Chapter 15: The Great Battle (Part 2)

"Magic trap?" Talice looked at the pillar of fire shooting into the sky in astonishment. Then, almost immediately, she shouted, "Watch out!"

Two white figures darted out from the shadows of the trees on either side, their swords unleashing arcs of light like streaks of lightning. These arcs, glowing bright and sharp, carried a lethal precision that only came with at least twenty years of dedicated practice.

Talice twisted her body mid-air, spinning her waist as she drew her sword. A single stroke, more polished and brilliant than the two arcs coming at her, deflected both attacks. Two resounding clangs echoed almost simultaneously, as her single strike blocked both blades from the left and the right.

Though her swordsmanship lacked the decades of training that her opponents had, she made up for it with talent, relentless practice, and guidance from perhaps the best instructor on the continent. These advantages often outweighed years of repetition.

Landing gracefully, Talice raised her sword, activating two supportive white magic spells that shimmered faintly around her. Though she kept her eyes on the two attackers, her tone carried a trace of pride: "This time, I not only warned you but also blocked an attack for you..."

But she quickly noticed that Asa, who had leapt alongside her, hadn't landed. Instead, like a bolt of lightning slicing through the air, he shot toward the forest depths. It wasn't of his own volition—someone was forcing him to move. A gray figure loomed behind him, pushing him forward, their black, fang-like longsword clashing against Asa's weapon.

A deafening metallic screech reverberated through the air as their weapons collided—a sound so jarring and loud that it overshadowed the distant explosions of magic. Strangely, their weapons made no noise at the moment of initial contact; it was only when they ground against each other that the sharp, grating sound burst forth, as if thousands of swords were clashing simultaneously.

From the moment Asa leapt into the air, he paid no heed to the fiery magic trap or the two swordsmen emerging from the shadows. He didn't dare. The instant he moved, a killing intent unlike anything else had manifested behind him, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

This killing intent had appeared without warning, as though it had naturally formed from the surrounding air. It wasn't overwhelming or ostentatious—on the contrary, it was calm, simple, and unassuming, yet it conveyed a raw, naked message: death.

The aura wasn't fierce or bloodthirsty, but its sheer inevitability made it far more terrifying. It whispered a chilling truth: life is fleeting, and death is inescapable.

Had Asa not been fully immersed in meditation techniques and bolstered by the strange fluctuations from the Sunwell nearby, he might not have detected the attack in time. Even with his heightened senses, he barely managed to react—just enough to turn mid-air, draw his blade, and block the silent strike aimed at cleaving him in two.

It was then that he saw his attacker: a middle-aged man with a wooden, emotionless expression. Even in the midst of this deadly ambush, the man's face and eyes betrayed no passion or anger. He looked as if he were performing a mundane task, utterly indifferent.

The man's demeanor, coupled with the calm yet inescapable killing intent radiating from his strike, revealed a frightening truth: this was someone who had completely normalized killing—someone for whom taking life had become as routine as breathing.

Only someone like this could launch such a silent, deadly attack from behind. It was only the latent killing aura and momentum of his blade that finally betrayed his presence.

In his hands, the man wielded a sleek, pitch-black, fang-like longsword. Its serrated back bore cruel spikes, and the weapon seemed to radiate a sinister aura, as though forged from screams and death itself. The sword's appearance starkly contrasted with its wielder's quiet demeanor—it was pure menace incarnate.

Although Asa managed to block the strike, he hadn't neutralized it. The black longsword quivered violently, trying to break through his defense, while Asa strained to hold it at bay. Their blades clashed and ground against each other with rapid, brutal precision, their energies and intentions colliding fiercely.

Even as Asa was forced backward by the strike, his opponent's overwhelming power and killing intent bore down on him like an unrelenting tide. The man's attack wasn't flashy or aggressive, yet it was pervasive, calm, and impossible to resist. Asa felt his defenses on the verge of collapse.

This wasn't just a sneak attack. The sheer precision, control, and unity of mind, soul, and technique in the strike marked this man as a true master—someone comparable to legends like Roland or Lancelote.

Finally, Asa's feet touched the ground, but he continued to stumble back. The force of the strike had left his arm trembling, his muscles aching, and his internal energy groaning under the strain.

Desperate, Asa released his blade with one hand, conjuring a mass of dark green flames that reeked of death and decay. The necromantic fire surged forth, unmistakably vile and unnatural, clearly no ordinary flame.

He gambled—betting that his opponent wouldn't risk a suicidal exchange. Even if the man's next strike could severely wound or kill him, the flames would still engulf him in return, inflicting equal, if not worse, damage.

As expected, the man hesitated. Though Asa dropped his defense entirely, the attacker pulled back. Instead of striking, he lashed out with a kick, slamming his foot into Asa's chest and sending him flying backward.

Blood erupted from Asa's mouth as the impact felt like it crushed his internal organs. Yet as he spat out the blood, he hurled the necromantic flames in his hand toward the retreating figure.

The green fire formed a blazing orb and shot forward, trailing the man. Asa, undeterred, followed with a flurry of green fireballs, firing them like a volley of arrows, each with a different trajectory and timing.

Even the stoic attacker's expression finally shifted, showing a hint of surprise. This wasn't just a spell—it was a storm of death, a miniature meteor shower of necromantic flames.

As he retreated, the man slashed with his black sword, piercing the first fireball. Instead of detonating, the orb was impaled like a piece of fruit. He continued, his blade methodically intercepting each fireball, pinning them one after another.

When the attack ended, the accumulated fireballs had merged into a massive, blazing green sphere impaled on his blade. The man's composure faltered for the first time as he gripped the sword with both hands, summoning a surge of energy. With a powerful slash, the green sphere split in two, its remnants dissipating harmlessly.

Breathing heavily, Asa steadied himself, taking the moment of reprieve to study his opponent more closely. If not for the Sunwell's presence, he knew he would already be dead.

His attacker, too, paused, seeming to reevaluate Asa. Breaking the silence, the man finally spoke, his voice calm yet sharp: "Was it you who killed Aescher?"

Though Asa's face was hidden behind a mask, his unique use of necromantic magic was already a clear signature. Rumors had long circulated in Celeste about the Asassin who had slain Archbishop Aescher using such dark arts.

"Who are you?" Asa asked warily, eyeing the black longsword that seemed to emanate a faint necromantic aura itself.

"Lord Tamik. It's Knight Talice." The two swordsmen who had initially ambushed Asa spoke up. They had recognized each other after Talice had deflected their attacks.

"Lord Tarmik? Why are you here?" Talice asked, her voice filled with surprise. As a fellow knight of the temple and a disciple of Lancelot, she at least knew of the enigmatic knight, even if few others did.

"Talice, did Lancelote send you out to train so you could mingle with the likes of him?" Tamik didn't even glance at Talice. His gaze remained fixed on Asa, his tone laced with disdain.