Chapter 14: Heroism

A huge hole was blasted open in the dark clouds, and countless fireballs were plummeting from the high sky.

Figures crawled out from the rubble and scorched earth.

They neither shouted nor cried out; in silence, they drew their weapons from the corners of the streets.

They gathered together, forming battle formations to face the Demon Army crawling out of the River.

A man without arms hunched over to carry an archer who had lost both legs; two one-armed spearmen shared a single Infantry Spear.

None of these crippled soldiers retreated.

They stood like a silent and towering fortress, like an unshakable mountain.

They advanced, their footsteps echoing as if treading on hardened iron.

Survivors continuously emerged from the ruins, clearing away debris and picking up weapons to join them.

By the time they reached the Stone Bridge, their ranks had swelled to a hundred.

Though only a hundred, they surged forward like a flood capable of overwhelming everything in their path.

From afar, Ophelia gazed at the solemn and silent formation, as if staring at a towering mountain.

The limping Vagrant Knight stood alone at the bridgehead.

His cane was his skinny horse; the iron pipe, his spear.

His tattered clothes billowed in the fierce wind like a cloak.

He raised his iron pipe and staggered forward to charge at the Demon Army.

Amidst a roar thick with the Northern Sun accent, this stubborn knight abandoned by the kingdom rekindled the last remaining heroism of a great tide, launching his one-and-only Reverse Charge Formation.

Behind him seemed to flutter a Banner—that of the countless troops who once followed him on another battlefield.

Amid the echoing blasts, the boy’s shouts came intermittently.

“No force can extinguish eyes burning like coal; no sound can drown out the roar of rage; from the fireworks sprout buds of revival—life must be wrested from death!”

Ophelia looked back.

In the chapel-like attic, a boy held the Banner high.

It was composed of sword, spear, shield, bow, and staff—the Expeditionary Banner of the Braves.

He shouted poems from an unknown source, each word soaked with tears and blood.

The knight, the crippled soldiers, the boy—they together played a Heroic Symphony of the Favored Village.

They might be destitute, stooped, disabled, or immature, but like the boy’s hymn, they were fighting to seize life from death.

They were people living in the mud, yet like the Seed Under Iron Wings, they possessed resilient vitality.

The blood of the Northern Sun boiled within Ophelia’s veins.

Countless Magic Runes gathered at her fingertips; countless azure lights flew toward the river, bringing Extreme Cold like the Northern Snowfield upon the royal capital.

The river froze at an incredible speed, then, as if alive, grew upward to form an Ice Wall.

Monsters unable to climb ashore were instantly frozen into statues.

The Vagrant Knight laughed loudly.

Suddenly, he turned his head, and those murky eyes flared with a sharp light that seemed to pierce a hundred steps to where Ophelia stood.

In his gaze were joy, surprise, the inevitability of expectation, but above all, a reckless determination without regrets.

Though his hunched figure resembled a comical clown who mistook windmills for giants and dared to challenge them, Ophelia swore he was the bravest and most legendary knight she had ever seen.

His silhouette was worthy of inscription in any Epic of Heroes.

Charging backward, breaking through the formation, risking death.

Under sunlight piercing through heavy clouds, his tattered clothes transformed into a billowing cloak, his cane became a sturdy white horse with four hooves, and his spear gleamed with sharpness.

No beggar stood there—only a dashing knight on the bridge.

Anna seemed to see herself in those countless figures who lived on the edge of death and life.

Each one was like Anna, or rather, Anna carried the shadow of each of them.

Suddenly, Ophelia felt she understood Anna for the first time.

The most terrible thing about war is how it twists sacrifice and devotion into something taken for granted.

Whenever a battle falters even slightly, people hasten to dissociate themselves by shifting all responsibility for the war onto those who fight desperately on the front lines.

To justify shirking responsibility, people shout of justice, using law and morality to heap the suffering they should bear onto the shoulders of the disabled and the weak.

They call it Judgment.

They call it Guilty As Deserved.

But those poor souls who endure wounds from sword and spear, who carry the will of fallen comrades and fight for survival, their spines are bent under burdens of injustice not theirs to bear.

Yet they remain silent, enduring, pressing forward until they fall.

