Chapter 8: The False Hero
A few months ago.
A desperate fleeing party stumbled into the forest.
Along the way, several groups of refugees from Kisliv and the Empire gathered, exchanging various pieces of information.
“Where is Empress Catherine?”
“She’s dead. I heard from a deserter that she led the remaining winged knights into a charge against the demon army.”
“That’s impossible! How could she be defeated? How could the Kislivians fall?”
The Honorary Greatsword Master, known as the Scary Sword Saint—Henry, walked at the front of the group, tiredly listening to their conversations.
He had heard this rumor many times; it seemed that Catherine, the female tsarina of Kisliv, was indeed dead.
It was said that she fought to the last, and just as she was about to rout the demon army, the Blood God himself appeared in anger, turning the tide of battle. In the end, amidst the wind and snow, Empress Catherine led the remaining winged knights to cover the refugee group and charged into the enemy ranks, never to be seen again.
“Captain,” someone called out to him, “can we make it to Adolph?”
The Scary Sword Saint Henry felt somewhat irritated. He hadn’t wanted to be the captain; he didn’t have the courage or strength. He was just a deserter who, seeing the volcano erupt and his comrades fall, shamefully betrayed his enlistment oath and ran away, carrying the greatsword.
But the refugees insisted on making him their leader, wanting him to lead them back home, to the order’s army, to at least find someone to organize them, take up weapons, and defend their homeland.
He didn’t want to be the leader at all; he just wanted to discard his armor and return alone to Scary Village with his greatsword.
What sword saint, what achievements—forget it. The doomsday army was too terrifying; those demons leaped out from the cracks in the earth and the lava, tireless, unceasing, without needing a crumb of bread or a drop of water.
He just wanted to go back, humbly work as a farmer with a hoe. At worst, he could hide in the forest, protect his parents and brothers; if doomsday came, then so be it—there were plenty of heroes outside; what difference did it make if one more imposter was gone?
But just as he thought he could escape, someone recognized him, pointing at his face and saying, “Hey, isn’t that the battle hero of Obsidian! The Scary Sword Saint?”
“I saw the Emperor personally award him.”
“He must have fought his way out of the encirclement of the demons.”
Before he could react, people surrounded him, asking where he was going.
The Scary Sword Saint Henry could only lie: “Heading to Adolph to regroup with the Emperor’s army.”
“What about your armor? You look like a deserter.”
“Impossible! The Scary Sword Saint is a greatsword warrior awarded by the Emperor; he must have been ordered to break out.”
He continued lying, “A thief stole my armor.”
Someone said excitedly, “Then this must be your armor; I found it from a thief.”
Henry saw his own armor—the magical plate armor—composed of a breastplate, helmet, shoulder plates, and thigh plates, with several medals hanging from the breastplate.
Without giving him a chance to refuse, the breastplate was fitted onto him, and responsibilities and honors fell onto his shoulders.
I can only lead you all to a dead end!
But the Scary Sword Saint Henry dared not say that; he didn’t dare admit he was a deserter.
“Captain!” the voice asked again, “can we live to reach Adolph?”
The Scary Sword Saint Henry “woke up” from his memories, instinctively replying, “No.”
“Ah?”
“We…”
The people all stopped.
The Scary Sword Saint quickly turned back to see the light in their eyes dimming, despair hanging over their heads like a cloud. The one who had asked him was a young provincial soldier with a large shield marked with the seal of the Autok Province.
The Autok Province had already fallen entirely.
His young brown eyes stared blankly at the Scary Sword Saint.
“Wah wah wah.”
Some children began to cry as a mother on a cart, with patched skirts, held a little boy, trying to comfort him.
The Scary Sword Saint immediately regretted it; these people were pitiful enough, having trusted him, and now…
He quickly changed his tone and looked at the young provincial soldier with determination, saying:
“The Emperor’s army hasn’t been entirely obliterated; His Excellency is contacting his allies and gathering the imperial candidate army. We will be able to join the imperial forces before we arrive at Adolph.
“And then sacrifice our lives for a great victory.”
The young provincial soldier managed a forced smile and said, “Can we survive this forest?”
“Of course, we’ve endured so many disasters along the way.” The Scary Sword Saint Henry replied, “In that forest, an entire refugee caravan died beneath the moving trees, and I led you out of it.
“Do you remember that river, that bridge? Thanks to the twelve noble men in the rear and the dwarven engineer’s explosives, we blew up the bridge before the pursuers could catch us, and an entire regiment of demon warriors could only watch us leave.”
The child stopped crying.
“Yeah.” The young provincial soldier said, “Choosing you as our leader was absolutely the right decision. Do you remember Jim? He disobeyed you and led his own group—he’s probably become food for the monster trees by now.”
“No.” The Scary Sword Saint sincerely said, “It was your tenacity that led you; I am honored.”
The young provincial soldier smiled broadly.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Scary Sword Saint Henry saw a leaf move in a dense patch of trees beside him, and he instinctively felt something was wrong, quickly looking down.
“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.”
