Chapter One Hundred and Ten: The Black Knight of the Iron Hammer

More than two centuries ago, on this very continent beneath our feet, a brutal war erupted. An unprecedentedly powerful enemy stamped its iron heels upon this beautiful land, brandishing a bloodstained banner of slaughter. They marched along roads paved with the bodies of innocents, shackling every free soul in chains of enslavement. The entire continent of Falvi was shrouded in a terrifying shadow. The surviving creatures, barely clinging to life, gazed desperately at the sky, yet saw not a glimmer of salvation.

It was the most desperate moment this land had ever known. For the first time, people realized that the word "doomsday," once as distant and mythical as a legend, had drawn so close to them.

Yet, it is in the darkest hours that true heroes emerge; in the deepest shadows, courage is most fiercely found. At the brink of extinction, all life-loving and peace-seeking races broke through cultural and traditional barriers, uniting like kin. For the sake of their shared homeland, they stood shoulder to shoulder, watchful and steadfast, bravely choosing dignity over mere survival. With passionate blood and unyielding gazes, they gave a thunderous reply that struck terror into the hearts of their foes.

Countless illustrious names rose from this war, blooming with the radiant light of life, illuminating those dark times. Simple, kind-hearted people of all races, with their own hands, created battlefield miracles that forced the enemy to falter and retreat. In the end, they triumphed. They successfully defended their homes and protected their loved ones, giving their bloodline a reason to be proud forever. It was a great victory! A victory of courage over terror! Of dignity over tyranny! Of freedom over bondage!

…A victory of justice over evil!!!

This glorious and magnificent history was not only etched into the continent’s chronicles but also carved into the very blood of its inhabitants, becoming our soul, our bones, the most honored part deep within our spirits.

Yet, Lady Black Knight Arthur Dengott shattered this history with but a few words, gathering those fragments of glory and piecing them back together into a hideous, despicable, and shameful tableau. Names once great and splendid became vile epithets; the heroes’ noble faces were suddenly twisted with sinister smiles. Two centuries of pride collapsed instantly into a dreadful farce stained with the blood and tears of alien races and humiliation. Amid the trolls’ bitter laughter of hatred, the hallowed halls of honor crumbled with a thunderous crash.

Yes, it was still a victory—but one devoid of pride. A victory born of betrayal against betrayal, baseness against baseness. A victory waged with death against death, cruelty against cruelty.

With hands stained by the blood of allied comrades, I ask myself: can we still call this “justice”?

I tried to doubt and deny it, convinced that Lady Dengott’s words were lies—excuses spun by traitors to whitewash their own betrayals. Yet my soul told me otherwise. Such pitiful denial was nothing but the powerless resistance of one overwhelmed by truth. Compared to the fairy-tale sanctity of those heroic legends, what Lady Black Knight revealed felt far truer. I might deny it, but I cannot change it.

My world was overturned. Black became white, beauty turned to ugliness. Truths revered all my life were drowned by lies, leaving my soul without a steadfast anchor. At that moment, I hardly knew how to face such brutal reality.

Fortunately, I was spared from confronting this heavy history just yet.

Because before that, I had to face something far more immediate—and, compared to the abstract weight of history, far more tangibly pressing.

For instance… well… how about two massive warhammers flying through the air?

Imagine this: after a whole day battling among the rotting stench and flesh-covered corpses, fighting desperately amid a landscape where the dead outnumber the living, feeling closer to hell than to the world of men, suddenly a stunning beauty appears before you—an angelic face, a devilish figure, a voice alluring, clothed in a revealing yet military-inspired uniform. She tells you she is your final enemy. What question would first flash through your mind?

I can’t speak for others, but Paladin Bull Million quickly voiced a blunt and straightforward question. He pointed at the towering peaks on Lady Black Knight Dengott’s chest, swallowed hard, and asked, “Has anyone seen anything bigger than this?”

The Minotaur race seems to harbor a primal, almost religious reverence for enormous female anatomy, likely rooted in their long cultural traditions. For example, “cow” and “milk” appear as two of the dominant themes in every male Minotaur’s daily life.

From this, one can conclude that, between different races, there do exist some shared cultural threads.

