Chapter 431: Special Instruction (8K Subscription Request)

The Mist Knights’ training ground, underground stone chamber.

Few knew that beneath the usual training grounds of the Holy Knights and Wu Seng, dozens of meters below, lay a special stone chamber.

In this sunless depth, a unique battle armor lay quietly hidden in secrecy.

Beneath the starlight stones embedded in the chamber’s ceiling, a faint cold glow dyed Zoyla’s brown hair in two tones.

The muscular female knight knelt on the cold stone slab; with just a slight lift of her head, she could clearly see the Holy Armor five steps away.

Though called “Holy Armor,” its current appearance bore little resemblance to the name.

The once-gleaming mithril patterns now gathered like dying fireflies into a weak glow at the armor’s chest.

Without this faint residual light, it would long ago have been discarded as broken trash.

“...Guh.”

Zoyla gazed at the armor with deep reverence, a flicker of excitement and longing in her eyes as she mentally replayed the armor’s origins.

The Angel’s Battle Armor.

This was an Epic-grade armor from a Battle Angel!

As a loyal believer of the Sun God, she held intense reverence and longing for this lost armor.

She longed to become its next wearer.

Why “wearer” and not “master”? Because this armor was no ordinary magical artifact—it was a living being with its own independent consciousness.

Only those it recognized could wear it and receive its protection.

Others, unacknowledged, could not even approach it—just as she now could only watch from afar.

Those rejected by it didn’t merely stay away—they were actively attacked!

Zoyla’s current position, five meters from the armor, already indicated slight recognition.

At least the armor’s spirit did not dislike her.

With more time, Zoyla might truly touch it and become the next fortunate one.

“...Cough, cough.”

A weary cough echoed from behind, interrupting Zoyla’s reverie and shifting her expression.

Zoyla didn’t need to turn—she knew the stubborn old man knelt five meters behind her.

The chamber held more than just Zoyla; there was another candidate.

The old knight, Morthen.

This knight, eight times her age, was also striving to gain the armor’s recognition.

Most monks in the monastery knew nothing of the Angel’s Battle Armor, but for high-tier Holy Knights like them, it was no secret.

Any Holy Knight who applied could attempt to communicate with the armor, seeking to establish a bond.

But due to the extreme conditions, the monastery had long seen no true recognized wearer.

Most were legendary-level monks who forcibly borrowed its power after brief contact—not truly recognized.

In a sense, Zoyla and Morthen were rivals.

Yet Zoyla felt no panic.

She knew the old man was no match for her!

Though harsh to say, he was merely a rustic knight from the countryside, while she was an elite from the Radiant Holy City of Solanthis.

The Mist Monastery did not reject outside monks.

Its monks fell into three groups.

One group was trained within the monastery itself—mostly orphans or commoners saved by monks.

Another came from outside for various reasons, like Herbert, who was “exiled” here and eventually stayed as a monk.

Others came from other monasteries or divine churches.

These were the smallest group, mostly temporary or long-term trainees who left after their cultivation ended.

Zoyla was such a monk.

As a talented prodigy among the younger generation of the Sun Church, she came to the Mist Monastery at age twenty-two, seeking the Angel’s Battle Armor’s recognition.

Raised since childhood under the Church’s care, bathed in the Sun God’s radiance, Zoyla knew her advantage—her affinity with the armor’s spirit far surpassed his.

Their current positions already revealed the truth.

Zoyla entered the chamber much later than Morthen, yet her progress now exceeded his.

Five meters versus ten meters.

Correct.

Advantage is mine!

In contrast to Zoyla’s confidence, the old knight remained calm.

Despite being behind, Morthen still did not give up—he knelt, praying steadily, occasionally advancing a small step.

He ignored the other young man, entirely focused on his own rhythm.

Morthen was well aware of Zoyla’s thoughts—and even held some admiration.

Young knights were proud, combative, confident—none of this was bad; youth should have youth’s spirit.

A young man without fire—was he even young?

But the two-hundred-year-old knight had seen too much; he had lost that sharpness, no longer needing to display his edge.

Morthen’s body was covered in scars, his left eye blinded by a through-and-through wound, making him look fearsome.

In this world, no injury was truly permanent—if enough cost was paid, one could restore to peak condition.

The Mist Monastery had no shortage of high-tier priests; restoring his wounds required no sacrifice.

Yet Morthen refused all help, insisting on keeping his scars.

