The inn, without question, had become the front line.
The assassins of the Armorless Union had already fired a signal flare into the night sky. Their main force would soon arrive—and with them, the Darksteels himself. Margaret knew the truth: against him, she had no choice but to avoid battle.
She had dragged Shining and Liz into this after all. With a quiet sigh, Margaret lunged at a nearby assassin, her knight's sword flashing with radiant light. The blade split the enemy's crossbow in two and carved a deep gash across his torso, sending him collapsing unconscious to the ground.
Even now, she couldn't bring herself to take a life.
Breaking through the siege and escaping the town seemed nearly impossible. There were only a few vehicles here—mainly cargo trucks. Too slow, built for hauling, not for flight. And what villager would sell their livelihood to her, even in desperation?
Yes, she could take one by force. But that thought never once crossed Margaret's mind.
"Hey, what's with this woman?!"
"Fall back!"
"Careful—Arts!"
Margaret froze for a moment as she saw Shining's sword flare with light. Incoming arrows were split midair and clattered harmlessly to the ground.
It wasn't Originium Arts. Nor was it some Arts of the sword itself. It was a cut—razor-sharp, impossibly swift.
"Nearl, are you hurt?"
Margaret let out a shaky breath. "No… you saved me. Thank you."
There was no time to dwell. She planted herself in front of the inn's door, sword raised toward the advancing shadows. Behind her stood Shining, calm and resolute, and inside, Liz sat quietly in her wheelchair. Fragile as she was, combat was impossible for her. At most, she could offer a little medical support. Margaret would never let her be exposed to danger.
In the firelight, Margaret must have looked every bit the radiant knight—armor gleaming gold, sword raised high. But she knew the truth. She was already at her limit. She could retreat no further. Worse, she had doomed not just herself, but also her two new companions, who now stood in peril only because of her.
"Done chatting, are we?"
The roar of an engine cut through the chaos. A tall assassin in a black coat vaulted off his motorcycle, landing in plain sight. He didn't strike from the shadows, didn't go for a killing shot—he revealed himself openly. No assassin at all, in truth.
But that didn't matter. Facing him directly, Margaret knew she stood no chance. She had long surpassed her peers, had even bested the Kazimierz Major—but against the Darksteels, all of it meant nothing.
Thunk!
She staggered, clutching her shoulder as a bolt punched through her armor. The pain was searing, her arm stiff and heavy. She dropped to one knee, breath ragged.
"You, Sarkaz," the Darksteels called out. His voice was cold, almost indifferent. "I don't care why you've trespassed into Kazimierz. But the fugitive before you is ours. Leave now, and I'll overlook your intrusion."
Shining was silent for a long moment. Then she shook her head.
The way her sword rose said more than words could.
"So the knight mingles with Sarkaz filth. No wonder—they're both infected."
His tone was mocking. He knew full well of the K.G.C.C.'s schemes, the truth behind this hunt. And now, seeing Margaret stand beside a Sarkaz? For her, there would be no washing this stain away.
"You're speaking too soon."
The sudden clash of steel and a sharp voice cut him short. The Darksteels turned—assassins in the rear, and even those hidden among the buildings, were now locked in combat with armored knights, helms gleaming in the firelight.
He didn't need to ask who they were. Their purpose was obvious.
"…Hmph. Fools. Leaving Kazimierz without proper clearance? A simple check of your papers would expose you all."
A flicker of silver light sliced past. The Darksteels bit off his words, swinging his crossbow around, shifting smoothly into close-quarters combat.
Every archer must learn close combat. The assassins of the Armorless Union were no exception. Trained not only for lightning-fast reactions in emergencies, they were also drilled in hand-to-hand fighting.
Truly Archer class is made up of archer.
Still, most of the time, their task was simple: cut down knights from afar with their crossbows.
"This speed… heh. I see."
"..."
