The Regressed Heir of Ravencrest

Ethan stood calmly, even as the suffocating pressure of Peter’s Knight Lord aura pressed against the stone floor, washing over him like an invisible wave.

"I didn’t think Sir Peter would work for someone like Count Thorn," Ethan said, his voice smooth and steady as he looked directly into the mercenary leader’s eyes.

"What do you know, kid?" Peter dismissed him, his broadsword resting heavily on his shoulder.

"I think it would be better if you withdrew, Sir," Ethan continued calmly. "This is not your battle, and you don’t have to risk your life for someone like Thorn."

Peter’s eyes sparked with a sharp flick of interest. Because Ethan wore the subtle, dark-attuned concealing artifact he had looted from the Eclipse Cultists, Peter couldn’t sense his realm. Yet, looking at the youth’s posture, the way he stood unbothered beneath a Knight Lord’s presence... something didn’t add up.

"Kid, I don’t know why someone like you is here..." Peter said, his raspy voice dipping lower. "But let me suggest you withdraw and save your life. Take the Countess along with you—at least you can walk away alive. But if you still insist on fighting, I’ll have no choice but to kill you."

Around them, the three hundred mercenaries stared at the pair in hushed silence, stunned to see their legendary leader conversing with the nameless youth who had just systematically wiped out Thorn’s entire vanguard. Opposite them, Lady Luna, Commander Valen, and Teresa shifted into tight defensive stances, their grips tightening on their weapons as the atmospheric tension reached a boiling point.

"Do you really mean that...?" Ethan asked softly.

His hand reached down, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of the Eternal Sovereign Blade. With a low, metallic shhhk, he drew the dark sword from its sheath.

"You’re a strange one, kid," Peter said, his broadsword dropping from his shoulder into a battle-ready guard. "Let’s see what you’re really hiding."

The moment the last word left his lips, both of them exploded forward at the exact same time.

BOOM!

They blurred through the air as twin streaks of motion, the sheer kinetic displacement cracking the stone floor beneath their boots.

CLANG!

Ethan’s black blade collided head-on with Peter’s heavy broadsword, sending a blinding shower of yellow sparks cascading into the damp night air. The instant steel touched steel, a heavy, bone-jarring shockwave traveled straight up Ethan’s arms—the brutal, crushing weight of a Peak Knight Lord’s raw physical force. Internal pain flared sharply in Ethan’s chest, but his expression remained a mask of pure ice. His boots slid backward several inches across the stone.

In the next instant, the passage erupted into a blur of steel. Peter’s attacks came with overwhelming force, each swing carrying enough power to shatter stone, while Ethan relied on timing, footwork, and the instincts forged through countless battles to avoid meeting that strength head-on.

With their leader engaged, the mercenaries surged forward through the gatehouse threshold like a dark, feral wave. Unlike Count Thorn’s rigid, poorly trained house guards, these men were battle-hardened veterans who fought with unpredictable, lethal efficiency.

"Shields up! Hold the choke point!" Commander Valen bellowed.

House Bluemoon answered the feral assault with terrifying, synchronized discipline.

At the absolute center of the front, Lady Luna moved through the mercenary line like a blizzard incarnate. Her snow-white cloak fluttered pristine against the smoke, untouched by a single speck of dirt or blood. Her frost-blue aura coated her hands and spear, creating an ethereal halo around her motionless frame.

A squad of four heavy mercenary skirmishers rushed her at once, their heavy axes swinging in a cross-pattern to lock her spear.

Luna didn’t even step back. She pivoted on her heel with fluid, effortless grace, the butt of her spear sweeping out in a blinding arc.

CRACK! CRACK!

The pommel struck two men across their helmets, shattering their visors and dropping them instantly into unconsciousness. Without breaking her momentum, her left hand darted forward, her fingers bursting with sub-zero frost. She touched the breastplates of the remaining two skirmishers. Instantly, frost aura encased their shoulders and arm joints solid, welding their armor plates together and immobilizing them entirely without spilling a drop of their blood.

"She could have killed us..." one of the frozen men muttered, his voice trembling.

She glided between blades with absolute perfection, her awareness unmatched. Swords passed inches from her armor without ever making contact. Every thrust, sweep, and strike from her spear was a masterclass in non-lethal precision—breaking wrist bones, sweeping feet out from under heavy shields, and freezing weapon hilts directly to the cobblestones.

The mercenaries scattered around her recoiled in sheer bewilderment. They were ready for lethal steel; they were trained to trade life for life. But watching the Countess dismantle veteran squads without taking a single scratch—or taking a single life—left them deeply unsettled.

Nearby, Rune moved like a silver phantom through the chaotic melee.

A mercenary squad leader was struggling up from the ground, his sword lost in the fray. Rune landed beside him with a soft growl. The mercenary froze, expecting the beast’s razor-sharp fangs to tear into his throat.

Instead, Rune simply slammed a heavy, padded paw into the side of the mercenary’s helmet with force, knocking the man cold instantly.

