Grok and Queen Derein exchanged glances, their shared concern palpable. Derein voiced her apprehension, her tone tinged with caution. “Rest assured, we shall not allow you to meet your demise so easily. My forces and I will flank the enemy from these angles. Our reserves shall be spared from direct confrontation, focused instead on evacuation and the provision of the finest healing magic and potions to our wounded comrades.”

Arthur acknowledged the offer with gratitude, extending his hand in a gesture of camaraderie. “Your commitment is commendable, Queen Derein. My healers and alchemists are at your disposal. Utilize their skills as you see fit.”

“Wait, one thing eludes my understanding. Why do we need a second advance? Couldn’t we return after decimating the first wave and prepare for a subsequent assault? Why invade amidst their ranks?” the scar-faced king questioned, his expression filled with confusion.

“A valid query, Grok. Even brainless creatures require a commander to guide them in the right direction,” Arthur elucidated.

“You mean they have a commander amongst them?” Grok asked, astonishment etched on his face.

“Yes, precisely. There is an A-Rank Threat monster walking within the heart of their horde. I aim to eliminate it, thus crippling one of their legs. This will provide us with a tremendous advantage,” Arthur explained.

“Yet, it also poses a grave danger to your life. Slaying an A-Rank monster is no easy feat, especially when we are ignorant of its nature. Do you truly believe you can dispatch such a creature with ease?” Grok cautioned.

“Grok speaks wisdom. You cannot recklessly charge in like a fool,” Queen Derein concurred.

The conversation continued, Sir Harold, a king with ebony hair and eyes, interjecting with a proposition. “Allow me to accompany King Arthur into the fray. Together, we can ensure his survival and vanquish this unknown threat. Once this danger is eradicated, we can emerge triumphantly.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered with gratitude and understanding, but his resolve remained unshakable. “Your willingness to stand by my side is admirable, Sir Harold, but I cannot jeopardize the lives of others on this perilous mission. This task falls solely upon my shoulders, and I shall see it through to the end.”

Before any further deliberation could unfold, a knight burst into the tent, his voice filled with urgency. “Sir, they draw near!”

The words hung in the air, a final reminder of the impending battle. The assembled leaders exchanged a knowing glance, the gravity of the situation etched upon their faces. The time for planning and strategizing had come to an end; now, they would face the horrors that awaited them on the battlefield.

Amidst the gathering darkness, the air crackled with an electric tension. Arthur, his gaze steely and determined, paused mid-bite and rose from his seat. The clatter of his sword against the table reverberated through the silence of the tent as he lifted it with a firm grip. With purposeful strides, he stepped out into the open, his eyes scanning the horizon.

Before him sprawled a relentless march of undead creatures, a legion of horror that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Grotesque abominations mingled with twisted human forms, a sickening display of decay and malice. Their unhurried advance held a macabre threat, their eyes devoid of life yet brimming with malevolence.

The time for idle talk had come to an end. It was time for action.

Arthur’s voice, laden with determination, sliced through the stillness. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have spoken enough. Now is the hour to let our deeds speak for us.” With those words, he grasped the hilt of his sword, whispering a silent oath to the weapon he held so dear.

He leaned close to the blade, his voice a mere murmur. “Darling, Don’t break down before me, we have to show our enemies who we are.” As if in response, the sword pulsed with a vibrant light, as though infused with the very essence of Arthur’s unwavering resolve. For this sword, passed down through generations of his family, was no ordinary weapon—it was a symbol of honor, resilience, and the legacy of kings.

Knight’s Vow

The Knight’s Vow, known far and wide as the Royal Sword, held a storied history within the annals of the kingdom. Wielded by the hands of courageous monarchs in countless battles, it had witnessed the fall of foes and the triumphs of noble hearts. Revered for its unmatched strength, it had become an emblem of power and authority, evoking both fear and respect among those who beheld it.

But what truly set the Knight’s Vow apart was its extraordinary ability, an ability known only to a select few. When the wielder stood on the precipice of defeat, with the chill breath of mortality hanging heavy in the air, the sword unleashed an unfathomable surge of power. In those dire moments, when all seemed lost, the Knight’s Vow infused its wielder with superhuman strength and endurance. It was a testament to the indomitable spirit of kings and queens, the determination to defy fate and fight against impossible odds.

With the sword’s empowering energy coursing through his veins, Arthur became a force to be reckoned with, an embodiment of unparalleled skill and unwavering courage. As the echoes of battle rang out, he would strike down his enemies with resolute precision, leaving behind a trail of fallen foes in his wake. It was said that during these fleeting moments of heightened prowess, Arthur achieved feats that defied the limits of mortal ability. His strikes became swift and deadly, his defense impenetrable—a living testament to the power of the Knight’s Vow and the legacy of his bloodline. 𝚍ｏ𝚟𝚕.ｏｒｇ

But the true purpose of this bestowed strength extended beyond mere survival. It was an invitation to embrace a glorious death, a chance to etch one’s name in the annals of history. For the Knight’s Vow, in its final act of loyalty, granted its wielder the opportunity to leave a lasting legacy upon the battlefield, a testament to valor and sacrifice that would resonate throughout the ages.