Chapter 129: The Justice of a Hidden Weapon

Gawain wasn’t sure if his acting was convincing enough, but he was confident the cultist would fall for it.

After all, he truly was in a weakened state—he no longer possessed the legendary strength of old. That didn’t require any acting at all!

For someone like Gawain, who knew his own limits, pretending to be out of shape was far easier than pretending to be at his peak from seven centuries ago.

Sure enough, as he deliberately showed signs of exhaustion and clumsiness, the figure cloaked in black robes stirred.

It was a subtle shift in aura—the unmistakable sign of a warrior finally committing to battle. From the corner of his eye, Gawain saw the cultist’s robe flutter, and beneath it, an arm rose. A palpable surge of dark magic began to gather in his hand.

Gawain had been waiting for this moment, but instead of attacking, he feigned being thrown off balance by a corrupted treant, staggering slightly as he moved a few steps closer to the cultist. To the enemy, it looked like he was recklessly stepping into the range of a spell.

In an instant, a twisted, corrupted druidic spell took shape—a gray-green orb of decaying energy shot out from beneath the cultist’s robe. Gawain locked onto its trajectory without dodging. The moment the orb struck his shoulder, he activated his knight’s protective aura and charged forward.

The “Corrosion Orb” silently slammed into his pauldron, but a translucent ripple of energy spread across the armor, nullifying the spell’s power entirely. In the blink of an eye, Gawain became a streak of white light, swinging his longsword down toward the cultist’s head.

The cultist hesitated—just for a moment—but he was already trapped. Like any spellcaster, a druid needed time to recover magical energy after casting. His mind was still reeling from the last spell, and facing a charging knight, he couldn’t even muster a simple protective charm.

Gawain expected the cultist to try blocking with a magical talisman, but what happened next caught him completely off guard.

The black-robed figure suddenly stepped back half a pace to evade the downward strike, then executed a near-impossible iron bridge maneuver to dodge Gawain’s follow-up horizontal slash. In a hair’s breadth, he rolled on the spot, pushed off the ground with one hand to spin upright, and with the other hand drew a gleaming one-handed sword from his waist. With a loud clang, he blocked Gawain’s third attack!

Gawain’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

But there was no time to wonder. The cultist had survived the deadliest blows and was regrouping. If this magic-and-sword hybrid managed to recover fully, things could get complicated.

So Gawain poured his knightly aura into the Pathfinder’s Sword. The blade instantly blazed with near a thousand degrees of heat. With both hands, he slammed down hard.

Though the cultist’s block was impressive, the gap in rank was too great. After less than two seconds, he had to roll away, risking injury to his left arm, to avoid being burned alive by the scorching blade.

Gawain pressed the attack. The Pathfinder’s Sword cut through the air like a crimson blade of light, leaving trails of warped heat. The cultist fought back with his one-handed sword, holding on with sheer skill.

What shocked Gawain even more was that this black-clad figure was actually holding his own—at least for now—against him.

Who was this guy? Weren’t cultists supposed to be mere level-five spellcasters? Weren’t the “End of All Things” cultists supposed to be purely druidic magic users?

The cultist’s swordsmanship was astonishingly refined. Gawain quickly realized it was pure technique—no knightly aura, no magical infusion, no supernatural skills. Every strike was perfectly measured, every defense precise, relying solely on skill and experience.

In this world, was there really someone who trained purely in martial skill without any supernatural power? And what about his druidic magic? Was there some secret class system within the “End of All Things” cult?

While Gawain’s mind raced with questions, the cultist was struggling. Despite his skill, the rank difference was undeniable. If he hadn’t been wielding a blessed sword, but just an ordinary steel blade, he would have been cut down within a few rounds.

After several relentless attacks, Gawain cornered the cultist. He stopped pondering and summoned his magic, raising the Pathfinder’s Sword high to unleash a high-level knight skill: “Ironstorm.”

The black-and-red blade swung down, erupting in a brilliant flash. The blade seemed to split into countless shards, raining down like a storm of steel. Each shard carried a powerful shockwave. The impact shattered the castle’s solid stone floor into dust and debris, which were swept up in the blast and hurled toward the cultist—who had lost all chance to cast or block.