In the very next heartbeat, Rune’s ears twitched. He spun 180 degrees, his jaw snapping shut with lethal, bone-crunching force around the neck of a Count Thorn house guard who was trying to sneak up behind a wounded Bluemoon soldier.

CRUNCH!

Rune tossed the dead Thorn soldier aside, his cold, intelligent eyes sweeping the battleline.

Through their bond, Rune felt Ethan’s intent.

The silver cub’s eyes shifted toward the nearest Thorn soldier.

A moment later, the man’s scream vanished beneath Rune’s jaws.

A few paces away, a young Bluemoon guard disarmed a mercenary recruit with a quick hilt-strike to the wrist. The young guard held his short-sword at the recruit’s collarbone.

"Drop it!" the guard shouted.

The mercenary recruit, surrounded by his unconscious comrades and the corpses of Thorn’s soldiers, looked at the living, unharmed mercenaries around him, swallowed hard, and tossed his dagger to the stone floor, raising his hands in surrender.

However, the battlefield quickly shifted as the atmosphere near the center of the threshold compressed violently. Two towering figures in pitch-black plate armor shoved their way through the mercenary ranks, their weapons radiating dense, heavy aura.

Sir Peter’s two trusted lieutenants—Knight Commander Drake and Knight Commander Corbin—had entered the fray.

"Move aside!" Drake roared, his massive, two-handed battleaxe glowing with a muddy, volatile brown earth-aura. Beside him, Corbin unsheathed twin heavy broadswords, his aura melting the snow surrounding them.

These were seasoned Knight Commanders who had survived dozens of campaigns alongside Peter.

"Valen! Teresa!" Luna’s calm, melodious voice cut through the chaos. "Take them down!"

"On it!" Teresa growled, stepping forward with her broadsword held in a low guard.

Commander Valen adjusted his grip on his spear, his jaw set in a hard, determined line. "Keep your focus, Teresa."

"I know!" Teresa barked, her eyes locked on Knight Commander Drake.

The two duels erupted simultaneously, separating from the general melee into two brutal, high-stakes clashes.

Valen took a deep breath and stepped onto the ground as he calmly analyzed the mercenary in front of him.

Corbin moved with terrifying speed for a heavily armored man. His twin broadswords whistled through the damp fog, weaving a dense net of steel.

CLANG! CLANG-CLANG!

Valen’s spear thrust forward, the iron tip deflecting Corbin’s primary blade. But Corbin was an expert dual-wielder. Using the momentum of Valen’s parry, Corbin brought his second broadsword down in a brutal overhead chop aimed straight for Valen’s shoulder.

Valen saw the opening.

One thrust beneath the arm would have ended the fight.

Instead, he twisted away and redirected his spear toward Corbin’s wrist.

The decision cost him.

SLASH!

Corbin’s secondary blade infused with aura grazed Valen’s ribs, cutting through his leather gambeson and leaving a jagged, bleeding line across his flank.

Valen gritted his teeth, his expression unyielding despite the sharp, burning pain. He didn’t retreat. Taking advantage of Corbin’s overextended swing, Valen stepped directly into his guard. He wrapped his gauntleted left arm around Corbin’s sword-arm, locking it against his chest, and slammed the heavy iron butt of his spear with full force against Corbin’s elbow joint.

CRACK!

"AAAGH!" Corbin roared in agony as his elbow dislocated, his broadsword clattering onto the stone.

Before Corbin could draw a side-dagger with his remaining hand, Valen swept his leg behind Corbin’s knees, driving the Knight Commander face-first into the cobblestones. Valen pressed his iron boot firmly onto Corbin’s shoulder, pinning him down.

"Yield!" Valen panted, blood dripping from his side onto his armor, his spear tip resting inches from Corbin’s neck. "Or the next strike breaks your spine!"

Corbin, clutching his ruined arm, panted heavily, his eyes wide with shock. "Y-Yield... I yield!"

On the other side of the pass, Teresa’s duel against Drake was a contest of pure, unrelenting force.

Teresa moved utilizing precise footwork and dodged by turning her body whenever Drake tried to hit a vital point.

Drake’s battleaxe came down.

Teresa saw the opening beneath his raised arm.

Her blade could have entered his throat.

She changed the angle at the last instant.

Drake’s battleaxe rained down continuous, mountain-crushing blows. Every time the heavy axe struck Teresa’s broadsword, shockwaves rippled through the stone beneath her boots.

BOOM! CLANG!

"What’s the matter, woman?!" Drake bellowed, his brown earth-aura flaring wildly. "You fight like a veteran, but you’re pulling your edge! Are you looking down on me?!"

Drake delivered a devastating attack with his battleaxe infused with dense aura. Teresa raised her broadsword overflowing with aura to parry it, but the mercenary used an unconventional attack by kicking with his iron boots as she parried.

THUD!

