Chapter 228: A Greeting
Although his uncle always said he was foolish, Richard knew that he was not an idiot.
On the contrary, he had always been clever.
At the age of four, he already knew that he was not the child of Knight Elbert, and that the book Elbert Knight’s Road his uncle had shown him was fabricated.
At six years old, Richard had seen real knights.
It was when a group of commoners assaulted the local gentry and besieged the gentry manor.
Richard was excited when he heard that knights would arrive. He thought he could finally see a true knight, so he slipped out through a small hole.
The hole was small, one Richard had secretly dug himself. At six, he could still crawl through it.
Then, with his own eyes, he witnessed knights leading warriors and slaughtering all the commoners.
There was no justice upheld by the knights, only a one-sided massacre of commoners.
He did not expose himself. Instead, he retreated and destroyed the hole he had dug.
The next day, he casually asked around the village for information about knights.
At six, Richard understood that people lied, so when he asked, he only watched their expressions instead of trusting their words.
Through observation, he pieced together what knights truly were.
They inspired fear and terror, not respect—the opposite of the ideal knight he dreamed of.
After forming this impression, Richard was disappointed. This was not the knight he aspired to be.
But by the next day, he had recovered his spirit.
He thought, since knights now were not the kind he longed for, then he would become the knight he dreamed of.
Moreover, if he became his ideal knight, and his story was passed down, then surely others in the future would follow and become the kind of knights he envisioned.
Perhaps he would also become the knight others aspired to, just as he aspired to the “Elbert Knight.”
Unfortunately, even though he trained desperately, he remained weak. He could not even wear proper knight armor.
Richard knew that knights required valor. Without valor, how could one uphold justice?
Yet after only a night of despair, he regained himself.
He continued training, but while doing so, he also acted as the knight he longed to be.
He helped the weak, upheld justice, was always filled with courage, always filled with hope, always brimming with fighting spirit.
Though he could persist largely because Uncle Lonie shielded him from trouble, Richard still felt that he was truly living as his ideal knight, and it bore results.
The commoners praised him. Over time, they no longer felt fear when mentioning knights.
And on the day he came of age, his uncle brought him good news.
Because of the commoners’ praises, the lord heard of Richard, and knowing he was the son of the late Knight Elbert, officially conferred him as a knight. From then on, Richard could call himself Knight Richard.
Though he knew it was false—for he had never heard of a knighting ceremony without the lord present—he was still happy.
At least, at that moment, he could truly be called a knight.
Knight Richard.
Thus, Richard mounted his horse, took his squire Oliver, and for the first time left the village openly.
But he discovered that his village seemed cut off from the rest. He had to ride far to reach another village, and that village’s gates were shut, with no one in sight.
The third, fourth, and fifth villages were the same.
So Richard returned home.
He never traveled far again, only remaining in his fiefdom, stubbornly pursuing his knight’s road—what others mocked as a child’s game. Even when he met other knights, after brief conversations, they all called him a disgrace to knighthood.
Wearing worn-out armor, unable to defeat even their squires, never meeting his lord, never killing anyone—
How could such a man be called a knight?
Until the Fishmen invasion.
For the first time, he protected the commoners and killed a Fishman.
He still remembered the sticky sensation when he struck it down.
He felt no fear or disgust—only that he had finally, truly protected the weak with his sword.
Though his leg was bitten during the fight, leaving him bedridden for four days.
Richard never abandoned his knight’s road. He believed that as long as he persevered until death, even if his life became a laughingstock, it would still have value as long as someone read his story.
His only regret was that he could not father children. No matter how he tried, no seed ever sprouted.
From curiosity, to anxiety, to eventual acceptance.
“So be it,” he thought. “Those I helped will remember my story.”
He thought this way, until he met the Church men, and heard their message.
A strong intuition—something he had never felt before—told Richard: now was the time to leave.
Suppressing his excitement, Richard left his seat, found several women, and tried once more to leave behind the bloodline his uncle wished for him to continue.
But before he finished, Oliver came running: the Church men had left.
In a panic, Richard donned his armor mid-act, mounted his horse, and chased after them.
