Cold wind streamed like threads through the battlefield, while grit swept across the pitch-black ground like smoke and dust. The flower pinned to the front of the count's coat fluttered in one direction until a hand pressed it down and straightened it.
A thin line at the edge of the sky was reflected in the purple chalcedony buttons. Brando stood upright on horseback like a straight spear, facing it all head-on. The earth trembled, and tiny Stone Fragments slid across the solid ground.
The light in the sky gradually dimmed. The setting sun burned, radiating its last trace of warmth.
A silver network extended from the clouds behind him, passed over his head, and stretched forward. Silver pulses advanced in steps, linking together grid by grid and shining brightly.
The wild wind tousled his long hair. Strands of dark-brown hair brushed across his cheeks, one after another. Brando's expression was tranquil, as though he stood listening to a distant, lingering song.
That song was like a long wind spanning ten thousand miles, sweeping across the battlefield and carrying countless ideals and countless memories.
Millions of voices overlapped with one another; millions of wills converged as one.
Clouds and mist moved across the battlefield.
The ethereal knights came to a halt. Their blurred faces seemed to hold a gaze fixed upon one end of the battlefield.
In every corner of the battlefield, the twenty-seven Ancient Kings wearing laurel crowns turned around on horseback. They gripped their swords tightly, yet all cast their gazes in the same direction.
The Lionheart Sacred Sword shone brilliantly.
Seven hundred and eighty years ago, a band of knights arrived at what was now the Graymane Valley.
A man planted his sword before the knights and said:
"I swear upon my sword that Eluin shall bear glory