Clang!
Clang!
Two crisp clashes of weapons rang through the empty black crypt, followed by a flurry of blows like a raging storm. The golden warhammer and black runeblade swept past each other, and the two figures stopped behind one another.
Dick, his entire body shimmering with golden light, lowered his head and saw the churning trails of Holy Light on the ground. He braced himself on the Fire of Justice, which looked as though it were burning with flames, and moved his arm with difficulty. A wound had appeared on his chest-a black wound that writhed like crawling worms. Before blood could flow out, the seething power evaporated it.
The corrosive energy hissed as it collided with the golden Holy Light. It looked utterly eerie.
Behind him stood a black figure mounted on a tall horse. After passing Dick, the skeletal warhorse beneath the Black Knight let out a mournful cry and burned to ashes. The mounted knight swayed, then planted himself firmly on the ground.
He was wrapped in a long black hooded cloak, holding a greatsword that shone with red and green runes in his left hand. Beneath the cloak, his body was clad in sturdy armor, black and both menacing and intricate in design. Black skulls were engraved on his wrists, shoulders, abdomen, and the surfaces of his armored boots.
He looked like a destroyer that had emerged from the darkness. Where the Fire of Justice had struck him, right over his heart, a dent had appeared in the black armor. Gathered Holy Light lingered in the dent, continually scorching the dark body beneath.
Every second in this sinister black crypt, Dick suffered the assault of a ring of corrosive energy. Although his Holy Light, now far more substantial, kept it outside his body, the repeated impacts still consumed a great deal of his energy.
Especially as the battle dragged on, the residual energy from those successive waves gathered together, placing a severe burden on his body.
Dick turned his head and glanced at the motionless Black Knight, a trace of unwillingness flashing through his eyes. But that sword strike had already wounded his heart. Before he reached the legendary rank, a wound there was fatal.
Thud!
Dick's body hit the ground, and he convulsed in pain. The badly wounded Black Knight turned around and examined Dick's armor and weapon. He seemed puzzled. How had this insect, capable of hurting him, appeared in his city?
But Dick could no longer tell him any of that. The Black Knight dropped to one knee, raised his runeblade high with both hands, and thrust it down at Dick's body.
Yet the instant it touched Dick's body, Dick suddenly turned into a wisp of smoke where he lay and swiftly vanished from beside him.
At the same time, the runeblade that had clashed with the Fire of Justice so many times shattered into pieces the instant it struck the ground. Driven by the Black Knight's tremendous strength, the fragments flew everywhere. One even flew straight toward his face.
Slash!
The sharp blade sliced across his face, opening a large wound, but not a drop of blood flowed from it. Clumps of black energy spilled from the wound and enveloped the Black Knight's face, soon restoring the injured area completely.
The Black Knight paid no attention to any of this. He raised his head and sensed the army of abominations outside, which had been completely wiped out. His indifferent face remained indifferent, and there was no telling what he was thinking.
As he raised his head, an icy blue face appeared in the faint light: gaunt and withered, with a pair of blood-red undead flames and black hair.
Though somewhat distorted, it was still clearly recognizable. This... this was Rivendare!
Elsewhere, the pain in his chest remained, his heart feeling as though it really had been pierced, but Dick had opened his eyes.
He sprang upright in bed and reached out in the darkness. The instant his palm touched the handle of the Fire of Justice, golden light illuminated the entire room. Dick placed the warhammer on the table like a lamppost, then sat down and poured himself a cup of water. He took out a black pipe, getting accustomed to this world's pungent tobacco while recalling the battle just now.
Yes, that had not been a dream!
It had been a real duel! A duel between him and Rivendare. He had fought such duels seventeen times already, but every time, he had suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of this not particularly powerful death knight.
He took the now-fragile key out of his clothes. It had gradually changed from pale blue to pallid white, as though it had rusted, and seemed as if it would snap with the slightest force. This was how he dueled Rivendare. Of the twenty entries granted by this "Stratholme Dungeon" key, only three remained, yet he still had not cleared it alone.
Dick knew that those were all Rivendares from other timelines. He entered those timelines through a special form of projection, always arriving at Stratholme's main gate. He could never leave Stratholme's boundaries, the monsters dropped no equipment, and there was no such thing as experience.
In short, this was a place for him to hone his combat skills.
Rivendare... this fellow ranked at the very bottom of all the well-known death knights and might not even qualify as a hero, yet Dick still could not beat him.
He thought for a long time, but still found no insight into combat. Looking at the sky outside the window, which was already beginning to pale, Dick simply put on his clothes, slung the Fire of Justice across his back, opened the door, and began his daily "morning exercises."
"I'll break through here today!"
Humming a song, Dick followed Stratholme's alleys into the deepest part of the city. He picked a direction at random, hefted the Fire of Justice in his hand, and headed toward the elite undead wandering aimlessly about.
Anything Rivendare stationed here, even a set of withered bones, was unquestionably elite. The ghouls were dangerous creatures that had mastered skills like "Plague Claw," not to mention the greater abominations that occasionally roamed here. And you never knew which dark corner a hideous banshee might suddenly leap out of.
