Chapter 512: Royal Final Battle (3)
The Crimson Knight exploded out of the swirling steam as though a siege-ram had grown legs and fury. Every plate of his armor screeched on its rivets, metal teeth grinding until sparks leapt into the haze. Lyan planted his boots, shifting just enough that the glaive’s butt kissed the marble for grounding. His eyes tracked micro-movements: the shoulder that lifted half a breath after the knee, the stutter in each stride where sigils on cuisses and vambraces fought one another for authority. Nothing the knight did was his own doing—it was a dozen ancient commands arguing in a single body.
(He’s no longer human. Just a puppet dancing on cursed threads.)
Griselda’s verdict cracked like tinder in a hearth, impatience humming down Lyan’s arms until the metal haft tingled. He tasted copper on his tongue—the familiar tang of lightning waiting for release.
(End it swiftly. He’s too dangerous now.)
"Swift, yes," Lyan whispered, letting his breath steady into a four-count cadence. The heat roiling off the knight beat against his face, sweat prickling under his collar. He noted the hinge at the elbow already glowing orange, the faint whistle of boiling blood forced through overstressed veins. A man would have collapsed. A relic-driven corpse did not enjoy that mercy.
Boot met marble with a cannon-crack. Timing couldn’t be better. Lyan stamped the glaive’s blade into a spiderweb of hairline fractures he’d spied earlier—faults left by centuries of royal processions. He thrust Arturia’s cool white mana through the weapon first, spreading it like oil on water so the lines lit up, defining the cracks. Then he poured Griselda’s lightning in a single, disciplined blast.
Blue-white radiance raced beneath the floor, turning ancient lapis into liquid glass. The stone sank before it melted, the weight of the palace forcing it to sag like bread left too long in the sun. The knight’s next step plunged shin-deep into a glowing pool. Steam roared upward, coating his visor in instant condensation.
He bellowed—less a voice than furnace wind. Lyan’s stomach knotted at the smell: scorched oil, iron, and something unmistakably human.
The knight tore one leg free with a wet pop, chunks of half-molten marble clinging like slag. He swung a sword longer than most men were tall, the edge painting an angry red sweep through the fog. Lyan ducked under, felt the hair at his crown singe, pivoted on the ball of his left foot.