Putting aside the reproductive cultural bonds that both humans and Minotaurs find fascinating, Bull Million’s question was soon answered:

With a gesture, Lady Black Knight summoned two swirling clouds of black smoke in her palms. As the smoke dissipated, two warhammers the size of buckets appeared in Dengott’s hands—on this empty, ruined tower top, these monstrous weapons were by far the largest and heaviest we had ever seen.

The two hammers whipped up roaring gales around Lady Black Knight, shredding anything caught in their vortex. Unlike her exquisite and ornate armor, these weapons were crude to the extreme. They appeared forged entirely from inferior pig iron, bulky cylindrical shapes, pitch black, heavily rusted, and unevenly crafted front and back. Each hammer’s side was studded with eight large conical spikes, a sinister design that greatly enhanced their already devastating power. All solid defenses crumbled before these blunt, jagged surfaces, doomed to be pulverized.

I had wondered why this flamboyant woman was called the “Black Knight.” To be honest, she was anything but dark-skinned—in fact, rather pale. Only after seeing those two jet-black colossal warhammers did I understand: her title was clearly linked to these weapons’ appearance. But as a battle warrior well versed in arms, I believe color is the least important attribute of a weapon. Judging by the shape and features of these hammers, I thought a nickname like “Fat Knight” or “Bucket Knight” would suit her better—unfortunately, just as I was about to suggest this kindly, one of those hammers landed squarely on my forehead.

Like a crushed bellows, a scorching, unbearable heat surged violently through my nasal passages, the gushing air slicing painfully through my airway like a blade. My brain seemed to boil and churn turbulently. I could feel massive bubbles swelling inside my cloudy mind, threatening to burst my skull. Just before the pressure would rupture my head, those bubbles exploded with a deafening roar, tormenting my nerves further, making me wish I could rip open my skull and scrape out the clamor.

The hammer’s shock did not render me unconscious for long, but the excruciating pain seemed to last a century. When I finally regained my senses and rallied my courage to charge at Lady Dengott, she had just, amid Ding Ding Little Go’s startled screams, smashed his summoned war spirit into a splattered otherworldly meat patty.

“Be careful. Don’t engage her in close combat—her melee attacks are too strong!” B-flat Minor Nocturne crawled out from beneath a fury of hammer strikes, his health bar barely flickering—a warning all the more credible for it.

“I’ll hold her off!” Seeing the gnome bard near death, Paladin Bull Million stepped in to block Dengott’s pursuit. A faint golden light of sanctity cloaked him like an invisible armor—this was the divine protection granted by the Supreme God to his devout follower, known as the “Invincible” shield, the Blessing of Holy Light.

The two massive weapons, as heavy as stone pillars, raised twin tempests that collided midair with a thunderous boom, shaking the very air. Three hundred ninety-two points of life exploded from Lady Black Knight’s body, blooming a bloody flower of vitality overhead, while Bull Million remained unharmed under the omnipotent divine shield.

“Hahaha, taste my power!” Bull Million’s confidence soared with the one-sided battle, laughing arrogantly as he swung his obsidian pillar for another heavy blow. While wielding his weapon, he shot a proud glare with his double-lidded bull eyes toward the distant druid girl, the fairy descendent. Unfortunately, as our Minotaur friend flaunted himself, he neglected one crucial detail…

“Brother Bull, your invincibility…” the fairy shouted, pointing at Bull Million, but before she could finish, a loud “clang” sounded again. Two vivid red bursts erupted in the sky simultaneously—one marked “-249,” belonging to our enemy, and the other, a massive “-729” blood blossom, belonged to our valiant, ambitious Paladin Bull Million.

“…is gone.” The druid girl finished timidly.

Apparently, the once formidable protective shield could only withstand a single powerful strike from Lady Black Knight.

“You should’ve said so earlier…” Bull Million cast a helpless, plaintive look at the fairy, then roared fiercely, stomping the ground with such force it seemed he might shatter the floor. As the tremors staggered Lady Black Knight’s steps, Bull Million dragged his cherished obsidian pillar with his left hand and dashed backward at breathtaking speed. With his right hand, as if by magic, he pulled out a handful of healing potions from an unseen pouch and swallowed them whole—bottle and all.

From this, we can deduce that the Minotaur’s mouth size evolved precisely according to the laws of natural selection.

