Chapter 404: Dawn's Edge

The blades of light swept down like a sudden squall, wide-ranging, relentless, and leaving Arthur Lyon no room to dodge.

This was Cyril Roland's most celebrated technique, the power of his legendary boon. Small as the blades appeared, they were anything but weak. Even solid steel would be scored deep, and thinner metal armor would be pierced straight through.

If he had had any other choice, Cyril Roland would have preferred not to use his legendary boon against a single opponent, but his adversary was too strong, and he had no choice but to play his ace.

He had also stacked several magical enhancements on himself before the battle. The barrage would force the enemy back at minimum, and might even deal a crippling blow.

But just as Cyril Roland was feeling certain of his victory, Arthur Lyon did something remarkably simple: he slashed downward at the ice beneath his feet.

Holy light gathered along the blade, extending the longsword into a sweeping greatsword several meters in length.

The strike split the ice. A massive slab flipped upward, becoming Arthur's shield.

The light blades bit into the thick ice and immediately sheared off great chunks. A wall of ice several meters deep didn't last for more than a few seconds before it shattered entirely—but by then, Arthur Lyon had already vanished.

Cyril Roland swept the area with his eyes, trying to identify where his target was, only for pain to explode in his thigh. A blade drove upward through the gap below his cuisse, punching through the armor and into flesh. The impact threw Cyril Roland's entire body off balance.

Something was wrong. Where were his defensive enchantments?

His Stoneskin? His magic shield, which should have triggered automatically? His Thunder Wave, which could blast his attacker away?

Cyril Roland's wealth was considerable, and most of it had gone into his equipment. Beyond the heavy plate, he had two rings and a necklace, and the cloak at his back, all enchanted.

How had every single one of them failed to take effect?

What Cyril Roland did not know about were anti-magic weapons forged by a legendary ranger.

The longsword in Arthur Lyon's hand was the same kind as Allen's. In terms of raw sharpness alone, it was unremarkable; a few swings against Cyril Roland's heavy plate would have left the edge notched.

Ut against magical equipment, it was a different matter entirely. Whatever defensive enchantment stood in its way, the blade simply dissolved it on contact. Even a magic shield generated by Ambrose's Golden Throne would be punctured in an instant.

Such an anti-magic longsword in the hands of Arthur Lyon, whose swordsmanship had been tempered over a thousand years, meant that neither heavy armor nor magical defenses would offer any protection. Before Arthur, Cyril Roland might as well have been fighting unarmored.

Arthur Lyon emerged from under the ice and looked down at Cyril Roland where he had fallen. "Your swordsmanship is too rigid," he said, with genuine regret. "You were never suited to that style of fighting to begin with. You should have stuck with what you were doing before. You can summon even more holy blades. Why did you stop?"

This was the first time in Cyril Roland's life that anyone had told him his swordsmanship was lacking.

In the Lyon Empire, he was at least among the top three in terms of pure swordsmanship alone.

But he could not argue with Arthur Lyon. He had been outclassed—and by the same branch of swordsmanship he had learned all his life, no less. And the man was right. He should have committed fully from the start. He might not have lost so thoroughly then.

The Blood of Dawn blazed with light. Cyril Roland's wound sealed itself shut with rapid precision.

The Radiant General pulled himself up off the ice and said to Arthur Lyon, "I have to admit that your swordsmanship surpasses mine. Perhaps you truly are from Lyon. But I still cannot accept that you would swear fealty to a lich. A lich's phylactery is built from the souls of the living. Do you know what you've done?"

Arthur Lyon sighed. "That is precisely why I chose to help him. You don't understand. He can bring about a world where liches no longer prey on the living."

Liches that don't kill people? Who would believe that?

Cyril Roland could only conclude that the paladin before him had been enchanted by the lich, somehow beguiled, his iron will bent and manipulated.

Yes. That had to be it.

"I will free you," Cyril Roland said. "Don't blame me for the methods I'm about to use to ensure your safety."

He raised his right hand. From the Lyon warship, several figures took to the air. Four paladins, two priests—every other legend who had come on this mission.

The seven moved with the seamless precision of long partnership. The moment they gathered, their holy powers began to flow together, merging into a single unified force.

The seven combined produced far more than seven times the strength.

A towering figure of holy light materialized above the seven, summoned from the divine realm of the Lord of Dawn: a celestial warrior.

Cyril Roland had clearly resolved to hold nothing back. He called upon every Lyon soldier on the ship as well, channeling their collective faith to bolster the celestial warrior's form.

It stood far larger and far more vivid than the figure summoned by a few hundred serfs back in Alkhemia.

