Chapter 180: Royal Guards, Hear My Command!

Oppression hung heavy in the air.

Four hundred heavily armored soldiers of the Black Armored Legion formed a ring of steel, turning the last remaining enemies into an isolated island. Blood still stained their armor, not yet dry. They simply stood there in silence, but the killing intent they carried—like survivors crawling out of a mountain of corpses—was more terrifying than any direct attack.

At the center of that “island” stood Sir Pascal and his fifty royal guards.

They were the most elite of his personal guard, each possessing at least Silver-tier strength. Yet now, every one of them looked ashen.

At the only opening in the encirclement, Ailindel stood alone—one rider, one horse, one spear—quietly holding her position. She had become the only “way out” for these defeated remnants, but also an insurmountable wall of despair.

There were now only forty-four guards left. Not long ago, six knights had attempted to break through in Ailindel’s direction in a desperate charge. All of them now lay dead.

Strangely, however, the Black Armored Legion did not tighten the encirclement further. They simply held their positions, keeping the group contained without moving.

Sir Pascal tucked his helmet under his arm, bitterness filling his heart. He knew that the moment that earth-shattering explosion erupted from the river, the battle had already been lost. He had simply been unwilling to admit it so easily.

Nearly ten thousand allied troops had collapsed in a single battle. More than half had fled. The rest were either dead or captured.

Knight Claw and Grand Knight Verdi had fallen. Finley had been captured alive. The forces from the three knight territories and baronial lands north of Coldsteel City were nearly wiped out. The encirclement of Coldsteel City existed in name only. 

Kost was nowhere to be found. Even “Frost Wolf” Fenrir, sent by Archduke Demont to oversee the battle, had fallen to the sword of that absurdly young rebel leader.

The guards were tense, clustering around their lord. Their hands trembled as they gripped their swords.

“My lord, they want to capture you alive!”

“Give the order! We’re cavalry. That white knight may be holding the only escape route, but she’s alone. She can’t take all of us at once. Even if we die, we can carve a path for you!” the captain of the royal guards spoke in a low but resolute voice.

The guards were stirred. They were Pascal’s most loyal warriors, willing to die rather than suffer humiliation.

But Sir Pascal only shook his head bitterly. His gaze passed over the silent ranks of black-armored soldiers and settled on the white figure ahead. His heart grew cold.

Break through?

“Did you not see their acceleration?” Pascal sighed. “They may be heavy infantry, but over short distances, they’re no slower than warhorses.”

Every step had been calculated against him. He had underestimated the strength of Coldsteel City’s rebels.

For a moment, Pascal felt dazed. He could no longer understand what kind of enemy he had been fighting. These black-armored soldiers were disciplined, well-equipped, and powerful. Even placed within the kingdom’s regular southern legions, they would be elite among elites. He had even seen at least four or five Gold-tier fighters. What kind of “rural rebels” were these?

If they claimed to be the Royal Guard, Pascal would have believed them.

In truth, before the encirclement was completed, he had had a chance to break out. But he hadn’t moved. He didn’t even know why. Perhaps he was unwilling to accept defeat so easily. Perhaps he wanted to see the mastermind who had calculated everything so precisely.

Or perhaps… Hank’s earlier question had truly shaken him. All these years—had what he stood for been right or wrong? Deep down, perhaps he had never fully believed in his own choices.

He remembered his youth, when he had once been full of hope, dreaming of restoring a kingdom in decline. Reality had been cold. Repeated failures had worn him down, until he chose to give up, to drift with the current.

But could naive ideals alone really save this country?

Just as Pascal’s thoughts churned, the Black Armored Legion suddenly parted to either side, opening a path.

A knight clad in black armor rode forward slowly. His armor was more ornate than that of the others, with a red sword emblem engraved upon his pauldrons.

Pascal knew—the real leader had arrived.

Nolan suppressed the sharp pain twisting in his internal organs. His battle with Fenrir had left him seriously injured, but he was the lord, the soul of this army. He could not show weakness.

With a click, he removed his helmet. A trace of blood lingered at the corner of his mouth, left from the earlier fight. Frost from Fenrir’s final strike still clung to his armor. Yet none of it made him look disheveled. Instead, it lent him a hardened, battle-forged aura.