Then, raising his mighty voice in fervent prayer to the Supreme God, he called out the nearest ally’s name:

“Ding Ding Little Go, help me…”

I must say, not witnessing Bull Million’s skillful retreat firsthand is a great loss. From unleashing the “War Stomp” to turning and fleeing, from accurately finding a dozen potent healing potions in a backpack stuffed with hundreds of items and downing them all, to calling out for help without shame—never have I seen anyone execute such a complex escape so decisively and cleanly. I even suspect Bull Million might have trained specifically for this—no, it’s an instinct, etched in his blood and bones. Anyone who sees this masterful flight in detail, up close and at the perfect angle, can’t help but exclaim from the heart:

“Damn it, why me?!”

Seeing Bull Million’s imposing figure charging, and more importantly, the two towering black weapons rolling and swirling behind him, the half-orc sorcerer Ding Ding Little Go turned pale—well, I’m just emphasizing the urgency; no need to remind me that half-orcs naturally have green skin.

Earlier, Ding Ding Little Go lost his most trusted war spirit, and the harsh summoning conditions made it unlikely to reappear. The ice witch and shadow wraith had already perished, and long cooldowns left him no choice but to summon his last minion—a mere “Shadow Bone Hound,” the standard familiar every apprentice warlock calls upon first. I don’t know who named it so misleadingly, but to most, this creature looks more like a mole than a dog. Its combat prowess is so low that even a level-five “Mountain Mole” would seem a ferocious beast by comparison. Aside from allowing its master to siphon some magic when needed, this entry-level minion is utterly useless in battle. I suspect calling this mobile magic flask a “demon” might embarrass it; it’s more pet than fighter.

Seeing this deadly adversary rapidly approaching, Ding Ding Little Go heartlessly kicked the poor familiar away and fled with Bull Million. The hapless “Shadow Bone Hound” barely had time to stretch before a hammer stroke sent it crashing back to the nether realm.

“If I’d known you were this shameless, I’d have summoned the war spirit again!” Ding Ding Little Go lamented as they fled, eyes blazing with anger at the Minotaur Paladin who had brought them to this peril.

“What does that have to do with me?” Bull Million’s thick-skinned race advantage let him retort confidently, though he clearly missed the point at first. After a moment, he realized and shouted in frustration:

“Hey, why do you assume I’m the one who’s going to die this time?”

Just as Bull Million and Ding Ding Little Go were about to be caught by the furious Lady Black Knight, a tangle of vines sprouted through the cracked stones beneath their feet, coiling snake-like around Dengott’s shins and binding her tightly, halting her pursuit. Nearby, the fairy’s hands, still glowing faintly green, had just cast the natural magic “Vine Bind.”

By this time, B-flat Minor Nocturne’s health had almost fully recovered. As he sang a rough and off-key “Iron Wall War Song” to bolster our defenses, he called out loudly:

“Druid, Minotaur, and warrior—take turns controlling her movements. Don’t use skills simultaneously; coordinate. Warlock, weaken her with curses. Old Bull, don’t hesitate to use your invincibility—once it’s off cooldown, use it. You’re the only one who can hold out a bit longer!”

Seizing the moment while Lady Black Knight was restrained, B-flat Minor Nocturne rushed at her, hacking fiercely at her pale, shapely legs.

Of course, I couldn’t stoop to such underhanded tactics. I simply plunged my sword sharply into her navel…

A few seconds later, Lady Black Knight broke free of the vines. Just as she prepared to retaliate fiercely against the bard’s despicable assault, a shield slammed hard into her face, knocking her unconscious for five brief seconds. During this time, the three unfortunate souls who had just suffered her crushing blows unleashed their hatred upon her, with the gnome bard B-flat Minor Nocturne fighting most fiercely and urgently. It was understandable—after being hammered, his stature seemed even smaller.

I don’t know if it’s just my imagination…

(I am guilty, I deserve punishment; I delay endlessly, dawdle far from return, my writing hesitant and speechless upon login.

It should be obvious—the quality of my post-marriage writing has dropped by more than one level.

And it took a whole week to write this chapter.

Let’s put it this way: as a man, marriage is perhaps one of the best decisions of my life.

But as a writer, marriage has been the worst decision of my career.

Regardless, I’m back.

For a while, updates will be irregular and unpredictable.)