Chapter 1: The Final Elbow

(Man! hhhh, what can I say? Manba out!)

(Brain Storage)

The cold, bone-chilling mud was swallowing his last traces of warmth inch by inch.

A Scarlet Cavalry Lance pierced through his abdomen.

Nailing him firmly to this scorched earth, ravaged by the flames of war.

The spear tip was stained with blood, the shaft icy cold.

Engraved upon it was the Badge of the Blood Clan’s Eternal Night Empire.

The edges of his vision began to darken.

With every breath, blood bubbles surged in his lungs.

His unit, the Holy Radiance Alliance’s Third Gryphon Knights, was finished.

Annihilated.

A bait force sent out to draw enemy fire.

That was their fate.

Ridiculous.

Truly ridiculous.

His consciousness sank into darkness, but his thoughts flooded back like a broken dam.

Five years ago, in the Valley of Weeping Blood.

Another catastrophic defeat, equally horrific.

His hundred-man squad had received a suicide order:

Feign an attack on the Blood Clan’s flank to buy time for the main force to retreat.

And he, Ignatius, was always the rearguard.

Forever the last line.

***

In the chaos of battle, he lost contact with the main force, wandering blindly into a deathly silence shrouded in blood mist.

An enemy’s temporary command camp.

Tents were askew, bodies strewn everywhere; it had clearly just suffered a raid.

Then, he saw her.

A white-haired girl.

Humming a cheerful yet eerie tune he’d never heard before.

At her feet lay the chest of a Holy Radiance Alliance Knight Commander.

The emblem of the Order of the Sword of Judgment stood out glaringly.

Her hands were pale, slender, almost delicate.

But it was this hand that, with a gentle pinch above the head of the Knight Commander who had made one last desperate resistance—

“Crack.”

The crisp sound of bones breaking.

Red and white splattered all over her.

She didn’t flinch; instead, she extended a crimson tongue to lick the blood from the corner of her mouth, her face filled with utter satisfaction.

Ignatius felt as if all the blood in his body had stopped flowing.

He recognized her.

Blood Clan’s eldest princess, Avira.

A thousand-year-old battle maniac, a monster who delighted in torture and slaughter.

At that moment, Ignatius realized with chilling clarity that he hadn’t stumbled upon an enemy—

He had stumbled upon death itself.

The Honor of the Knight? Imperial Loyalty? Oath to Stand Against Evil?

In the face of overwhelming power, all were mere jokes.

The instinct to survive overwhelmed everything.

He did not draw his sword to charge, nor did he roar in defiance.

He made the most undignified, yet the most correct choice.

Ignatius suddenly threw himself down, rolling into a shell crater filled with corpses.

He grabbed the blood-soaked mud and smeared it all over his face and armor.

Then dragged over a still-warm War Dead to cover himself.

He closed his eyes, held his breath, and slowed his heartbeat to the lowest possible.

Footsteps approached, stepping over the sea of corpses.

Ignatius smelled the rusty, rotting stench of blood mingled with a strange sweet scent clinging to her.

Her military boots stepped on the face of the corpse right beside his head.

His heart pounded violently in his chest.

As long as she looked down—

As long as she checked the battlefield—

He was dead.

Yet, she did not.

She seemed to be merely passing by, about to walk over his “grave.”

Now!

Avira’s foot was about to lift, her body’s center of gravity shifting forward, the moment of weakest defense.

Ignatius, still pretending to be dead, sprang up!

He did not draw his sword.

To a monster like this, drawing a sword was a declaration: “I’m going to kill you.”

He did not roar.

He poured all his strength, all his will to survive, into the Steel Elbow Gauntlet on his right arm.

His muscles, trained for years, tensed to the extreme, Dou Qi burning inside him in a near self-destructive frenzy.

At the elbow tip, it condensed into a glaring white point.

Without hesitation.

Using all his strength, he struck this life-or-death blow hard against Avira’s temple!

“Bang!”

A heavy, muffled crash.

The elbow strike hit true.

A dull clang echoed through the bones of his arm like a mountain colliding, sharp pain tearing through his nerves.

Avira’s humming stopped abruptly.

A short gasp of surprise escaped her throat.

Her red eyes, always blazing with madness, revealed shock for the first time.

Her body jolted violently, staggering back two steps.

Success!

Ignatius felt no joy, not even a glance back at his strike’s result.

The moment his elbow hit, he used the recoil to awkwardly roll away.

Without looking back, he dashed in the opposite direction from Avira.

Towards the swamp that could cover all traces, running for his life.

He knew—that was his only chance.

The single second he’d carved out from the scythe of death with his life.

His thoughts receded like a tide.

The cold reality wrapped around him again.

His vision plunged into complete darkness. He knew—he was going to die.

This time, no swamp to save him.

But then, a face—a face that had haunted his nightmares for five years—

Loomed above him, blocking the dim sky.

Still that defiant shoulder-length white hair.

Still those crimson, blood-like eyes.

Avira.

She had come.

To claim the life he had narrowly escaped five years ago.

Ignatius twitched the corner of his mouth.

***

Attempting a mocking smile, but only pulling the bloodied grime on his face.

He waited for the sword to pierce his heart, ending this cursed nightmare.

But Avira did not draw her sword.

No vengeful delight, no murderous excitement showed on her face.

She crouched down, curiously inspecting him.

Her slender fingers poked the dirt on his face.

She tilted her head and smiled.

The smile was pure as a child’s, yet so fanatical it chilled him to the bone.

“Hehe, found you.”

Her voice carried a childish joy.

“My little mouse who runs around everywhere…”

Several tall Blood Clan soldiers approached silently, their heavy armor radiating suffocating pressure.

Ignatius closed his eyes, bracing for the final humiliation or interrogation.

But the expected torment did not come.

They skillfully withdrew the lance that had pierced his abdomen, bringing forth a gush of warm blood.

Then, a black ointment was swiftly applied to his mortal wound, writhing like a living creature on its own.

A cold sensation followed, and the heart-wrenching pain rapidly faded.

Their movements were careful.

The easing pain and massive blood loss soon robbed Ignatius of consciousness.

Before plunging into endless darkness, only one huge, absurd question remained in his mind.

Why?

Why would this mad princess, whom he had once ambushed—

Go to such lengths to… save him?