The black-robed figure seemed to give up, standing rigid as the ironstorm’s blades and shockwaves tore him and the surrounding stones to pieces, sending the wreckage crashing into the council hall’s wall.

With a thunderous roar of crumbling rock, the castle’s sturdy stone wall was blasted open, the shockwave finally fading into the night beyond.

Moments later, the few corrupted treants still standing stopped moving, like robots losing their command. Their arms dropped stiffly. Then, after a few shudders, their cores—glowing faintly red—went dark. The lifeless branches and leaves fell to the ground with a rustling sound. These twisted abominations, defying nature, reverted to their original forms.

Amber emerged from her shadow form, collapsing onto the ground, gasping for breath. “Phew… that was exhausting…”

Sir Philip was also panting heavily. The corrupted treants, magically enhanced, were no easier to fight than low-level knights. But unlike Amber, he maintained his composure, propping himself up with his sword and looking at Gawain with admiration.

“My lord, you have slain that cultist.”

But Gawain showed little joy. Frowning, he approached the gaping hole and looked down at the charred fragments left behind. The intense heat of the Pathfinder’s Sword had carbonized the remains beyond recognition.

“Something’s not right… I have a bad feeling about how this ended…”

Pittman came over, bent down, and picked up a piece of debris. He crushed it slowly in his hand. After a moment, his expression darkened.

“This is burnt tree bark—corrupted druidic magic. That cultist escaped!”

…

At the same time, on the rooftop near the outer corridor of Viscount Andrew’s castle, a thick cluster of unusually lush vines suddenly rustled and writhed.

Then, a large bulge formed within the vines. With a sickening squelching sound, the bulge tore open, and a black-robed figure crawled out, battered and broken.

It was the cultist who had narrowly escaped. His body reeked of burnt flesh, his left arm hung limp and bleeding, his robe tattered, and his hood gone—revealing a gaunt, pale face framed by messy brown hair.

In his right hand, he still clutched the one-handed sword, though now only half of it remained.

Cursing under his breath, the cultist sheathed the broken blade and staggered forward, desperate to flee before his terrifying opponent could react.

But after only two steps, he suddenly looked up, spotting a figure in the nearby corner.

Sir Byron stood there, equally stunned to see the injured cultist emerging from the vines. For a moment, they just stared at each other, neither reacting.

The pause lasted only a blink. The cultist snapped out of it first, raising his hand to point at the knight and forcing a spell from his aching mind, determined to eliminate this obstacle.

Byron reacted instantly. He reached into his chest, pulled out something, fiddled with it briefly, and hurled it at the cultist.

“Take this—my justice’s hidden weapon!”

A true knight announces even his throwing weapons.

The cultist sneered dismissively and caught the projectile with ease. Though badly wounded, he was still too strong to be caught off guard by a level-four knight—especially one recently weakened by his own curse.

“You overestimate yourself,” the cultist said, examining the object. Finding no poison or active magic, he relaxed. “Fine, you’ll do nicely to replenish my life… hmm?”

Suddenly, he heard a ticking sound from the object in his hand.

Byron saw it clearly—the cultist realized too late. The crystal grenade was purely mechanical before detonation, with no magical aura. But a mid-level supernatural expert could sense the latent magic in the energy crystal. Though he tried to throw it away and cast a protective spell, the rune trigger had already been pressed, and the detonation sequence activated.

Catching a fireball barehanded, taking a blast to the face—sometimes, that’s just how fiery and chaotic things get.

But after all, he was already a mid-level transcendent warrior. Even severely wounded, the protective talismans he carried and his own formidable physique remained intact. The moment the crystal grenade detonated, several flashes of light flickered across the cultist’s body. His last remaining protective gear automatically activated, shielding him from the deadliest damage. In the end, his entire right arm was shattered in the blast, but the rest of his body was propelled forward by the explosion’s force, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished into the vast darkness of the night.

(End of chapter)