Lord Of The Lost

The knights, cold and unyielding as steel, gave no quarter.

These were no ragtag militia scraped together by the border town's desperate resources.

They were the King's Third Guard. Elite warriors of the Knight Path. Extraordinary beings trained and equipped to face any foe.

Their magic warhorses moved with unnatural grace, and their lances, each a weapon of devastating power; glinted with deadly intent. Even the lance that William carried had originated from this very corps, a remnant of a knight who had once served in their ranks.

There was no hesitation in their charge, no wasted movement.

The ten knights met the three elite werewolves head-on, their lances striking true.

Puff!

Blood sprayed into the air as three massive wolf heads were severed in an instant, their bodies crushed beneath trampling hooves.

The remaining werewolves recoiled in terror, but the knights did not relent.

They drove into the pack like a tidal wave, crashing through the werewolves' ranks with unyielding force.

The werewolves' once-formidable strength crumbled like a sandcastle swept away by the sea.

One by one, the remaining werewolves fell.

In the blink of an eye, the battlefield was silent. The last werewolf collapsed lifelessly to the ground, and the King's Guard stood victorious under the pale moonlight, unshaken and unstoppable.

The ten knights halted their charge, their formation remaining impeccably straight and orderly. Not a single movement betrayed fatigue or disarray.

Their breathing was steady, unshaken, as though the massacre of dozens of werewolves had been a trivial task. No blood stained their armor; any that had splattered was repelled by the invisible force that surrounded them.

In eerie unison, their cold, piercing gazes shifted toward the group of people from Border Town, who had been chasing the werewolves.

For a moment, the air froze.

The chilling intensity of ten pairs of knightly eyes struck fear into the hearts of the townspeople.

Metatron exhaled quietly, relief flooding him as he realized the werewolf threat had been eradicated.

The Forum Master, however, stared at the knights with awe. These warriors, cold-blooded and precise, seemed like living weapons. His heart raced as admiration and excitement overwhelmed him.

The mayor, clutching the King's Code tightly, trembled at the sight of these resurrected knights. His voice wavered as he addressed them.

"I… I am the mayor of Border Town. I have failed in my duty. Please punish me, Captain of the Guard."

The lead knight stood tall, his golden armor gleaming as he looked down upon the gathered crowd. His voice was steady, authoritative.

"We have seen you."

He paused, his tone cutting through the silence.

"Failure of duty? Hardly. You are unarmed. The king does not expect contributions from those unable to fight."

With that, he turned back toward his comrades, the conversation over.

Not another word was spoken.

The knights stood motionless, their presence cold and indifferent, like statues carved from unyielding stone.

Helka, the golden knight, paid no attention to the townspeople. His arrogance was palpable, as if he viewed them as little more than empty air. Even the mayor and the church bishop, the most powerful figures in Border Town, dared not utter another word.

---

Helka strode forward, his steps purposeful as he approached the place where Little Bob had fallen.

The monster's body was gone, reduced to ash. All that remained were a golden lantern lying on the ground and a few torn pages from a book.

Helka knelt slightly, his golden armor glinting in the moonlight as he examined the remnants.

He spoke softly, his voice carrying a sharp edge of disdain. "We've lost another comrade in this cursed fight."

Straightening, he continued, his tone growing colder. "Young hunter, you shouldn't have trusted that arrogant beast. You placed your hope in him, made yourself a pawn for his ambitions, all the while blind to the abyss beneath your feet. Hope…" Helka scoffed, "is the most unreliable thing in the world."

His gaze fell to the torn pages scattered at his feet. He extended a hand, and the fragments of the book rose into the air, drifting toward him.

Helka's lip curled as he glanced at the pages. "You… you are the cause of this disaster," he growled.

His voice rose, laced with venom. "Mixing potions? Foolish experiments? Do you think these can atone for your sins? Your reckless ambition has brought new peril to the king and the kingdom. Killing you once would not be enough. I should kill you a hundred times, a thousand times, a million times; until your body and soul are ground into dust!"

With a flick of his wrist, Helka tossed the pages into the air, dismissing them like discarded rags.

