Chapter 342 343: Knights Of Thren

Damon was starting to feel like he'd been kicking down a lot of doors lately… and getting into a lot more dire battles. Something about this whole thing just felt off to him. He didn't know why—maybe it was just paranoia… or maybe it was a sixth sense warning him something wasn't right.

The whole horde of undead had gathered far too quickly. It was far too organized…

There was Mist Knight Thren, who was supposedly the mastermind—but Damon had a bad feeling gnawing at the back of his mind.

It was for that very reason he decided—he was just gonna kill the wretched corrupted knight.

He could feel the ground begin to rumble as soon as he kicked the door. It seemed Thren had called back his undead army.

Which meant one thing… the Mist Knight wasn't certain his current entourage could protect him from Damon and the two girls.

Damon admired the knight's cunning—but he couldn't help being a little disappointed by his overall reliance on bones to do the fighting.

He raised his head and peered into the room beyond the broken door, his whole aura radiating menace. He activated Omen of Dread, letting the skill sink into the air, making his presence heavier… sending shudders of fear into the hearts of all those with weaker mantles.

The room itself was massive—lavish once, but long since decayed. Multiple doors, wide and towering, stood on each side. A grand balcony stretched overhead, with a sweeping flight of stairs that curled like the ribs of a dead beast.

A massive chandelier hung dead-center, its crystals dulled and tangled in cobwebs.

Smaller chandeliers dotted the ceiling. Tables lay overturned. A pool, once pristine, was now murky and thick with rot.

The place reeked of ruin—mold crawling on the walls, decay seeping into the floors. A few corpses still sat at the tables—well-dressed, with decaying jewels glinting faintly on their fingers and throats.

If Damon regretted anything in Lysithara, it was not having a way to carry all the stuff he could've sold for money… the riches of the dead were one of many.

His second regret? Having to be here at all.

He now stood face-to-face with a small group of armored knights—their bodies shifting like mist. Three stood directly in front of him.

Covered in armor that shimmered and blurred like fog, their visors lacked the same glow Alazard once had—almost as if they'd been stripped of the formidable wills that let them endure for thousands of years, even in corruption.

They held swords and shields like a trained unit. Their armor had no glaring weaknesses—only the creeping decay of a ruinous presence that slithered from within.

On the balcony above, two more knights stood—one clearly a mage class, draped in a light robe with armor underneath… the other, an archer, his bow visibly enchanted, pulsing faintly.

Damon smiled faintly. He was about due for an upgrade to his bow and arrows anyway.

He'd lost most of his arrows fighting the war trolls, and had wisely dumped the cursed ore arrows before entering the whispering forest—at least, what was left of them.

No words were exchanged.

No words needed to be.

As soon as the door fell, only a moment passed. Their hesitation had come from Damon's Omen of Dread.

Sylvia and Evangeline didn't waste time.

"We'll take out the mage and the archer. You get rid of the rest."

Damon didn't even get the chance to reply.

Valarie's voice curled with amusement on his lips.

"They either have faith in your power—or they just didn't want to deal with the work…"

He raised his sword with a thin smile as his Remorseless skill activated.

"Let's hope it's the former…"

He dove straight at the enemy—his body folding into a shadowy blur as he glided toward the floor. The moment he got close to the Mist Knights, he reformed—human again—and slashed at the back of one before it could melt into mist.

Assuming they still had the intelligence to do so.

"Striking your opponent from the back… you truly have no honor…"

Damon sneered, parrying a sword strike that came at his face.

"They're the ones attacking three on one, and I'm the dishonorable one?"

He shifted into mist—his armor activating with a low hum. The knight he struck fell to his knees, the disintegration sword eating away at what little remained of its corrupted soul.

[You have slain Mist Knight Nide]

Damon rolled out of the way of a shield, turning into shadow. The remaining knights eyed his sword and armor—he could feel something like emotion from these enthralled warriors.

Even though their fierce wills were suppressed, their discipline was intact. They raised their shields and swords, shifting into a variation of Alazard's swordsmanship—this time incorporating shields instead of single blades.

The ground quaked with the clash of battle.

Bright flashes lit the distance—Evangeline and Sylvia were fighting, shaking the building with their power.

Damon narrowed his gaze at the two knights still before him.

He'd lost the element of surprise, but he needed to kill them quickly. He spread his shadow perception outward—Leona, Matia, and Xander were still locked in combat with a tide of relentless undead.

Valarie's voice hummed from his shoulder.

"You seem to use a very formalistic mix of Lysithara swordsmanship… and some rigid basics. You know slightly advanced forms, but not what makes our sword style strong. This is a good time to learn the fundamentals."

Damon's eyes narrowed. "Thanks for the offer… but my friends need me to finish this quickly. I'm not risking their lives for my own selfish interests."

Valarie chuckled. "Congratulations. You pass the test. I'll teach you—myself. First… kill them."

Damon spun forward, blade ready.

"Say no more…"

His sword met a shield—and he was the one pushed back. Another knight lunged from the side, smashing his shield into Damon's gut.

He coughed slightly, a dull ache blooming in his ribs as his body crashed into the wall, slamming it apart as debris buried him.

Valarie's voice echoed from within the rubble.

"Wow. You sure showed them…"