Chapter 107 - The Knight Who Was Stronger

Renn’s answer was no.

Etzel respected it.

Then asked again.

“No.”

“Second opinions are medically important.”

“This is not medicine.”

“Tessa is here.”

Tessa raised both hands.

“Do not involve me.”

Etzel looked betrayed.

They stood inside Authority Field Three, the reinforced chamber normally used for unstable ability evaluations.

Orsik waited at the center.

No armor.

No Greatblade.

No shield.

That had been Renn’s first condition.

The second was three separate emergency cutoffs.

The third was that Etzel would not attempt to extend Orsik’s range.

The fourth was that if either soul showed destabilization, the test ended.

No debate.

No “one more second.”

No Etzel.

Renn had actually written that last part.

Etzel had complained about professionalism.

Renn had added his signature.

Sivenne sat behind the observation glass.

Maerin had the monitoring slate.

Tessa stood close enough to reach Etzel immediately.

Saeva was not happy.

“Bad game.”

“Yes.”

“Stop.”

“If it becomes bad.”

“Already bad.”

Etzel looked at her.

That was not a joke.

Saeva could feel something he could not.

He crouched.

“What?”

She touched two fingers to his chest.

Then pointed at Orsik.

“Deep.”

Etzel’s humor disappeared.

Orsik heard.

“What does that mean?”

Saeva shook her head.

“Deep.”

Renn looked at Etzel.

“We can stop now.”

Etzel almost agreed.

Orsik spoke first.

“No.”

Renn’s eyes hardened.

Orsik met them.

“If the bond itself is changing, ignorance is also a risk.”

Etzel hated that argument because it was his argument.

Used against him.

Again.

“Five seconds,” Etzel said.

Renn looked at him.

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Corrupt institution.”

“Three.”

Before the resonance test began, Orsik made one request Etzel had not expected.

“If I tell you to end it, you end it.”

Etzel blinked.

“That was already the rule.”

“Say it.”

The knight’s expression was too serious for humor.

Etzel nodded.

“If you tell me to end it, I end it.”

Orsik held his gaze.

“Even if you see something.”

That was harder.

Which was exactly why Orsik had asked.

Etzel thought of the white fragments of history they had spent months collecting, every half-memory that vanished before giving them a name, a face, an answer.

“Even then,” he said.

Orsik relaxed by a degree.

Saeva, listening from Etzel’s shoulder, pointed at both of them.

“No stupid.”

Etzel sighed.

“We have created a monster.”

“No stupid,” she repeated.

Orsik nodded solemnly.

“Agreed.”

Etzel entered the marked circle.

Orsik stood six meters away.

Close.

They were not testing distance.

They were testing depth.

Etzel closed his eyes.

The Soul Link was already there.

Orsik.

Certainty.

Weight.

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A presence so familiar Etzel rarely noticed how enormous it was.

A-Rank.

That was what the System said.

A-Rank body.

A-Rank current expression.

But beneath it—

Etzel touched nothing.

He only looked.

The bond opened.

For one instant, nothing happened.

Then Etzel fell upward.

White grass.

Not the training field.

Not the Soul Space.

White grass beneath a black sky.

He knew it was memory before he knew whose.

Wind moved through a plain covered in broken weapons.

Thousands.

No.

Tens of thousands.

Blades.

Spears.

Standards.

Armor with unfamiliar crests.

Etzel could not move.

He was seeing through someone else’s eyes.

Orsik’s.

Except the hands in front of him were not the hands Etzel knew.

They were armored in dark silver.

Unbroken.

Power ran through them with such density that Etzel’s current senses could not understand it.

The memory turned.

An army stood behind him.

Not dozens.

Not hundreds.

An army.

Rows disappearing into white mist.

Nobody spoke.

They were waiting.

For him.

A voice came from somewhere to the right.

“My—”

Static tore through the word.

Then:

“—Vardan.”

Etzel’s heart slammed.

Orsik Vardan.

The name had survived.

The title had not.

The memory shifted.

Nine shapes hung above the horizon.

Crowns.

Not worn.

Floating.

Each different.

Each wrong.

Etzel tried to focus.

Pain exploded behind his eyes.

The vision cracked.

