Chapter 118: All With One Sword (Part 2)

The Emperor of the Yanting Empire stood up, and the military nobles below rose as well, instinctively forming two lines, like a cheering crowd bidding farewell to the departing Emperor.

Shields bore various family crests; swords and staves stood side by side. 

They resembled heroic spirits in the pantheon preparing to set out and bring victory.

The Emperor lowered his head and asked the red-dragon-tattooed chieftain beside him: “What do you think it looks like?”

“The king of the gods who leads Valhalla.”

The Emperor laughed heartily. 

His pale hand drew the longsword at his waist, pointed it at the only exit, and shouted: “Set out!”

No sooner had he spoken than a plate-armored guard rolled out from the exit like a football, tumbling several circles on the filthy red carpet.

Someone shouted: “Intruder!”

Everyone turned toward the exit, where the light was dim. In the curtain-like shadows, a white-armored knight strode forward. 

The wooden emblem of Tyr’s Hand on his breastplate, the white plume on his helmet… This image should have belonged to the just white knight from fairy tales, the one who saves people from suffering.

But blood had stained his greaves red; the white plume on his helmet was half-dyed crimson; several bloody handprints marked his breastplate—left by unwilling enemies grasping at it before death.

At this moment, he looked like a devil returning from a bloody war in hell.

“Who?!”

The military nobles flew into a rage. 

They closed in, hands gripping sword hilts, like piranhas about to pounce on prey fallen into the water, baring sharp fangs.

“Richard!” 

Richard lifted his visor, revealing his face.

Only then did everyone recognize him. 

How strange—he had worn this very armor earlier, attending the banquet with them.

The leading military nobles, older ones who had managed their territories for over a decade, immediately halted. 

So abruptly that those behind unfortunately rear-ended them, crashing into their backs.

The dozen-plus Varangian Guards around the Emperor immediately raised their shields, protecting him in the center.

“Richard! You murderer, you pedophile!” the Emperor shouted sternly. “Returning now—are you here to repent?”

“For justice.” 

Richard looked at the Emperor, mentally calculating the distance as he took a step forward.

The Emperor immediately stepped back, even though the crowd formed a wall blocking Richard. 

These were not ordinary soldiers but military nobles possessing extraordinary power. 

Even though the loyal and brave Varangian Guards surrounded him, and the red-dragon-tattooed chieftain stood like a wall of flesh before him.

Yet he still retreated a step.

“You intend to commit regicide?”

“What else?” 

Richard countered. 

“I’ve come to settle your crimes, and the verdict is death.”

“You!” 

The Emperor raged. 

He stepped out from beside the chieftain, pointing forcefully at Richard: “Rebellion! Death!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, a hot-blooded knight roared and charged at Richard, his longsword slashing down.

Those behind saw only a flash of white light—so bright. 

They saw only the brave knight’s silhouette, like two paper cutouts pasted on a white wall, because a sword cleaved from top to bottom, splitting that cutout in half.

The white light faded. 

Two halves of a corpse thudded to the ground. 

The helmet, split down the middle, rolled on the floor, clattering. 

Half a face still glared in anger—perfectly symmetrical, embodying a certain aesthetic of order.

It wasn’t too gory; the wounds were entirely charred. 

But some semi-solid contents from the body’s “container” spilled out, falling onto the filthy red carpet, making everyone deeply uncomfortable.

Thanks to the military nobles present—men and women alike having seen battlefields to some degree—no one vomited.

The hall fell much quieter. 

Everyone recalled anew the legends of Richard: the one who could slay the Dread Dragon.

“I’ve heard you gossiping behind my back,” Richard said. 

“Saying I need two swords to kill two goblins—yes, that’s true. But the same goes for killing you.”

Someone shouted: “Ridiculous! Even now you insult us with words—showing not a shred of repentance. Today you will be cut to pieces.”

“You can try.”

The man gestured to draw his sword; others grew eager.

White light flared on Richard’s blade, brimming with holy white radiance, yet unable to hide the bloodstains upon it.

The man froze as if nails pinned his feet to the floor.

But the Emperor laughed in response:

“I have over a hundred fearless nobles here, and you are but one. Don’t think I don’t know—you obtained a teleportation treasure from the dragon’s legacy. But try regicide if you dare.”

“I need only stand here,” Richard said. 

“One man cannot defeat your hundred, but I can take a dozen with me. If you wish to leave, you’ll have to step over my corpse.”

He stated it as fact, not as a vow. 

Unlike the Emperor’s impassioned oaths. 

Yet everyone believed Richard would fight to the death.

No one stepped forward. 

The capital’s strongest martial force, surprisingly blocked by one man in a hall.

The Emperor looked left and right, deeply disappointed and furious. 

He opened his mouth: “His Holy Severance is limited. Is there no brave soul?”

Silence. The earlier murmurs grew even softer.

Why should I expend the dragon-slayer’s Holy Severance?