Teresa was launched back five feet, her boots skidding across the wet stone. A sharp pain shot through her stomach, and a trickle of crimson leaked from the corner of her mouth as her internal organs recoiled from the blunt impact.

"Teresa!" Valen called out, having just secured his own victory.

"Stay back! He’s mine!" Teresa spat, wiping the blood from her chin with her forearm, her eyes burning with fierce, unyielding aggression.

Drake charged forward, lifting his heavy axe for a crushing vertical execution strike. He left his entire torso wide open—confident that Teresa would be forced to dodge or die.

Teresa didn’t dodge.

Instead of thrusting her blade straight through Drake’s exposed throat—which would have killed him instantly—she stepped forward into the path of the falling axe. She tilted her broadsword at a sharp angle, catching the heavy axe shaft near the grip to alter its trajectory.

SPARKS!

The axe blade grazed her shoulder pauldron, tearing off the iron plate and biting deep into her shoulder muscle, though she had already infused her aura around the area before the axe could drive deeper. Blood ran down her arm, soaking the leather beneath her gauntlet.

Ignoring the blinding pain in her shoulder, Teresa utilized the split second while Drake’s axe was embedded in her pauldron. She surged forward, bringing the iron pommel of her broadsword around in a blinding, full-body spin.

BANG!

The solid iron pommel smashed directly into the side of Drake’s helmet visor. The concussive impact shattered the visor hinges and sent a sickening ringing sound echoing through Drake’s skull.

Drake stumbled backward, his vision spinning wildly, his hands dropping the battleaxe as he clutched his head.

Before he could regain his balance, Teresa leaped forward, her good arm wrapping around his neck in a tight chokehold while her knee smashed repeatedly into his lower back. She brought him crashing to his knees, locking her blade across his throat.

"Move... and I take your head!" Teresa growled into his ear, her chest heaving as blood dripped from her wounded shoulder.

Drake, dazed, bleeding from his nose, and completely immobilized, let out a raspy breath. Still unwilling to lose to a woman, he struggled fiercely to break free—until Teresa struck him hard on the side of his head, knocking him cold.

Meanwhile, Luna continued disarming any mercenaries who posed a threat to her soldiers while ruthlessly cutting down the remaining Thorn soldiers who attempted to force their way through the threshold.

Throughout the chaotic, high-intensity clashes, Lady Luna’s clear blue eyes occasionally darted toward the center of the gatehouse pass.

Even while disarming mercenaries with effortless grace, her hyper-tuned aura sense tracked the terrifying, high-speed flashes of Ethan and Peter’s duel. Every clash of their blades sent a tremor through the stone floor. She saw Ethan dodging raw, lethal strikes by a hair’s breadth, his dark blade deflecting blows that should have crushed a Great Knight into paste.

She didn’t let herself get distracted. She kept her perimeter pristine, ensuring no stray mercenary or remaining Thorn guard could interrupt Ethan’s duel.

As the two mercenary Knight Commanders lay disarmed and defeated on the stone, the remaining mercenary line fractured completely.

The three hundred mercenaries—men who had fought across dozens of bloody battlefields—were falling into utter disarray. They weren’t breaking because they were being slaughtered; they were breaking because of the strange, terrifying mercy being forced upon them.

Every time a mercenary fell, expecting a cold blade to his heart, he was merely disarmed, knocked out, or bound in frost. Meanwhile, any House Thorn soldier who dared step into the threshold was instantly executed by Rune’s fangs or Bluemoon’s archers.

"What... what kind of army is this?!" a mercenary squad leader screamed, stumbling back over his unconscious comrades. "Why aren’t they killing us?!"

CLANG!

In the center of the passage, Sir Peter delivered a heavy, sweeping parry that created a temporary three-foot gap between himself and Ethan.

Peter was breathing heavily, his scarred face dripping with sweat, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and sheer disbelief.

As a veteran Knight Lord, his sensory awareness was hyper-tuned to the surrounding battlefield. Mid-fight, while exchanging high-speed, deadly blows with this unfathomable black-armored youth, Peter had been tracking the sounds of the battle behind him.

He heard the crunch of armor, the groans of pain, the clash of steel... but he didn’t hear the death rattles of his men.

Peter glanced sideways for a fraction of a second, taking in the full, surreal picture: dozens of his mercenaries lay scattered across the cobblestones, bleeding from broken wrists, fractured knees, or bruised temples, yet every single one of them was still breathing. Both of his trusted Knight Commanders—Drake and Corbin—were disarmed and captured alive. In stark contrast, Count Thorn’s house guards lay dead in pools of their own blood.

Peter’s chest heaved under his heavy iron breastplate. Something deep beneath Peter’s ribs suddenly throbbed. His grip tightened around the broadsword for the briefest instant. Then the pain faded beneath the heat of battle.

He looked back at Ethan, who stood unmoving in the center of the drifting smoke, his dark blade held steady, his dark eyes unfathomable and cold.

"You..." Peter muttered, his raspy voice shaking with a sudden, profound realization. "What are you doing?!"