The Knight Of Prophecy (2)

Plank Martensias had been born a bastard of the Banreung royal house.

The problem was that the King of Banreung had too many bastards, and the King’s Church already had more than enough of them—so it turned Plank away.

At this rate, the King’s Church in the Banreung region might end up overflowing with the king’s children. People even suspected the King of Banreung intended to seize the Church by flooding it with his own bastards.

In the end, Plank was sent off to the Rescue Knights Order, along with a “donation.”

Bearing the blood of a Yaegas Heavenly King, Plank advanced swiftly within the Order, rising through the ranks until he attained the post just below the grandmaster—captain of a virtue.

Then one day, a prophecy descended upon Plank Martensias from the Great Triune Archangels.

“The last knight you appoint shall become the Flower of Chivalry.”

Hearing this, Plank Martensias was bitterly disappointed.

So he would not be the Flower of Chivalry.

No matter how he trained or what deeds he accomplished, he would not be the flower—merely a stepping stone for the next generation’s knight.

At the time, he did not grasp the ripples this prophecy would cause; he only resented its stinginess.

Afterward, for over thirty years, he served as the Knight of Wisdom—symbol of the virtue of Wisdom among the three virtues.

Under him, the Rescue Knights Order continued to prosper, yet beneath the outward flourishing, it was rotting within. Day by day, the Order’s white magic grew weaker.

Thanks to the constant influx of Yaegas-blooded bastards, they could still maintain appearances with white magic, but if its power kept waning, would they be able to stand against the prophesied Age of Jupiter when it arrived?

Yet the Age of Jupiter did not come—indeed, even the Netherstorm did not stir—and peace stretched on.

Even without much use of white magic, no Nether monsters challenged them, the fiefs enjoyed bountiful harvests, and the Order basked in prosperity.

From olden times, the Hubris Peninsula had been famed for its fertile black soil.

Even without fertilizer, crops grew so well that countless warlords had coveted the land; but before the Hubris Peninsula lay the Netherstorm.

When Jupiter’s pull strengthened and the Netherstorm raged, monsters would appear and lay waste to everything. Even when an ambitious ruler seized the peninsula, the next monster incursion would force him to spend all his strength holding them back alone—and his realm would collapse.

Thus, no ruler could hold the Hubris Peninsula and had to spit it back out; only the Rescue Knights Order could remain its master.

The Order ran itself on the yield from the peninsula’s fields—and in return, it stood at the foremost line against the Nether’s monsters.

But with peace enduring… war expenditures vanished, and wealth began to pile up in the Order. Knights’ hearts began to stray, and Plank Martensias realized that the ambitions he had long kept buried were lifting their heads.

Just then, a young man entered his command: Cohen Lioneir.

He was the former prince of the Kingdom of Osander.

Not a bastard but a legitimate son—yet when his mother died and the king remarried, he became the new queen’s greatest political foe.

Unable to withstand the queen’s pressure, he took refuge in the Rescue Knights Order to avoid death.

Plank planned to use Cohen to plant his own power in Osander—and he succeeded, restoring Cohen to Osander’s throne.

He became the new king’s master, the exalted National Preceptor—and he himself possessed the noble blood of the Banreung royal house.

Plank’s plan was brilliant, and his fame soared. Vassals of Banreung sounded him out in secret—would he not also cast his eyes upon Banreung’s throne?

Everything was going too well.

But… on his return from meeting Banreung nobles, Plank was ambushed by assassins.

They came with the emperor’s envoys—the Messenger Clan—and with astonishing skill they overwhelmed and easily slew Plank’s close aides, the knights of the virtue of Wisdom.

Plank fought them—and then saw among them a figure whose swordwork and bearing were all too familiar.

“Have you taken leave of your senses, Cohen? You are a king—why take part in an assassination yourself, and arm in arm with the Messenger Clan?”

Cohen Lioneir had come in person to murder his master.

“I was the last one you appointed a knight, wasn’t I, Master?”

“Fool! You are already king of Osander! To do this over some ridiculous prophecy about a ‘Flower of Chivalry’—absurd! And how can a man who murders his own master be called the flower of chivalry?”

“Of course, this is merely acquiring one more card. I don’t know if I’ll use it, but a fine card belongs in my hand. And tell me, Sir Plank, Knight of Wisdom—if that title is true, think on this: now that I’m king, why would I spare a man who, at his whim, meddled in a foreign succession and replaced its king?”

Even without the prophecy, Cohen had reason to remove Plank. The prophecy was only a seasoning that added a little savor.

