"What are you still clinging to?"
A hoarse voice, like dry branches scraping together, echoed from the throat of the black-armored knight.
It did not sound human at all, but rather like the hissing of some slimy invertebrate—cold, viscous, and unnatural.
"Give it up. Look at what you've done: slaughtering your own people, massacring your former subordinates, even ending your own son's life with your own hands.
The person you were is already dead. Why cling to the past?
You are now the proxy of my master, the most exalted being in this world. You shall descend with my master's glory and might, returning the world to his embrace."
"Shut… shut up."
A weak, trembling voice emerged from the black knight's throat, barely audible, like a dying man's whisper.
"Using my body, you slaughtered my people, butchered my subordinates, and even made me bear the sin of patricide.
And yet you still try to guide me toward corruption. On what grounds?"
With every word he spoke, his voice grew stronger, like a final flash of life in a dying man. By the last sentence, he was shouting.
"You think these childish tricks can stain a knight's noble virtue?
I, Roland Selerfis, Saint Knight ordained by the Holy Judgment Church, hereby swear: as a knight, one can only die standing, never kneel to live.
Even if my body burns to ashes, I will drag you, fallen demon, completely from this world!"
"Heh, why bother? You've already burned once; what remains of you? Without my power, you're nothing but an incomplete soul."
The eerie voice sneered as more filthy, corrupt blood surged toward the black knight, attempting to crush him utterly.
"It's of no consequence. My master has already stripped you of your strength. What remains is only a residual soul within a body yet to collapse.
Once I fully corrupt your soul, you will become my master's proxy completely."
At that moment, however, the corrupt blood rushing toward Roland suddenly stiffened, then reversed as if a video were being played backward.
The tendrils formed by the blood retracted, and the blood lake began to spin, forming a massive whirlpool.
"Damn it… the Saintess awakens at this moment?"
The eerie voice hissed, clearly frustrated. Success was so close, yet a teammate had unexpectedly interfered.
But what could it do? It was merely a consciousness created by a great being—a will to guide a proxy toward corruption.
As long as this knight continued to cling to life, he would inevitably be led to corruption in time.
"I look forward to the day you fall."
With that, the strange voice fell silent.
The corrupted blood armor covering the black knight gradually dissipated, revealing the shattered body beneath.
It was Roland, the Saint-tier warrior who had burned away everything of his own.
His armor lay in pieces, his chest pierced with a mortal wound.
Where his heart once beat now throbbed a strange formation of filthy blood, functioning as though it were a living heart.
"You won't make it."
Roland propped himself on his hands, gazing painfully at the rapidly retreating blood lake.
As the corrupted blood dissipated, the underlying flesh orb became visible.
Roland knew this belonged to his own heart, taken by that terrifying woman and used to gestate something.
He could feel its connection to his bloodline. Strictly speaking, it was his offspring.
Yet as a proper knight, he would never allow such filth, born of corruption, to exist in the world.
Summoning the last of his strength, he ignited his remaining body and charged at the flesh orb.
"It ends here."
As his sword pierced the orb, Roland felt a surge of satisfaction.
Even if he were to turn to ashes, he would fulfill all he had sworn to uphold.
But at that moment, a sharp crack rang out—his sacred sword, which had accompanied him through countless battles, shattered.
Fragments scattered, reflecting his shocked expression and chilling his heart completely.
Had he failed?
In the next instant, the flesh orb split with a pop, and a pair of delicate hands emerged.
An opportunity.
Roland tightened his broken sword, ready to strike the emerging creature.
The hands slowly opened the orb, revealing a petite girl inside.
Her long, silky pale-blonde hair fell freely behind her—a color unique to the Knight royal family, a legacy of intermarriage with elves every few generations.
Beneath her hair lay a face of breathtaking beauty, almost otherworldly.
"Zephyra?"
Roland gasped. His broken short sword hovered at her neck, unable to pierce her.
"Hehehe… foolish mortal. Surprised? The Saintess born from your own blood bears a familiar face.
The woman you have wronged all your life.
The daughter you killed with your own hands.
All because of that ridiculous church will, your daughter has become a witch.
So for your wealth and family honor, you plunged your sword into an innocent girl's chest.
Shall we do it again?
If you strike her heart with your sword, you'll be free."
The eerie voice echoed in Roland's mind, lingering with malicious glee.
"Do you think I would believe your lies, demon!"
Roland roared, attempting to strike, but could not move his sword.
Years of guilt chained him; he could not repeat the choice he had made back then.
"Hahaha, strike her! Strike this innocent girl!
She is a new life, born from your flesh and blood, neither witch nor product of corruption, just a pitiful ordinary girl.
If you strike, you break your knightly spirit.
If you do not strike, my master will one day descend upon this continent using her body.
Choose: follow your ridiculous knightly code and let this land fall into corruption, or abandon your knightly ideals for the sake of the people, plunging fully into corruption.
I eagerly await your choice, Saint Knight Roland, hehehe…"
The voice cackled wildly in Roland's mind, arrogant and unrestrained.
No matter what choice Roland made, the voice had already won.