---

Helka turned his gaze skyward, his golden armor shimmering as the bright, full moon cast its pale glow upon him. The moonlight seemed to freeze, its radiance lingering around him like an ethereal shroud.

For ten long years, this cursed cycle had held them captive. Neither a short nor long time, but long enough to carry the weight of their failure.

Now, they stood beneath the open sky once more. But this brief reprieve did not signal victory. The true battle, the most ferocious counterattack yet; was still to come.

Helka raised his head, his voice ringing out with unyielding authority.

"All troops, raise your heads!"

The knights obeyed, their unflinching eyes reflecting the moon's light. They stood ready, silent harbingers of the storm to come.

The knights all turned their gaze skyward, their movements synchronized as if guided by a single will.

Above them hung the full moon, vast and luminous, its silver glow bathing the world in tranquil light.

The human eye could not fully capture its enormity, its beauty too expansive for comprehension. It radiated a serenity that was both humbling and awe-inspiring, an endless canvas of silver against the void of night.

Helka's voice rose above the stillness, clear and resolute.

"This will be our last time to gaze upon the moon!"

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

"My comrades, remember this moment. Knights do not place their faith in the moon, but do not forget: we and the king, we and our homeland, we and our loved ones, are all bathed in this same moonlight. Behind us lies our king, our home, our people. We are not alone!"

---

The wilderness seemed frozen in time.

The knights stood in perfect formation, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight, the flags of the imperial guards hanging proudly from their spears.

The pale moonlight cascaded over them, forming an almost tangible veil of silver that hung in the air like a dream.

It was a scene of breathtaking stillness, as if time itself had paused to honor the moment. The silence stretched on, unbroken, like a painting etched into eternity.

But the silence did not last.

Boom!

A deep, resonant sound shattered the stillness, echoing like a drumbeat or the pounding heart of something newly born.

The knights tensed, their calm shattered by the sudden, ominous noise. Panic rippled through them as a growing sense of doom swept over the land.

Helka turned his head sharply, his golden armor catching the moonlight as he looked toward the Black Forest.

The ground began to quake violently, rippling like the surface of water struck by a massive force.

Boom!

It felt as though the very world was breaking apart. The wilderness trembled, the earth splitting open as if the planet itself were collapsing inward.

A deafening roar erupted from the depths of the Black Forest, like the cry of a colossal beast awakening from eons of slumber.

The shaking intensified, the ground beneath the knights cracking and buckling. Suddenly, with an earsplitting crack, the land itself swelled and split.

Something monstrous emerged.

A massive figure rose from the heart of the Black Forest, its sheer size eclipsing the moon and sky.

No; it wasn't just a figure. It was the Black Forest itself, lifting from the earth as if the land had come alive.

The shadow it cast was enormous, a towering mountain of grotesque flesh and distorted forms. Its features were indescribable, its shape defying logic.

Its power radiated in waves, bending the very moonlight, warping reality itself.

It was a calamity made flesh. A walking nightmare.

Its presence was enough to break the minds of those who gazed upon it, a wave of spiritual pollution spreading like a sickness.

---

Far away, in the Knight's fiefdom:

As the monstrous figure rose, its power reached even distant lands.

Under the terrified eyes of the fiefdom's residents, the Death Knight and his skeletal Pegasus reared back, letting out shrill, unnatural screams.

It was as though they had been summoned or perhaps corrupted, by the abomination's call.

The Death Knight, long indifferent to the world, spoke with a voice filled with defiance and fury.

"Alien force? Madness? Curse? Pollution? The forest has awakened a disaster! A taboo that should not exist! Do you wish to drive me insane? To pollute my soul?"

His skeletal form trembled with rage. "I will never submit!"

Though he had forgotten his past, his family, and even his duty, one memory remained clear: the golden wheat fields.

"Wheat depends on the land to thrive! The forest steals the earth's lifeblood! It poisons the soil! It kills the seeds of life!"

He drew his weapon, his hollow eyes blazing with purpose.

"Then I will strangle the forest! I will fight it day and night, without rest, until the sun rises and the wheat grows again!"