In short, few people came to this dark district. Even the three attacks organized by the two defensive lines over the past two months had only skimmed its edges, serving mostly as troop training.
The plan Dick had proposed at the Silver Hand's general assembly had been rejected almost in its entirety. Unexpectedly, however, the proposal to accelerate the paladins' growth had been retained. Green recruits sent from Tyr's Hand practically filled the position Dick was responsible for, and even Dathrohan, stationed at the deeper defensive line, suffered greatly from them.
But there was no helping it. The entire Order of the Silver Hand was now focused on Andorhal. Until the city's seven hundred thousand undead were destroyed, West Darrowmere, the empire's granary, could not resume operations. Over these two months, once the recruits had gained a little fighting capability, Uther had withdrawn all the veteran knights from both fronts.
You say you don't have enough troops? Fine! You want a thousand men? I'll give you two thousand!
As a result, during their first joint operation with Dathrohan's Military District to eliminate the undead deep within Stratholme, a detached two-hundred-man battalion was nearly wiped out by a strike force Rivendare had assembled from four abominations, one squad of necromancers, and two squads of elite skeleton warriors.
Had Dick and Dathrohan not charged into the battle formation at the last moment with their remaining veterans, even the hundred-odd survivors would have been surrounded, divided, and picked off.
Only then did these paladin recruits, who had spent all their time training in Tyr's Hand, learn the terror of real war. But Dick's training for them had only just begun, and his method was simple. The two thousand men were divided into a hundred squads of twenty. Taking turns each day, they ventured deep into the city under the veterans' leadership. If they failed to bring back ten undead heads, they continued the next day.
Every half month, everyone took part in a large-scale training exercise, sweeping away the undead roaming the city. Under this intense training with real weapons and real combat, the recruits grew quickly. Even Dathrohan, who had initially opposed this method of staking their lives, marveled at the growth of Dick's recruits. Soon, the Military District began similar operations.
For Dick, however, these were only minor affairs. He hardly had a moment of leisure. Every day was training, training, training, beating up undead, and sleeping. Even in his sleep, he continued honing his martial skills in another timeline.
In just two months, Dick had completed five random quests. His strength had risen to 55, his agility to 48, and his energy had doubled to 80. His overall combat strength had increased by almost a third compared with when he fought the bitter battle against Ramstein, but he was still not satisfied.
There was only one reason Dick pushed himself so hard.
Arthas would be back soon!
The Far North, the mysterious continent of Northrend, north of Dragonblight, the Forgotten Ice Cave.
This was a place that could freeze the souls of those who entered. Arthas stood not far from a stone platform, leaning on his golden warhammer, Holy Light's Vengeance. Before him, a black-and-blue longsword hovered above the platform. A line of inscriptions was carved into the stone, enough to make someone dizzy with a single glance.
A dwarf with a war axe and warhammer at his waist was leaning over the platform, a thick book beside his hand. His thick fingers traced the inscriptions little by little as he spoke the translated meaning, one word at a time.
"Whoever wields this sword shall possess eternal divine power! This sword drinks blood to reveal its sharpness; this sword devours souls to display its might!"
After reading it, even the dwarf himself seemed startled by the murderous, sinister inscription. He took a step back and looked hesitantly at Arthas.
"Arthas, this is a runeblade! This definitely isn't what you're looking for! Let's get out of here. I have a... a bad feeling!"
The dwarf with the handsome, thick orange-red beard spoke to Arthas. His name was Muradin, Muradin Bronzebeard. He was the younger brother of Ironforge's reigning dwarven king, Magni Bronzebeard, and an honorary council member of Ironforge's Explorers' League. Arthas had encountered them when he landed.
At the time, a group of undead had been attacking the dwarves' camp. Without hesitation, Arthas had led his soldiers in scattering those spider-like undead. To repay Arthas's kindness, after learning his reasons for coming, Muradin had immediately declared that he would help Arthas find the legendary sword capable of controlling the undead.
Because of Dick's intervention, history had changed here. Arthas had explained to his father, King Terenas, why he was heading to the Northlands. Though the old king was reluctant to let him go, he had not stubbornly ordered Arthas to retreat as he had in the original history. Naturally, the vicious incident involving burning ships and murder would not occur either.
After instructing Falric and Marwyn to look after the camp, the two powerful men set off on their journey to find the divine sword.
Muradin and Arthas were, in fact, old acquaintances. When Arthas was young, Muradin had briefly served as his swordsmanship instructor. Muradin knew that Arthas had been filled with a sense of justice since childhood, but it was not until the two broke through the blizzard and entered this sinister ice cave that Muradin realized something was wrong.
"Arthas? Arthas! Are you listening to me?"
"Uh... leave, Muradin. Go back to your people. Don't stay here. This sword... this sword is my destiny. I saw it!"
"You're mad! My friend, come with me, now!"
"No... I can't leave... I have to save my people. As long as I tame this sword... yes, I can tame it! I can..."
"Aah!!!"