The village gate stood open. Richard did not know what his uncle intended, but he did not care. He simply followed his instincts, and followed the Church men.
Together with them, he was driven from the Fog Fortress. Together, they witnessed the falling star that shook the earth.
When Richard awoke, he saw before him an enormous being.
The great creature crouched on the ground, watching him.
“Weak… how weak. Without noble blood, you don’t even have a knight’s strength?”
The thunderous rumble was not human speech, yet Richard understood its meaning.
It was mockery.
But Richard was not angry. It was only truth. Why be angry at truth?
Looking at the massive being, Richard felt no fear. Instead, he felt as if they were one—as if bound by blood.
Richard suddenly lifted his voice.
“I can feel your anger, your pain. So, do you need the help of Knight Richard?”
He stared at the enormous being, meeting its gaze.
…
It was now the third night.
Marl stood atop the Fog Fortress walls, gazing toward the Nation of Fishmen.
Under the soft glow of White Star, he saw the land scarred with craters from the fallen star.
And during these three days since he arrived, he had witnessed with his own eyes the remaining fortress defenders perish.
One by one, they simply collapsed as if falling asleep, their bodies dissolving into dark-red powder.
Now Marl understood why the fortress floor was layered knee-deep with red powder.
Now, only he, Marl the priest, the Temple Warriors, and Earl Raul—carried into the fortress hall—remained.
It was his first time seeing a noble of such rank.
Compared to the three barons of the Senate, Earl Raul seemed more benevolent. At least he stayed here on the border, fighting the Fishmen alone.
Of course, this was only Marl’s impression from brief contact.
What astonished him most was that Earl Raul had eaten nothing in three days, merely sitting in his chair with closed eyes. If not for the faint sign of breath, Marl would have thought him dead.
His head wound was severe—so severe that Marl did not know how to treat it. Yet even so, without food or medicine, Raul still lived.
This reminded Marl of Hode, though as a priest, Marl knew Hode survived by the Lord’s miracle.
But this earl had no miracle granted by the Lord.
Marl began to wonder—was this the so-called noble bloodline?
He recalled what Zecel had written: that only by erasing all nobility, so man might speak directly with the Lord, could the Heavenly Kingdom on Earth come.
If noble blood truly held such power…
Shaking his head, Marl dared not think further.
He was worried. Earl Raul had warned that the Fishmen were preparing a massive assault.
But now, there were only thirty Temple Warriors here. Even a thousand Fishmen would be hard to withstand, let alone a massive army.
Worse, Fishmen needed no supply lines. They could bypass the Fog Fortress at will.
Previously, only scraps of their numbers attacked, Earl Raul had explained—it was due to conflicts among mysterious existences. But now, no such beings remained.
Suddenly, Marl heard a wet, disgusting sound below.
He rushed to the wall’s edge and peered down.
“Hss!” He gasped in shock.
Below, Fishmen clung to the wall in swarms, claws digging into stone, climbing upward.
Fishman Hunters—larger than Fishman Servants, able to briefly shift skin color for stealth.
But never before had Marl seen so many. The wall below him alone held over two hundred.
They must have crept under cover of night.
And surely there were more.
Marl lifted his gaze to the distance.
A gray tide surged forward, endless, like waves crashing.
Leo had once told Marl of his final battle against the Werewolves—that they came in unending waves, impossible to count, each swing of the sword cutting down another.
Marl had thought Leo exaggerated. From Puniel’s battle reports, that fight involved only three thousand Werewolves.
But now, seeing this, Marl thought Leo should stand here. Only these numbers deserved to be called a tide.
As far as the eye could see, the Fishmen’s gray scales shimmered under White Star’s glow like waves sparkling on the sea.
He did not know their number, but it must be at least twenty thousand.
Leo said that in his battle, every swing struck a Werewolf. Marl thought if they mounted the monastery’s Giant Catapult here, every shot could crush two or three thousand Fishman Servants.
But who knew what lurked in that tide? Perhaps Fishman Warlords hid among them.
Was this their greeting?
To open with over ten thousand Fishmen at the first clash?
“All men! Watch the walls! Fishman Hunters!” Marl roared, slipping on his ring without hesitation.