The Darksteels swung his crossbow as if it were a longsword. In truth, it was—custom-forged from rare, expensive metal, its weight and sharpness easily matched the knight's steel striking against it.
"Ke-ke-ke…"
A low, rasping laugh slipped from him before he barked out, "Still won't take off that helmet of yours, will you? Light Knight!"
The knight's movements faltered for just a breath. It was all the opening the Darksteels needed. In an instant, he nocked and loosed. A pitch-black bolt sliced the air in silence, slamming straight toward the knight's chest.
Thwip—
At the last moment, Originium Arts flared. The Light Knight twisted his body just enough. Instead of piercing his heart, the bolt drove deep into his waist. Even through armor, the shaft slid in as if the steel were butter.
"So it really is you, Light Knight."
With his back still to Margaret, the Darksteels sneered coldly at his opponent. "If the K.G.C.C. learns of your betrayal, they'll be heartbroken."
"The Union's already set its sights on me," the Light Knight replied with a bitter laugh. "Those assassins skulking near my apartment—you didn't think I failed to notice them, did you, Darksteels?"
The Darksteels chuckled. "Oh? Your senses are sharp enough in that regard. Strange you still lost to the little girl standing behind me."
As he spoke, his crossbow clashed in a blur against the knight's slender blade. In a heartbeat, dozens of thrusts tore through his guard. Blood sprayed—at last, the Darksteels had been wounded.
"Ah-hahaha! Now I see why you lost."
He flipped backward in a fluid arc, hooking a hand on a rooftop eave and flinging himself up. Landing lightly, he laughed, voice laced with mockery. "Your true strength lies in slaughter, not jousts."
"For an arena knight, that's hilarious. Is that why the Organization exalted you? Not your honor, but your talent for butchery?"
He shook his head, smirking. "If this were a duel of carnage, even the Radiant Knight wouldn't match you."
The Light Knight stood silent, shrouded in shadow. His face was hidden beneath the helm, his silhouette more like a specter of vengeance than a champion of honor. His bloodstained rapier dangled low, dripping against the ground.
"As for the Black Knight… well, that was a one-sided crush from start to finish. You never even had the chance to show your strength. But this time, it's different."
The Darksteels spoke almost lazily—whether stalling for time or toying with prey was unclear. "Don't tell me you actually dream of becoming a true knight, tournament darling? I've seen your matches. Not an ounce of killing intent in them. No wonder you lost so quickly."
"You're wrong." The Light Knight's voice was steady. "Even fighting that way, I never could have beaten her. Her strength was genuine."
"What, another boring knight's creed?"
"Are you done talking?"
The Darksteels grinned, unbothered. "Doesn't matter. Do you really think you'll walk away from this alive?"
A pause. Then he let out a low "Ohhh… I see. You came here to die."
"A death wish, in a Major knight? Hah! That's a first. Shame, really. If I had been your opponent in the championship, maybe you'd have won."
He shrugged carelessly. Raising his hand, he summoned sharp, cutting auras that fanned out and locked onto the Light Knight.
"So, you've made your choice… That means you're ready to die here, aren't you?"
In an instant, the sky darkened—an endless storm of arrows.
Thwip-thwip-thwip—
The Light Knight slashed desperately, his rapier flickering like silver lightning as he batted bolts from the air. He rolled behind a low fence for cover, but even so, blood kept dripping onto the dirt.
No matter how fast his blade, no swordsman could stop a rain of hundreds. And armor, even the finest, could not withstand the Originium-hardened shafts. Soon, he was bristling with arrows.
"Heh…"
The knight laughed softly, not looking toward Margaret, but staring hollowly at the Darksteels.
"Vermin like you, crawling in the sewers… you'll never understand chivalry."
The Assassin shot back with a sneer. "And a dog of the K.G.C.C. does?"
"No. Truth is… I don't understand it either."
Blood bubbled from the knight's lips. The weight on his chest seemed to lift, just a little. He glanced at the Sarkaz girl quietly healing him with her staff. His eyes softened—he gave her a slight nod of thanks before raising his blade again.
