CHAPTER 102: UNDEAD KNIGHTS

The stairs ended in an underground hall — circular, cavernous, pillars cracked and choked by tree roots pressing through stone.

In the center stood a massive stone door — sealed shut, covered in layered runic inscriptions and foreign glyphs.

A broken campsite lay nearby — extinguished charcoal, rusted armor, rotted bedrolls.

"Another expedition site?" Oliver muttered.

"No," Elisha whispered, pointing to a tattered banner still hanging on the wall — its faded crest unmistakable. "This was... the first expedition. The one from my ancestor’s time."

Oliver approached the stone door.

Runes flickered.

As he touched them — they shifted.

Like they recognized him.

His eyes widened. "These respond to... languages. It’s locked behind a linguistic cipher."

Elisha blinked. "So... you can open it?"

He looked reluctant. "Probably. But once it opens — whatever’s inside wakes up too."

Before she could reply—

CRACK!

A rumble echoed above them.

Dust fell from the ceiling.

Elisha stiffened. "They’re coming."

Footsteps.

Shouts.

Faint, but growing closer — Isolde’s voice among them.

Oliver looked at the door.

Then at Elisha.

"We won’t get this moment again," he said quietly. "If we leave this for later... someone else will control what’s found here. Your father. Your brother. Or worse — the crown."

Her heartbeat hammered in her ears.

"...Open it."

Oliver exhaled, raised his hand toward the runes — and whispered ancient words no human should’ve been able to read.

*****

The stone gate groaned as it fully slid aside — ancient mechanisms grinding against time-hardened earth. A wave of frigid air flowed out, chilling their skin even through cloaks. The torchlight flickered violently, as if something inside exhaled.

Beyond the door lay a wide chamber lit by pale blue crystals embedded in the walls. The light was dim, like moonlight underwater. The chamber was circular, its edges lined with stone coffins and rusted armor stands — remnants of a royal expedition long turned to dust.

At the very center stood a raised altar.

A stone pedestal.

And on top of it — a book.

Bound in white leather, sealed with runes so old even time seemed hesitant to touch it.

Elisha whispered, voice trembling despite herself, "This... this is it. The Royal Chronicle. The journal of the First King’s expedition."

Oliver glanced around cautiously. "Feels too quiet."

No traps triggered.

No guardians awakened.

No magic circles buzzed to life.

Just an oppressive silence.

Too silent.

Elisha walked forward slowly, boots crunching over ancient dust. Her hand hovered over the book, fingers trembling.

Just as her fingers brushed the surface—

BANG!

A burst of magic roared from the entrance.

Oliver’s reflexes kicked in — sword drawn, stance ready.

But it wasn’t an attack.

It was Isolde.

Standing at the doorway, eyes narrowed, breathing slightly hard as though she’d been running.

Behind her — Ronald, Ariana, and several knights.

"Found you," she said dryly.

Then her gaze drifted to the open chamber, the altar, the book... and finally, back to Oliver and Elisha.

"You two just can’t stay out of trouble for five minutes, can you?"

Oliver scratched his cheek awkwardly. "I mean... technically, nothing exploded. Yet."

Her eyes narrowed further. That "yet" did not go unnoticed.

Ronald stepped forward, hand on his sword, scanning the room. "Is this...?"

Elisha straightened herself, turning toward them as a princess again, not a lost girl. "Yes. The lost archive of the First Expedition. It truly exists."

Ariana gasped softly. The knights stood frozen.

Isolde crossed her arms. "So? Going to grab it?"

Elisha looked back at the book — the thing her ancestors died to protect, the thing her brother would kill to possess — and whispered,

"I have to."

She reached.

A fingertip touched the cover.

And everything changed.

****

The blue lights in the walls flickered.

One by one.

Then died.

In the darkness, the runes on the stone coffins flared to life.

CREAK. CREAK. CREAK.

The lids of the coffins began to shift.

Ronald’s voice was a whisper, "No... it can’t be..."

From the coffins rose figures.

Not living.

Not dead.

Their bodies were wrapped in rotted royal armor, crests of Hestia tarnished but visible. Hollow eye sockets glowed faintly blue — like embers trapped in skulls.

Undead soldiers.

Not mindless.

Not wild.

But disciplined.

Still bound to their king’s final command:

"Protect the legacy."

Oliver exhaled, pushing Elisha gently behind him.

"Knew it was too easy."

Isolde’s eyes gleamed — excited. "Finally."

Ariana’s voice trembled. "Those are... royal knight skeletons!"

Ronald whispered, almost reverently, "They were the king’s elite guard... buried with him when the expedition perished."

The undead raised rusted swords in perfect unison.

Their captain, a skeletal figure wearing the remains of a crown-shaped helmet, stepped forward and spoke in a tongue older than modern Hestian.

