A Sword of Dawn

The light swords fell like a torrential downpour across a sweeping area, leaving no chance to dodge. This was Cyril Roland's signature technique and his legendary boon. Small as they appeared, these radiant blades packed formidable power; even true steel would be deeply gouged by them, and thinner metal plate would be pierced clean through. If given the choice, Cyril Roland would rather not have bullied anyone with a legendary boon, but his opponent was simply too strong, leaving him no option but to reveal his trump card. Before stepping into battle, Cyril Roland had already bolstered himself with several magical buffs. This sword storm was bound to force his opponent back—perhaps even gravely injure him. Yet just as Cyril Roland believed victory was within his grasp, Arthur Ryan made a single, simple move: he slashed his blade down toward the pack ice beneath his feet. Holy Light coalesced along the edge, extending the two-handed sword into a colossal blade several meters long. The blade sliced through the ice layer, flipping up a massive slab of pack ice to serve as Arthur's shield. When the light swords struck the dense ice, large chunks and chips sheared away instantly. The wall of ice, several meters thick, shattered completely in a matter of seconds—yet Arthur Ryan had already vanished. Cyril Roland swept his gaze across the surroundings, seeking to lock onto Arthur's position once more, but right then a sharp pain shot up from below. A blade pierced upward through his thigh. Right in the chink of his armor—its weakest point. The longsword drove through the plate and sank into flesh, the agony throwing Cyril off balance. Something was wrong. Where were his defensive spells? Where was the effect of his Stoneskin? Where was the auto-triggering magical shield? And the Thunderwave meant to repel enemies? Cyril Roland possessed considerable wealth, and most of it had gone into outfitting himself. Beyond his heavy armor, the two rings on his fingers, his necklace, and the cloak behind his back were all enchanted gear. How could none of them have reacted? Little did Cyril Roland know that in this world existed anti-magic weapons forged by a legendary ranger. The longsword in Arthur Ryan's grip was identical to Alan's. In terms of sheer sharpness, it was unremarkable; if swung repeatedly against Cyril's heavy armor, the edge would certainly roll before long. Against magical equipment, however, it was an entirely different story. Whatever defensive magic was in place, a single thrust burst right through it; even the magical shield Anbaixiu projected with the Golden Throne would be punctured in an instant. With such a magebane longsword paired with Arthur Ryan's endlessly honed swordsmanship, heavy armor was effectively rendered useless, and magical defenses could not withstand the blade either. Before Arthur, Cyril Roland was practically naked. Surfacing from the ice, Arthur Ryan looked down at the fallen Cyril Roland and sighed. "Your swordsmanship is too rigid. You were never suited to this style of combat in the first place. You would have been better off sticking to the technique you used just now. I saw you could summon even more flying swords of Holy Light—why didn't you?" For the first time in his life, Cyril Roland heard someone say his swordsmanship was lacking! In the Ryan Empire, by swordsmanship alone, he ranked at least third. Yet Cyril could not refute him, because the Ryan swordsmanship he took such pride in was leagues behind the man before him. He was right. Had Cyril gone all out from the start, perhaps he wouldn't have been defeated so miserably. The Blood of Lathander flared with radiance, swiftly knitting Cyril Roland's wound closed. Scrambling to his feet on the pack ice, the Radiant General said to Arthur Ryan, "I have to admit your swordsmanship surpasses mine. Perhaps you truly are a man of Ryan, but I still cannot accept that you are working for an undead. A lich's phylactery is crafted from the souls of the living. Do you even know what you're doing?" Arthur Ryan sighed. "That is precisely why I decided to help him. You have no idea—he can stop every lich in the world from slaughtering the living ever again." Undead not killing the living? Who would believe that? Cyril Roland assumed the paladin before him had simply been charmed by the lich. Yes, that had to be it. The lich had used some insidious method to charm a steadfast paladin, brainwashing him into a devoted follower. "I will rescue you," Cyril said. "Though to guarantee your safety, do not blame me for resorting to drastic measures." Cyril Roland raised his right hand. The next instant, several figures soared off the Ryan warships. Four paladins and two clerics of light—all the legends deployed for this battle. The seven moved in seamless coordination; the moment they converged, the Holy Light enveloping them blended as one, thoroughly linked. Seven individuals combined, yet their power multiplied far beyond sevenfold. At that moment, a towering silhouette of Holy Light manifested above the seven—a celestial warrior summoned from the divine realm of the Lord of the Dawn. What was more, Cyril Roland seemed determined to go all out, calling upon every Ryan soldier aboard the fleet to empower this celestial warrior with their power of faith. It stood far taller and more lifelike than the celestial warrior