Heavy armor, a sharp longsword, and a pair of vast feathered wings spread behind it, as if a god had truly descended to walk the earth.

It was four meters tall, its blade wider than Arthur Lyon's shoulders. The sword leveled directly at Arthur's face, ready to grind him to nothing.

Arthur Lyon did not move. He stared at the celestial warrior before him. A name escaped his lips before he could stop it. "Lomberton, is that you?!"

The celestial warrior's movement paused. A thunderous roar rolled out. "Who are you?! How do you know my name?!"

Lomberton Buto—that had been his name among the living. During his lifetime, the dragons had still ruled the world. He had been one of the paladins who followed Arthur Lyon to overthrow the Dragon Tyrant, though he had never reached the realm of a legend, and had fallen on the battlefield long before Arthur's eventual victory.

Arthur Lyon remembered his death precisely, because Lomberton Buto had been reduced to ash by dragonfire right before his eyes.

He had never expected to meet him again like this after seventeen centuries.

Lomberton Buto had fallen too early and earned too little renown. Even the written histories of Lyon only granted him a passing mention of his death in a particular battle. His life was otherwise unrecorded.

Few Lyon soldiers could even name him, let alone recognize his face.

"Just who are you?!" Lomberton Buto roared again.

To have recognized him at a glance, this person had to have been on the battlefield in which he fell. But Lomberton Buto could not place the figure before him at all. A remnant of the Cult of Dragonkind, perhaps, disguised as a paladin? Lomberton Buto had died in the early stages of the war, back when Arthur Lyon had not yet conceived of his plan to steal the divine artifact.

Arthur Lyon's body trembled slightly. Then he said, "Forgive me. I cannot tell you, not yet."

The moment his identity became known, Lyon would be thrown into turmoil, and countless innocents would be caught in the upheaval that followed. Arthur Lyon had no confidence he could manage that. He could not afford to be recognized, not even by an old comrade.

All he could do was raise his sword and say to this man who had once fought at his side: "Come. Let us end this. If we drag it out any longer, you will all die."

The clouds overhead grew heavier, a message from Ambrose. The last fight had not been impressive enough to meet his standard.

If this dragged on further, the lich was going to send for the Elegiac Society.

Boundless golden light surged out from Arthur Lyon, the force of it pressing down through the ice beneath his feet until the surface cracked.

Lomberton Buto had not recognized Arthur Lyon, but he could keenly sense the immense holy power radiating from him.

Was this truly a force a mortal could possess?

No matter. He was no ordinary being either. Seven legends, bolstered by the faith of an entire Lyon legion, gave Lomberton Buto power that approached the divine.

A spectral wheel materialized. A Bane empowered by legendary grace fell upon Arthur Lyon, dimming the golden light around him.

Lomberton Buto swept his hand. Ten thousand motes of golden light condensed into blades and came screaming toward Arthur. He stamped one foot. Dozens of holy-light shields burst into existence and formed a cage, enclosing Arthur on all sides. Holy light poured into the longsword and conjured the shadow of an enormous hammer, the sheer weight of it pressing fractures into the surrounding space.

......

He used technique after technique, each movement carrying the full force of legendary grace.

In this moment, Lomberton Buto held all seven legends' combined power, and with it access to all seven of their legendary boons. Every technique he executed landed as a joint strike from all seven at seven times the strength, seven times the force.

This was the Knights Penitent at their full measure. This was what truly threatened the undead.

The holy light descended in wave after wave of attacks, engulfing Arthur Lyon completely. The ice sheet was pulverized for two or three kilometers in every direction; the sea heaved and surged dozens of meters into the air.

Holy power, pushed to its absolute limit, could level worlds. Its destructive force was not far short of Ambrose's Hundredfold Meteor Shower.

Lomberton Buto channeled it all through himself without restraint, hammering it at the enemy before him, determined to reduce him to nothing.

When the assault finally broke, a colossal whirlpool yawned open on the surface of the sea, as though the barrage of holy power had bored straight through to the ocean floor.

And just when every watching eye had concluded that Arthur Lyon had been utterly destroyed, a light kindled at the center of the whirlpool.

It did not dazzle, but it was pure, pure as the first ray of dawn.

Arthur Lyon's silhouette rose from the whirlpool, sword in hand, and made a single cut.

That ray of dawn grazed the towering celestial warrior.

That four-meter figure of light, cleaved open by one perfectly unremarkable stroke, dissolved into nothing.

Compared to the Silvermoon Knight's strike, which had shone like moonlight made solid, Arthur Lyon's slash was thin and narrow. But it was the true embodiment of dawn, the dawn that had once cut through endless darkness and returned light to the world.

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