"Can the number of people you've saved as a cleric of light even compare to this lich?"
The question was absurd, yet it left James Watson utterly speechless. He truly had grown old—his wits had dulled to the point where he couldn't see through even the simplest essence of the matter.
Back when he was still the Supreme Arbiter, James Watson had resolutely issued an imperial pardon to Anbaixiu. The reason had been simple: the lich had saved lives, and according to the law, he deserved to be pardoned.
Yet after resigning, James felt more and more that Ryan was falling into degeneracy. Consequently, he had set aside even the laws of Ryan. Once the standards he had adhered to his entire life were gone, he had naturally lost his way.
Now that his son Cade had pointed it out, James Watson finally realized how grave his problem was.
Looking at his father's weathered face, Cade Watson bolstered his courage with the warmth of the rum and said, "Father, you're suffering from retirement syndrome. Every old man who retires gets it to some degree. Once you leave the environment you're used to, you don't know what to do with yourself, and your mood only worsens. If you ask me, you should just still consider yourself the Supreme Arbiter—you're merely on vacation..."
James Watson interrupted in fury, "What kind of nonsense advice is that?! A title is bestowed by others, not an excuse to deceive yourself. Are you trying to teach me to live in denial?"
Cade Watson looked helpless. He had known it would go like this; ever since childhood, he had never been able to adapt to such a rigid, by-the-book existence. He had always been his father's least favorite child because of his easygoing, self-indulgent nature.
"Fine, Father, treat it as my mistake. But I still stand by one point: no matter how you look at him, this lich is a savior of the world. It wouldn't surprise me at all if the Lord of the Dawn bestowed a blessing upon him tomorrow. Just don't let yourself get played by him."
Having said his piece, Cade Watson hurried to cut off the communication.
Staring at the silent magic mirror that had lost its connection, James Watson let out a helpless sigh. Had he truly misunderstood the lich?
Carrying this lingering question, James Watson boarded a boat and departed. Whatever the truth was, in his current state of confusion, he was in no position to pass judgment here.
Without anyone realizing it, everyone acquainted with Anbaixiu had developed vastly differing perceptions of him.
In the eyes of most people of Ryan, Anbaixiu was from start to finish the most quintessential undead: cruel, evil, and formidable—a fearsome adversary against whom Ryan had to exert its full might.
In the eyes of the goddesses who had been swindled by him, Anbaixiu deserved to ascend to godhood on the merits of his silver tongue alone. Every word that spilled from the lich's mouth was a deicidal blade, like a slaughterer's cleaver forged by Ao specifically to tempt deities into ruin. The fates of Lolth and Shar were proof enough.
In the eyes of the undead, Anbaixiu was the wisest mastermind of the past millennium—the one whose methods against Ryan were the most ruthless and undeniably effective. In over a thousand years, had anyone ever heard of a Supreme Arbiter turning rogue? Had anyone ever heard of even the Holy King's heroic spirit being abducted? He was practically Ryan's nemesis, the most outstanding and exemplary of all undead.
And in the eyes of pragmatists like Cade Watson who saw through the world's pretenses, Anbaixiu was a benevolent lich who spouted cruel, wicked words while performing deeds that continually saved the world.
Quelling a war between two nations, saving a kingdom teetering on the brink of falling into Hell, and tearing astral invaders to shreds... Such feats were nearly on par with the heroes of the Demonic Dragon War.
Yet no matter the perspective, each was merely a facet of Anbaixiu.
Having lived in this world for centuries, meeting countless people and witnessing myriad tales, Anbaixiu had ultimately arrived at a single conclusion:
Among all intelligent races, nature was fundamentally the same. There was no such thing as elves being purely wondrous, humans being purely greedy, or dwarves being purely honest.
At most, racial traits gave them stronger inclinations in certain directions.
The unrepentant arrogance of dragons could easily be found in heaps among humans, and the extreme fanaticism born of Ryan's rigid faith had played out across history in various forms and places.
When the Kingdom of the Unholy Hymn hunted Hellriders in the past, they had engaged in the very same mutual denunciations and Reign of Terror. Nobody was nobler than anyone else.
Every manner of atrocity could surface in any nation, for such were the frailties of mortal nature.
Long ago, Anbaixiu had discarded notions of racial allegiance; only the gold coins in his hands knew no good or evil.
Since the people of Ryan were coming to kill him, Anbaixiu's priority was to maximize his profit from the affair, rather than fret over whether they were justified in hunting him down.
After making two circuits around the island to direct the ghosts in replenishing mana for the magic arrays and repairing the damaged sections, Anbaixiu retreated into his private demiplane.
Just as James Watson had observed, Anbaixiu had staged this grand spectacle to establish his deterrence. Ryan coming to cause trouble was well within his calculations. He could not avoid battle; in fact, he had to win decisively and spectacularly. He needed everyone to understand that even Ryan was powerless against him. Anyone wishing to cross Anbaixiu in the future would have to weigh whether they were mightier than the paladins of the Ryan Empire.
However, Anbaixiu had not anticipated that Ryan would deploy seven legends, an artifact, and an entire legion to boot... A force of this scale was sufficient to wage another war of annihilation against the Kingdom of the Unholy Hymn.
In that case, his original plan needed some adjustments to ensure complete certainty.
While Anbaixiu made his preparations inside his private demiplane, the army dispatched by Ryan had just boarded their massive seafaring vessels.