For a fraction of a second he felt Orsik’s emotion.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Then grief.

So much grief that Etzel forgot the chamber.

Forgot Renn.

Forgot the test.

Forgot to stop.

That was the mistake.

The bond opened wider.

Something on the battlefield turned toward them.

Not toward Orsik in the memory.

Toward Etzel.

Impossible.

A figure stood beyond the nine crowns.

Too far to see.

It raised its head.

Etzel felt seen.

“OUT.”

Orsik’s voice.

Not memory.

Now.

Etzel tore backward.

The training chamber returned violently.

His knees hit the floor.

Tessa caught his shoulder before his face followed.

Orsik was also down.

One hand braced against the ground.

Blood ran from his nose.

Saeva screamed.

The bond slammed shut.

Renn crossed the field before the monitors finished sounding.

“What happened?”

Etzel tried to answer.

His mouth worked.

Nothing useful came out.

Tessa pressed two fingers against his neck.

“Stay still.”

“I am still.”

“You are trying to stand.”

“I can be still vertically.”

“No.”

Authority medical staff entered.

Etzel did not fight them.

That alone convinced Renn the test had gone badly.

Orsik pushed himself upright.

“Etzel.”

“I’m here.”

“What did you see?”

Renn snapped, “Later.”

Orsik ignored him.

Etzel understood why.

Because Orsik had seen something too.

“White grass,” Etzel said.

Orsik went still.

“Nine crowns.”

Silence.

“And an army.”

Orsik closed his eyes.

Etzel continued carefully.

“They were waiting for you.”

Orsik’s breathing changed.

Saeva moved between them as if physically blocking the bond.

Etzel almost smiled.

Did not.

“What did you see?” he asked.

Orsik opened his eyes.

“You.”

Etzel frowned.

“In the memory?”

“No.”

The room became quieter.

Orsik looked genuinely unsettled.

“I saw the field.”

“Yes.”

“I saw the crowns.”

“Yes.”

“Then something looked through me.”

Etzel’s skin tightened.

“The figure?”

Orsik stared.

“You saw it.”

“Barely.”

“That was not part of my memory.”

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

Renn recovered first.

“Test over.”

Etzel nodded.

No argument.

Maerin entered with the monitoring slate.

“The readings are useless.”

“Excellent.”

“I mean that literally. His current Rank signature remained A. The bond pressure did not.”

Etzel looked at Orsik.

“How high?”

Maerin shook her head.

“It exceeded the field’s calibration.”

Renn swore quietly.

That was new.

Etzel would treasure it later.

The System appeared.

Everyone who could see Etzel’s expression noticed.

Etzel read it aloud.

Orsik’s jaw tightened.

No title.

No answer.

No free lore.

Etzel was strangely grateful.

He had already learned enough to be afraid of what they had touched.

Tessa finished checking him.

“No permanent damage that I can detect.”

“Wonderful.”

“You are done today.”

“Less wonderful.”

She looked at him.

“Done.”

“Yes.”

Orsik’s examination took longer.

Physically, he was fine.

Spiritually, nobody in the room had an instrument qualified to say.

That bothered Etzel.

It bothered Orsik more.

After the medical checks, Maerin showed Etzel the graph the field had captured.

The first two seconds were ordinary.

Etzel’s current signature and Orsik’s A-Rank expression overlapped within expected tolerances.

On the third second, the line representing Orsik’s soul did not climb.

It deepened.

The software had tried to display the result vertically, failed, and printed three separate calibration errors.

Etzel stared at the page.

“That feels unnecessarily ominous.”

Maerin tapped the flat Rank reading.

“His accessible power did not increase.”

“So we didn’t accidentally wake SSS Orsik.”

“No.”

She moved her finger to the failed depth measurement.

“But whatever remains underneath his current expression is not gone.”

Etzel looked through the observation window.

Orsik sat with Saeva beside him, patiently allowing her to inspect the strap on his gauntlet.

Same knight.

Same A-Rank body.

Same man who corrected Etzel’s stance and reported his injuries to his mother.

The graph did not make Orsik more valuable.

It made the danger around his missing history easier to understand.

They left the field an hour later.

Renn walked with them.

“No more resonance testing.”

