Chapter 156 (Part I): The Radiant Tide
Blades of the Divine
The Holy Knights of the Radiant Sanctuary swept into the square like a tidal wave forged of steel and sacred fire. Clad in ivory armor etched with sunburst sigils, their battle auras—ranging from blazing gold to icy silver—merged into a shimmering wall of death. These were no mere warriors. Each knight moved with the precision of a temple prayer, their formations fluid yet unyielding. Three would flank a target, two would shield their advance, and within seconds, another rebel soldier fell with a slit throat or shattered spine.
Crown Prince Alaric's face twisted as his rear guard crumbled. "Hold the line!" he roared, spittle flying. But panic had already infected his ranks. Men who moments ago had cheered for his ascension now trampled each other to escape the holy onslaught.
Count Raymond, his golden aura flickering like a dying star, turned to his most trusted blade. "Alfard!" The scarred captain nodded, rallying three hundred Rowling household guards—elites forged in a dozen border wars. Yet even these veterans faltered as their own allies became obstacles. Deserters flooded backward, their terror contagious. Alfard's men stumbled, their formation shattered by the human tide.
"Cowards die twice!" Alfard bellowed, cleaving a fleeing spearman from shoulder to hip. His guards followed suit, turning their swords on panicked comrades. The message was clear: Forward or fall. Rebels trapped between holy steel and Rowling blades chose the former, hurling themselves at the knights in desperate charges.
Blood of the Loyal
Alfard fought like a poet of carnage. His blade—a family heirloom named Dawn's Whisper—danced through throats and ribs, its edge singing hymns of slaughter. But the Holy Knights' vanguard proved relentless. A mounted knight in gilded plate charged him, sword raised high.
Clang!
The impact reverberated through Alfard's bones. He skidded backward, boots carving grooves in blood-slick stone. His right hand went numb; Dawn's Whisper clattered to the cobbles. Snatching it left-handed, he barely dodged the knight's follow-up thrust. Two more holy warriors joined the fray—a trio of death clad in sanctified steel.
"For Rowling!" Alfard roared, accepting a slash across his thigh to bury his sword in a knight's gut. The man's entrails spilled like sacrificial offerings as Alfard twisted the blade. But victory cost him: his left arm now hung in tatters, white bone gleaming through shredded muscle.
"Finish him!" the remaining knights snarled. Their swords descended—
A Rowling guardsman threw himself between Alfard and death, arms locking around a knight's waist. "Run, Captain!" The knight's aura flared, reducing the loyalist to crimson mist. Alfard didn't hesitate. Channeling his last dregs of aura, he unleashed a whirlwind strike that bought him three precious seconds to vanish into the chaos.
Fractured Crown
"Send the cavalry!" Raymond pleaded with Alaric, watching Alfard's bloodied retreat. "Now, before their entire force—!"
The Crown Prince's gaze hardened. "General Junker's infantry will blunt their charge."
Raymond's heart turned to ice. Infantry against holy cavalry? Madness. Yet rebellion had its hierarchies. As Junker's men—conscripts dragged from taverns and farms—formed a ragged shield wall, the Holy Knights laughed. Their lances dipped.
Crunch.
The first collision sent limbs spiraling skyward. Junker himself fought like a cornered wolf, his spear impaling two knights before shattering. "For the Prince!" he howled, seizing a fallen banner to bludgeon a warhorse's skull. It bought minutes, not victory.
Alfard staggered to Raymond's side, breath ragged. "My Lord… the temple's Elders march behind them. White robes… the entire Council…"
Raymond closed his eyes. The Radiant Sanctuary hadn't just sent knights—they'd unleashed their Inquisitorial Guard, last seen during the Purge of Heretics a century past. This was no skirmish. This was holy war.
"Retreat," the Count whispered. "Gather what's left of our house. The Rowling name… must survive."
Alfard's remaining eye blazed. "And you?"
Raymond mounted his destrier, golden aura reigniting. "I'll buy time. Tell my son… tell Bennett…" He faltered, then drew his sword. "Go."
Echoes of the Ancients
As Alfard limped toward the alleys, a horn echoed—three long notes that silenced the battlefield. Through the smoke rode a figure draped in solar vestments, his staff glowing with captured starlight. High Elder Thalric, Voice of the Divine, raised his arms.
"Kneel," he intoned, the word vibrating through stone and bone alike. "Kneel before heaven's judgment."
Rebels dropped like wheat before a scythe. Even Alaric's warhorse buckled, its legs folding uncontrollably. Only Raymond remained standing, his Rowling aura defying the divine command.