The whistling of arrows came, and a greenish arrow pierced through the head of the young provincial soldier next to him. His smile froze on his face as he fell straight to the ground, the helmet falling from his hands.
“Clang!”
An arrow broke against the helmet.
The Scary Sword Saint Henry didn’t even have time to feel grateful for his habit of wearing a helmet.
From the thickets on both sides, a group of red-haired, athletic elven sword dancers charged out.
It was an ambush by the wood elves!
Panicking, Henry gripped his greatsword and countercharged. He saw a female wood elf wrapped in thorns, floating in the air, singing a song.
Thorns rapidly grew under his feet, entangling his limbs and rendering him unable to move.
He saw a female wood elf with long red hair, appearing like a youthful beauty, stride towards him with dynamic movements; her long ears bent in the wind, and the war markings on her face did not detract from her wild beauty—she was a sword dancer.
This sword dancer smiled at him.
Like love crashing in, swift and fierce, the hilt of her sword struck his forehead and knocked him unconscious.
Before blacking out, the Scary Sword Saint heard the unfamiliar language: “He is my prisoner! (elvish)”
He never expected to die this way.
Henry regretted it deeply; had he known, he wouldn’t have taken the stories of the locals as fairy tales; there really were elves in this forest.
When he awoke again.
He saw a long, sleek bare leg standing in front of him, with a few beads of sweat on the smooth skin marked with green war paint. At the same time, there was a sharp sword.
Henry recognized this leg; its owner was the one who had knocked him unconscious and attacked the entire group. He struggled hard, wanting to chop her down.
But a stabbing pain shot through his arm, where the thorny vines bound him.
“Awake? Intruder? (elvish)” The red-haired sword dancer grabbed his hair, pulling him up and forcing him to kneel.
Henry shouted, “Mother rat! Savage! Beastman! Despicable and shameless!”
The hand grasping his hair tightened.
The red-haired sword dancer angrily spoke in common tongue: “Did you not see what was written under Old Oak Granny, on the stone tablet?”
“Who the hell can understand that?”
“Intruders shall die,” the red-haired sword dancer said, “I will sacrifice you to the great trees as nourishment.”
At that moment, Henry finally saw a huge tree in the distance; he thought that if he climbed up its trunk, he could reach the clouds.
A booming voice shouted:
“Smash those shameless long ears! You smell worse than goblin dung! I will kill you all!”
Henry turned to see a bare-chested dwarven engineer, who was almost freeing himself from the thorns, but several tall wood elves came up and stepped on him.
A sharp curved sword fell beside the dwarf’s neck, drawing blood.
Some wood elves harshly said, “We should cut this dwarven pile right now, to sacrifice to the trees as nourishment. (elvish)”
Although he couldn’t understand, Henry saw them gripping the dwarven engineer by the hair, exposing his neck.
The red-haired sword dancer shouted, “I’ll do it!”
With that, she picked up her sword, preparing to slit the dwarven engineer’s throat.
“No!” Henry shouted.
The red-haired sword dancer huffed, not willing to pause for this human at all.
Henry continued shouting, “You’re playing dirty! Have the guts to match swords with me! I bet your sword skills are worse than my chickens pecking at rice!”
As soon as he finished speaking, the red-haired sword dancer stopped and looked at him, her beautiful face filled with mockery.
The other wood elves asked, and the red-haired sword dancer reiterated in elvish.
All the wood elves, some sitting in trees and others leaning against them, laughed.
The red-haired sword dancer walked over; her smile was beautiful.
Henry thought of the young provincial soldier who had died innocently, glaring at her with malice, provoking, “Do you dare to a one-on-one duel with me?”
“Of course I dare!” the red-haired sword dancer laughed lightly: “I am blessed by the god of Loyi; your moves will be too slow for me to see, and only a few dare to challenge my swordsmanship. If you can last five minutes without dying, I will let you all go. Otherwise, I will wield my twin blades and cut you down in a thousand strikes before you die.”
Henry’s heart raced, but he still gritted his teeth and said, “Then let’s do it!”
She truly cut the thorns away and returned Henry his greatsword.
Everyone made space for them, and the two stood at opposite ends.
“Begin!”
She shouted suddenly, charging at him from ten meters away like a wild buffalo, swinging both swords towards Henry.
Her movements were graceful and swift, like a shadow.
Henry felt he couldn’t withstand her attacks; he barely managed to swing a few strikes but suddenly, she disappeared and attacked from behind. Henry leaned sideways, the sharp blade grazing his breastplate, making a sound like metal clashing.
The red-haired sword dancer’s assault was like summer rain, growing faster and more intense, almost striking from all directions.
I’m going to die! I’m going to die!
Henry panted heavily, having to repeatedly push his potential, but he knew he was barely holding on, the next strike could mean death at any moment.
His steps wavered, sweat pouring down.
Just thinking about the thousand strikes waiting for him, he regretted it immensely. Had he known, he wouldn’t have tried to be a hero back then.
At that moment, a sudden roar echoed from afar, like an earthquake, and the distant forest erupted into flames.
The two quickly separated, seeing amidst the flames the banner of the Blood God and his army.