"Yes, I was a dog. That much I admit. But I grew tired of being one long ago. Now? Don't call me a knight. If anything… call me a ranger."
The Darksteels bared his teeth in open contempt. The insult didn't bother him; he'd been called worse. What mattered was that the traitor's head was within reach. Killing him here would be a gift to the Organization. They'd pay handsomely for it.
But still—what drove him?
The Darksteels gave a lazy signal, and the assassins behind him raised their crossbows. Another volley screamed forth.
Was it money? A secret employer who put him up to this farce? Without the Organization's backing, who would waste money on him? Or was it some childish sense of justice—rushing to draw his sword for a stranger's sake? Maybe… maybe he saw in Margaret a reflection of what knighthood was meant to be.
Whatever the answer, it made the Assassin laugh.
Against power, ideals were nothing but ignorance.
The Light Knight staggered as more bolts tore into him, one knee slamming the ground. Alone, he could never break the assassins' formation. With more years, perhaps he might have reached that level—slipping between volleys, cutting arrows from the air, becoming a true ranger-knight.
But his fate had been sealed long ago. He had known it from the moment he faced Margaret. No—earlier. From the very first time he saw her in the lists, he had sensed the shape of his own ending.
And yet… he had no regrets.
A bolt whistled like a cannon shot, cutting off his thoughts. He rolled awkwardly to avoid it—too slow, too exposed. But then—
The bolt shattered midair, sliced cleanly in two by a flash of radiant steel. It disintegrated as if it had struck light itself.
"Radiant Knight…"
"Call me Margaret."
She glanced over his body, bristling with shafts like a hedgehog. To her relief, most were shallow—he had come prepared, armored for war just as on the night they fought the bounty hunters together. If he had worn the flimsy sponsor's plate from the Major, he wouldn't have lasted a second. That junk would have killed him before the assassins did.
"Whsssh—how touching, what a reunion."
That grating voice rang out again. The Darksteels showed no sign of fatigue. When he saw Margaret reaching out a hand to the Light Knight, their display of "chivalry" amused him to no end. He burst into laughter, mocking without restraint:
"Ahahaha! Light Knight—you really think that earning the Radiant Knight's recognition makes you a true knight?"
"You'll never understand."
The Light Knight drew in a ragged breath. He pulled his rapier free at his waist and, stumbling a little, launched himself forward. It was reckless, desperate—and yet the brightest charge of his life.
A strike, swifter than starlight.
This thrust was his chivalry. It might not dazzle; he lacked the unique brilliance of other Knight. But even so, he had found his own path.
It was just misfortune—his debut match against the Black Knight, his second against the Radiant Knight.
He had wavered. He had sinned. The shadows of his past still clung to him, refusing to let go.
And behind him stood a knight too radiant, too blinding. So much so, he could only feel shame.
Fate would not grant him a third chance. He had lost fairly, beaten by skill beyond his own, and he admitted it. Even if he wished to compete again, the K.G.C.C. would never allow it.
This one sword carried all of it—his freedom, his mockery of himself, the chains that bound his soul. It was the strike of a man molded into a machine built only to perform for tournaments.
And yet, this was his sword—his life distilled into steel. To see it was to see the story of the Light Knight, past and present alike.
White radiance clashed with shadow. A pillar of light surged skyward, only to shatter at its peak into countless fragments, drifting down to the scarred earth like stardust.
---
"So that's the Light Knight's true strength? Hah, I really underestimated him."
"You would've known if you'd read the reports I gave you. Or did you just ignore them?"
Rosebloom's voice carried a hint of wounded pride. Her subordinates had risked their lives gathering that intel, and yet her employer seemed entirely uninterested.
"…By the way, could we… change positions? Being this close to you, boss, it feels… a little too much."
Curled up against Felix's chest for concealment, her small body pressed against him, Rosebloom's masked face flushed with heat.