At the ruins of Richard Castle, in Matthew Bard's room.
The Black Knight Matthew Bard sat inside, surrounded by the winds of undeath. Mousillon's Serpent's face was extremely pale, even tinged with purple. He sat with his eyes closed in a chair adorned with many luxurious gems.
Akhan's gift, the Black Grail Knights, had all died, and all their power had flowed back into Matthew Bard. The strength, skills, and experience of dozens of Grail Knights returned to him.
With this immense energy and experience, Matthew Bard finally broke through to the Sanctuary. However, this power wasn't originally his. Bard's t7ask was to integrate and make it his own.
He needed time to digest it, and his heavily damaged undead army needed time to replenish. Outside Richard Castle, a huge pit was filled with corpses, and a new undead army was being revived and assembled. The mad Duke Melowen was dead, and Bard lacked a capable undead lord.
Bard was waiting, ordering no one to disturb him.
Mousillon's Serpent's thoughts often flashed to his father, Lawn-Liocornwall's sorrowful face.
Did his father truly regret it? Bard had wondered many times.
But that no longer mattered. Bard, the Duke of Mousillon, scoffed internally. He was Lawn's son and the rightful heir to his titles, the kingdom's regency, and the throne.
With Lawn's fate unknown, as his son, Bard was naturally entitled to inherit everything.
Then he would become king, go to the Holy Grail Cathedral, and expose the true nature of the Lake Witch!
"Caw~ caw~ caw~" As Bard meditated on the power of the fallen Black Grail Knights, a two-headed crow landed on his window. "Caw caw~"
"Did you succeed?" Bard immediately sensed something, sitting in the shadows.
"I told you, this is a transaction. To show the sincerity of the great Lord of Fate, we helped you a little this time." The two-headed crow looked slightly bedraggled, appearing very old and barely able to stand. It had few feathers left on its wings. Hearing Bard's question, it opened its mouth: "I completely destroyed Spire Palace, repelling Ryan-Marcador and his army. He has now fled to the Forest of Chalons."
"Repelled?" Bard instinctively frowned. That wasn't what he wanted!
But Mousillon's Serpent quickly realized the Tzeentchian army wouldn't exert their full strength without reason, just as he wouldn't fully trust the Tzeentchian Great Daemon's words.
They were merely collaborators. The Tzeentchian Great Daemon wanted relics, which Bard could provide, and Ryan-Marcador needed opposition, which the Tzeentchian army could offer.
For now, Bard would use these Chaos scum! He squinted his eyes. Given the urgent situation, he had made a temporary choice, each side taking what they needed. Once he controlled the country, there would be no room for Chaos.
"I need you and your army to stop Ryan-Marcador and any potential reinforcements from the south," Bard stated his conditions.
"Very well, but I need the Lion Lance," the two-headed crow whispered. "To use our power, you must pay a price, Serpent of Mousillon. The great Lord of Fate is not to be trifled with by a mere mortal."
The Lion Lance?! Bard frowned upon hearing this.
The Lion Lance was in his possession. After defeating Lawn, Bard hadn't obtained the Sword of Couronne, but the Lion Lance had fallen into his hands.
Bard hesitated, hating Lawn but never denying he was his father. All his actions could be understood as claiming his rightful inheritance because he was Lawn's son, with a weak claim. Without Lawn designating an heir, Bard could wage war to assert he was the rightful heir to Lawn's legacy, his greatest asset being his bloodline.
If Ryan suddenly died, even though his son Devonshire with Sulia had a strong claim, Ryan's son with Emmanuelle, Frederick, could still wage war, claiming to be the rightful heir.
Thus, Bard believed he was the rightful owner of the Lion Lance.
But he couldn't ignore the Tzeentchian Great Daemon's demands. Bard knew he was currently weak, his undead army even weaker, with Melowen dead, and needed time to regroup.
Outside, a flock of bats flew by, creating a cacophony.
The two-headed crow stared at Bard, its intent clear. The previous help was free, a small gift from Saint Tzeentch, but there would be no such generosity going forward.
This was part of the deal. The Chaos God Tzeentch had shown his sincerity.
"Can I have some time to consider?" Bard still didn't want to give up the Lion Lance.
"Alright, but make it quick," the two-headed crow replied without any overt aggression, its blue eyes glowing with magic. "And also, the Crown of Mousillon and the Lance of the Unbroken Lake Light are part of the deal."
"Why do you need the relics? What use do they have for you?" Bard asked deliberately. "I don't understand."
"It's my master's command to gather the thirteen relics," the two-headed crow seemed unwilling to explain. "Thirteen lances and the Crown of Mousillon, it's part of the plan."
"You haven't told me the truth."
"You don't need to know the truth, mortal. You become king, we take the relics. It's a transaction."
The two-headed crow flew away from the window, and the bats outside continued their noisy flight. Bard's gaze wavered, lost in hesitation.
Clearly, Carlos the Weaver of Fate bore a significant mission. Mousillon's Serpent had a premonition that if Carlos gathered the thirteen lances and the Crown of Mousillon, something terrible would happen in the mortal world.
As long as it didn't collect all of them, Bard convinced himself.
He didn't notice a group of bats flying away from the castle after passing by his window, heading into the distance.
***
Late March, inside the Forest of Chalons, in the southern chivalric army's camp. Early spring nights were cold as water.