Etzel nodded.

Renn looked suspicious.

“I mean it.”

“I agreed.”

“That is why I am suspicious.”

Etzel put a hand over his heart.

“Trust.”

“No.”

Saeva nodded.

“No.”

Orsik said nothing.

Outside, rain had begun.

Light.

Cold.

Etzel stopped beneath the Authority awning.

The memory would not leave him.

White grass.

Broken weapons.

An army waiting for Orsik.

The nine crowns.

And the thing beyond them.

He had expected a fragment of Orsik’s past.

He had not expected Orsik’s past to notice him back.

“Were you a commander?” Etzel asked.

Orsik stood beside him.

“I do not know.”

“You had an army.”

“I saw it.”

“They were waiting for you.”

“Yes.”

“Someone used your name.”

“Yes.”

Etzel waited.

Orsik looked into the rain.

“I remember the feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“Responsibility.”

That answer hurt more than a title would have.

Orsik’s memory was broken.

His power was broken.

His old world might be dead.

But the part of him that stepped between Etzel and danger every time—

that had survived.

Etzel leaned against the wall.

“So you were always like this.”

Orsik glanced at him.

“Like what?”

“Annoyingly responsible.”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“Tragic.”

Orsik almost smiled.

Saeva landed on his shoulder.

“Emotional.”

Orsik closed his eyes.

Etzel laughed.

The tension broke.

Not completely.

Enough.

They returned home before dinner.

Veydan asked why both of them looked exhausted.

Etzel said, “Training.”

Orsik said, “Unsafe training.”

Etzel stared at him.

Ismera heard.

Dinner became complicated.

That night Orsik remembered one more thing, but it was not the title Etzel wanted.

They were in the workshop when the knight stopped with a whetstone halfway down the Greatblade.

“The army was afraid.”

Etzel waited.

“Of the crowns?”

“No.”

Orsik’s brow tightened.

“Before that. They were afraid, and they stayed.”

“Because you ordered them?”

A long pause.

“I don’t think so.”

Veydan continued working at the far bench, giving them privacy without pretending not to hear.

Orsik finally said, “I think they trusted me.”

Etzel leaned against the table.

That explained the grief in the memory better than any rank.

An army waiting behind a powerful man was impressive.

An army staying behind a man because it trusted him was heavier.

“Then whoever you were,” Etzel said, “he had terrible taste in responsibilities.”

Orsik looked at him.

“You are making a joke.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the alternative looks exhausting.”

This time Orsik actually smiled.

Later, Etzel lay awake.

Level Nineteen.

One Level from the chest.

One Level from the soul-capacity evaluation.

The temptation to rush had vanished.

Not because he wanted the reward less.

Because now he understood what the System might be looking at.

Saeva’s bond had become richer without breaking Rank.

Orsik’s current Rank concealed a depth Etzel could not safely touch.

His Soul Space carried both.

Architecture.

The word felt heavier now.

Etzel opened the interface.

He expected it to end there.

It did not.

A new line appeared.

Etzel sat up.

“No.”

Saeva woke on the chair.

Orsik appeared in the doorway almost immediately.

“What?”

Etzel read the lines aloud.

Orsik stopped.

Etzel stared at the words.

The test had changed something.

Not Orsik’s Rank.

Not Saeva’s.

Not Etzel’s Level.

The System had learned more about what he was carrying.

Etzel exhaled slowly.

Orsik read over his shoulder.

“The chest.”

“Maybe.”

“You do not know.”

“No.”

Etzel closed the interface.

For once, that did not frustrate him.

He looked at Orsik.

Then at Saeva.

One damaged knight with an SSS past.

One F-Rank Wispkin whose bond refused to stay simple.

And a Necromancer who had thought Level Twenty was going to ask what reward he wanted.

Apparently, the System had a different question.

What could he carry without breaking them?

Etzel lay back down.

“No hunting tomorrow.”

Orsik nodded.

Saeva frowned.

“Monster?”

“Later.”

“Chest?”

“Later.”

She considered that.

Then climbed onto the bed and stole half his blanket.

Etzel looked at Orsik.

“Structural incompatibility.”

Orsik left before Etzel could throw a pillow.