Chapter 105: ¹⁰⁵Oath At The Ice Fortress

​The Hollow was still sobbing hysterically on the black stone floor.

​The remnants of his sanity had long crumbled. Disgusting drool and tears dripped from the cracks of his white ceramic mask, mixing with the blood that continuously poured from the stump of his left arm. The desperate cries bounced wildly against the walls of the cave, which had now fully become a mass grave.

​Around him, the corpses of the Hollow Thralls and dozens of Serpent’s Tongue soldiers lay scattered. The pooling blood began to congeal, freezing as it was swept by the frigid air from the waterfall’s crevice.

​Ethan Valen slowly unwrapped his possessive embrace from Valera.

​The young man pivoted, then stepped slowly past the sea of corpses. His leather boots tread with absolute grace, not making a single splashing sound despite stepping on thick puddles of blood.

​Ethan stopped right in front of The Hollow, who was crawling while laughing madly at the floor.

​There were no parting words. No further interrogation, let alone mercy. Ethan simply needed this man dead.

​Ethan’s right wrist flicked. Velcrasia slithered out from the void.

​CRACK!

​The dark red whip cleaved through The Hollow’s neck. Incredibly clean. The masked head was thrown off, smashing against the floor. Its ceramic mask shattered to pieces, revealing a pale, middle-aged face frozen in eternal terror.

​Fresh blood spewed into the air like a small fountain. Red ice crystals formed before the liquid could even stain Ethan’s shirt.

​His task here was done.

​Ethan retracted his whip. He turned his back to the headless corpse. The crimson glow in his eyes slowly dimmed, returning to a pair of dark brown irises.

​In the corner of the room, Valera stood leaning on the hilt of her Zweihander, which was driven into the floor.

​The Demon’s claw mark on her right arm gaped wide from shoulder to elbow. Her blood was no longer flowing heavily, but it continued to drip slowly, soaking the remains of her torn leather armor. The exotic knight’s face looked pale.

​Ethan approached, his eyes swiftly scanning the horrific wound.

​"Can you walk?" Ethan asked flatly.

​Valera forced a smirk, though her breaths were slightly heavy. "Don’t look down on me, My Lord. This demon’s scratch won’t kill me."

​Ethan ignored the arrogance. Without asking, he grabbed Valera’s left arm and pulled the woman closer. His right palm hovered exactly one inch above the gaping wound.

​"Endure it," Ethan commanded briefly.

​The young man closed his eyes. He pulled an abstract magical thread connecting him to one of his properties in a faraway place.

​[Crimson Radiance].

​A pale red glow suddenly ignited between Ethan’s fingers. This wasn’t his healing magic. It was the residual magical essence of Miya Evarett—the Elf healer—forcefully drawn by Ethan across hundreds of miles, channeled through their Lust Brand network.

​The light was weak, barely visible compared to when Miya cast it directly. However, the energy was dense enough to force Valera’s torn muscle tissue to knit back together.

​"Aghh... damn it..."

​Valera gritted her teeth. A stinging heat sensation crawled over her wound. It felt exactly like a piece of raw meat being forcefully stitched together using an invisible, burning needle.

​"Be quiet. This is limited magic," Ethan said coldly. "At least it’ll keep you from bleeding to death on the way back."

​At the same time, hundreds of miles to the south. The Valen family estate appeared peaceful.

​In the quiet kitchen, Miya Evarett was busy slicing herbal roots. However, the Elf healer’s knife movement suddenly stopped.

​The red rose-shaped Lust Brand tattoo on her left thigh throbbed strangely.

​It wasn’t the pain of punishment, nor was it the burning pleasure Ethan usually channeled. This felt light—a gentle, warm tug seeping from within, tickling her fine nerves. Miya’s legs reflexively squeezed together.

​"A-Ah..." Miya gasped, her breath catching.

​The pale face of the petite Elf girl instantly flushed bright red all the way to the tips of her pointed ears. She looked left and right in a panic, making sure no servants saw her.

​Unfortunately, her vigilance was too late. Lilith appeared at the doorway.

​The pink-haired Succubus strolled in casually carrying an empty woven basket. Her reddish-gold eyes glanced at Miya. The Elf’s awkward posture was instantly read loud and clear.