In his youth, he had been fanatically obsessed with power, believing only these scars could enhance his strength.

Though he had long since abandoned that obsession, he still refused to heal.

The aged Holy Knight had grown accustomed to his scars.

Now, he resembled a greatsword whose blade had been worn dull through countless brutal battles.

A greatsword without edge—true mastery needs no artifice.

Was Morthen truly at a disadvantage?

Though Zoyla might refuse to accept it, the truth... was otherwise.

If Morthen wished, he could have reached Zoyla’s position long ago—even moved ahead of her.

Yet he advanced slowly, step by step, refusing to disturb the armor’s spirit.

Perhaps, deep down, he even hoped the young woman would surpass him.

Morthen had been waiting.

If Zoyla succeeded in gaining the armor’s recognition, he would gracefully step aside—just barely “one move behind.”

This was not deliberate leniency—merely an elder’s quiet guidance to the young.

Morthen had no family; but had he never become a Holy Knight, never joined the monastery, his great-great-great-granddaughter might be Zoyla’s age.

Hmm... he simply liked caring for the young.

Without other interference, the two would continue this standoff until one emerged victorious.

But fate had other plans.

Just as Zoyla stood one step from success, a change occurred.

The armor, which had long remained silent and indifferent to their approach, suddenly trembled.

Then, the once-dull armor burst into dazzling light!

Hum—

The sudden change stunned Zoyla; she snapped her head up, staring at the armor.

“Huh!?”

What happened?

After initial shock, she quickly grew excited.

The Angel’s Armor had reacted—that meant the armor’s spirit had fully awakened.

!!!

Could this change be because she had just taken another small step?

No—don’t get excited!

Zoyla clenched her fists, barely restraining the urge to rise and move forward.

“...Guh.”

She remained kneeling, head raised, eyes fixed on the armor.

The young woman thrilled, believing she had finally earned the armor’s spirit’s recognition.

Meanwhile, the old man’s expression shifted slightly—he sensed something unusual.

“This... what’s happening?”

Zoyla was excited, but behind her, Morthen saw clearly.

The armor’s spirit had not awakened immediately after Zoyla stepped forward—it changed only one or two seconds later.

The old knight remembered the armor’s spirit’s behavior: it had not awakened—it had been stirred by someone else.

The last time it stirred was three years ago, when a young Holy Knight named Faao had drawn its attention.

But that young man, after attracting the armor’s spirit, never tried to form a deeper bond.

Fa Ao believed his strength was still too weak; if he accepted the protection of the battle armor, he would lose all sense of life-and-death peril, making it nearly impossible to achieve significant growth.

In the end, he abandoned this rare opportunity, choosing instead to continue honing himself, waiting until his strength was sufficient to try again.

Mordon strongly agreed with Fa Ao’s viewpoint—he had held similar thoughts in his youth, though he took it further: he chose the most dangerous fighting style.

Mordon never wore armor—not even heavy plate, not even leather.

He fought purely by trading blows for blows, blood for blood.

Perhaps because of this habit, the spirit of the battle armor had no special interest in him.

He did not resist it, but neither did he like it.

Yet now, the Angel Battle Armor suddenly erupted with a reaction far more intense than when it had encountered Fa Ao.

Hummm!

In the center of the stone chamber, the armor now trembled violently, its aura shifting gradually.

Twice as strong?

No—this level of reaction was likely over ten times greater!

Mordon pondered, wondering what kind of person could provoke such a fierce response from the armor.

“What on earth…?”

Suddenly, a bold thought flashed through his mind.

Could it be that Fa Ao’s strength had risen into the Legendary realm?

Zoyra, waiting ahead, could no longer hold back—she stood up excitedly, moving closer.

“Lord Armor, I—hmm?!”

The moment she took a step, a force flung her backward, sending her stumbling several paces until she stopped before Mordon.

“This…?”

At that moment, Zoyra realized something was wrong—this situation was not as she had imagined.

Could it be… the spirit of the armor was not waiting for me?

“You?!”

Zoyra whirled around, staring at the silent old knight—but received no reply.

At that moment, the old knight had turned his head toward the entrance of the stone chamber.

Noticing Zoyra’s gaze, he asked in a low voice: “Child, did you hear that?”

“Hear what? I heard nothing… hmm?”

Zoyra’s expression changed—she too heard the faint sound: “Is that… footsteps? Someone’s coming?”

