The air inside the secret passageways was thick and unmoving. The remaining 300 knights crouched in silence, their swords drawn, breaths held. Only the distant crackle of torches and the faint clatter of boots above reminded them of the enemy lurking beyond the stone walls.
The knights waited, frozen, their muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike.
Then—
A sharp tap against the stone.
The signal.
Like specters of the dark, the knights burst from the hidden passageways into the grand halls of the castle.
With a roar of steel and fury, they leaped into battle, their blades slashing through the unsuspecting bandits.
The castle halls erupted into chaos.
Steel bit into flesh as the ambush began. Blood splashed against the walls, the floors, soaking into the crimson carpets. The bandits never saw it coming—some fell without even screaming, their throats slashed in a single stroke.
Panic spread.
Shouts of confusion rang out. Bandits scrambled to regroup, but the knights—trained warriors of the Eldian Kingdom—were merciless.
The corridors became a slaughterhouse. Every attempt to fight back only led to more blood spilling onto the stone floors.
Swords clashed, bodies fell, and in less than ten minutes, the halls of the once-captured castle were littered with the corpses of the invaders.
But at the heart of the massacre—
Magnar Eldrist Fritz stood unshaken.
Magnar Eldrist Fritz, leader of the Bloodborn Raiders, stood at the center of the Eldian throne room, surrounded by the bodies of fallen knights. His massive one-handed sword rested at his side, its steel shimmering with an unnatural glow.
A single knight remained standing before him.
Ackerman.
The knight's breath came slow and measured. He could feel the heat radiating from Magnar's flaming sword, the air itself shimmering from the sheer intensity of its heat.
"You think you're the first to try?" Magnar muttered, his voice calm. Amused.
Ackerman didn't answer.
He moved.
Their swords clashed in a violent arc of steel and flame. Sparks flew, steel grinding against steel, the force of the impact reverberating through the air.
Ackerman dodged a brutal downward slash, rolling to the side and countering with a swift thrust. But Magnar twisted away—too fast.
The bandit lord's flaming blade carved through the air, forcing Ackerman back with each swing. The sheer heat of the weapon was overwhelming, the air warping around the fire like a living entity.
Ackerman kept his movements sharp, testing Magnar's footwork. Searching for an opening.
Magnar pressed forward, his attacks relentless. A sharp arc of fire swept past, searing through Ackerman's sleeve, the pain flaring across his arm.
"Not bad," Magnar muttered.
Then, with bone-crushing force, he slammed his shoulder into Ackerman's chest, sending the knight stumbling hard against the stone wall.
Ackerman barely had time to recover before Magnar brought his sword down.
The flaming blade cleaved toward him—
But Ackerman rolled aside at the last second.
The sword smashed into the stone floor, flames licking the impact site.
For the first time, Magnar had overextended.
That was all Ackerman needed.
He lunged.
His blade pierced through Magnar's back, slipping between the ribs, past armor, sinking deep into flesh.
Magnar froze.
His burning sword flickered, his breath caught in his throat. He tried to swing again, but the strength was leaving his body.
Ackerman stepped back. With a sharp yank, he pulled his sword free.
Magnar dropped to his knees, fingers twitching around the hilt of his sword.
He let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle.
"Hah… figures…"
Then, he collapsed.
The battle was over.
The knights stood victorious, their armor glistening with blood. The last of the 150+ bandits had been slain.
The castle belonged to them once more.
But the smell of blood and fire still lingered.
And as Ackerman stood alone in the throne room, his blade still dripping with Magnar's blood.
Luke Ackerman, the knight who slayed Magnar Eldrist Fritz, stood over the lifeless corpse of the Bloodborn Raider leader. The battle was over, but the weight of war still hung heavy in the air. The stench of blood and burning flesh lingered, the castle eerily silent after the brutal ambush.
He turned to the worn-out knights, their armor dented, their faces smeared with dirt and blood.
"Have you cleared the entire castle?" Luke asked, his voice steady but laced with exhaustion.
"Yes, Luke. Your plan worked," one of the knights responded, breathing heavily.
Luke gave a firm nod. "Good. Our priority now is to find the king. He had four knights with him—he must be in the secret passageways. I'll take four of you with me. The rest of you, find the villagers. They should be at the desert shore, preparing to seal."
"But Luke," a female knight stepped forward, worry evident in her voice, "if they're already at the shore, it's too late for us to reach them in time."
A male knight clenched his fists. "Our families are there! If they seal without us, we won't know where they go!"
Murmurs of uncertainty spread like wildfire among the knights. Their exhaustion and fear had begun to crack their discipline, and soon arguments broke out. Some insisted they should head straight for the desert shore, while others refused to leave without the king.
Luke exhaled sharply. This wasn't the time for hesitation.
With one swift motion, he grabbed a nearby shield and slammed his sword against it, the deafening clang echoing through the stone corridors.
The knights fell silent, their heads snapping towards him.
"GO NOW!" Luke's voice thundered with unwavering authority. "We have families there! If they seal, we have no guarantee we can ever find them!MOVE OUT!"
The urgency in his voice snapped them back to their senses. The knights, though exhausted, exchanged determined glances before rallying.
"You four, you're coming with me," Luke commanded, selecting his group.
Without hesitation, the knights split up, some rushing towards the desert shore, while Luke and his small squad turned towards the depths of the castle.
The mission wasn't over yet. The king was still out there.