The clang of steel echoed through the hidden chamber like a war drum.
Luca staggered backward, boots sliding across the stone floor, blade raised just in time to block another crushing blow. The spirit knight’s greatsword slammed against his own with bone-jarring force, sending a tremor up his arms and nearly knocking the weapon from his grip.
"Tch... heavy...!"
His breathing was shallow, ragged. Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead, blurring one eye. Another cut stung along his shoulder, and a deeper wound on his thigh made each step an agony.
But still, he stood.
The knight moved like a ghost forged in war. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Every step forward was measured, every strike executed with inhuman precision. It was like facing the embodiment of martial perfection.
And Luca?
He was improvising.
His stance was off. His swings too wide. His parries sloppy. The ceremonial longsword dragged behind his movements like a rebellious weight.
His previous days of training — wooden sword flailing more from instinct than form — hadn’t prepared him for this. Back then, the rhythm felt natural, like muscle memory guiding him. But it wasn’t learned swordplay — it was mimicry, instinctual, chaotic. When he practiced with the wooden sword, it looked like he knew what he was doing, but in reality, his body was just moving on auto-pilot. There was no foundation, no real technique behind the swings.
But now? With a real sword in hand? Every misstep screamed in pain. Every swing cost him.
Yet every now and then—
Clang! He deflected a blow, barely.
Scrape—He sidestepped, feeling the blade graze his arm instead of cleaving through.
And once—just once—he landed a hit. A shallow cut across the knight’s side. It didn’t seem to hurt the spirit, but it made it pause.
Luca exhaled, a flicker of pride in his burning lungs.
"Hah... got you, you bastard."
The knight’s helm tilted slightly.
Then it retaliated.
Faster. Harder.
The next swing came in low, sweeping. Luca leapt, stumbling mid-air but twisting enough to roll with the fall. He hit the ground and coughed, more blood splattering against stone.
He pushed himself up, vision doubling.
His legs trembled. His arms felt like lead. His grip on the hilt loosened with every breath.
The knight charged again.
Steel met steel. Sparks flew.
Luca cried out as the impact forced him to his knees. The sword shook violently in his hands, nearly tearing free.
He could barely hold on.
This wasn’t a duel.
It was a storm. And he was a twig trying not to snap.
The knight raised its blade again, both hands grasping the hilt, the overhead strike promising finality.
Luca looked up.
Time slowed.
He saw his reflection in the ghostly steel.
Bloodied. Bruised. Desperate.
He thought of his old world. The screen. The controller. The silence of his room.
Then he thought of this world.
The sky.
The cold wind.
The weight of a sword in his hands.
...It all felt real.
"Damn it...!"
He raised his sword to block.
The impact was like thunder.
Steel slammed into steel.
And then—everything went black.
***
The world around me was gone.
Darkness gave way to... something else. A blur of color and sound, not quite real, not quite dream.
I stood on grass now. Green, soft, and untouched by time. A breeze moved gently through trees that shimmered under golden light.
What... is this?
My limbs moved. I felt no pain. No wounds. No weight.
"Did I die? Already? That’s got to be a new record." I muttered.
Then I looked ahead.
There, standing beneath the shadow of an old oak tree, was a figure clad in shining plate armor — familiar and yet whole. No ethereal shimmer. No spectral glow.
It was him.
The spirit knight.
Alive.
He looked younger, more human. Less ghost, more man.
And next to him — a frail boy, maybe nine or ten, curled up on a blanket, pale-faced and thin. The resemblance was unmistakable.
"Father," the boy’s voice was soft, almost fragile. "Will you be gone long?"
The knight knelt before him, removing his helmet. His face was rugged, kind, eyes filled with quiet sorrow.
"I will return soon, Rhys. With the elixir. You’ll drink it, and then you’ll run again. You’ll chase birds in the orchard like you used to."
The boy smiled faintly. "Promise?"
"On my life," the knight said, gently cupping the boy’s cheek. "No sickness will stop your smile again. That I swear."
Behind him, a few other knights chuckled softly as they packed their gear.
"You’ve gone soft, old man," one of them said with a grin.
The knight turned with a smile. "If loving my son is softness, then I pray I never harden. He’s my whole world. Everything I fight for."
"He’s lucky to have you," another added. "When this war ends, you’ll bring that boy back the sun itself if he asks."
"He doesn’t need the sun," the knight replied, eyes on the boy. "Just the strength to smile again."
They mounted their steeds.
The knight looked back one last time, committing every detail of his son’s face to memory.
Then the scene shifted.
Suddenly, we were at the battlefield.
Steel clashed. Fire roared. Screams filled the air.
The knight fought at the front, his blade a storm of silver. He cut through monstrous creatures, defended comrades, pushed forward.
Through mud. Through fire. Through death.
And finally, the enemy fell. The relic — a crystalline vial glowing faint gold — was retrieved.
He held it in his gauntlet, chest heaving. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He had lost an eye. His armor was cracked. Blood soaked his side. But his hand still clutched the vial tightly.
"Rhys... this is it. I did it. I can save you."
He turned.
Home. It was time to go home.
But fate had other plans.
From the shadows, creatures lunged — demons, unlike any before. Twisted, dark things, born of pain and hatred.
He fought. He bled. He screamed his son’s name.
"I won’t fall. Not now. Not when I’m so close!"
"Fall back!" a comrade shouted.
"Go," the knight roared. "I’ll buy you time! This vial must reach him!"
They hesitated.
"That’s an order!"
And they fled.
Wounded and broken, he limped across ruined hills, clutching the vial.
His journey ended at a familiar place — the foot of the Old Clocktower.
He collapsed against the stone wall, gasping.
"I’m sorry, Rhys... I couldn’t keep my promise."
His fingers curled around the elixir, blood soaking the glass.
He drew one final breath.
And there, in the silence, he died.
Alone.
Regret lingering like the cold.
But as the light faded, the knight turned his gaze — right where I stood. His eyes locked onto mine.
And he smiled.
Tears stung my eyes.
That... That was the man I fought.
A father. A knight. A soul bound not by vengeance, but by failure.
"You weren’t guarding a treasure," I whispered. "You were guarding a promise."
***
My eyes snapped open.
The sword was falling — the knight’s blade descending toward me.
But this time—
I rolled.
The greatsword crashed into the ground beside me, stone cracking under its weight.
Adrenaline surged. I scrambled back to my feet.
What... what was that just now? That world... the memory... was that real?
I couldn’t breathe right. My chest heaved, lungs burning.
I stared at the knight as it advanced again.
It didn’t hesitate.
Another slash.
I raised my sword. Barely parried. Sparks flew.
My knees buckled.
I was still going to die at this rate.
The knight reared back.
Then—
I shouted.
"Rhys!"
The name tore from my throat without thinking.
The knight froze.
The blade trembled mid-swing.
Its hands... shook.
That name. That one word...
It echoed through the silence.
And the knight... stopped.
[To be continued...]