Chapter 3 : Chapter 3
Chapter 3: The Broken Sword and the Walking Corpses
[Broken Standard-Issue Sword of the Silverblade Knights]: “A finely crafted standard weapon of the Silverblade Knights, engraved with distinctive arcane script that enhances the wielder’s mental strength.
When infused with mana, it shines with silver light, the mark of a Silverblade Knight.”
Although Cyril had already closed the character status interface, the system’s functions seemed to have fully activated. The moment his gaze fell upon the broken sword in his hand, the corresponding information immediately appeared.
Compared to the weapon descriptions in the game, it lacked the weapon’s attack value and other attribute bonuses. Just like the character status panel, all those complicated numbers had been stripped away, leaving behind only a simple descriptive interface.
This was perhaps a compromise made for transmigrating into a real world. For Cyril, who had previously been a player, there would certainly be many things to get used to. Even so, this alone was enough to make him deeply grateful—
At the very least, the status panel still included class, experience, and skills. Once he gained experience and leveled up, he would still be able to assign those levels accordingly.
Gain experience, raise character level, then assign those levels to the corresponding class. For example, according to Cyril’s current status panel, it would take ten experience points to reach Level 2, while his Apprentice Knight Squire class would need three full class levels to advance to the next stage, Knight Squire.
As Cyril stared at the longsword marked as belonging to the Silverblade Knights, he began to form some guesses about the identity of this body—
It was probably a boy who had dreamed of becoming a knight, had followed a branch of the order to the northern frontier to help build up its defenses, only to be unlucky enough to encounter the invading undead and die here.
The Silverblade Knights were one of La Rochelle’s four strongest knightly orders. They were also the first of those orders to be wiped out. Their knights feared no death, and after fighting several major battles in the early stages of the war, every last one of them fell on the battlefield.
Cyril remembered that there had once been a quest chain called The Unyielding Horn. Completing it would grant the inheritance of the Silverblade Knights, allowing players to forge Silverblade equipment and learn the order’s unique skills at their guild base.
If “Cyril” had not died here, then with the talent he possessed—the kind that would one day allow him to grow into the foremost undead knight—he probably could have become one of La Rochelle’s renowned great knights.
But this was no time for Cyril to indulge in sentiment. He turned to look at Caroline again.
The girl was already so sleepy that her head had slumped against the stair railing. She had been forcing herself to stay awake the entire time. Even after Cyril woke up, she had remained there, waiting for his instructions.
This girl from the blacksmith’s family was even stronger and more rational than he had imagined. Whether it was the way she had cleverly distinguished the walking corpse protecting her from the other corpses, or the way she had refrained from acting rashly and instead held her ground while waiting for Cyril to awaken, every one of those choices had been the correct one.
“Caroline,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll need you to cover me in a moment.”
The girl jolted upright at once, going from half-leaning against the railing to sitting bolt straight. She answered quickly, “Yes, Mr. Adrien, but... what do you need me to do?”
“Just call me Cyril.” Cyril was quite satisfied with Caroline’s cooperation. He then pointed upstairs. “In a moment, I’m going outside to deal with the three things out there. You know they’re already dead, don’t you?”
After seeing Caroline freeze briefly before slowly nodding, Cyril continued, “Go up to the second floor and throw something toward the far right. Make some noise and draw their attention.”
“That’s all I need to do?” Caroline seemed a little unable to believe that her task was really that simple.
“As for the rest, that’ll depend on how you handle it in the moment.” Cyril shrugged with feigned ease and spoke the line every player knew all too well. “Go on. I’ll wait for your signal. May the starlight shine upon you.”
The girl drew in a deep breath. It seemed as though she wanted to say something more, but in the end she turned around decisively and hurried toward the second floor in a clumsy rush.
Cyril stood by the door in silence for a moment. Then he pushed it open, and with that creaking groan of the door, he spun the broken blade in a clean, elegant flourish.
Even though what he held was only a broken sword, it still felt incredibly natural in his grip. This was perhaps the body of a true swordsmanship prodigy. An Apprentice Knight Squire could not have been older than fifteen at most, yet to possess such command over a weapon at that age made the talent of this body obvious.
No wonder Basic Swordsmanship [Silverblade Knight] had already reached the Intermediate level.
And at this moment, that was Cyril’s greatest source of confidence.