"Never," he growled, spurring his horse toward the Elder.
The last thing Alfard saw before the light consumed everything was his lord's silhouette—a golden lion leaping into the sun.
Chapter 156 (Part II): Crown of Shadows
The Prince's Gambit
Crown Prince Alaric's jaw tightened as General Junker's forces clashed with the Holy Knights. His prized cavalry—1,000 warriors armored in obsidian steel, their mounts bred from northern warhorses—stood motionless behind him. Let them bleed, he thought coldly. Let the knights and Junker's fools grind each other to dust.
This cavalry was his true power. For years, he'd siphoned gold from border tariffs and bribed blacksmiths to forge their armor in secret. These men owed allegiance not to the crown, but to him. Junker and Raymond? Useful pawns, yet dangerous. What stopped them from turning their blades on him once the throne was won? History whispered of warlords devouring their masters. No—his cavalry would remain untouched, a blade poised at the throats of allies and enemies alike.
"Your Highness!" A rider gestured to the fray. "Junker's lines waver! Should we—"
"Wait." Alaric's smile chilled the air. "Our good general thrives under pressure."
Nearby, Count Raymond seethed. Blood streaked his tabard, Alfard slumped against him—the once-proud captain now a broken figure, his left arm a mangled ruin. "Idiot," Raymond hissed under his breath. Alaric's greed would doom them all. If the Holy Knights breached the square, no cavalry could salvage this coup. Yet voicing dissent meant treason.
"Your valor will be remembered," Alaric said airily, as if discussing tax rolls. "Every fallen Rowling warrior shall receive posthumous titles."
Raymond's knuckles whitened on his reins. Titles for corpses. How generous.
Web of Loyalty
Junker fought like a man possessed. His城卫军—conscripts in mismatched armor—formed a human dam against the holy tide. "Hold the line!" he roared, decapitating a knight with a swing of his notched broadsword. Behind him, his banner-bearer signaled frantically, redirecting reserves to plug gaps.
For a moment, it worked. The knights' advance slowed, their silver cloaks stained crimson. Yet the cost was grotesque. Bodies piled waist-high, their limbs tangled like lovers in death. Junker's own son—a boy of sixteen—lay trampled beneath hooves, his face unrecognizable.
"For the Prince!" Junker howled, driving his blade into a warhorse's chest. The beast collapsed, pinning its rider. A nearby knight lunged; Junker caught the sword with his bare hand, bones snapping as he rammed his dagger into the man's visor.
Across the square, Marquis Solomon seethed. His archers—smuggled into the capital via merchant galleys—had been obliterated in the knights' initial charge. "Curse you, Alaric!" he spat. His family's century-old rivalry with the Rowlings meant nothing now. Survival was all.
Echoes of Ambition
High atop the palace walls, Prince Chen observed the carnage with a scholar's detachment. "My brother clings to his cavalry like a miser to coins," he murmured to Bennett. "A fatal flaw. Had he unleashed them earlier, this battle would already be ours."
Bennett said nothing. His pulse thrummed as Chen turned away, exposing his neck. One strike. One strike saves my family. The dagger—a gift from the Lesters, its edge honed on elven whetstones—burned against his thigh.
Chen's voice cut through his turmoil. "You're pale, Bennett. Here." He pressed a crystal vial into the mage's hand. "Liquid Aether. The last of its kind. Drink."
The vial glowed faintly, its contents swirling like captured starlight. Bennett's throat tightened. This potion could restore his drained magic… or poison a king.
"Why?" The word escaped before Bennett could stop it.
Chen's smile held winter's edge. "Because trust is a rarer currency than loyalty."
Blade's Whisper
Bennett's fingers brushed the dagger. Now. Now.
Memories surged—his mother's laughter in Rowling Manor, his brother's clumsy swordplay, Raymond's gruff pride when Bennett first summoned fire. Traitor or savior?
Chen leaned closer, oblivious. "Drink. The final act approaches."
The dagger slid free, its tip grazing Chen's cloak—
—then clattered to the stones as Bennett seized the vial. Liquid Aether burned his throat, magic roaring back like a starved beast.
Chen watched, eyes unreadable. "Wisdom prevails."
Below, the Holy Knights' horns blared anew. From the temple district marched figures robed in white, their staves blazing. The High Council itself had taken the field.
Alaric's cavalry finally stirred—too late.
