Long ago, countless kingdoms fell before the Demon King's armies. As despair spread, the world was plunged into darkness. But then, a glimmer of hope appeared—like a star in the night sky, cutting through the black.
A hero rose.
Yet no matter how powerful, a lone hero could never defeat all evil alone. And so began the journey—a grand tale of overcoming trials and gathering allies to face the darkness together.
Among those allies was a Knight, born of noble blood. His family had been annihilated by the Demon King's forces. He alone remained—the final heir.
Stripped of home and heritage, the Knight continued to journey beside the Hero, not for glory, but to uphold the Code of Chivalry—to protect the weak and confront injustice wherever it stood.
His name was Sir Lancelot De Tharsaros—founder of the Kingdom of Tharsaros.
He was a Knight who walked not for pride, but conscience. Though burdened by the past, the fire in his eyes never dimmed.
And the oath he passed down—the one that echoed across generations—was this:
"Be the shield—not for your own glory, but to protect those who cannot stand against the dark."
Thus was the Kingdom of Tharsaros born. Not from conquest, but from honor, sacrifice, and light born of darkness.
"Hmm… seems like I'm a little late."
The Knight muttered, gazing upon the battlefield. His eyes fell upon an unconscious girl, and beside her, an old woman—lifeless, a bone arrow piercing her chest.
Scorched earth. Blood. Magic residue hung in the air like smoke after a fire.
He pulled out two dark red potions from his belt. With swift movements, he tossed one toward Pyra and the other to the remaining mercenaries.
"Th-This is…"
A mercenary stared wide-eyed at the glowing red potion.
"Give that to your leader."
The Knight's tone was calm, yet authoritative.
"Y-Yes, sir!"
The mercenary rushed to his fallen captain, helping him drink the potion.
Gulp!
"Gahh… damn… I thought I was about to see my ancestors," the captain coughed, his wounds slowly closing, color returning to his face.
Though healed, fatigue and internal damage lingered. Red Potions couldn't restore lost blood or relieve deep exhaustion.
"Thank you for your help," the captain said, bowing slightly.
"Don't thank me just yet," the Knight replied calmly.
"The battle here isn't over."
"W-Who… are you?" Pyra asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"You…! How dare you interfere with my plans!"
The Black Mage seethed with rage, eyes darting to the broken Minotaur—launched by a single blow, unaided by aura.
This Knight… is dangerous.
From experience, the Black Mage knew: this man was no ordinary warrior.
"Well, as you can see," the Knight said with a shrug,
"I'm just a wandering adventurer trying to make a living."
He lifted a pendant from his chest—silver with a faint magical glow.
"I also happen to be ranked Silver."
"…That makes no sense," the mercenary captain muttered.
He was a veteran—he knew. This Knight's strength far exceeded any Silver-ranked adventurer. Possibly even reaching the Adamantium class—the highest tier of all.
"Sometimes… the most illogical things are the ones that turn out to be true," the Knight said, calm and unshaken.
Swoosh!
The Knight dashed forward like a bolt of light.
Clang! Slash! Crack!
Skeletons fell as his blade danced through the air—clean, brutal, decisive.
"All of you—pack your gear and get out of here!"
His voice rang loud, impossible to defy.
"No! We'll fight!" the mercenary captain protested.
"You'll only get in the way."
Clang!
Another pair of Skeletons shattered.
Crash!
Bones slammed against a tree.
The Knight turned toward the Minotaur, blade raised.
"And leave one empty wagon… for the fresh beef."
GROOOAAARRR!
The Minotaur roared, as if understanding the insult.
Swash!
It charged, axe raised high.
Claaang!
Steel met steel. The impact blasted wind and debris. The ground cracked beneath their feet.
"Hyaaaaahhh!"
With a mighty shove, the Knight hurled the Minotaur across the battlefield.
Boom!
It crashed to the ground, carving a trench into the earth.
"GO, NOW!"
the Knight bellowed once more.
"And take the fallen. They deserve a proper burial."
His voice carried weight. Respect. Duty.
The mercenary leader hoisted both Erica and the old woman onto his back.
"B-But… what about him?" Pyra asked, voice trembling.
"He'll be fine," the captain said confidently.
"He's not the kind to lose."
Dug-dug-dug-dug!
The wagons rolled. Horses galloped. Riders guarded the rear. The party pulled away from the battlefield.
"Don't think you can escape!"
the Black Mage snarled.
"—Rise of Flame!"
Dark aura engulfed the Minotaur, reviving it once more.
GROOOAARRRR!
The resurrected beast raged, its eyes aflame with hate.
It lunged.
Vwoosh!
A massive leap—axe poised to strike the wagon.
Claaaang!
The blow never landed.
The Knight stood tall, blade raised, blocking the attack.
A living wall of steel.
Dust exploded around them. The earth split again.
Dug dug dug dug!
The wagons raced on, leaving behind fire, blood, and bones.
The Knight remained—alone.
The last wall between death and those who could no longer fight.
"You dare oppose me?!"
the Black Mage roared.
"Why all the noise…?"
The Knight replied with calm disdain.
"Isn't this simply… a matter of Knightly etiquette? One passed down by Sir Lancelot."
He turned his gaze toward the sorcerer.
"Ah, forgive me. A hermit who hides in a cave, playing with corpses and cursed spirits, probably doesn't understand what honor is."
His words stung. They were not insults—but condemnation.
"YOU…!"
the Black Mage's face twisted in fury.
"You'll regret mocking a great Black Mage! Witness the power of true darkness!"
He raised his staff high. Purple light crackled. The air grew heavy.
"O shadows of the underworld… I offer half my soul—
RISE, KING OF THE DEAD!!"
BOOOOOMMM!!
The earth trembled. A giant magic circle blazed with unholy light.
From its center emerged a towering skeletal figure, robed in tattered royal garb, a cracked crown atop its skull, staff glowing with Death Magic.
The Elder Lich.
The ruler of the undead.
"Hahahaha! Kneel before your end, Knight!"
the Black Mage laughed, madness echoing in his voice.
But the Knight remained still.
Calm.
"I accept this Responsibility…"
he whispered. His eyes sharp, his stance unwavering.
Knight's Code, Article Seven:
"A Knight is measured not by what he avoids… but by what he endures."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His footsteps rang like a war drum—marching forward.
One step at a time, he faced the darkness alone.
Not with glory.
But with honor.
And strength.
Meanwhile…
Dug-dug-dug-dug!
The wheels clattered. Hooves thundered.
BOOOOMMM!!
Another explosion rocked the distant earth.
Magic clashed. Power echoed to the heavens.
Pyra clutched her robe tightly. Erica lay in her lap, still unconscious.
"But… what about the Knight…?"
Pyra whispered.
The mercenary captain stared ahead.
"…Don't worry," he said, voice resolute.
"He won't lose."
This fleeting encounter…
was fate.
A moment that would be etched into history.
The tale of a young girl—the youngest Mage to summon a Mythical Beast.
And…
a Knight who stood alone against the darkness.
Two destinies. Two paths.
From this moment forward…
a new legend would be born.