Upon hearing this, Mordon’s expression did not relax—it tightened further.

Yes, someone truly was coming.

There was nothing unusual about it; others had equal right to come here.

But the problem was… Mordon heard the footsteps drawing nearer, yet strangely felt no aura at all.

An unknown presence was slowly approaching.

Had Zoyra not heard it too, he might have doubted whether he was hallucinating.

And as the footsteps grew closer, Mordon’s unease deepened, his muscles tensing gradually.

His old wounds began to throb faintly—this was an instinct honed through years of battle.

He could not determine if the intruder was friend or foe, but one thing was certain… the intruder was extremely dangerous!

The intruder was undoubtedly a Legendary-level powerhouse.

And not just any Legendary.

Though Mordon’s official rank was only High Tier, his vast experience had earned him repeated invitations to join Legendary squads, where he had fought and slain multiple Legendary foes.

He had seen many Legendaries in his lifetime.

This unknown arrival was likely among the most dangerous of all the Legendaries he had ever encountered.

A thought flashed through Mordon’s mind.

“This feeling… could it be a Transcendent?”

After a moment’s thought, Mordon slowly nodded.

Yes—it must be.

Of all the Legendaries he had ever met, only one—after undergoing the Transcendence Ritual—had ever exerted such pressure on him.

Though Zoyra felt no intense threat, Mordon’s silence made her tense; she instinctively placed her hand on the hilt of her sword.

The two stood, one on each side, ready and alert, watching the chamber door.

Yet despite their tension, they were not truly fearful.

Remember—this was the Mist Monastery. The intruder was most likely an ally.

“…”

Even though they knew this logically, the growing clarity of the footsteps pressed heavier upon them.

Tap… tap… tap…

At some point, they seemed to hear a powerful, rhythmic pounding in their ears— their own heartbeats.

That heartbeat seemed to sync with the footsteps, each step landing like a blow upon their chests.

At this moment, the two Holy Knights’ differing reactions revealed their contrasting personalities.

Zoyra’s grip on her sword hilt tightened, yet her expression grew calmer.

Mordon’s heartbeat slowed, yet his face grew more grim; his blinded left eye flickered faintly with light.

Tap-tap-tap… tap.

As they waited tensely, the footsteps halted before the door—and the outsider politely tapped twice.

Thump… thump.

Two knocks, like blows to the heart, froze the air inside the chamber.

When no answer came, the outsider said nothing, and slowly pushed the door open.

Creak…

As the door began to open, the first to react in the entire chamber was not Mordon or Zoyra.

The first—and most violently responsive—was the Angel Battle Armor at the chamber’s center.

Hummmm!!!

The Angel Battle Armor, which had shown no interest in either Holy Knight moments before, suddenly shot off its pedestal and lunged toward the figure entering the door.

The armor moved with blinding speed, catching the newcomer completely off guard.

“Huh? What’s that?!”

Without hesitation, the newcomer raised a hand and slapped the armor’s helmet hard.

Whoosh—SMACK!

“Ambush?”

With a confused grunt, the Angel Battle Armor flew backward faster than it had charged forward.

Whoosh—CRASH!!

In Zoyra’s stunned gaze, the armor she had longed for was casually swatted away by the unknown boy, crashing against the wall and scattering into pieces across the floor.

???

Zoyra could no longer maintain her tense expression—her mouth hung wide open.

…Huh?

At this moment, she didn’t even have time to ask who the newcomer was.

She could only stare, fixed, at the scattered pieces of the Angel Battle Armor—still trembling, still trying to reassemble and charge forward again.

Is this… right?

It was like a dog who had worshipped a goddess who always ignored him, only to see that goddess throw herself at another—only to be rejected and shoved into a mud puddle.

For a moment, she didn’t know whether to feel sorrow or joy.

Joy: someone else didn’t want his goddess.

Sorrow: even if they didn’t want her, the goddess still didn’t want him—the dog.

“Trying to ambush me?”

After repelling the attack, Herbert shook his hand and grunted: “Go train some more.”

He looked down at the scattered Angel Battle Armor and sneered.

That’s it?

This thing doesn’t even look like anything special.

Under Ophidia’s persuasion, Herbert had ultimately accepted his task to pay a visit to the Sun Church.

He then promptly went to ask Bishop Rustnail for every possible detail, determined to get every detail perfect.

It was done—time to go.

Since he couldn’t avoid it, he might as well enjoy it.