“The gold we were paid covers us to here.”

“The rest is between the master and his pupil.”

Having felled everyone but Plank, the Messengers withdrew. Cohen Lioneir, wielding the swordsmanship he had learned from Plank, leveled his blade at his teacher.

“Come then, Master. Show me the power of the Knight of Wisdom!”

“Fool!”

Plank crossed blades with his disciple.

And at once, he understood.

He could not stand against Cohen Lioneir, now a king and bearer of the Heavenly Kings’ Grimoire.

“How disappointing, Master. So old, so weak! What does it make of my case, that I bargained with the Messenger Clan just to remove you?”

With calm poise, Cohen drove his sword through Plank’s heart.

“Excellent….”

It was all Plank could say.

“Thanks to a good teacher. Only—you’ve grown old, Master.”

Thus Plank was slain by his pupil’s hand and his corpse cast upon the field.

Yet somehow, afterward he rose as a death knight, doomed to wander the place of his death and suffer the torment of tedium.

He longed to know how long it had been since he died—what had become of Cohen Lioneir and the Rescue Knights Order—but in the silent wastes, few ever passed by. And of those who did, most froze at the sight of Death Knight Plank and could not speak at all.

Then, all of a sudden, a woman’s ghost appeared and begged him to save someone—and curiosity, if nothing else, compelled him to go.

Plank lightly descended a cliff and came to the bank of a swift river where white spray leapt again and again.

There lay a young man—and even from afar, he resembled the womanly specter from before.

“So she wasn’t asking me to save a lover—but a blood relation.”

A pack of jackals was closing in on the youth.

Perhaps the Nether’s power was growing—shadows lay over the jackals’ faces, and within those shadows, human faces floated.

“Sssss….”

“Meat….”

“I want to eat.”

As they drew near with eerie whispers, they shrank back the instant Plank approached.

“…Plank of Wisdom.”

“Undying revenant.”

“Killed by your own pupil’s hand—how dare you parade the name of Wisdom and wander without shame?”

Shadows within the jackals mocked and jeered at Plank.

With a wry smile, Plank stepped to the youth. From him rose the untidy scent of life—a heady fragrance an undead could recognize.

Likely the youth had been mended back from death’s door by some miraculous magic.

Was it the king’s miracle—or Nether sorcery? Either way, he did not seem to have many days left.

Plank rested a hand upon his sword hilt, and the jackals backed away.

“We will not fight Plank of Wisdom.”

“What befits the undying is a life without rest….”

“And empty tedium.”

Scoffing at his state, the jackals vanished.

“What is the world coming to, that such things appear without any proper sorcery?”

Plank worried at the sight of beasts tainted by foul power—but he had little room to pity others. He was a death knight himself.

Turning over his situation, he examined the youth’s condition. The young man was curled up, shivering from the cold.

“Ah… bother.”

Recalling the aura of cold that spread from him, Sir Plank grimaced.

His death-knight chill was pushing the ailing youth closer to death.

Plank gathered wood around the youth, kindled a fire, and then stepped back from the flames.

“Fussy and foolish. I hope it proves worthwhile.”

Thankfully, the youth soon came to himself.

He started at the sight of Sir Plank and rose—but Plank merely regarded him in silence.

“…Who are you? Did you make this fire?”

“I did, young man.”

“……”

“A very pretty young lady’s ghost called me from up there, asking me to save you. So I came.”

“Forgive me, elder, but… you do not seem to be among the living.”

“Ha! Sharp eyes. Not blind at all. I am—was—Plank Martensias, Knight of Wisdom, one of the three-virtue knights of the Rescue Knights Order. No—am I? No, no. I’m dead, yet I’ve retained the essence of ‘Plank.’ What I’ve lost is the office of a three-virtue knight of the Order. So—just call me Plank.”

“If it was a pretty ghostly lady, then…”

“She looked like you. Heh.”

At that, the young man startled and donned a mask over his face—like someone who had shown what should not be seen.

“Your face has brought you much trouble, I take it? With looks like that, whether from women or men, it must have been a headache.”

“No. This… is not my face.”

“Not your face?”

“I stole my sister’s eyes.”

“Hmm?”

Plank’s interest was piqued.

He had stolen his sister’s eyes?

The mask the youth wore—and the curved bow at his hip—told Plank he belonged to the Messenger Clan.

“It’s a long story.”

“Good. The night is long, the firewood is plentiful, and this wraith is starving for a tale. Pay me for your rescue—with your story.”