Following the disappearance of the Kingdom of the Unholy Hymn, the Ryan coastline lay only a short distance past their borders. There was no need to waste time constructing docks; they simply erected teleportation arrays, teleported the pre-built colossal warships across, and set straight out to sea.
The people of Ryan were not lacking in wealth.
Their formidable national power underpinned victory after victory, and the half of the desert they had swallowed continually supplied Ryan with gold excavated from beneath the sands.
Thus, while Ryan had outwardly suffered a defeat, only morale had taken a hit; the impact on their national strength was negligible.
The legion numbered a thousand strong, all elites. Mages, rangers, and other classes were fully accounted for, accompanied by a host of clerics of light capable of weaving powerful mass incantations. Because every soldier was an elite, logistical support was handled by the highest-grade spatial pouches and teleportation arrays, meaning there were no auxiliary supply troops in the ranks—only top-tier warriors.
The seven commanders leading them were all legends. Paired with such a fully equipped elite legion, eliminating a single lich ought to be child's play. By all conventional logic, Anbaixiu's only option would be to flee; he could not possibly stand against such a host.
Thus, as the commanding general of the expedition, Cyril Roland was brimming with confidence.
Cyril Roland had just turned fifty-five. Having advanced to a legend at forty-two, he was considered an exceptionally gifted paladin. He was also the Grand Master of the Knights of Condemnation. Under his command, the order had slain countless undead and monsters, and the longsword in his hand had executed innumerable villains who worshipped evil gods.
And on this expedition, the blade in his hands was the Blood of Lathander—the sword once wielded by the Holy King himself.
Legend had it that after slaying the Demonic Dragon, the Holy King received a blessing from the Lord of the Dawn, who merged a drop of divine blood into his blade, creating the Blood of Lathander.
Compared to the Dragon Tyrant Armament, the Blood of Lathander was slightly less renowned, but it remained the ultimate treasure that every paladin dreamed of wielding.
While the Dragon Tyrant Armament was bound to the imperial family and could only be used by those carrying Arthur Ryan's bloodline, the Blood of Lathander was the highest honor a paladin could aspire to.
Previously, only the Silvermoon Knight had been qualified to wield it, and each deployment required elaborate and solemn rituals to invite the divine blade forth from the cathedral where it was enshrined.
After so many years of immersion in worship and faith, the Blood of Lathander was even more potent than in eras past. Simply holding the hilt allowed Cyril Roland to feel the power of the Holy Light within him resonate, making him feel stronger than ever before.
Yet this immense sense of power also weighed heavily on Cyril. Leading an expedition with the Blood of Lathander meant that should he fail, the disgrace would be an inexpiable transgression.
"Ahem. Check again—ensure everyone's equipment is in order, supplies are ample, and see if anyone is suffering from seasickness..."
Cyril Roland paced the deck again and again, obsessively rechecking every detail like someone gripped by a fixation.
Noticing his commander's tension, his deputy could not help but urge, "Cyril, you ought to rest. We're using magic to accelerate our voyage; we'll reach that undead's position in an estimated three days. If you keep this up, will you even have the stamina to draw your sword when you face him?"
Cyril Roland gave a helpless sigh upon hearing this. "I know, but I can't help it. My hand can barely release the hilt. We cannot afford to lose."
His deputy quickly reassured him, "And we won't! No undead can withstand the Blood of Lathander. Have faith in the power of the Lord of the Dawn; believe that He stands behind us."
Taking a few deep breaths, Cyril Roland nodded. "You're right. I'll go to the bow for some fresh air."
Leaving the stuffy cabins behind, Cyril Roland walked to the bow.
The colossal warship, capable of carrying a thousand men, sailed with great stability. Aside from the ocean breeze brushing past, there was scarcely any pitching or rolling.
Standing in the wind, Cyril felt his mind calm considerably. He had been a bit too tense—conduct unbecoming a veteran commander of countless battlefields. Yet knowing this expedition's honor was tied to the prestige of the Lord of the Dawn, he could not help his anxiety.
Just as Anbaixiu had surmised, this artifact was simply too significant—so momentous that even a legendary powerhouse lost sight of himself beneath its weight.
As Cyril Roland breathed in the crisp sea air, his eyes suddenly narrowed.
He sensed an unusual presence surging up from the ocean depths.
In the next instant, dozens of gargantuan tentacles burst through the surface of the sea, seeking to ensnare the vessel.
"A sea monster!" the watchman in the crow's nest belatedly shouted, blowing a warning horn.
Driven by magical propulsion, the warship moved with incredible speed and had already left the coastline far behind despite setting sail only recently.
The ocean never lacked for giant sea beasts, though no one had expected one to appear so soon.
Looking at the tentacles thicker than pillars, Cyril Roland drew a deep breath and raised his right hand.
"Holy Light, in Your name, purge the evil here!"
Cyril Roland roared. Endless power of the Holy Light surged forth from his body, coalescing into a torrential sky of platinum lightblades.
The rain of swords descended, severing every tentacle in an instant. The colossal beast lurking in the deep let out an agonized shriek, but was promptly locked onto by the glowing blades and slashed to ribbons by the radiant sword-light.
As the mangled carcass of the sea monster surfaced on the waters, Cyril Roland rested his right hand once more upon the hilt of his sword.
This time, victory would be certain! That lich would perish just like this sea monster, utterly eradicated in the baptism of the Holy Light.
Chapter 390