, and a trickle of dark, purplish blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.