​Lilith grinned widely, baring her small fangs. "Oh my, oh my~ it seems our little demon is playfully teasing his property from afar, hmm?" she teased in a naughty tone.

​"N-No! It’s not like that!" Miya hurriedly lowered her face. She grabbed her knife again, pretending to be busy slicing herbs with extraordinarily stiff movements.

​Lilith merely giggled in amusement. She swung her hips and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Miya still busy trying to calm her chaotic heartbeat.

​Back to the frozen north.

​Ethan pulled his right hand away from Valera’s arm. The pale red glow faded in the cold air. Valera’s torn wound was now partially closed, leaving a vulnerable, reddish scar tissue, but it was enough to stop the fatal bleeding.

​The two of them walked out of the cave just as dawn was breaking on the eastern horizon.

​The morning air in this valley was unbelievably freezing. Light snow fell, blanketing the corpses of the guards and the pools of blood in the front courtyard. Both stepped forward in absolute silence.

​Once they reached the safety of the open forest border, Ethan took off the dirty remains of his cloak.

​His shoulder blades heated up. Azhyrael spread wide. The base of the wings was as black as night, while the tips blazed crimson like fresh blood.

​Valera snorted softly. "Don’t tell me you’re going to carry me again."

​"Walking takes up too much time," Ethan cut in coldly.

​Without waiting for an argument, Ethan stepped forward. His right arm wrapped tightly around Valera’s waist, while his left arm locked possessively around the female knight’s neck. The exact same dominant position as when they had set out.

​Valera turned her face away. She bit her lower lip hard.

​Not out of embarrassment. But rather because Ethan’s fingers once again made direct contact with the skin of her neck—right over where the Lust Brand was located. The intoxicating warm sensation crawled up her spinal nerves again, absolutely subjugating her feral instincts.

​She remained quiet, forced to submit within that embrace.

​Azhyrael flapped hard once. The snow beneath them was swept completely clean.

​The two shot upward, piercing through the morning fog. Cleaving the northern sky and leaving the Dead Valley far behind.

​The flight was brief. Ethan folded Azhyrael right at the border of the outermost pine forest surrounding the Rosenberg Fortress, hiding his true form.

​From there, they walked on foot toward the main gates. Valera’s steps faltered occasionally when aches struck her arm, but her veteran knight’s pride forced her to keep walking tall. Her wound had been neatly bandaged with a black cloth by Ethan.

​As soon as they stepped out of the forest border, the warning bells in the watchtower immediately rang loudly.

​"Guests approaching! It’s Ethan Valen... and Lady Valera has returned!" a guard shouted from atop the tower.

​The giant iron-wood gates creaked heavily as they opened.

​However, it wasn’t a warm welcoming committee that awaited them. Hundreds of Rosenberg soldiers stood in tight formation on the left and right sides of the inner courtyard’s main path. Their hands were on standby at their sword hilts, their eyes locking onto Ethan with full vigilance.

​Many of them stared at Valera with confused expressions.

​Their prideful Northern Dog was now walking exactly one full step behind the Valen brat. That wasn’t the position of a guest’s escort, but rather... an obedient follower. An uncomfortable atmosphere crept through the ranks of the northern soldiers.

​Ethan didn’t care in the slightest. His chin lifted arrogantly, walking calmly through that lethal formation until he arrived at the doors of the fortress’s main hall.

​Inside the hall illuminated by a giant fireplace, Duke Alaric von Rosenberg was already standing and waiting.

​The northern ruler towered like a sturdy tower in front of his wooden throne. A polar bear fur cloak draped majestically over his shoulders. His freezing aura pressed down on the entire room like a frozen fog.

​Ethan stopped ten paces from the throne.

​"The cleansing mission is complete," Ethan stated without any small talk. "The Hollow and all his high-ranking officers are dead."

​Alaric’s hardened face showed no surprise. Yet his jaw clenched. The Duke’s pale blue eyes shifted past Ethan’s shoulder, staring at Valera who stood behind the young man.

​At the sides of the room, two warlords stood on standby. The adjutants and elite knights bowed their heads. Everyone was waiting for the Duke’s reaction.

​"That is a very massive claim, Valen boy," Alaric’s voice echoed deeply. "I need proof."

​Without being ordered, Valera stepped forward.

