Yalta was choking Graham by the neck, and a knight standing behind them grabbed Yalta's shoulder.
"Sir Yalta!"
Several knights jumped in after him.
As feared as Yalta was, they couldn't just stand by while he threatened their commander.
"Please, calm down!"
"Let go of him!"
Yalta, whose bloodshot eyes were strangling Graham, irritably shook both arms when the knights clung persistently to his sides.
They were all thrown off.
"Annoying bastards!"
Thanks to that, Graham was able to escape from Yalta.
Graham bent over and coughed harshly, then glared up at Yalta with wide eyes.
Yalta scratched his head and avoided Graham's gaze.
"Sorry about that, Sir Graham. Damn it."
Then he turned and walked away.
The knights approached Graham.
"Are you all right?"
"Sir Graham!"
Graham raised a hand.
"I'm fine."
The knight who had first intervened bit his lip as he glared at Yalta's back, now growing distant.
"That bastard…"
Most of the knights hated Yalta. He always caused trouble, and because of him, countless innocent lives were lost.
"Something has to be done, Sir Graham. Something must be done. That bastard's crossed the line. Strangling the commander? By military law, even immediate execution wouldn't be enough."
"What he just did, really…"
"He's completely lost it. Did you see the way his eyes rolled back?"
"He used to at least listen to Sir Graham, but now he's gone completely rogue."
"Let's do something!"
Their pent-up frustrations erupted. Graham shook his head.
"No."
"But…"
"Can any of you handle Yalta?"
At his question, everyone fell silent.
"Well…"
"There's only the 5th Knight Order here, and even their captain's been taken prisoner. There's no knight here who can stop Yalta."
Unless there were other members of the Ten Strongest or several knight order commanders, no one left had the strength to subdue Yalta.
Rather than waste emotions on something he couldn't change, Graham sought an alternative.
He looked around.
"Why is Yalta so angry? Was anyone with him?"
"I was."
One knight stepped forward.
"About that…"
He explained what had happened in the forest.
A brawny young man named Hopper had clashed with Yalta and matched him nearly evenly.
On top of that, the three sworn brothers famous for their "Oath of the Sweet Potato Field" had joined in, putting Yalta on the defensive. In the end, he'd been forced to turn his back and flee.
"Yalta ran away?"
"Yes."
Though it was four against one, the meaning behind that fact was no small thing.
Moreover, the fact that Yalta had lost his temper so thoroughly indicated that he was mentally burdened.
It wasn't just a fight where things happened to go wrong—he had been overwhelmed in terms of skill.
Graham silently watched Yalta's retreating figure disappear into the distance.
"Sir Graham. What shall we do?"
"We need to persuade Yalta. If he can't win alone, we fight together."
"You think that bastard will agree to that…"
Graham knew how hollow his own words sounded.
He didn't believe Yalta would follow him.
"We have to try."
In truth, Graham had no real justification for this war.
It was a fight he couldn't even convince himself of, so a proper answer eluded him.
He had come to minimize meaningless deaths, but Yoheim's resistance was far fiercer than expected.
Now Graham was beginning to wonder if his own naïve decisions had only made the war worse.
"What if we just set the forest on fire?"
One knight suggested.
"Yalta wasn't entirely wrong."
Though Imperial knights hated Yalta, they secretly agreed with the idea of burning the forest.
After all, that's what war was in the Empire—any means necessary to crush the enemy.
Only Graham, who questioned the very cause of the war, couldn't go through with it.
"I'll think about it."
With that, Graham walked away.
He needed time to think alone.
***
Perched on a rock, Yalta was breathing heavily as he stared at the forest stretched out before him. The battle from earlier replayed in his mind.
That Hopper bastard was decent, but beatable.
He spouted nonsense about needing depth in one's sword, but in the end, Yalta was confident he could crush him with the weight of the blood he'd spilled.
But once those ridiculous "three brothers" joined in, things changed.
He'd thought they were just clownish trash, but their swords clearly knew blood.
The eldest brother, in particular, was a problem.
"So what I'm saying is, you need to work harder."
He'd said it mockingly.
Yalta clenched his fist. Veins bulged along his hand.
They'd said his limit was already reached, that he couldn't grow any further—predictable, arrogant nonsense. Since reaching the Ten Strongest, no one had dared speak to him like that.
But deep down, Yalta faintly recognized that they were right.
Deeper still, he understood that the real reason he was furious was because they'd hit a nerve.
But he refused to acknowledge it.
He wasn't the kind of man who could.
All he could do was fuel his anger toward the enemy.
"Reach for the sky? Laughable. Hah…"
Yalta laughed, his face twisted.
A sword is a tool to kill your enemy. That's all it is. But those bastards acted like it could make them gods or something.
You stab flesh, slice necks, sever breaths.
That's all that matters—so what's this nonsense about study?
His runaway thoughts converged into a blazing inferno that sought to burn everything.
"Fire."
Yalta muttered.
He would burn that damn forest to the ground. That would solve everything.
He glanced toward the camp where Graham was.
A flicker of light sparked and died repeatedly in his eyes.
He had to set fire.
But the ever-righteous model knight, Sir Graham, would never agree to that.
He wanted to ignore him and burn it all anyway.
But Graham was one of the few people Yalta respected.
So he couldn't just follow his own impulses.
"Sir Graham…"
Yalta was angry.
To Graham, war was nothing more than a game of swords and arrows.
That would never win.
At this rate, he might have to run away from those trash again.