once summoned by several hundred serfs. Clad in heavy armor, bearing a sharp greatsword, and flanked by enormous feathered wings, this celestial warrior looked truly like a deity descended to the mortal plane. Standing four meters tall, with a blade wider than Arthur Ryan's shoulders leveled straight at his face, the celestial warrior seemed poised to crush him with that colossal sword. Yet Arthur Ryan did not move. Staring at the figure, he could not help but utter a name: "Longbadun, is that you?!" The celestial warrior paused in mid-motion and unleashed a resonant roar: "Who are you?! How do you know my name?!" Longbadun Butuo—that had been his name in the mortal world, back when dragonkind still ruled over it. He was one of the paladins who had followed Arthur Ryan to overthrow the Demonic Dragon Tyrant, though he had fallen in battle early on, before ever reaching the legendary realm. Arthur Ryan remembered it vividly, for Longbadun Butuo had been burned to ash by dragon flame right before his eyes. He never imagined that after more than one thousand seven hundred years, they would meet again under such circumstances. Because Longbadun Butuo fell so early and had not amassed many exploits, even in the annals of Ryan history he remained merely a name. His deeds were glossed over, recorded only as having fallen in that particular campaign. Hardly any people of Ryan could recall his name, let alone recognize his appearance. "Who on earth are you?!" Longbadun Butuo bellowed. Anyone who could recognize him at a glance had to be someone he met on the battlefields back then, yet Longbadun Butuo could not recognize the man before him at all. Could he be a remnant of the Cult of the Dragon disguised as a paladin? Longbadun Butuo had died in the early stages of the war, back before Arthur Ryan had even formulated the plan to steal the artifact. Arthur Ryan's body trembled slightly before he replied, "I'm sorry, I cannot tell you. At least not right now." If his true identity were made public, Ryan would inevitably plunge into turmoil, and countless innocent people would be caught in the fallout. Arthur Ryan had no confidence he could resolve such chaos, so he could not acknowledge his comrade from the past. All Arthur Ryan could do was raise his sword and say to his former comrade, "Come. Let us settle this. If this drags on any longer, all of you will die." The storm clouds overhead thickened—a message sent from Anbaixiu to Arthur Ryan. The fight just now had not been flashy or decisive enough to meet Anbaixiu's standards. If it dragged on further, the lich would bring out the Elegy Poetry Society. Endless golden radiance erupted from Arthur Ryan, the gale whipped up by this sheer power spiderwebbing the pack ice beneath his feet. Though Longbadun Butuo could not recognize Arthur Ryan, he sensed the vast power of Holy Light surging from the man. Could a mere mortal truly possess such power? Yet it mattered not. He was no mortal either; bolstered by seven legends and the faith of an entire Ryan legion, Longbadun Butuo wielded power bordering on that of a deity. A phantom roulette manifested, and a Bane spell enhanced by a legendary boon descended upon Arthur Ryan, causing the golden light around him to dim slightly. With another wave of his hand, Longbadun Butuo condensed ten thousand golden rays into swords that streaked toward Arthur Ryan. Stamping his foot, dozens of Holy Light shields materialized, forming a cage that trapped Arthur inside. Holy Light clung to his greatsword, shaping into the phantom of a warhammer so heavy the surrounding space fractured with hairline rifts under the crushing pressure. ... Technique after technique—every gesture and strike brimmed with the power of legendary boons. At this moment, Longbadun Butuo wielded the full might of all seven legends and could draw upon the power of their legendary boons. Every move he unleashed was a combined strike from all seven legends, equivalent to sevenfold strength. This was the true Knights of Condemnation, the true bane of the undead. Beams of Holy Light turned into relentless barrages, utterly engulfing Arthur Ryan. The dense pack ice, two to three kilometers across, was completely pulverized, and sea waves surged dozens of meters into the air. When pushed to its peak, condensed Holy Light could unleash earth-shattering devastation, hardly different in effect from Anbaixiu's hundreds of meteors. Using his own form as a conduit, Longbadun Butuo wielded this immense power without restraint, intent on utterly crushing the foe before him. After a ferocious onslaught, a colossal whirlpool formed upon the sea, as if the radiant assault had bored straight through the seabed. Just when everyone believed Arthur Ryan had been annihilated, a glow kindled in the center of that whirlpool. A beam of Holy Light, soft and unblinding, as pure as the morning dawn. Within the whirlpool, Arthur Ryan's figure raised his sword and swung. A glint of dawn broke forth, sweeping past the gigantic celestial warrior. The four-meter-tall phantom was cleaved clean through by this unremarkable strike, dissolving into nothingness. Compared to the Silvermoon Knight's moonlit strike, Arthur Ryan's arc of light was far too narrow and faint—yet this was the true dawn, the dawn that had cleaved through darkness all those centuries ago to bring light to the entire world.