Elisha’s eyes widened — she translated under her breath.

"Only the blood of the rightful heir may claim the Chronicle."

Elisha swallowed.

Oliver smirked. "Well, that’s convenient. You gonna introduce yourself?"

She glared at him, panic rising. "Oliver— this isn’t a joke."

He nodded once — expression serious now. "I know."

He gripped his sword.

Steel hummed with runic light.

"Isolde."

She smiled. "Already ahead of you."

Mana swirled at her fingertips — crimson lightning crackling into existence.

Ronald readied his blade. Ariana readied support spells. The undead began their march.

Elisha held her staff close, heart pounding.

Oliver stepped forward — grin sharp and fearless.

"Alright then," he whispered.

"Let’s show history why we’re here."

****

The first skeletal knight stepped down from its stone coffin, rusted greaves scraping against the cold floor. The others followed in unison — thirty, forty, maybe more — each wrapped in decayed armor, yet moving with an eerie discipline no corpse should have.

The one wearing a broken crown upon its helm raised a rusted sword, its empty jaw opening with a hollow grind.

Elisha’s breath hitched as the ancient tongue echoed across the chamber.

"Blood of the line... prove your right... or perish."

Oliver drew his sword. Runes along the blade shimmered faintly — responding to his mana, to his pulse.

"Isolde... left or right?"

"Left," she answered, already stepping forward, red mana crackling around her fingertips like a storm given human form.

Ronald moved beside Elisha, sword drawn. Ariana took a position between the knights and the casters, staff glowing with soft white radiance.

Oliver’s eyes remained on the crowned skeleton.

The air trembled.

Then—

CLANG!

The undead charged.

Not like beasts — but like soldiers.

Shields raised, formation tight, a wall of iron and bone. Spears lowered. Boots pounded in perfect rhythm.

"Here we go!" Oliver muttered — then moved.

He didn’t wait for them to reach him.

He leapt forward.

His enhanced body surged — the Rune of Vigor roaring inside his veins. His muscles felt light, spring-loaded. His boots cracked the stone beneath him as he dashed straight into the tide.

The first spear lunged.

He sidestepped — almost too easily — and his sword flashed once.

CRACK!

A skeletal neck snapped cleanly. Bones clattered.

Another sword came from the side.

He ducked, swept his foot — THUD — sending the skeleton crashing down, and drove his blade through its skull.

Behind him—

BOOM!

Crimson lightning erupted.

Isolde flicked her wrist — and three undead knights exploded into shards, armor melting like molten wax.

Her eyes were cold, calculating. Each spell precise, deadly. She danced through the battlefield, cloak trailing like white fire.

But the undead didn’t stop.

For every one that fell, three more pressed forward.

Ronald grit his teeth, parrying a sword strike that would have split Elisha in half.

"Ariana—!"

"Already on it!"

[Strength Boost]

[Vitality Surge]

Golden light rippled over Ronald’s armor. His next strike cleaved through bone like paper.

Elisha, though still pale, stepped forward — chanting under her breath. A magic circle lit beneath her boots — elegant, intricate.

[Arcane Ripple]

A pulse of transparent force blasted outward — knocking back undead advancing too close to Oliver’s exposed flank.

"I said stay back—!" Oliver called.

"I’m not that useless!" she snapped back.

A skeleton lunged at her.

Oliver moved before he even thought.

Steel met bone — CLANG!

The skull rolled across the floor.

He glanced back at her. "Don’t die."

She blinked — then grinned. "You first."

But then—

A shadow fell.

Something massive moved behind the army.

The crowned skeleton.

It had not moved until now.

Now it stepped forward — dragging a greatsword nearly as long as Oliver was tall.

When it walked, the other undead stopped.

Like soldiers making way for a king.

Blue flames flickered beneath its helm.

Oliver’s grip tightened. "...That one’s mine."

"Don’t be reckless," Isolde warned.

He flashed a grin. "Since when am I reckless?"

She scoffed. "Since the day I met you."

The skeletal king raised its sword — impossibly heavy, forged for a giant, not a man.

Oliver raised his.

Two weapons — one living, one dead — met in the center.

BOOOOOOOOM!

The impact cracked the stone floor, wind bursting outward.

Oliver’s arms trembled — the force was monstrous. Like being hit by a falling boulder.

But his legs held.

Rune-enhanced muscle.

Spine reinforced with ancient power.

He pushed back.

Steel screamed against steel.

With a roar, he twisted — disengaged — and slashed upward.

The king blocked.

Sparks.

The king struck again.

Oliver barely dodged — the blade howled past his nose and cut a trench in the floor.

"That would’ve taken my head off..."

He grinned.

His blood burned with adrenaline.

Good.

He wanted this.