The world does not allow them to keep their courage, but there are always those who walk alone against the tide.

They hide their courage and will, turning weakness into camouflage, lurking in rain-damp corners behind the glitter.

Perhaps with time, their battle-hardened bodies will soften, their resilient and brave eyes will fade.

But if one day they find a reason, a reason worth dying for, the soul of a hero will awaken within their bodies—they will be reborn from ashes.

Anna is such a person.

So when she said she “liked herself,” it was probably because she had become the reason she could wield her sword anew.

Just as she said, she would become her own sword for a new purpose, her broken blade reforged in flames named love.

She herself had extinguished her fire, trampled her own love.

The coward she had always been was herself.

Truly… terrible.

Ophelia turned back toward the dark, lightless hut.

Was Anna still inside?

She would no longer fight for herself.

“What are you dawdling for, Ophelia!”

A swordlight streaked past like a white rainbow; a skeleton soldier attempting to sneak attack was cleaved in two by a broken sword.

Nervous and off-balance, Ophelia stumbled.

Before she could regain her footing and fall among the skeleton soldiers, a slender but strong arm wrapped around her waist.

It was Anna.

Without thinking, countless Magic Runes formed ice shards that flew from Ophelia’s palm, piercing every skeleton behind Anna.

“What are you thinking! This is the Battlefield; distraction means death!”

Anna’s pale brows furrowed tightly.

It was the first time Ophelia had seen her angry.

“Hold your ground!”

Anna pushed Ophelia away and stood firm, sword raised against the sneaking skeleton soldiers, cleaving through yellowed bones.

But before she could turn, a slanting sword stroke cut through her shirt, tearing flesh on her upper arm.

Blood stained the white sleeve, but Anna seemed not to feel the pain.

She shook the blood from her arm and swung her sword again at the encircling skeletons.

“Anna…”

Ophelia didn’t know how to face Anna now.

“Save your words for after the fight! Can you fight? If not, get to the back!”

That was… her blood was Northern Sun blood, magic was her gift, and fighting her instinct!

“Stop showing off!”

Ophelia suddenly shoved Anna away.

A sword of solid ice quickly formed in her hand.

One hand raised to block with the sword, the palm of the other rapidly gathered white Magic Runes.

She was concentrating massive magic power.

Even Anna, poor at magic, could clearly feel the flow of magic around them.

Boom!

The explosive magic was unleashed at point-blank range, requiring high control and the talent to wield magic like an extension of the body.

Ophelia was a genius in explosive magic.

A dazzling flash erupted among the ruins.

The shockwave of magical force blasted skeletons within a radius of dozens of steps to bits.

Yet no one within the radius was harmed; around them lingered ice-blue Magic Shields brimming with cold.

The moment Ophelia finished the explosion, she cast a shield on every person.

She was powerful—her magical prowess no less than that of the Staff Hero.

Anna saw for the first time Ophelia’s Northern Sun aura, majestic as a general’s.

She was like a young lion cub.

Though timid and fearful, prone to retreat, faced with a great enemy she could still roar and lead everyone in a counterattack, guarding all she wanted like a king.

She was a young king—imperfect, yet still a king.

Her figure shone like the sun, dispelling the darkness gathering anew in Anna’s heart.

Indeed, she still liked Ophelia.

Or rather, it was wonderful to have come to like Ophelia.

She was awkward, timid, and evasive—but like her own parents, brave and strong.

So it was up to her to break through Ophelia’s awkwardness, to chase away her timidity.

If she tried to run, she would catch up, stand by her side, meet her hopes, say she liked her over and over, and kiss her repeatedly.

“What are you dawdling for, Anna!”

A heavy blow struck Anna’s shoulder, and she staggered—but saw Ophelia walking ahead, beckoning.

“Don’t just stand there, follow me!”

Her radiant figure made Anna unable to resist following.

“As you wish, my lady.”

Anna smiled, striding after Ophelia.

Her broken sword was reborn in this moment.

Behind them, the boy held the Banner high.

The surviving crippled soldiers instinctively gathered behind the Banner.

Their footsteps were as firm as when they first came, following their leader.

“Ophelia Castellan!”

People shouted her full name.

On the girl leading them all, they saw the light of victory.