Chapter 207: Pain, Regret, and Confusion
Suddenly, the Black Swamp, which had calmed down, began swirling once again. Three whirlpools appeared ahead, visible to the naked eye.
Marl’s expression changed drastically. He immediately raised his hand for the warriors to form ranks, while he himself stood beneath the Cross, flipping open the Divine Word Manuscript. Leo and Vito dismounted from their restless horses without hesitation and stepped to the very front.
The warhorses fled, and from within the three whirlpools ahead, three knights slowly rose.
Their pitch-black armor seemed to be bristling with vicious spikes. The slits over the eyes of their helmets glimmered with a crimson light. In their hands were dark-red lances, and beneath them were black warhorses shrouded in black mist—within the mist, scarlet eyes could be faintly seen.
Gazing directly at the three knights, Marl was assaulted by an overwhelming malice. In an instant, his head spun, his throat dried as if he might vomit, and his vision warped, as though the world itself was dimming.
His gaze shifted slightly downward—he saw the warriors in front sway, then collapse. Even the Temple Warriors guarding him staggered, barely able to stand, while only the two Guardian Knights at the very front still stood firm, faint Holy Light radiating from their bodies.
Marl felt that if not for the two of them shielding in front, he and the Temple Warriors might have collapsed in an instant.
Yet, just as he thought this, the crimson glow in the eyes of the three knights flared suddenly.
A sharp “buzz” stabbed into his ears. The world seemed to twist, spin, and turn upside down. Leo and Vito collapsed without resistance. Marl’s eyes trembled—then, his vision blazed bright.
Broken stone houses stood before him, with a small fire burning to the side. A thick clay pot sat above it, cooking something.
The aroma drifted toward Marl—wheat flour with some green pickled vegetables, and at the end, two thin slices of meat thrown in.
In Marl’s memory, this was what his family most often ate when he was a child, back before his father had befriended the local gentry.
Suddenly, a blurry figure appeared beside the pot. Marl could tell at a glance—it was a woman.
A very gentle woman.
Mother?
The thought rose in Marl’s heart.
Yes, it was Mother!
He saw the familiar pearl necklace on her neck, and his certainty deepened.
He opened his mouth, throat dry, yet suddenly felt as though he had forgotten how to call out the word “mother.”
He strained his mind, searching for the sound of that word, and finally found it. He opened his mouth to shout—
Suddenly, a man slipped in through the doorway, blocking the light outside. The stone house grew dimmer, the fire seeming brighter in the gloom.
The man’s face was blurred, his body clothed in tattered burlap.
Something about him felt familiar. Thinking of the woman just now, Marl instantly understood—this was Father.
He saw Father rush to Mother, saying something with a trembling voice.
Was the trembling from excitement? Fear? Or something else?
Even after years of dealing with nobles, Marl could not name that emotion.
Then he saw Mother shaking all over, stirring the pot forcefully with a wooden ladle—so forcefully that she shattered the pot. The scalding soup instantly doused the flame.
Father was no longer blocking the doorway’s light, yet Marl felt as though a line now separated him from them—he could only watch their darkness from this side.
Was it an apology? A confession? Or persuasion?
The moment felt endlessly long. Then, when he came back to his senses, he felt himself being lifted into Father’s arms.
Only then did Marl notice—he had become smaller.
A dream? Or a hallucination?
It felt unreal—yet so real. As if… it had truly happened before.
Had it happened before?!
Dizziness gripped him, and a suffocating tightness.
Father ran out holding him, then respectfully looked in a certain direction, bowing his body low.
Marl could not see his father’s expression, but he could imagine it—the faint memory of that face was filled with obsequiousness.
Then he saw a group of well-dressed people arrive at his door. Two of them entered the house.
No! Don’t!
Marl knew what would happen next. Trembling, he struggled wildly.
Yet even with strength honed at the Glory Fortress to rival that of a Lower Warrior, he could not break free from the arms of this commoner father.
Madly he struggled, pounding his father’s body, reaching for that blurred face.
But Father’s hold only tightened, enough to make his bones ache as if being crushed.
Father’s voice trembled as he spoke, but Marl could only hear a garbled, nauseating noise.
Yes—he was only a child in this body. How could such strength break the grip of an adult? His fragile bones shook under the pressure.
Still, his ears seemed to hear screams, pleading—telling him to hurry, to see, for this was the pain and regret of his life.
So Marl opened his mouth and bit into Father’s arm.
He bit so hard that he tasted a thick sweetness and the stench of unwashed burlap.