He looked at Pascal within the encirclement and spoke calmly, “Sir Pascal, a pleasure to meet you.”

Pascal looked at Nolan’s face—far too young—and those dark green eyes that seemed to see straight through him.

So this was the one who had orchestrated everything behind the scenes, the man who had thrown Demont Province into chaos?

After such a crushing defeat, Pascal could no longer regard him as a mere bandit. This was a true leader.

“You know me? Then you must be the kingdom’s Pioneer Knight, Nolan,” Pascal said, his voice hoarse. “So young, yet so… resolute. In your eyes, has this kingdom already reached the point where it must be torn down and rebuilt?”

Nolan raised a hand calmly and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of it. “Torn down and rebuilt? Easier said than done. If I were to overturn everything, then everything worth preserving in this kingdom would be buried along with it. That is not my intention.”

He met Pascal’s gaze directly.

“You’re mistaken about one thing, Sir Pascal. I’m not doing this for myself, nor for any single person. What I want is a strong Elfin—one capable of resisting the undead catastrophe and standing against any external enemy. I don’t want a new king. I want a revived kingdom.”

A revived kingdom.

Pascal stared deeply into his eyes.

Nolan’s words stirred something within him. Once, he too had held such naive and passionate ideals. But the weight of the kingdom’s decline had been overwhelming. His inability to change anything had driven him to despair, to avoidance, until he chose to close his eyes and go along with the flow. He had become a numb vassal, concerned only with loyalty to his lord.

“A revived kingdom…” Pascal murmured, his expression complicated. “I once heard Her Highness Princess Flina say something very similar. It is a path destined to be difficult; a path I never had the courage to walk.”

As he spoke, Hank, Rehanna, Vivi, Kayan, and Little Donnie arrived from behind, silently taking their positions behind Nolan.

A priest wielding a massive cross staff, a warrior with flame-colored hair, a lively half-beast girl… Each of them radiated the aura of a Gold-tier powerhouse. And behind them stood that white knight, as holy as a divine being.

Six. A full six Gold-tier fighters. And all of them stood willingly behind this young man, acknowledging him as their lord.

And Nolan himself, who had slain Fenrir, had not even reached Gold tier yet. He was still so young. What heights would he reach in the future? With such high-end strength, and that elite army… If Nolan wished, he could easily become a warlord dominating a region.

Pascal had not lost unfairly.

“Heh…” Pascal suddenly laughed softly, a trace of desolation and relief in his voice. “I envy you, young man. You have the courage and strength to pursue your dream.”

The dejection on his face vanished. In its place returned the bearing of a soldier.

He straightened sharply and shouted, “Royal Guards!”

“Yes!”

The remaining guards roared in unison. They thought their lord was about to order a final breakout. They tightened their grips on their swords, madness flaring in their eyes.

Across from them, the Black Armored Legion reacted instantly. They stepped forward in unison, weapons raised, their killing intent surging.

“All Royal Guards, hear my command! I order you to dismount immediately and lay down your weapons! Surrender to Coldsteel City!”

Everyone froze.

“My lord!” The captain stared in disbelief. “My lord! We can still fight! Those soldiers are only Silver-tier—we still have a chance! Give the order, and we’ll follow you even unto death! We still—”

Pascal raised a hand, cutting him off. “Your blood should be shed for the future of the kingdom, not wasted in a meaningless place like this. This is my final order, as your lord.”

The guards stood frozen. Shock turned to reluctance, then to grief and anger. Some clenched their teeth so hard their eyes turned red.

At last, one knight hurled his sword to the ground.

Clang! 

The sharp sound ignited the rest.

Clatter! Clang!

Weapons fell one after another. Dozens of loyal knights unwillingly abandoned resistance. Some even shed tears of humiliation.

The soldiers of the Black Armored Legion stepped forward at once. They did not humiliate them. They simply took custody of the prisoners and their horses.

Throughout it all, Pascal remained mounted and motionless.

When the sounds behind him faded, he silently put on his helmet and lowered the cold visor.

Then, he drew his sword.