Campfires crackled softly in the damp forest soil. Cold winds blew through the woods, carrying an eerie sound. Simple tents were set up, with Wood Elf rangers patrolling the perimeter, while the troops inside tried to rest.
Almost every peasant soldier was injured, using bandages and precious salves to treat their wounds. Sitting in small groups, they ate their evening meals. The army's supplies were relatively abundant, with meat and vegetables. They boiled black bread in water until soft and warm, then added grains and fresh vegetables for dinner.
Most were silent, with only the occasional groan from the wounded. While most had received treatment, many had lost arms, legs, or eyes, facing forced retirement and a return to farming with a pension.
This was unbearable for many peasants, who wept uncontrollably, preferring death in battle to living as cripples.
Tall bushes and leaves of the deciduous forest dripped with dew, falling on the muddy ground and into the hearts of the men.
Spire Palace was destroyed, the entire castle melted. Despite their hard fight, holding out for a day and night against the undead army, the castle collapsed within two hours against the Tzeentchian army, a reality many soldiers couldn't accept.
The only solace was that Ryan's army didn't suffer heavy losses. Seeing the army retreat, the Tzeentchian army didn't pursue, allowing almost all non-fatal casualties to cross the floating bridge safely.
Commander of the Pike Company, Raymond, sat on a stone, lucky to have only a scraped back, considering himself fortunate after years of soldiering.
Eating such a hearty meal wasn't something ordinary soldiers could enjoy. Across from Raymond sat Bertrand, the commander of the Forest of Chalons patrol camp, now in his forties, who sighed, shaking his head as he sipped his soup.
Seeing Raymond still motionless, Bertrand smiled. "Not eating?"
"Too many brothers died. No appetite," Raymond admitted his hunger but had no appetite. In the battle against the Tzeentchian army, a peasant soldier who had been his neighbor in the runaway slave dormitory turned to ashes before his eyes.
Bertrand continued eating, the lord of Winford sighed. "Raymond, lad, in war, death is inevitable. I tell you, losing six hundred men is light. Princess Morgiana's magic saved countless lives!"
"...Sir Bertrand?"
"Hmm?"
"Are those really Chaos Daemons? They're too strong, right?" Raymond cautiously asked, seeing no one around. "Do they really exist?"
"Silence! Raymond, lad!" Bertrand's expression changed, his long mustache twitching. "That's not for you to worry about. Speak carelessly, and I won't try to save you if you vanish!"
"Ah! Yes, I understand." Raymond, realizing the gravity of his mistake, quickly apologized.
Bertrand wanted to say more when a Kingdom Knight in full armor, his cloak tattered, approached. "Bertrand? Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here, Sir Leofrick. What is it?" Bertrand quickly stood, giving Raymond a warning look before greeting Leofrick.
The knight, Leof
rick-Carlal, last year's tournament champion from Winford, looked disdainfully at the soldiers' pot of black bread, pork, and vegetables. But knowing Bertrand was favored by Duke Francois, he forced a pleasant tone. "We're having a meeting. Lord Ryan is asking for you. Follow me."
"Yes!" Bertrand replied promptly, following Leofrick out of the camp.
Watching Bertrand leave, the soldiers were envious. Though Bertrand seemed deferential to Leofrick, speaking so equally was an unimaginable honor for the peasants.
Bertrand followed Leofrick to another camp, where the knights resided. A large tent stood in the center. When Bertrand lifted the flap, he saw the Grail Knights and nobles already seated. The only seat left was nearest the door. He quickly took it.
The tent's atmosphere was somber. Ryan stood by a long table, looking at a map. Morgiana, in her elegant lilac gown, sat to his right, and sorceress Teresa, in her black leather outfit and high boots, sat to his left.
"Losing Spire Palace means the failure of our plan to reclaim Mousillon," Ryan said, nodding to Bertrand before continuing. "The appearance of the Tzeentchian army is bizarre. Normally, the undead and Chaos are enemies, not allies. So, Spire Palace's fall is my fault. I wasn't prepared. I accept criticism."
The knights debated but generally didn't blame Ryan. The sudden and inexplicable appearance of the Tzeentchian army left them no choice but to retreat.
The power of the Chaos army was undeniable. Even the finest Elven and Dwarven troops struggled against an organized Chaos Daemon army, let alone Ryan's force, which included many peasants. Losing was normal; victory would have been a miracle.
"It's not your fault, Ryan. None of us expected a Tzeentch Great Daemon leading an entire Tzeentchian army to appear in Mousillon," Morgiana shook her head, sitting sideways in her chair, holding the Holy Grail of Potions. "Chaos Daemons don't enter the mortal world lightly. They must have a purpose."
"The purpose of Chaos Daemons..." Grail Knight Fedemond, son of Duke Bodrick, pondered. "They generally enter for two reasons: destruction or seeking or destroying specific items commanded by the Dark Gods."
Gerald, a Kingdom Knight titled Holy Knight, nodded, his face pale. He had been injured by Tzeentch Daemons in the recent battle, and the wounds hadn't healed. "If it was for destruction, the Tzeentchian army wouldn't have stopped pursuing us."
"Then, it's to destroy something?" Armand mused. "Did Chaos want to destroy Spire Palace?"
"Doesn't seem like it," Ryan shook his head.
Everyone fell into confusion.
Suddenly, Teresa spoke.
"Ryan, do you think the undead might have allied with Chaos? Forming a coalition?"
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