When the figure cloaked in Holy Light descended from the sky, everyone was dumbfounded.
This was undeniably the power of the Holy Light. But what had that lich just said? A paladin under the lich's command?
That joke wasn't funny in the slightest.
As this glittering golden paladin touched down, countless hailstones hurtled from the dark canopy above, crashing into the sea. The power of ice magic froze the churning waves, coalescing into an expansive sheet of thick pack ice that provided a solid footing for the paladin.
Cyril Roland strained to make out the man's features.
The Holy Light was genuine, but how could someone serving a lich still wield it? How absurd would a paladin's oath have to be to work for an undead without breaking?
Unfortunately, all Cyril Roland could see was a heavy, nearly airtight helmet.
The paladin was clad head to toe in silvery-white heavy plate. If Cyril wasn't mistaken, it was an exorbitantly expensive suit of mithral armor.
Mithral was lightweight yet far harder than steel, boasting formidable magic resistance; it had always been the premier material for forging high-end enchanted armor. And the greatest smiths of mithral armor in this world were the tieflings of the Kingdom of the Unholy Hymn. At present, Anbaixiu was the only being in the world who could deal with the tieflings exiled in the Lands of Chaos and commission them to craft such a supreme suit of mithral plate.
What Cyril Roland did not know was that the armor's primary purpose was not defense, but to seamlessly conceal the mechanical chassis beneath it.
In essence, the radiant paladin before him was not a living mortal, but a golem puppet—one that could be piloted by the heroic spirit of Arthur Ryan.
Anbaixiu had placed the Hourglass of Eternity housing Arthur Ryan into the puppet's core, then used the God of Alchemy's artifact to transmute the golem's mechanical body into the same material properties as the hourglass. In effect, Anbaixiu had harmonized the entire puppet with the Hourglass of Eternity.
While that might sound like a way to mass-produce artifacts, such an assembly didn't amplify the artifact's might at all—in fact, it had the opposite effect.
An artifact was a complete, flawless entity unto itself. Tacking on extraneous materials like drawing legs on a snake only severely diminished its innate efficacy.
Not that it mattered; the Hourglass of Eternity required a time dragon to truly wield anyway. Even though Arthur Ryan's heroic spirit inhabited the artifact, he couldn't tap into its temporal powers.
Thus, Anbaixiu's modifications had a single goal: to grant Arthur Ryan a new body.
A machine wasn't quite as supple as flesh and blood, but it was vastly better than remaining an incorporeal heroic spirit. At the very least, no one would recognize him at a glance.
Arthur Ryan had agreed to help for another vital reason.
Anbaixiu had told him that if he didn't intervene, every last one of these paladins would die. That wasn't an empty threat, but plain truth.
Anbaixiu was determined to make a grand show of force to establish his dominance. When push came to shove, he would bring out heavy hitters like Gareth without hesitation. If that wasn't enough, there was Aige, the Rose of Decay, and half the Elegy Poetry Society ready to lend a hand. Combined, the power of those undead could wipe out this Ryan army with effortless ease.
In short, Anbaixiu's stance was that if he had to fight, he wouldn't hold back—he would strike with full force and slaughter them. But if Arthur Ryan could persuade these Ryanites to retreat, Anbaixiu would spare them out of respect for him.
Arthur Ryan had had no choice but to step forward.
Even if he had never truly viewed himself as Ryan's founding emperor, he couldn't stand by and watch his people throw their lives away in futile sacrifice.
Looking at Cyril Roland, the Radiant General, and spotting the longsword in his grip, Arthur felt a wave of bittersweet emotion. He had never imagined that his former sidearm would one day become an artifact.
Grasping the magebane longsword Anbaixiu had provided, Arthur said to Cyril Roland, "Depart now, and no one will be harmed. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to cross swords with you."
Cyril Roland studied Arthur with suspicion. He had no inkling that the figure before him was Ryan's Holy King—his childhood idol. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to tear off this man's helm and see which traitor stood behind it.
"Which deity do you worship?" Cyril Roland asked in a low voice.
The Lord of the Dawn wasn't the only god with paladins in his service. Many deities could bestow their blessings upon mortals to make them paladins. Tyr, the God of Justice, for example, had paladins whose powers were remarkably similar to those of the Lord of the Dawn, differing only in subtle details.
Just as Talos could bestow oceanic blessings, the Holy Light was by no means an energy exclusive to any single divine purview. Zariel had once even bestowed Holy Light upon her minions, sending them to the mortal realm disguised as paladins of Tyr to sow discord.
Thus, even though this warrior was draped in Holy Light, it did not prove where his true allegiance lay.
Cyril Roland had to ask.
Arthur Ryan replied without hesitation. "I worship the Lord of the Dawn."
