Defeated.
Without doubt.
A body lay at my feet, blood spreading into the dirt, unmoving.
The sensation lingered in my hand—the resistance of flesh, the moment the blade passed through.
I killed him.
I took a life.
The fact settled heavily in my chest.
But I didn’t look away.
This was the result of my choice.
The result of fighting.
So I spoke.
“Surrender,” I said quietly. “Or I will kill everyone.”
There was no tremor in my voice.
No hesitation.
Do what must be done—until the very end.
“No way… Libert lost?!”
“To a kid?!”
“This has to be a trick!!”
One knight broke ranks and charged.
No crest. No heraldic blade. Just a raised fist, swinging wildly.
I didn’t move.
Bang.
The moment his fist connected, my crest flared.
The blow rebounded violently.
He screamed and collapsed, clutching his arm as if the bones had shattered.
So this is it.
The power of the crest.
Power that rules this world.
Against someone without a crest, I was untouchable.
Even if there were a hundred of them, they couldn’t harm me.
Now I understood why crests were absolute.
“I’ll say it again,” I said, pointing my sword at the kneeling knight. “I don’t have time. If killing everyone is faster, I’ll do that instead. You have five seconds.”
My blade tilted slightly.
“Or I start with you.”
The killing intent was unmistakable.
A knight raised both hands.
“We surrender! Please—treat us as prisoners of war!”
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One by one, the others followed, weapons clattering to the ground.
“Leo-boy!”
A massive, bearded old man stepped forward—muscles like iron cables beneath his skin.
Beard-Grandpa.
Relief washed through me.
The villagers were unharmed.
“There’s much I want to ask,” he said grimly, “but first—treatment. Immediately.”
“Beard-Grandpa… yeah!”
The villagers rushed to my mother’s side.
Please.
Please survive.
Beard-Grandpa placed his left hand over mine.
On the back of his hand—faint, almost erased—was the trace of a crest.
“…Could it be?”
“Aye. Long ago, I served the Sword King as a knight,” he said. “Focus. Will it—give power.”
“…Okay.”
I closed my eyes.
I could feel it—the crest’s power flowing through my body like a second bloodstream.
I guided it outward.
Light spilled from my crest, flowing into his.
The faded mark reignited, glowing.
“Well done, Leo,” he said softly. “This is the sharing of crest power. Normally only a lord can grant it… but a king is lord to all.”
He drew a sword from the restored crest.
“Leave this to me. I may be retired, but I’m still a knight. I’ll stabilize her, but she needs a war medic. There’s one in Fastress—an old acquaintance. Skilled.”
“…Got it!”
A handcart was brought.
We laid my mother onto it.
At Beard-Grandpa’s instruction, I placed my hand over her crest and shared my power again.
“This will buy time,” he said. “But the wound is fatal. Hurry.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I gripped the cart’s handles.
With the crest’s strength, carrying her over the mountains was possible.
Fastress.
That city.
The doctor who once saved me.
“Leo,” Beard-Grandpa warned. “If the Five Great Nations—if Dragonia is moving—this is truly dangerous. Liberto was strong… but there are monsters beyond him.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’m going. I’ll save her.”
“…Then go. May fortune favor you.”
We nodded.
I ran.
Fast—but careful not to jolt her.
One hour.
The road was silent. Too silent.
Then the city appeared.
Fastress—encircled by towering walls, massive compared to our village.
At the gate stood a knight in dragon-crested armor.
Dragonia.
I hid the cart in the forest.
“A—excuse me!”
“Huh? A brat?” the knight scoffed. “Scram. Be grateful I let you live. This is a battlefield.”
“Please. I need to enter the city.”
“Hah? Then die—!?”
Shk.
I drew and thrust.
Straight through.
“This is important,” I said coldly. “I don’t have time to hesitate.”
He collapsed.
I hid the body and entered the city.
Bloodstains. Ruins. Corpses.
Civilians.
“…Too late.”
Fastress had already fallen.
I moved through the city, staying hidden.
No civilians. Only Dragonian knights—nearly twenty.
Then—
“Stop!! Please!!”
A scream echoed from the city center.
I leapt across rooftops.
A wide plaza. A fountain.
Hundreds of civilians were gathered.
Children. Infants.
Crying spread like a chain reaction.
Dragonian knights stood watch—three of them.
One dragged a woman by the hair and threw her forward.
“Stay there.”
“Kyah!”
An Arcadian knight—captured, armor battered—caught her.
“Enough!” he roared. “Harming civilians—women especially—is against the laws of war!”
“Hah?” the Dragonian sneered. “Then protect them.”
The sword rose.
The mother clutched her child, sobbing.
The knight stepped forward, arms spread.
Protecting them.
Then—
I knew.
There was no choice.
I dropped into the plaza.
“Waaaah! Waaaah!! Mama!! Papa!!”
I cried loudly, stumbling forward.
The guards turned.
“Shit—there’s another brat!”
“Hey! Stop crying! Shut up or I’ll kill you!”
They approached carelessly.
One step.
Two.
Now.
Before they could react—
Zashu!
Crest sword flashed from my left hand — horizontal slash.
Flesh parted. Blood sprayed hot across my face.
One dropped.
The second froze, eyes wide.
Too slow.
I thrust — twisted.
Gurgling scream.
Both dead.
Cheap? Yes.
But this was war.
“You—! A crest bearer! At this age!?”
The last knight charged.
A direct clash. Steel screaming.
Still—he was nothing compared to Liberto.
Then—
“Ooooo!! Knightly TACKLE!!!”
The captured knight slammed into him from behind.
Perfect.
I drove my blade into the knight’s back and twisted.
A final scream.
Silence.
All three were dead.
Shouts echoed from afar.
Reinforcements.
I exhaled slowly.
I wasn’t arrogant.
I couldn’t win surrounded.
But—
I turned.
“Uncle!!”
“…Me!? I’m barely twenty!”
“Then fight! You’re knights!!”
“Our captain is dead! The crest is gone!”
“I’ll give you power.”
“What—!?”
My crest blazed gold.
“You still have the will to fight!”
The King’s Crest answered.
And it commanded—
Fight.
With everything you have.