With a long, heavy creak, he pushed open the thick firwood door. He had already confirmed the positions of the three walking corpses through the crack in the door. They were spread evenly across the street, one to the left and two to the right. The people of the northern frontier had always been stronger and broader than those from central La Rochelle. After turning into walking corpses, their bodies loomed like hulking beasts, wandering across the snow like savage monsters from beyond the Maitland Mountains.
Looking at those massive bodies, Cyril could not help feeling a trace of apprehension. Even if the sword in his hand had been made by the Silverblade Knights, it was still only a broken weapon. Could it really pierce the hardened skin of those corpses?
He did not know, nor did he have time to think further, because at that moment the window above his head opened, and a heavy pillow was hurled out with all Caroline’s strength, arcing toward the street on the right.
But the moment Cyril saw where it landed, he inwardly cursed.
Even after repeatedly reminding himself that this Caroline was not the long-legged, mature beauty from his memories, he had still greatly overestimated her strength. The pillow thrown by those frail little arms did not even clear the edge of the house. It dropped with a muffled thump into the snow not far from Cyril.
And with the sound of the pillow hitting the ground, all three walking corpses were drawn toward it, slowly turning around—
At that instant, Cyril burst out from beside the door and lunged toward the lone corpse on the left.
This unfamiliar body still moved somewhat stiffly. Even the way he ran across the snow looked awkward and ill-coordinated. But his speed was beyond reproach. In the blink of an eye, he had already closed the distance and reached the walking corpse’s side.
The cold air rushed into his lungs carrying the stench of blood. Cyril found himself face-to-face with a grotesque, swollen visage split open by a deep wound. He had seen countless walking corpses in the game and had long known there was nothing remotely pleasant about them, but facing one head-on for the first time in the real world still made his stomach lurch.
Cyril forcibly suppressed the nausea and fixed his gaze on the corpse’s movements.
“These things have nearly perfect bodies, so their movements and strength are far greater. But their reactions and speed are much slower. As long as you stay calm, reading their movements isn’t difficult.”
For some reason, the words of that novice instructor—holding a wine flask and roasting meat by the campfire—echoed in his ears once more, just like the first time he had ever fought the undead alone in the game.
He watched the corpse’s right arm rise and then swing down. Instinctively, he tried to dodge to the side, intending to slip past it and get behind its back, but his body utterly failed to keep up with his thoughts.
That heavy right arm swept past his shoulder with a howling rush of wind and slammed directly into a wooden barrel.
With a thunderous crash, the barrel shattered from a single blow.
Cyril sucked in a sharp breath. The sight of the smashed barrel filled his chest with raw terror.
In the game, getting hit only meant losing HP and suffering status effects.
In reality, it meant death.
If that punch had landed on him, what would have shattered would have been his shoulder—perhaps half his chest along with it.
This was a bloody reality, not the false illusion of a game.
“You’re no longer that legendary Rogue. You’re just a complete novice Apprentice Knight Squire. To hell with everything that came before!”
He drew in a deep breath and tore away the last lingering illusion that this world was no different from the game. Then he tightened his grip on the broken sword.
The walking corpse raised its arm again. It was the same right arm as before. As that sluggish movement unfolded, a huge opening revealed itself before Cyril.
Without the slightest extra hesitation, he drove himself forward at the greatest speed this body could produce. Before the corpse’s arm could fall, he slipped under its armpit. Then he seized its outer coat, twisted his body, and hacked the broken sword savagely into the back of its neck.
The solid skin split open under the blow, and foul, rancid blood sprayed across his face.
But his movements did not pause for even an instant. Gritting his teeth, he poured all the limited strength he had into the broken blade, forcing it deeper and deeper until it sank into the middle of the corpse’s neck and could go no farther.
The huge body crashed heavily into the snow, its brief existence as a walking corpse brought to an end.
It was commonly believed that the source of a walking corpse’s strength lay in its head. Destroy the head or sever it from the body, and the creature could be killed. Though Cyril’s strike had only cut halfway through, it had already destroyed the connection between the corpse’s head and limbs. In theory, that was enough.
But Cyril had no chance to feel pleased.
He looked at the remaining two walking corpses, already advancing toward him step by step. His hand was now empty, and all he could do was spit out the foul blood that had splashed into his mouth moments earlier.
He did not even notice the green orb of light rising from the fallen corpse—visible to him alone.