"Liar!" Cyril Roland ground his teeth. "How could a paladin sworn to the Lord of the Dawn ever ally with a lich?"
Arthur gave a gentle laugh. "Why not? The Lord of the Dawn teaches us to shun evil and stand against it, but evil does not strictly equate to the undead. Master Ultraman may be a lich, yet just as he said, his actions have been righteous, dedicated to saving this world. What proof do you have to brand him evil?"
Cyril Roland could not answer, but he decided against wasting further breath on debate.
The lich had come thoroughly prepared—he had even manufactured a counterfeit paladin—and would certainly leave no room for rebuttal.
Treacherous as the lich was, one thing he said rang true: the Holy Light would witness who was right and who was wrong.
A fake was always a fake; it could never become real.
Cyril Roland raised the Blood of Lathander, leveling its tip at Arthur, and spoke evenly, "Cast off your disguise now, and I will grant you a painless death. If you continue to insult my faith, then I will have no choice but to annihilate your soul with the Holy Light!"
Arthur looked upon his former blade and sighed. "Very well. Let the Holy Light be our witness! Make the first move."
As a predecessor from over a thousand years ago, Arthur couldn't help seeing them as children. Paladins back in his day had never been this unreasonable—acting like spoiled brats covering their ears and crying, 'I'm not listening! I'm not listening!'
As an elder, he would humor him with the first strike.
Hearing such patronizing words, Cyril Roland felt no surge of anger; such juvenile taunts had no effect on him.
If this imposter wanted him to strike first, he would oblige.
Layers of golden radiance flared across the Blood of Lathander, expanding into a shimmering curtain of light that swept toward Arthur.
The Undead Sensing and Ward Barrier—this was the greatest power of the Blood of Lathander, the bane of all undead.
Though Cyril didn't know what this counterfeit paladin truly was, it was surely one of the lich's tricks, which meant this technique would certainly work.
To Cyril Roland's astonishment, Arthur stood completely unfazed as the curtain of light washed over him.
A heroic spirit, while technically a kind of soul, was in essence akin to an ascended spirit dwelling in a divine realm, not a wretched, restless undead. The barrier had no effect whatsoever on a heroic spirit, leaving Arthur entirely unharmed.
Catching the flicker of surprise on Cyril Roland's face, Arthur sprang into motion.
His body transformed into a pillar of light, appearing before Cyril Roland in an instant, the magebane longsword already thrusting toward Cyril's shoulder.
Cyril Roland was startled. This deceiver was no easy opponent. He hastily swept the Blood of Lathander up to parry.
Before the blades even clashed, Arthur Ryan shifted his stance. His longsword swept in an arc, stabbing toward Cyril Roland's wrist—aimed squarely at a seam in the plate. If the tip penetrated, Cyril's right hand would be crippled.
What shocked Cyril Roland even more was how familiar the imposter's moves were—nearly identical to the traditional swordsmanship passed down in Ryan. That was the sword art handed down by the Holy King himself, designed specifically against humanoid opponents. It was compulsory study for every Ryanite from childhood; no matter what profession one pursued as an adult, anyone could brandish a sword and pull off a few of its forms.
Despite slight nuances, it was unmistakably Ryan swordsmanship.
The more Cyril Roland fought, the more bewildered he became. This power, this swordsmanship... Could he truly be a man of Ryan?
Yet when had Ryan ever possessed such a legendary paladin? It was impossible for him not to know.
What shocked Cyril Roland even further was that his own Ryan swordsmanship was being outmatched.
Arthur Ryan had guarded the Hourglass of Eternity for more than a thousand years without ever letting his martial skills rust. Quite the contrary: during those long, tedious centuries, he had constantly honed, contemplated, and refined his sword forms, fearful that when the seal finally broke, he would be greeted by an army of the Cult of the Dragon.
He had already been a peerless genius in life; after a millennium of uninterrupted devotion, Arthur Ryan's swordsmanship had long transcended the mortal realm.
Within mere seconds, Cyril Roland lost his footing. He was driven back across the ice, his balance faltering. One slip, and the enemy's longsword would exploit the opening, slipping into the gap between his helm and cuirass. At that point, he would have to rely solely on his enchanted gear to endure the strike, putting him at an absolute disadvantage.
This spectacle was captured in meticulous detail by the Black Tide in the sky and broadcast live to the entire world.
Every spectator was stunned by Arthur Ryan's overwhelming prowess. A paladin serving a lich was suppressing the Radiant General? Holy Light, did you shine on the wrong person?
Just as Cyril Roland was about to be driven to the edge of the ice floe, the Radiant General finally abandoned his "fair" style of combat.
He could no longer trade sword techniques with this fraud!
The scattered golden light around him condensed into dozens of miniature swords of Holy Light, which shot directly toward Arthur Ryan.
Chapter 403