Chapter 157 (Part I): The Veil of Divinity
Shadows of the Divine
The air hung thick with the metallic tang of blood and burnt ozone. High atop the palace walls, Bennett's throat tightened as he watched the Holy Knights retreat—not in disarray, but with the chilling precision of a coiled serpent readying its final strike. His fingers twitched near the dagger hidden beneath his robe. Now. Do it now. But the moment dissolved like smoke as Prince Chen turned, his gaze piercing yet disarmingly gentle.
"Your Highness," Bennett rasped, the words scraping like gravel. "You… have another move prepared, don't you?"
Chen's smile bloomed, warm as summer dawn. "Dear Bennett, must I spell it all out? The Holy Knights' 500 warriors were but a spark to ignite chaos. Did you truly think I'd stake my crown on faith?"
Bennett's mind raced. Magic Guild. Holy Knights. What fourth force remains? The hesitation cost him. Two royal guards materialized at Chen's flanks—men with eyes like whetted steel and postures that whispered of a hundred silent kills. One murmured, "Your orders, Majesty?"
Below, the battlefield shifted.
Retreat of Saints
General Junker swayed atop a mound of corpses, his armor cracked like eggshells. The Holy Knights' withdrawal should have brought relief. Instead, dread pooled in his gut. Too clean. Too deliberate. His men—loyalists who'd butchered childhood friends for Alaric's cause—now trembled at the edges of the square. Some crossed themselves, lips moving in frantic prayer. Fools, Junker thought bitterly. You renounced your gods the moment you raised swords against the Temple.
Then came the horns—deep, mournful blasts that seemed to vibrate the cobblestones. From the retreating knights' ranks emerged two figures draped in moonlight-white robes. They floated, not walked, their feet grazing the air with unnatural grace. Junker's blood turned to ice. Temple Elders.
The legends crashed over him:
Elder Silas of the Burning Halo, who reduced a rebel army to ash with a whispered hymn.
Elder Marwyn the Unbroken, whose touch could shatter steel while healing flesh.
But which horrors stood before him now?
The Prince's Miscalculation
Crown Prince Alaric's sneer faltered as the Elders drifted into view. "Now," he hissed to the black-cloaked figure beside him. "Earn your damned soulstones."
The "knight" chuckled—a sound like rusted hinges. "At last, a worthy diversion." His armor collapsed into a heap, releasing a serpentine coil of shadow that slithered toward the Elders.
On the battlements, Chen laughed aloud. "Oh, Brother. Always the tactician, never the strategist." He gestured to the writhing darkness. "That pitiful necromancer is his sole magical asset. And now he's wasted it."
Bennett frowned. "But the Elders—"
"Are no mere spellcasters," Chen interrupted, eyes gleaming. "Watch. The Temple's 'divine arts' are about to humble us all."
Dance of Light and Void
The Elders halted ten paces from Junker's crumbling lines. The first—a gaunt man with eyes like polished onyx—raised skeletal hands. Golden sigils bloomed in the air, searing retinas yet casting no light. The second, a woman whose silver hair writhed as if alive, began to hum.
The necromancer's shadow struck—a spear of pure entropy meant to devour souls.
It never reached its mark.
The male Elder's sigils flared, transmuting the void-tendril into a shower of iridescent moths. The female's hum sharpened into a note that shattered every sword within fifty paces. Junker's men screamed as blade fragments became shrapnel, but the Holy Knights stood untouched behind a shimmering barrier.
"Behold," Chen whispered, rapt. "The Temple's true power lies not in steel, but in paradox. Healing that maims. Light that blinds reason. Faith made manifest as tyranny."
Bennett's dagger felt heavier. Gods. If even Chen fears them…
Echoes of Betrayal
Junker staggered backward as the humming Elder turned her gaze upon him. Memories flooded unbidden—his wife's laughter at their wedding feast, his son's first faltering steps, the sickening crunch of that same boy's skull beneath warhorses an hour past. No. No! He clutched his temples, but the visions intensified:
Alaric's promise: "The dukedom shall be yours."
Raymond's warning: "The prince's ambition will drown us all."
His own voice, cold as winter iron: "Loyalty is the only virtue."
The Elder's song crescendoed. Junker's sword arm rose of its own volition—not toward the enemy, but toward his throat.
Across the square, Alaric's necromancer howled as golden moths burrowed into his shadow-flesh. "Lies!" the wraith shrieked. "Your light is but another shade of—"
The male Elder clenched his fist. The necromancer's form imploded into a vortex of fluttering wings, each moth whispering a different heresy before dissolving.