"Truly powerful, truly amazing."
Loranhir held the holy sword in both hands, marveling at its incredible power.
Since the day she pulled out the holy sword, Loranhir had never witnessed the sword being unsheathed. Even the residual destructive force left her enthralled. This scene was exactly like her dream—sweeping through thousands of troops, facing no worthy opponents.
From this moment on, this fire poker...
No, this holy sword!
This holy sword's image in Loranhir's mind grew infinitely greater.
Yet Loranhir still had questions troubling her heart.
What exactly had caused the holy sword to be unsheathed, and why did she have no memory of it?
Had she unconsciously drawn the holy sword, protected the princess, and eliminated the enemy?
Loranhir raised her two thin eyebrows, completely puzzled.
In the past, to draw the holy sword, she had tried smashing the scabbard with stones, pouring lubricating oil over it, and even tying the holy sword between two oxen for a tug-of-war...
But the holy sword hadn't budged at all.
Loranhir cast her gaze on Patunasankus, who was sitting nearby staring blankly. The latter tilted her head in confusion. The princess remained as fragile as ever, with dandelion-colored hair, pure eyes, and soft cheeks, but with a hint of unnatural evasiveness in her expression.
Loranhir understood clearly that this was obviously because she had just been frightened. This matter certainly had nothing to do with the princess.
She looked at the night sky; it was already late. They needed to find a place to camp and rest.
The campfire crackled, the dancing flames casting their shadows flickering indistinctly.
Patunasankus counted.
If she wasn't mistaken, this was already the third time the hero had polished that holy sword. Since meeting this fool, Patunasankus had never seen Loranhir like this, diligently attending to that fire poker, seemingly intent on polishing the scabbard until it shone.
She had thought Loranhir would at least be somewhat suspicious, but Patunasankus had to admit that the hero's level of foolishness exceeded her expectations.
Good, keep it up.
However, she did have a slight headache regarding how she had lost control and burned the black-robed man to charcoal. Afterward, she thought it would have been better to interrogate him for information, but what's done was done, and it didn't matter anymore.
Besides, the clue about the so-called Grand Duke Dreka mentioned by the black-robed man was at least useful enough.
Moreover, there was currently a very important matter that needed to be resolved.
The evil dragon was hungry.
Patunasankus quietly moved closer to the hero, sitting by the campfire with her arms around her knees, her azure eyes staring directly at the hero who was trying to polish the holy sword until it gleamed.
Noticing the princess's direct gaze, Loranhir slowed her movements, feeling inexplicably cold.
"Princess, is there something on my face?"
"Hungry."
"?" Loranhir tilted her head in surprise, stopping her movements. She hadn't heard clearly.
Patunasankus's voice was too soft, so soft it felt like a whisper in her ear, gentle, like a cat's plump yet slightly prickly paw scratching at her heart.
"I'm hungry!" Patunasankus puffed up her cheeks, her small face instantly becoming round and plump, like a dissatisfied little hamster.
Only after Patunasankus repeated it again, did Loranhir finally remember that since rescuing the princess from the lair, she hadn't eaten a single hot meal, accompanying her through all the bumpy travels.
And she, because she had no memory of the holy sword being unsheathed, had been so obsessed with trying to please the sword's spirit and figuring out the conditions for its unsheathing that she had completely forgotten about the princess's condition.
Patunasankus's gaze turned cold.
"Don't worry, Princess, I know you're anxious, but please don't worry. I'll prepare food for you right away!"
Under her murderous gaze, Loranhir hurriedly got up and returned to the carriage to search for provisions. The village chief had provided many supplies, but when they left in a hurry, they hadn't thought much about preservation, so now they only had fresh vegetables and smoked meat that needed cooking.
But Loranhir had a problem.
Chores like cooking, driving the carriage, preparing supplies, setting up camp—these were all tasks her attendants had always handled. She had never needed to do these things herself. Before becoming a hero, she had just eaten black bread or some kind of stew.
She actually didn't know how to cook at all.
...It seemed she needed to find a new attendant.
Meanwhile, in Taurant, the City of Blood and Wine.
"...Woodlong is dead. My elite vampire knight, just dead like that."
In a magnificent underground palace complex with Gothic aesthetics, Vampire Grand Duke Vlad Dreka sat at the table, saying nothing. The attendants around him dared not make a sound.
Earlier, the elite knight Vlad had sent to eliminate Princess Latifa had died just like that. As his blood elder, Vlad could clearly sense the final emotions Woodlong had transmitted through the Sea of Mana—only fear, absolute fear.
Vlad couldn't believe his elite knight had died so easily, like a chicken. At the very least, he should have relayed some information about the hero.
But the fact was just that.
Nothing had been transmitted, nothing was known, nothing had been sent back, as if he really knew nothing at all.
Vlad stood up from the long chair and walked past the trembling attendants.
This could only mean one thing: despite being a vampire knight most skilled in concealment, hiding, and assassination, Woodlong had been recognized and eliminated instantly.
He walked with his hands behind his back toward a portrait, raising his head to examine it.
Pink ponytail, stern expression, sharp gaze like the edge of a blade, standing on a rock, sword pointing into the distance—the figure in the portrait seemed infinitely grand, like a mountain, carrying an invisible pressure that stood before Vlad.
This was a portrait specially painted for this generation's hero by the kingdom.
'The Strongest Hero—Loranhir Katarett'
It was said that the royal court's magical painter had merely captured a portion of the hero's temperament, yet this vague representation was enough to make people dimly sense the hero's great power. Vlad had spent a considerable sum acquiring it from an underground auction.
"Hero, truly not to be underestimated. I didn't expect my elite knight to die so easily at your hands." Vlad murmured to the hero's portrait, then called out to the dark corner of the hall, "Elaphia, my most useful thrall, my favorite thrall."
Footsteps sounded from the darkness, and a girl gradually emerged in the faint candlelight.
Silver-white hair, crimson eyes, dressed in a bright Gothic-style gown, her face exquisite yet pale, without a trace of vitality, her whole being as colorless as an ice sculpture.
The girl approached Vlad respectfully, lowering her voice as she spoke, "What are your orders?"
"Elaphia, I want you to infiltrate the hero's group, to be my eyes. Await my orders, and kill the princess when necessary," Vlad pressed down on her head, his voice deep. "Also, have you forgotten how to address me again? Do I need to send you back to the rat hole to see dear William? Oh, I think he would miss you."
"...As you command, my... lord."
Elaphia kept her head bowed, her expression unchanged. Her voice carried not a hint of emotion, only becoming extremely gritted and reluctant when uttering the final two words.