“He shall receive honor and reward.”

No one moved. 

They were no longer reckless soldiers who tied their heads to their belts.

“I’ll do it!”

A mage noble raised his staff and began chanting, trying to split the floor beneath Richard into a pit. 

But the floor only writhed once before returning to normal.

Actually, besides this hall exit, there were other paths. 

For example, descending from the balcony—just very undignified. 

To be scared by Richard alone into rappelling down with ropes—would he still have authority afterward?

The thought enraged the Emperor.

All the empire’s military nobles were cowards! 

Not one dared claim honor for him.

Calm, calm.

The Emperor composed himself. 

At times like this, someone needed to lead the charge. 

His gaze turned to his Varangian Guard—only a dozen or so. 

But using them to spearhead would surely turn the fight into a beatdown, reducing Richard to chunks.

Yet that would cost his loyal guard. 

If the guard charged first and Richard suddenly teleported for a suicidal strike?

His eyes shifted to the red-dragon-tattooed chieftain, assessing his worth—then he suddenly remembered the “phone.”

He gripped the crystal-like device and asked:

“Dear ally, can you personally bring your Hellknight order here? Richard stands alone, yet my cowardly nobles—not one dares advance.”

“Do not worry, great Emperor. All is according to plan. The Hellknight order is already en route; I will join soon.”

“I trust you.”

The Emperor sighed in relief. 

With his most trusted ally Frostsilver, he would be safe—then send the Varangian Guard to lead the charge.

He didn’t notice the chieftain glance stealthily: “His Majesty must be a man who cares for his people—once the army arrives, it will surely be the regicide’s doom.”

“Oh?” The Emperor paused briefly, then nodded: “Yes.”

The chieftain announced loudly: “Richard, a fine plan you have. My master pities everyone; he doesn’t wish fewer familiar faces at tomorrow’s victory banquet. Once the army arrives, you’ll drown in a sea of men.”

Richard smiled but said nothing. 

He had come embracing certain death to buy time. 

As long as the Hands of Tyr reached the temple district, as long as Sophia and Aurina escaped alive from this bloody stage.

The military nobles praised the Emperor’s mercy; he stepped down the ladder they offered, his expression improving.

A tense, quiet standoff began in the banquet hall.

Hearing footsteps from the balcony, the Emperor’s face gradually broke into a smile. 

Time was on his side.

“My lady, shall I send news of your capture to the Emperor?”

A muscular man tapped the “phone” with two fingers, asking the unicorn-horned Frostsilver.

“No need to report good news to that fool,” Frostsilver said. “Leave.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The iron door closed.

The unicorn-horned Frostsilver turned her gaze to Sophia, bound in golden threads like a cocoon. 

Sophia stared back, lips pressed tight.

Frostsilver snapped her fingers.

“Frostsilver,” Sophia said. 

“You’re not truly on the Emperor’s side, right?”

“Of course not.”

Sophia exhaled in relief.

“I only want the dragon-slaying treasure sword,” Frostsilver said. 

“I heard that mongrel muttering about the dragon-slaying sword hilt—what’s that about?”

“Then promise me—you must save Richard.”

“I can.”

Sophia said:

“When Richard raided Larrifa Manor, he seized the dragon-slaying sword hilt the Emperor had hidden. He promised Aurina that if he died, the hilt would be hers—on condition she take me away. Aurina was thrilled, so she hurriedly carried him to the banquet hall, then hurriedly grabbed me to flee—only to crash into your golden net.”

“How simple,” Frostsilver’s icy face revealed a smile. 

“I was wondering earlier—since she carries the Dread Dragon’s blood, would it counter me? I even prepared five backup plans. Heh, now it seems overly cautious.”

Sophia’s expression changed: “Frostsilver, what do you mean?”

“Nothing much,” Frostsilver said. “Just realizing once again how stupid you are. Clearly born with high perception, yet still so stupid—only your closeness to Richard let you stand in the dragon-slaying team. When I considered making Richard a piece on my board, you were the flaw.”

Sophia said: “I know you’ve always been arrogant, but time is short—please fulfill your promise.”

“Promise? What did I promise you?”

“To save Richard.”

“Oh? Do you have proof?” Frostsilver’s face was expressionless. “I don’t recognize verbal evidence.”

“You! You tricked me.”

“I didn’t trick you—I’m not on the Emperor’s side,” Frostsilver said. 

“I’m on my own side. Thank you for the information. When I ask Aurina for the dragon-slaying sword hilt, I’ll torture her properly.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can.” 

Frostsilver gritted her teeth: “That mongrel must be terrified and crying by now.”

Frostsilver waved her hand; another iron door opened. 

This was the torture chamber. 

On a steel bed, Aurina’s limbs were tightly bound; the air carried an ominous scent of preservative fluid.

On the bed, a one-armed steel golem seemed ready at any moment to smash a skull with its arm.

Yet Aurina lay on the bed, fast asleep, snoring sweetly.