There are always decisive reasons why battles end in failure.

If we think about it simply, numbers are a crucial factor. Generally, the side with the greater numbers holds the advantage in battle. As long as the individuals on the "larger side" possess at least a certain level of skill, they can unite their strength to take on opponents stronger than any of them individually.

However, the leaders of the Holy Nation miscalculated that “certain level of strength.”

As the Emperor swung his sword, the blood staining the golden blade dripped off in scattered droplets. Gold is said to be a soft metal, yet the aura enveloping the Emperor's sword made such differences trivial, slicing through the Holy Nation's knights as if they were nothing.

If it had been just the Emperor alone, they might have had a chance. No matter how skilled in swordsmanship or how powerful, he was still human. Every human ability has its limits.@@novelbin@@

But—

“Anto, Neo…”

A knight gasped out the names as he struggled to speak.

Of course, his words were cut short as "Jericho's Blade" pierced him, killing him instantly.

“It was from the very beginning… From the very start, you say.”

An aged voice, frail yet steady, sounded.

The Emperor turned his head to see a small old man, who appeared to be at least ninety years old, seated in the distance. The man’s robes were pristine, snow-white fabric embroidered with intricate golden thread, radiating elegance. Yet, the frail figure within the robes seemed pitiful to the Emperor.

“Ah, Your Holiness, the Pope,” the Emperor greeted, his smile soft as he turned toward the man.

You didn't buy this chapter

Buy Now (3 coupons)