After all, Nenasha had already assured him he wouldn’t be caught; if anything went wrong, it wasn’t his fault.

As long as his greatest secret remained hidden, this trip was purely beneficial.

Herbert was only going to lend support—not to fight.

As long as he kept a low profile, stayed quiet, and didn’t attract the attention of the Lust Cult, nothing major would happen.

Hmm... probably.

Although Herbert vaguely sensed things were unlikely to unfold as he hoped, he decided to pretend he felt nothing.

After questioning Bishop Rust Nail, Herbert strolled leisurely to this stone chamber, ready to take the Angelic Battle Armor.

But the moment he stepped inside, he was—ambushed!

Though he quickly realized the “assassin” was just the armor he intended to wear, Herbert still shook his head inwardly, thinking: “Of course, evil deeds bring their own retribution… no! Beauty is always short-lived—wait, that’s not right either!”

“Cough, cough. It’s always some villain trying to harm Your Majesty.”

Herbert muttered a mental complaint, then looked up at the other two people in the chamber.

His gaze swept over the young female knight once, then settled on the one-eyed old knight.

Though this knight possessed only High Rank power, he gave Herbert a feeling no less formidable than a typical Legend.

The two locked eyes, neither speaking first.

Mordon still maintained his alert posture, right hand tightly gripping his sword hilt, his good eye fixed on Herbert’s right hand.

“Sir, you… oh?”

Herbert had intended to greet him, but seeing the old knight’s demeanor, his brow twitched slightly—he realized something.

He felt as if he’d seen a volcano about to erupt, suppressed for years, waiting for a spark.

Or a massive, rotting, broken tree straining to sprout a new bud from its fracture.

Destruction—or rebirth.

Mordon was waiting for an opportunity.

“...Heh. Fine.”

Herbert smiled faintly, asked nothing, merely nodded to Mordon and chuckled: “If you want to try, go ahead. I won’t mind.”

Return kindness with kindness.

The monastery had always treated Herbert well; he wanted to repay them.

He didn’t need to ask why, or demand any condition—he was happy to lend a hand to his monastery brethren.

If I am your breakthrough opportunity, then come.

“Huh!”

Herbert’s permission was like an adrenaline shot for Mordon—he exhaled sharply, nodding vigorously.

The old knight drew his longsword, voice tinged with excitement: “Thank you for your mercy! Forgive my impudence!”

Mordon took a deep breath and suddenly widened his left eye.

“Ha!”

With a low roar, every exposed patch of his skin flushed crimson, fine beads of blood oozing from his countless scars.

Thump-thump! His heart pounded wildly, his body temperature soaring.

His aura surged rapidly, soon nearing that of a common Legend.

Mordon sought to reach his peak state, striving to find his breakthrough opportunity!

Morthen needed to bring himself to his peak state, trying to find a breakthrough opportunity!

Just as Mordon gathered all his strength to swing his first strike, the already dismantled armor suddenly floated up, automatically blocking before Herbert.

Just as Morthen gathered all his strength to swing his first sword, the already shattered armor suddenly lifted and automatically blocked in front of Herbert.

The full suit of armor rapidly reassembled, like a hollow angel, faithfully standing guard before Herbert.

Divine Artifact Protects Its Master!

Then...

“Tsk! Stop messing around, get out of the way!” Herbert snapped, flicking it away with a palm strike.

What are you doing blocking me now?

Seriously, no sense at all.

Can’t you see I’m helping someone break through?

The auto-protecting battle armor never expected to be attacked by its own master—it instantly broke down.

The Angelic Battle Armor was once again neatly shattered by Herbert’s palm, scattering across the floor.

The angelic battle armor was once again shattered by Herbert’s palm, scattering across the ground.

Zoyla stared blankly at the scene, unsure what expression to wear.

Zoyla stared blankly at this scene, not knowing what expression to wear.

Even though Zoyla was a seasoned “fanboy,” even though she’d adored the Angelic Battle Armor since childhood,

Seeing this, her heart still filled with deep doubt.

What had all her years of devotion truly been for?

Had her efforts been right at all?

And was the Angelic Battle Armor truly that important?

Had she wasted most of her energy on the wrong thing?

Herbert hadn’t expected that two casual swats would shatter a “seasoned fanboy’s” idolization of her goddess.

Indeed, classical mechanics still holds.

The critique of weapons can never match the weapon’s critique.

With no outsiders interfering, Mordon finally reached his optimal state.

