Others Summon Dragons, I Summon Legendary Knights Chapter 359: Remember This Name, Mor

Toria turned and observed Dirge at a considerable distance. With effortless flicks of her fingers, she casually discarded the werewolves. Some were dismembered, their arms torn away, while others met their end with severed heads, casualties of an unseen force.

Her telekinetic prowess rendered her a formidable foe. As she propelled them skyward, Ballista and his incarnation’s arrows intercepted them mid-flight. Dirge’s plume swayed with her graceful movements, each slap driving the monsters from her path. Then, she halted, encircling her staff with both hands before lifting it high.

The instant her telekinetic grip relinquished, the werewolves swarmed Dirge from every direction, their growls alone capable of paralyzing a person with terror. With every inch the staff ascended, the werewolves drew nearer, until they finally leaped, their fangs and claws mere inches from her face.

Precisely at that critical juncture, Dirge activated Black-Out State, transforming into a banshee. A portion of her form dissipated into smoke as she emitted a piercing shriek, propagating outward like the shockwave from a devastating explosion.

Her screech, though deliberately contained, annihilated her surroundings. The monsters were the first to disintegrate, followed swiftly by the desert itself. Sand surged outward with such velocity that it inflicted pain upon the other werewolves.

They howled, directing their growls at the banshee shrouded in red fog, her luminous eyes fixed upon them. Abruptly, thousands of silhouettes materialized from the earth, their eyes glowing. One, significantly larger than the rest, let out a howl and charged on all fours towards the crimson haze. The others followed suit, but the Crimson Taotie shadow wraith Cavalrymen erupted from the fog, a dragon soaring above them.

As the two forces were poised to collide, Dirge unleashed another shriek. This one, however, lacked the earlier cataclysmic power and the ear-splitting intensity. Nonetheless, crimson mist billowed forth from her shadow wraith army.

She had employed an adaptive ability known as Banshee’s Grace.

Subsequently, the opposing sides met in violent collision. For the shadow wraiths, demise held no consequence, as they would regenerate. Yet, a single strike sufficed to fell a wolf, ensuring its permanent death.

Meanwhile, Lysander carved a path through a relentless tide of beasts, leaving behind only lifeless husks. A movement caught his eye a few feet away. It advanced with the speed of solidified thunder – the Death Rider. If he were an angel, he would undoubtedly be the embodiment of malevolence, the herald of death.

The Lamenting Knight.

Lament, astride his mount, annihilated the wolves with the ease of a farmer reaping a harvest. With each sweeping arc of his blade, two, and often three, wolves met their end.

Solstice, forgoeing the use of his weapons entirely, unleashed a torrent of flames from both hands, akin to a human flamethrower. The fire burned with such intensity that the wolves were reduced to ash before they could even utter a scream. Not a single one escaped, even those attempting to flee.

After expelling a massive surge of sunfire, he drew his swords and charged directly at the remaining adversaries. He alone inspired true terror, causing them to flee. A werewolf observed his approach; before it could even raise its claws, its head detached and fell to the ground as Solstice had already passed it.

A progenitor werewolf, possibly the sole one on the entire battlefield, seized a fleeing werewolf and snapped its neck. This action halted the others mid-stride, compelling the werewolves to turn back, facing Solstice once more.

Solstice extended both arms, advancing towards them. The progenitor was the first to react, lunging forward and unleashing its claws at him. The impact was so forceful it generated a powerful gale that swept others aside; small dunes lost a significant amount of sand due to the sheer force of the blow. Despite this, Solstice remained unmoved, deflecting the assault with a single sword.

The slight tilt of his head conveyed a singular question: Was that all?

This was his inherent nature. Prior to his knighthood, he was renowned far and wide as the Golden Boy – arrogant, remarkably handsome, courageous, and possessing a charm that captivated women and inspired men to wish for his inherent qualities.

Solstice severed the progenitor’s arms. However, it employed Grief Transfer, redistributing the damage to preserve its limbs. It closed in, attempting to rip his head off with its fangs. Yet, the Chief Knight drove his sword directly through the monster’s heart. The blade then ignited as he swung it upward, bisecting the wolf’s upper torso.

He then proceeded to grasp its horn and discard it as if it were mere refuse.

He, Solstice, was the one who, in an age before mana, when dragons were revered as deities, ventured into the lair of one of the most formidable among them, plundered its treasures, and returned alive.

He was the legend. A man without peer. He once scaled the mountain rumored to be the domain of the most terrifying lion, provoked it into falling to its death from its own peak, then adorned himself with its pelt and proclaimed himself the sovereign of the mountains.

He was a myth embodied, but the emergence of dungeons erased it all. And so began his journey as a knight, transforming from an entitled individual with grandiose ambitions into an honorable knight tempered by discipline.

Solstice experienced events that irrevocably altered him, stripping away his aura of invincibility and forging this knight anew. He once stood proud, refusing to yield to any, yet why did that same individual remain when the order shattered?

Godfrey observed the ongoing battle with quiet intensity, his gaze fixed upon the boss, who had yet to make a move. The boss would soon be compelled to act, as its legion was being systematically annihilated.

At that critical juncture, just as Solstice struck down one of the most formidable werewolves on the field, the boss surged towards the Chief Knight. Its claws swept out, but Godfrey intervened, deflecting the blow with his longsword.

Icy blue eyes met those of black and gold, and a resonant clang split the air.

"You possess something distinct from the mana system of your kind. You must be a chosen one," the boss snarled. Its other arm then flashed upwards, intending to rip through Godfrey’s entrails, but it only managed to scrape sparks from Godfrey’s armor.

There was not a single scratch.

"Hehehe, I grasp it now. You are indeed the chosen one," it guffawed as they disengaged, beginning to circle each other.

"And so? I am a chosen one. How does that trouble you?" Godfrey's voice echoed from within his helmet.

The boss honed its claws against the other, emitting sparks as it grinned. "Remember the name, Mor. This shall mark the first time I fell a chosen one. Afterward, I shall present this armor to the one who dispatched me."

Mor proclaimed, his eyes narrowing as Godfrey suddenly disappeared, only to reappear mid-air, almost directly behind him, his sword perilously close to Mor’s neck.

"Very well then."