Southern Knights' Turnaround

Sir Andrew's face was already deathly pale. As Count Crick's heir, he was unfit for the role; his body was far too weak.

Farrant had once hidden her identity for his sake, fighting across the battlefields in his place.

Sir Andrew had always felt guilty toward his younger sister. Now that her husband was facing a life-or-death crisis, he felt it was time to repay some of what he owed her.

Part of the pallor on his face came from excitement. This was the first time he had ever ridden freely across a battlefield, and the heroic spirit in his heart could no longer be concealed.

The other part came from his frail body.

There was no denying that riding a horse was extremely exhausting. Even merely sitting on horseback required considerable stamina, let alone urging a weak man like Sir Andrew into a full gallop.

He could clearly feel that his body was starved of oxygen. His lungs felt stifled, as though they were about to burst, and his eyes seemed ready to pop from their sockets.

"Boom!" A thunderous explosion rang out, and Sir Andrew seemed to be jolted by it as he threw open the visor of his helmet.

The attendant beside him caught a fleeting glimpse of him and noticed that something was wrong.

Sir Andrew's face was frighteningly pale. His lips had turned a ghastly purple, while his eyes bulged from their sockets and were webbed with blood vessels, resembling the eyes of a demon in a religious painting.

"Don't mind me! Keep... keep charging!" Sir Andrew spoke like a bellows, staring fixedly at the attendant beside him before handing over the battle standard.

The attendant was just about to say something when he saw his young master's mouth moving constantly, yet he could not