Yalta's face flushed red.
Yes, he'd run.
He'd bled, turned his back, and ran.
Because of that, the entire Imperial army had to retreat.
"Graham…"
Yalta muttered.
"Graham, Graham, Graham, Graham…"
Muttering continuously, he slowly rose to his feet.
His face was expressionless, but dark red energy swirled in his pupils. Black smoke-like vapor flowed from his body.
For a moment, the whites of his eyes turned pitch-black—then returned to normal.
Yalta began walking toward Graham's tent.
"Sir Yalta?"
A group of passing knights blocked his path.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to see Sir Graham."
"For what reason?"
Yalta looked at them.
Normally, they wouldn't have dared speak to him, but perhaps out of some loyalty for Graham, after seeing Yalta choke him, they were stepping up.
He curled his lips.
"To apologize for earlier."
"Hmmm…"
"Step aside."
Yalta simply ignored them and walked past.
The knights hesitated behind him, then let him go.
At the entrance of the tent, Yalta called out to Graham.
"Sir Graham, may I come in?"
Graham answered from inside.
"What is it?"
"I came to apologize for earlier. I'm sorry. I got too worked up. And, I wanted to know what we'll do going forward."
"Come in."
When he stepped inside, Graham was studying a map.
Yalta nodded as he looked at him. Though he had nearly been killed by Yalta earlier, there wasn't a hint of intimidation in him.
One of the reasons Yalta respected Graham was this composure.
Clearly weaker than him, clearly less volatile, yet Graham never shrank back. He acted as if he wasn't afraid of death at all.
He simply followed what he believed was right.
That was why Yalta had liked him—but now, that was the problem.
"Sir Graham."
"Yalta."
"I'm sorry about earlier."
Graham looked up at Yalta.
His eyes were always sharp, as if they pierced through one's soul.
"I accept your apology."
"Yes."
Yalta stepped closer.
"Still, Sir Graham. I'd prefer to set fire. Or do you have another method?"
"Yalta, you take the lead, the rest of the knights will follow right behind. If the enemy blocks us, we'll fight together. As long as you're not surrounded, you won't lose. We'll break through the forest that way."
"Yes…"
Yalta nodded.
"Sir Graham."
"Hm?"
"They said something, those bastards. That I lack depth in my sword."
"Hm…"
"A sword's just a sword. Why the hell do they train hoping for some grand realm? I don't get it. Hahaha. I just swing it however I like. They're weaker than me but talk so damn much."
"…"
"But honestly, I think they may be right about some things."
A strange light flickered in Graham's eyes. Yalta kept talking.
"They say their sword is about holding back even when they want to swing, swinging even when they don't feel like it, mastering technique by restraining themselves. It's not that I can't do it—I just don't want to. Why should I?"
"I see."
"So I should've held back this time too."
And then, Yalta's sword pierced through Graham's stomach.
Graham's eyes widened.
Yalta covered his mouth so he couldn't make a sound.
The whites of Yalta's eyes turned pitch black once again. Exuding a dark crimson aura, he whispered in a cheerful, murmuring tone.
"So fire. I said, let's set it, you bastard."
"Mmgh…"
"No, I like you, Sir Graham. I respect you. Even if I'm a barbarian, I know you're a great knight. But damn it, I told you to just burn it already, why the hell won't you listen, you old fart? Why do you walk into your own death, huh?"
Graham's eyes wavered. Blood poured from his chest.
Yalta let go of the sword stuck in Graham's chest and hit him on the head.
"Huh? Huh?"
Yalta kept thumping Graham's head with his fists.
Graham's body collapsed.
As he looked down at Graham, writhing on the floor, Yalta asked,
"Is he dead?"
He scratched his chin.
"I didn't want to kill Sir Graham. Damn it, if only he'd agreed to set the fire…"
Yalta closed his eyes. Then he fell into thought for a while.
He could still feel Graham's faint movement in front of him, but he didn't open his eyes.
Suddenly, a breeze drifted in.
"Hmm…"
After thinking over something for a while, he irritably tousled his own hair.
"Ugh, forget it."
With his hair now wild, Yalta opened his eyes.
"I really gotta fix this temper. Did it again."
Graham was dying on the floor. His eyes had dulled. Blood continued to gush out of his chest.
Yalta muttered, like a sigh.
"Hard to watch."
Then he stomped on Graham's head, crushing it.
Sir Graham, praised as a model knight, became a cold corpse just like that.
Yalta gave a crooked grin.
"See? Dead, we're all the same."
He kicked Graham's body into a corner.
"Well, that's that. Now I can go ahead and set the fire."
It was sad, having killed Graham, but the thought of roasting those annoying Yoheim bastards lifted his mood a little.
Humming a tune, Yalta stepped out of Graham's tent.
Since Graham had no guards stationed, no one was paying attention to this place.
In case someone found out and it got troublesome, Yalta decided to act immediately.
Now, when neither enemy nor ally knew—this was the perfect moment.
This is what a surprise attack is.
"Yeah. Turns out, we don't need Sir Graham after all."
***
Yuri, sensing an inexplicable ominous energy, stepped outside.
Darkness was sweeping in over the sky.
"What… is that…"
The moon was bright.
Suddenly, Yuri saw a firefly flying toward the moon.
"Pretty…"
No. Yuri shook his head. His whole body bristled.
That wasn't a firefly.
"It's fire."
A blaze had ignited, and embers were bursting into the air.
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