The room was quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of pages as the old tome settled back into its place on the shelf. I stood there for a moment, letting the stillness wash over me, grounding myself after everything that had happened. The knowledge I had gained in the library was invaluable, but it also left me with more questions than answers. This power I wielded, this strange fusion of my past life's game and the reality of this world—it was both a blessing and a burden.
I flexed my hand, feeling the weight of the Blade of the Fallen King at my side. The sword was still warm from battle, its edge dulled slightly from the clash with the barbarians, but it had served me well. The armor, too, felt like an extension of myself now—heavy, yes, but comforting in its solidity. I had grown accustomed to it in a way that felt unsettlingly natural, as if I had always been meant to wear it.
But something still nagged at the back of my mind, a question that I couldn't shake. The weapons, the armor—they were powerful, yes, but were they truly mine? The Tablet Grimoire, the Gate of Babylonia, all of it had taught me that there were limits to the power I could harness. Noble Phantasms, the weapons of heroes—those were the keys to unlocking the true potential of the Gate. But these… these were not Noble Phantasms. They were strong, yes, but they lacked the legend, the myth that made a weapon truly legendary.
I closed my eyes, summoning the Gate of Babylonia in my mind. The familiar sensation washed over me, a rush of power that felt like stepping into a vast, ancient archive filled with the echoes of long-dead heroes. But as I reached out to the Blade of the Fallen King, trying to register it within the Gate, I felt a resistance. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a barrier that prevented me from fully integrating the weapon into the Gate's collection.
I frowned, focusing harder, pushing against the resistance. The sword glowed faintly, its runes flickering with blue light, but it remained just out of reach. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't break through the barrier. It was like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole—close, but not close enough.
With a sigh, I released the connection, letting the Gate fade from my mind. It was clear now—these weapons, while powerful, were not recognized as Noble Phantasms by the Tablet Grimoire. They were strong, yes, but they lacked the history, the legend that made a weapon worthy of being stored within the Gate. They were tools, nothing more.
So that was my first ability—control over the Gate of Babylonia, but only for true Noble Phantasms. But there was more to my power than that. The aura within me, the cultivation of strength, was something I could build upon, something that could grow. I was currently at the two-star level, the beginning stages of a journey that could take me to heights I could hardly imagine. The star levels were just the beginning, followed by the moon and eventually the sun. Each level represented a deeper mastery, a more profound control over the power within me.
But beyond that, there was the system—the Path of Heroes, the game that had somehow become a part of my reality. It allowed me to enter the game world, to level up, to grow stronger, and to bring that strength back with me. The equipment I gained there, the skills, the abilities—they were all real here, in this world. It was a strange fusion, a merging of two realities that gave me an edge I desperately needed.
The question was, how far could I push it? Could I continue to level up within the Path of Heroes, bring more power, more equipment into this world? And if so, what were the limits? The thought intrigued me, but it also filled me with a sense of foreboding. Power came with a price, and I had yet to fully understand what that price might be.
As I stood there, lost in thought, a knock at the door pulled me back to the present. I turned to see a young squire standing in the doorway, his face pale with urgency.
"Your Highness," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "Ser Rodrick has requested your presence. There has been another attack."
I straightened, the weight of responsibility settling back onto my shoulders. "Where?"
"On the western front, Your Highness," the squire replied. "But it's all going according to plan. Ser Rodrick said to tell you that the ambush is ready."
Good. It was exactly what we had planned. The illusion of celebration, the appearance of weakness, had been a calculated risk, designed to draw the barbarians into a trap. If everything was going as it should, we were about to turn the tide for good.
"Very well," I said, nodding to the squire. "I'll be there immediately. Prepare my armor."
The squire hurried off, and I followed at a brisk pace. The castle was a hive of activity, soldiers moving with purpose, their faces set with determination. They knew what was at stake, and they were ready to see it through.
I reached the armory quickly, the familiar sight of the Armor of the Last Vanguard waiting for me. The squire had already begun preparing it, his hands deftly adjusting the straps and buckles. I shrugged off my tunic, allowing him to fasten the armor around me. The metal was cool against my skin at first, but it quickly warmed, as if it recognized me, as if it was a part of me.
With the armor secured, I took up the Blade of the Fallen King once more, feeling its weight settle comfortably in my hand. The sword thrummed with energy, as if eager for the battle to come. I checked my other equipment—the Pendant of the Azure Flame, the Shield of Aegis—everything was in place, everything ready.
But there was no time to dwell on it. The battle was already underway, and every second counted.
"Ready the horses," I ordered the squire, who immediately dashed off to comply. Moments later, he returned, leading a sleek black stallion with a fiery temper—my mount, Midnight. The horse snorted, pawing at the ground with anticipation.
I swung into the saddle, the weight of the armor a familiar burden. The squire mounted his own horse beside me, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. He was young, untested in battle, but there was a determination in his gaze that I respected.
"We ride now," I said, my voice firm. "Stay close, and keep your wits about you."
He nodded, and with a kick to Midnight's flanks, we were off.
The ride through the city was swift, the streets a blur of motion as we galloped toward the western front. The people of Eldoria had been instructed to stay indoors, to avoid the streets during the operation, but I could see faces peeking out from windows, eyes wide with fear and hope. They knew what was happening, knew that this battle could determine the future of their kingdom.
As we reached the outskirts of the city, the landscape opened up before us—a vast expanse of fields and forests, with the distant mountains silhouetted against the setting sun. It was beautiful, in a way, but there was no time to appreciate it. The battle awaited.
We rode hard, the sound of hooves thundering against the earth, the wind whipping through my hair. The squire kept pace beside me, his face set in a determined expression. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the reins tightly, but he didn't waver. He was ready to fight, ready to do his part.
The western front came into view, a stretch of land that had been carefully chosen for its strategic value. The terrain was rough, with narrow passes and dense forests that would funnel the enemy into a tight corridor—perfect for an ambush. Ser Rodrick had positioned our forces along the ridges, hidden among the trees and rocks, waiting for the signal.
As we approached, I could see the flicker of torches in the distance, the telltale signs of the barbarian forces moving into position. They thought they were about to take us by surprise, to catch us off guard during our supposed celebration. But they were walking straight into our trap.
I slowed Midnight as we neared the front lines, pulling up alongside Ser Rodrick. The captain of the knights was a formidable figure, his armor battered but sturdy, his sword already drawn and ready for the fight.
"Your Highness," he greeted me with a nod, his eyes scanning the horizon. "The barbarians are closing in. They've taken the bait."
"Good," I replied, my gaze fixed on the distant lights. "Are the men in position?"
"Everything is ready," Rodrick confirmed. "We're just waiting for the right moment."
I nodded, feeling the familiar tension of battle settling in my chest. The calm before the storm, the moment when everything hung in the balance. But I was ready. This was what I had trained for, what I had fought for. The kingdom depended on me, and I would not let it fall.
The minutes ticked by, each one stretching into an eternity. The barbarians drew closer, their torches bobbing like fireflies in the darkening night. I could hear the distant murmur of their voices, the clank of their weapons as they prepared for the attack.
And then, with a sudden roar, they charged.
"Now!"