A clear scream escaped Father’s mouth. His arm loosened, and Marl dropped to the ground.
Spitting out a mouthful of burlap and a small piece of flesh, Marl ran toward the house.
But when he reached the doorway, a strong man blocked his way.
Marl crashed into the man’s leg, fell back, and landed hard.
Dizzy, he looked up—the man’s robust frame loomed like a mountain against the Morning Star’s backlight.
A muffled noise came from inside. Then, someone emerged—bloodstains on his body, something in his hand that looked like a bleeding organ.
Another figure rushed over, kneeling at Marl’s side, kowtowing repeatedly. Even without seeing clearly, Marl knew it was Father—face filled with flattery and terror, nose running, tears flowing, begging them to spare his ignorant child.
But the man from the house stepped forward, stomping Father’s head into the dirt.
Father’s body trembled in pain, his arms pinned to the ground, not daring to strike back—only mumbling pleas for mercy.
Rage—pure rage—burned in Marl. He lunged, using his only weapon: the teeth that had torn Father’s arm moments ago.
Yet the man simply lashed out with a back-kick, sending Marl flying.
Pain, dizziness.
The kick landed squarely on his head—his skull felt as if it had split apart.
Through the haze, Marl saw the man pick up a lump of clay, tilt his head back as if laughing, then hurl it.
The throw was perfect—it struck Marl’s eye, blinding him instantly.
If it had been a rock, it might have killed him, he thought.
Then, a solid body fell over him.
Listening with his ears, feeling with his body, Marl knew stones rained down like a storm—each one blocked by the man shielding him.
After a moment, that body felt broken, unable to support itself. Its full weight pressed down on Marl, suffocating him.
Footsteps approached. A blade pierced through the back of the man above, stabbing into Marl, pinning him to the ground.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
Only after the third strike pinned him completely did the attacker stop.
A satisfied laugh echoed. Through the gap in the body above him, Marl saw the group leaving his house.
Two of them bore bloodstains—one holding an organ, the other tossing a pearl necklace in his hand.
They left. Marl turned his head with effort—and saw his father’s face.
Twisted, it held pain, hatred, unwillingness, fear…
Countless emotions swirled like a vortex, sucking Marl’s consciousness in—until he awoke with a jolt.
Before him once again stood that familiar broken stone house, the fire burning to the side…
…
The Cross faintly radiated Holy Light.
Beneath it, on the Lord’s Throne, Marl lay slumped on the ground, eyes shut tight, face contorted, body trembling.
It was not only him—Leo, Vito, the Temple Warriors, and the soldiers all writhed in the same torment.
The crimson glow in the three knights’ eyes flared again, growing more intense. In turn, the Cross’s Holy Light shone brighter.
The red and white lights clashed, forming a curved shell before the two Guardian Knights at the front.
When the stalemate broke, one knight spurred his black warhorse from the Black Swamp, hooves corroding the ground into mire, and charged the Cross.
As he breached the Holy Light’s barrier, the Cross blazed—and Corleon’s figure condensed.
Corleon reached out, seizing the knight’s neck and lifting him. The black warhorse beneath dissolved into black water, seeping into the earth.
Hovering in mid-air, Holy Light around him, Corleon held a foe far larger than himself. The knight’s body sizzled under the Holy Light, blackness peeling away to reveal deathly pale skin.
The knight struck at Corleon’s face—but the blows passed through as if through an illusion, leaving only his own fists drained of color.
“Greed! Pride! What are you waiting for?!” the knight rasped. “This is only his will! Are you so afraid?!”
At his words, the other two knights charged, lances raised. As they crossed the Black Swamp, stepping onto solid ground, Corleon hurled his captive aside. The Holy Light flared into wing-like arcs, sealing their retreat.
The black warhorses dissolved instantly under the Holy Light. Corleon ignored their lances, grabbing each knight by the neck and lifting them into the air.
His golden eyes blazed. The blackness covering the knights was stripped away, revealing scrawny bodies. Their pallid faces twisted under his gaze—until their eyes dimmed in release, bodies going limp.
Corleon dropped them and turned toward the knight he had thrown aside—only to see him heft a massive boulder, the blackness devouring it.
The knight hurled it at him—but Corleon merely raised a hand. The Cross flared, and just before the boulder struck, Corleon vanished—reappearing above the knight, looking down.
The knight’s mouth opened once—then the Holy Light consumed him, leaving only a pale knight’s body to fall to the ground.