Episode 614 In This Dream 1

The visions within Ghislain's dreams were beyond his control, offering only a limited perspective.

Most often, they centered on the battles between the Hero and the Adversary. From their clashes, Ghislain had gleaned invaluable insights and strategies.

Occasionally, neither figure appeared, replaced by vast armies locked in war.

Dragons clashed with giants, the Allied Forces of Humanity battled the Riftborn, and the fleeting appearances of humanity's leaders offered glimpses into their plans.

These visions had always served a purpose: to show Ghislain the tactics, victories, and failures of those before him.

But tonight's dream was different. Figures he had never seen before emerged.

Boom!

Among the Salvation Order, four individuals stood out, surpassing the other Inquisitors in strength.

Their arrival sent ripples of tension through the ranks of the Allied Forces.

"The Apostles are here!" a soldier cried out.

The term caught Ghislain's attention.

"Apostles?"

He had heard of Priests, Inquisitors, and Executioners within the Salvation Order, but this was new.

The so-called Apostles flanked the Adversary, clearly occupying high ranks within the Order—second only to the Adversary himself.

And they were formidable. Clad in shrouds of black mist, their attacks ripped through the Allied Forces, scattering soldiers like leaves in a storm.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Their power was enough to make even Ghislain tense. In comparison, the mightiest warriors of the Continent's Seven seemed almost lacking.

"Shouldn't Ereneth or the Dwarf King intervene?"

The Hero had to focus on the Adversary, leaving these Apostles to others. Yet, even the strongest among humanity's allies seemed unequal to the task.

Ereneth and the Dwarf King were already locked in battles with other Priests. At this rate, the Apostles would annihilate the central forces.

Then, from the Allied ranks, four figures stepped forward to confront the Apostles.

Boom!

The newcomers unleashed their power, meeting the Apostles head-on in combat. To Ghislain's astonishment, they fought as equals.

He scrutinized the four figures closely.

The first was a young man with disheveled hair and dark circles under his eyes. His worn robe marked him as a mage. Despite his gloomy and weary expression, there was an undeniable sharpness to his features—a hint of youthful brilliance.

But appearances were deceiving. His mastery of magic left Ghislain awestruck.

"Hellfire," the mage intoned, his voice cutting through the chaos.

In an instant, dazzling white flames erupted in midair. The mage wielded the advanced magic of the 9th Circle as if it were second nature.

The blazing orb surged toward an Apostle with the speed of a lightning strike.

Boom!

The Apostle retaliated, conjuring dark energy that clashed with the flames in a violent explosion. Light and shadow intertwined, shaking the battlefield.

The mage's eyes glinted with resolve. His fingers danced through the air, tracing dozens of magical runes that shimmered into existence.

Moments later, a storm of fire, ice, and lightning converged on the Apostle.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

But the Apostle was no easy opponent. The black mist surrounding him writhed like a living entity, consuming the oncoming spells. At times, the mist formed sharp projectiles, hurtling toward the mage.

The duel was evenly matched. The sheer force of their attacks warped the fabric of space around them.

Ghislain observed the mage intently, recognition dawning on him.

"Could he be the founder of the Mage Tower? Jerome mentioned such a figure as one of the Hero's companions."

After the battle with Gatros, Jerome had shared many tales—of the Mage Tower's founder and his spells devised to counter the Adversary.

Even before Ereneth's account of the ancient war, Jerome had known of the Adversary's existence.

"If anyone fits that description, it must be him."

The mage's display of power was nothing short of extraordinary.

Ghislain turned his attention to another of the four figures.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

A knight clad in gleaming silver armor stood firm, wielding a massive shield against an Apostle.

The knight's sword descended in calculated, deliberate arcs. His technique was the epitome of classical swordsmanship—simple yet profound.

Each strike embodied centuries of wisdom and countless battles.

Boom!

When his blade collided with the Apostle's dark mist, the impact echoed like thunder. His weapon was more than steel; it was a manifestation of unwavering resolve.

The Apostle moved like a shadow, exploiting any opening in the knight's defenses. Yet, the knight's shield was an impregnable wall, repelling every attack.

His movements were precise and disciplined, exuding the essence of chivalry.

Courage, honor, loyalty.

These virtues were etched into every swing of his sword and every step he took.

Their duel grew increasingly intense, the air between them heavy with power.

Neither could gain the upper hand—the Apostle unable to pierce the knight's defense, and the knight unable to land a decisive blow.

Theirs was a battle of light against shadow, a timeless dance of contrasts.

Ghislain's expression darkened as he studied the knight's movements.

"That swordsmanship…"

Ghislain had mastered countless techniques from across the continent. While many styles seemed similar, each had its unique nuances.

The knight's swordsmanship was all too familiar.

"The Royal Sword of Radlan!"

It was the secret technique of the Ruthanian royal family, paired with their mana cultivation method.

After seizing control of the kingdom, Ghislain had studied the Royal Sword extensively. Even Count Phalantz, the former commander of the Royal Knights, had honed this technique under the guidance of King Вerhem.