The instant Herbert finished striking the armor and withdrew his hand, Mordon seized the moment and launched his attack.

Hold breath, focus mind... strike!

Whoosh—

He unleashed overwhelming power.

Mordon channeled every memory of his two-hundred-year life, every pain and rage endured, every insight gained over the years—all into one point.

From his withered body erupted a terrifying flame, like a volcanic eruption.

His arm whipped like a whip.

The blade carved a crescent through the stone chamber, crashing toward the young boy before him.

He’d stayed in this chamber too long—he didn’t know Herbert’s identity or true strength.

But he felt an inexplicable confidence in Herbert.

This boy—no, this Legend, this powerful Ascended One—would surely withstand it.

And the result matched his expectation.

Mordon had done everything he could, pouring his entire life’s skill into this single strike.

Yet this sword blow, forged from his lifetime’s effort, was effortlessly blocked by Herbert—using only two fingers.

Yet this sword, which condensed his lifetime of cultivation, was effortlessly blocked by Herbert—using just two fingers.

Herbert pinched the blade’s edge between two fingers with ease.

The motion was effortless, devoid of any martial aura—yet it rendered the Legend-level strike utterly null.

After his strike was caught, Mordon froze in place, not continuing his attack.

He simply stared at Herbert’s fingertips, as if infinite mysteries lay between them.

Herbert gently released his grip and asked the still-dazed old knight: “Now, do you understand?”

“Have you found the feeling you’ve been seeking?”

His gentle words jolted Mordon awake—he shook his head sharply, then nodded firmly.

“Found it... I found it!”

Mordon bowed repeatedly to Herbert, voice trembling with emotion: “Thank you for your guidance! Thanks to you, I’ve finally felt that sensation!”

Having witnessed true power, he felt the century-old barrier that had trapped him had finally cracked open.

For a moment, his eyes grew damp.

All these years, he’d refused to heal his wounds—partly to stay alert,

But wasn’t it also a form of self-abandonment after losing hope of advancement?

Now, he had finally found his path forward again.

“Thanks to your help, sir—I thank you...”

“Nothing to thank me for,” Herbert shook his head gently. “It’s not my doing. Your own effort brought this. I did nothing.”

Herbert’s words weren’t just modesty—he truly felt he’d done nothing.

The breakthrough hadn’t come from Herbert—it came from Mordon himself.

Herbert didn’t know Mordon’s name, his history, his past.

He’d merely stood as a target before a volcano about to erupt.

“...You shouldn’t be so modest.”

Mordon slowly shook his head—he didn’t believe Herbert had done nothing.

He’d met many strong ones; the monastery had no shortage of Legends—but none had given him this feeling.

“Heh. Then let’s say it’s that way—if it makes you feel better.”

Neither could convince the other, so they silently dropped the subject.

At that moment, the silent female knight finally spoke: “Um...”

Mordon suddenly jolted—he realized something.

Mordun suddenly startled, and he suddenly realized something.

Herbert’s arrival was clearly for the battle armor, and this was precisely what Zoyla had long hoped for.

Bad!

Young knights always have their own temper.

They are upright, holding fast to their own principles.

But they are equally combative, unwilling to yield, convinced they alone are the true chosen ones.

Just as the old knight prepared to stop the young knight and prevent her from acting rashly… Zoyla had already rushed forward, arriving before Herbert.

“Child, don’t be rude! You… hmm?” Merton cried out, then his expression froze.

For in his vision, Zoyla had done nothing disrespectful—in fact, she behaved with great politeness.

Even excessively so.

The female knight bowed deeply to Herbert and thanked him: “My lord, thank you for your guidance. I realize my mistake.”

“I should not have wasted my energy on battle armor!”

And Herbert, the one she thanked, was… utterly bewildered.

???

Herbert: I don’t understand! (Fenghua accent)

He could understand her gratitude toward him.

Then what the hell are you?

I never instructed you!

But such an unexpected little scene was no challenge for Herbert.

“Hm? Oh, uh, yes.”

He paused for only a second, then smiled and nodded softly: “Heh, this is all your own achievement, unrelated to me.”

Truly unrelated to me!

…

…

Radiant Holy City: Solantis.

“Your Holiness, we just received a report: someone has seen the [Lady] again.”

Hearing the report, the Sun Pope slowly opened his eyes, furrowed his brow, and said gravely:

“She has appeared again?”

(End of Chapter)