​"I am both the proof and the witness, My Lord," Valera’s voice was loud and steady, as if the severe wound on her arm didn’t exist. "I saw with my own eyes The Hollow getting beheaded in his nest. Their core forces were wiped out to the last man. And the Thrall monsters of their creation have been destroyed."

​The hall fell completely silent.

​Not a single knight dared to dispute it. This woman’s reputation over the past dozen years was built purely on blood and absolute honesty. Her report was fact.

​Alaric exhaled a long breath, white steam billowing from his mouth.

​"Very well. I acknowledge that your cleansing mission is completed according to our agreement," Alaric said, staring at Ethan.

​However, the Duke stepped down one stair.

​"But you must remember, Ethan," Alaric continued, his voice now hardening. "Releasing Valera from her oath of servitude to Rosenberg is not merely a transactional verbal agreement."

​Alaric glared sharply at Valera. "In accordance with the ancient traditions of Rosenberg, a knight who wishes to sever their oath and serve another banner must prove in the arena... that they are still worthy of leaving while bearing the great name of the north."

​Alaric raised his hand, giving an absolute signal to his adjutant.

​"Ring the bell. Gather all the knights at the combat arena right now."

​Three chimes of a giant bell vibrated the walls of the Rosenberg Fortress.

​In a short amount of time, thousands of knights and soldiers crowded the spectator tiers surrounding the open training arena. The high stone walls encircling the arena were blanketed in snow. Blue banners bearing the insignia of an ice rose fluttered wildly in the wind.

​The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

​On one side of the snowy arena, Valera Voss stood frozen.

​Her left hand gripped the hilt of her Zweihander tightly. Her wounded right arm, wrapped in bandages, was left dangling by her side. She wore only her light leather armor.

​On the opposite side, her final test stepped in.

​Sorin Veld.

​The strongest knight of the Rosenberg faction. He walked with extraordinary calmness clad in unornamented old silver steel plate armor. His black hair was cut neatly. His eyes stared straight at Valera—without arrogance, purely out of respect for his opponent.

​Sorin stopped ten meters away from Valera.

​"Forgive me for having to be your opponent today, Valera," Sorin greeted calmly yet authoritatively. "I am only following the Duke’s orders."

​Valera snorted cynically, resting her Zweihander on her left shoulder. "Keep your apologies, Sorin. You’d better not hold back, or you’ll regret it."

​Sorin shook his head slowly, glancing at Valera’s dangling right arm. "You’re severely injured. You can’t use your dominant hand. This isn’t a fair fight."

​"If you let your guard down," a golden glint flared in Valera’s eyes, "I’ll make you severely injured too, Sorin."

​On the highest balcony, Duke Alaric watched with folded arms.

​Meanwhile, at the edge of the arena, far from the crowd, Ethan leaned against the stone wall. His black cloak was draped over him, both arms crossed. His brown eyes locked onto the figure of his knight, without a single speck of worry on his face.

​In the center of the arena, Sorin finally drew his longsword.

​Schwing!

​An exceptionally dense non-elemental aura exploded, coating Sorin’s body. Not ice, not fire. It was the pure pressure of life energy (ki). The air around him distorted from the pressure.

​Valera took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the freezing air.

​Her focus narrowed. Golden Beast Aura blazed from the soles of her feet, crawling up to coat her body and her sword with a bright golden glow. She refused to bow to Sorin’s pressure.

​A senior adjutant raised a short sword into the air. The entire fortress held its breath.

​The sword was slashed downward.

​In a fraction of a second, flashes of silver and gold light shot from opposite ends.

​CLAAAAANG!

​The first collision broke out. A shockwave swept the snow within a ten-meter radius. Sparks ignited brightly amidst the freezing morning air.

​Valera grimaced hard. Her fangs ground together enduring the maddening pain. The recoil force from Sorin’s sword slash traveled through her Zweihander, making the wound on her right arm feel as if it were being torn open again from the inside.

​Sorin held back the push of Valera’s sword at close range. "You’re too stubborn, Valera."

​"That’s... the best compliment I’ve ever heard," Valera hissed, holding her breath.

​With one strong jerk, she pivoted on her heel, lifting the giant sword back up with one hand, ready to weave a bloody battle for the sake of her freedom.