It was this support that had allowed Count Phalantz to reach the level of a superhuman.

Ghislain had even faced Count Phalantz in battle, experiencing the full force of the Royal Sword firsthand.

Now, seeing the technique here left him unsettled.

"Could the founder of the Ruthanian Kingdom have been one of the Hero's companions?"

But that contradicted Вerhem's account.

"The founder was said to be… the saintess's servant."

Yet, the knight before him was no servant. He was a noble warrior in every sense.

Perhaps a servant had earned recognition and become a knight—it wasn't unheard of.

Ghislain scrutinized the knight's face, seeking answers.

But his frustration grew.

"His face… is obscured."

Dark shadows surrounded the knight's face, obscuring his identity. Only glimpses of his lower jaw hinted at his youth.

Never before had someone's visage been concealed in these dreams. Ghislain considered the possibilities—perhaps the dream was flawed, or perhaps it wasn't yet time for him to see this knight clearly. Either way, there was nothing he could do about it.

Sighing, Ghislain turned his gaze elsewhere. What he saw next left him speechless.

A mysterious woman, her lower face masked, stood poised with elegance. Her hands moved gracefully through the air, slicing unseen threads in a mesmerizing dance.

At her command, hundreds of gleaming daggers materialized around her, descending like a cascade of stars. Their ethereal glow captivated all who beheld them.

Swish.

Her fingers traced another delicate motion, setting the daggers into motion. They danced in the air, forming intricate patterns that resembled a living work of art.

The woman's piercing gaze locked onto an Apostle. The daggers immediately shifted, their pointed tips aimed at their target.

Tension thickened in the air as silence fell.

Whoosh!

In a burst of motion, the daggers launched like a storm toward the Apostle, slicing through the air with a piercing whistle.

Boom!

The Apostle reacted, his black aura spiraling into a vortex around him. Cornered by the swarm of blades, he moved with blinding speed.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The Apostle's hands and feet moved faster than the eye could follow, leaving only afterimages. Each strike deflected a dagger, warping their trajectories.

The battle between the two was breathtaking, their movements so precise and rapid that it seemed as if time itself had slowed.

In the skies above, shimmering trails of silver daggers clashed with the Apostle's dark aura, painting a surreal tapestry reminiscent of constellations in the night sky.

Ghislain's eyes widened in recognition.

"That technique... Belinda's—or rather, my mother's technique."

The style was unmistakable. It was the ultimate secret art passed down through the Shadow Knight Order, far surpassing anything Belinda had demonstrated in life.

Had Ghislain been caught in that deadly web of blades, escape would have been near impossible.

Memories of a conversation with Belinda surfaced in Ghislain's mind.

"The position of Shadow Knight Commander has always been held by a single family?"

"Yes, only members of the Anette family can inherit and master the order's secret techniques."

If this woman bore those techniques, it could only mean one thing.

"Could she be… an ancestor of my mother?"

Somehow, after the war ended, her descendants must have settled in Ruthania, eventually passing the techniques down to Belinda. The realization was staggering.

Turning quickly, Ghislain sought to examine the final figure in the dream.

Boom!

Unlike the others, the fourth warrior was unassuming, dressed in simple, rugged attire. He wielded a sword devoid of ornamentation, its blade rough and scarred from countless battles.

With every swing, the air seemed to freeze. His stance defied the formal structure of classical swordsmanship, resembling instead the predatory grace of a wild wolf closing in on its prey.

Boom!

The man's strikes rained down on the Apostle with unpredictable ferocity. His swordsmanship lacked rigid form, flowing instead with the raw, instinctive energy of a beast.

His movements matched his attacks—fluid and elusive. The Apostle's barrage of strikes failed to land as the swordsman evaded with the ease of a leaf riding the wind.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The air shook with the force of their battle. The swordsman's technique shifted constantly, leaving no pattern for the Apostle to exploit.

One moment, his attacks were as relentless as a blizzard. The next, they glided like a breeze over ice. His style alternated between tentative hesitance and majestic, knightly grandeur.

It was impossible to categorize his approach; it adapted seamlessly to the situation at hand.

Ghislain watched intently, his expression betraying a growing unease.

"That sword…."

He traced the possibilities in his mind.

If the man's skill was slightly less refined…

If critical elements were stripped from his swordsmanship and mana cultivation…

If those gaps were then restructured and formalized…

The result would be the feral, primal blade technique Ghislain knew all too well.

"That's the sword of House Ferdium!"

For generations, House Ferdium's swordsmanship and mana cultivation had been limited by unseen flaws, preventing its practitioners from reaching their full potential.

Ghislain had once wondered why this was the case. Unable to find an answer, he had overhauled the house's martial teachings entirely.

But here, in this dream, the swordsmanship of House Ferdium was displayed in its pure, unbridled form—complete and perfected.

Ghislain stood frozen, captivated by the revelation.

Here, in the realm of dreams, long-lost techniques and truths were coming to light.