Amber Sword

The wind above the ruins fell into Stasis in an Instant.

A total of twelve Light Doors hung suspended in midair, and then a three-tiered Array of upper, middle, and lower levels extended out from the Light Doors; accompanied by dancing White characters, twenty mysterious figures clad in gold-and-Red robes and wearing silver masks strode forth from within.

Each held a Longsword in the shape of Fire.

Had Brand been here, he would surely have recognized these Templars of the Holy Temple of Arbitration; this was one of the most peculiar formations of the Flame Temple. Every one of these Knights had been personally trained by a true Flame Favored Knight, and their true combat power often far surpassed most powerhouses of the same Rank.

Most crucial of all, their mission was often only one—to carry out heresy Judgement.

Count Vitojin lifted his head, gazing at these Templars—

Space Magic... this was the highest Forbidden Technique of the Flame Temple, famed as the path to the Land of Infinity. These Spells, born in the Saint War, had long since become the highest secrets of the great Temples, and were among the very few kinds of Space Magic still remaining in Vaun today.

This was also the first time he had personally witnessed such a miracle. When he saw the Flame Temple of the Kruz Empire deliver twenty Templars from the main Temple to a battlefield thousands of miles away in one stroke, his mind went utterly blank.

As a soldier, he understood all too well what this meant—this was Strength truly beyond all resistance.

Yet he even forgot that the Eruein had once faced such Strength head-on, and had once achieved brilliant victories. In those days the Temple had been even mightier, and Erune had only just been founded, like an infant still in its swaddling cloth.

Vitokin felt as if he ought to be trembling, even giving rise to a faint regret. For these Templars to seize the authority of Erune would be as easy as turning over their hands. Could they, these nobles, truly preserve their own power?

Until the sound of footsteps treading on stone and Fragments rose behind him, startling him back to himself.

Vitokin turned his head, and immediately saw an Old Knight with snow-white hair, one deep, one shallow step, walking over with his hand resting on his sword hilt. Two other Knights accompanied him. The other was dressed in a somewhat faded, deep-blue, old-style Cavalry Uniform—it was the aging Commander of the White Lion Legion, Riedel.

The old man too was lifting his head to look at the sky. The Count hurried to his feet, wanting to greet him, but the old man did not so much as glance at him, walking straight past.

Vitokin’s face flushed Red and then turned White. This damned old ghost truly did not hold them in the slightest regard. He ground his teeth and cursed in secret. The White Lion Legion might be the first of the Kingdom, but what of it? In the end they still failed to safeguard the Lion Heart Sword.

Playing the whore yet still wanting to erect an arch of virtue, tch! What’s so remarkable about them! In his heart he tore away the nobles’ veneer of refinement, unable to stop himself from cursing viciously.

On the Count’s face, this dissatisfaction manifested as a disdainful snort.

But Reid seemed not to hear.

The Old Knight appeared to be deep in thought. He lightly pressed the Ivy pattern on his own sword hilt—this was a Cavalry sword of the thirty-second standard issue, the Ivy emblem on the Sword all but worn away. Since that war, this Sword had accompanied him for nearly half a century. Every time he buckled on this Sword, it could bring back to him that era when the gentle wind swept across the Highland, all that had passed, drifting away in its wake.

The young men of the White Lion were still arguing, and even that child Karen, with tears in his eyes, had begged him to lead the White Lion away from here, away from this land of sorrow. Soldiers must possess the Courage to face Death and grief head-on. Confronted with a choice, those youths had given their finest answer; they had given meaning to the value of the White Lion.

Yet as for whether the White Lion Legion ought to cast aside its faith, the Old Knight no longer had the Strength to haggle over it. In his eyes burned a deep and steadfast Fire, as if it were the last sliver of Strength supporting this aged body.

He stared ahead for a long time—

The Kingdom, or the Lion Heart Sword.

Ancestor King, the time left to the Eruein to choose is already scarce. The Holy War is at hand, Madara crouches by the bedside like a tiger watching its prey. Erune must not sink into prolonged civil strife; ruin lies just before our eyes...

And this land, this homeland where the forebears shed their Blood, is the soil that bears the dreams of the Eruein. So long as this land endures, Erune will one day see the Light again.

He himself was already too old, and the White Lion Legion, like him, was growing older with each passing day. They had aged to the point where they could no longer shoulder that banner, yet no matter what, he still wished to stake everything once more.