The banner that had stood tall on this land and ruled over its people for more than two centuries—today, it finally fell.
In its place rose a new flag, one emblazoned with the image of a pitchfork.
The evil grand duke, who had challenged Qin Ming to a knight's duel with the resolve to die, ultimately failed to pull off any miracle and was slain by Qin Ming.
With his death, the Evil Empire was officially declared destroyed—or at least, that's what everyone on the victorious side believed.
The common folk erupted in cheers. Qin Ming imdiately enhanced a batch of the city's food supplies and, as promised, distributed it among the militia groups who had rushed over to assist. In doing so, he firmly secured his halo as the Holy King.
But while so rejoiced, others were left troubled. The pitchfork nation celebrated their triumph over a powerful foe, yet King Arthur was filled with deep dismay.
Thanks to his personal valor and charismatic leadership, King Arthur still had over thirty thousand soldiers willing to follow him.
But compared to Qin Ming's forces, this number now felt woefully inadequate.
The real issue wasn't just manpower—what truly mattered for a leader was resources!
Qin Ming had control over a vast number of villages, and more continued to pledge allegiance to him. His domain had beco imnse.
And with land ca people. With people ca a steady supply of soldiers. Add to that Qin Ming's unique powers... To be frank, even King Arthur—wielder of the Holy Sword—was beginning to panic.
Especially after tasting the delicious food Qin Ming had bestowed upon the militia.
Food that beca exceptionally flavorful after being blessed, and armor—whether leather or even cloth—that turned unbelievably tough once imbued with his blessings. To ordinary people, these were miracles.
As a regional leader, King Arthur knew very well how easily hearts and minds could be swayed by such powers.
If things were allowed to continue like this, he would definitely lose—and be destroyed swiftly!
Once, he hadn't even taken Qin Ming seriously, even laughing at his title and his so-called Holy Pitchfork. But now, he was beginning to regard Qin Ming with real respect—perhaps even fear.
And just as King Arthur began to feel the pressure, the adventurers who had joined his camp were also getting headaches.
They were not like King Arthur. When they saw the militia equipped with gear of suspiciously high level and the mass-produced high-quality bread, they instantly guessed this was the work of a special talent skill.
After all, only a mysterious, supernatural gift could produce such terrifying and unique effects.
Upon realizing that a fellow adventurer had managed to build a faction with such a powerful talent, the adventurers had two typical reactions.
So imdiately chose to flee, abandoning everything and running for their lives. After all, they hadn't forgotten that this mission was set in slaughter mode.
If the other side turned the militia against them, they'd be dood. If not now, then when would they run?
The others tried to get close to Qin Ming and establish a connection.
These were mostly mbers of organized battle teams, and their intentions were clear.
They had to figure out this guy's identity! If he wasn't already in a battle team, they had to pull him in imdiately! And if he was, they had to find out which team he belonged to!
Soone like this could easily sway the tide of a large-scale battlefield! He had to be handled carefully!
This ti, Qin Ming had exposed his power in public—this was essentially a full reveal, laying his cards on the table for all to see.
And the reason he dared to do so was simple: Qin Ming now believed he had the strength to go head-to-head with any official battle team. There was no longer any need to hide.
He was no longer that small fry, the guy who once had to flee from a single squad of elite low-level adventurers. Now he had the right to stand before the teams—and declare his na.
Threats? Intimidation? Coercion? Those dirty tactics were useless against him now.
Either bring in top-tier experts to take him down, or tolerate his arrogant presence.
More importantly, if you pushed him too hard, he might just defect to your rival faction and tear you apart from the inside.
Given his special abilities, that could easily result in your entire side getting the crap beaten out of them—literally.
In short, now that Qin Ming had enough power to protect himself, as long as he didn't pledge allegiance to any one team, then with his unique talent and formidable strength, he had beco soone no team dared provoke—soone they might even have to try to win over.
A truly independent lone wolf—able to walk freely within the Nightmare Space.
A lone wolf on equal footing with the teams.
...
Night soon fell. Inside the royal city, lights still burned brightly. Countless militia mbers feasted on bread and roasted at, raising their mugs of malt beer as they loudly celebrated.
At that mont, they were filled with hope for their future.
At the sa ti, inside the castle, before a window, King Arthur stood with his hands behind his back, expressionless as he gazed at the people below.
Behind him stood his two most trusted warriors—First Knight Lancelot and the Battle Axe Knight Percival.
And by the wall stood an elderly man in a long robe, clutching a staff.
This man was none other than King Arthur's chief advisor and royal mage—the Grand Magus rlin, who had guided him on the path to kingship.
Gazing at the cheering crowds below, King Arthur suddenly turned to look at rlin beside him.
"Grand Magus, didn't you once tell that I was the chosen king? Then what the hell is this?"
Hearing this, Grand Magus rlin froze, a bit dumbfounded himself.
"Well... according to the prophecy, Your Majesty is the chosen king."
"Then where the hell did this Holy King co from?"
"Hiss... The prophecy made no ntion of him, so I cannot say."
"And the Holy Pitchfork? What of that? Where did his mystical powers originate? Did you not tell there were only two sacred relics in this world?!"
Arthur's relentless questioning made rlin's brow furrow deeply.
The grand mage was equally baffled—this situation defied all his expectations.
In the world of the Round Table, there were two sacred artifacts:
One was the legendary Sword in the Stone—Excalibur—now wielded by Arthur, said to cleave through all things.
The other was the Holy Grail, capable of bestowing great power and even, according to legend, granting eternal life to those who drank from it.
One represented strength, the other immortality—the two divine treasures that knights had sought since antiquity.
Yet obtaining them required the relics' acknowledgnt, hence the titles "Chosen King" and "Guardian of the Grail."
rlin himself had once been the Grail's guardian, living for centuries until the Evil Duke stole it in his quest for eternal life. Forced to flee, rlin had sought Arthur to reclaim what was lost.
Beyond these two relics, rlin knew of several man-made imitations—a staff that granted power, armor that restored youth, a orb of devastating might. While inferior to the true artifacts, they were formidable nonetheless.
But a Holy Pitchfork?
What in blazes was that? After centuries of life, why had he never heard of it?
Rubbing his temples, rlin t Arthur's gaze solemnly:
"Your Majesty, I cannot fathom the pitchfork's origins, but its power is undeniable. It is a sacred relic—and I suspect the so-called Holy King's abilities to bless armor and food stem from it."
Arthur stiffened, but before he could speak, a bald giant leaning on his axe interjected:
"No need for suspicion. It does."
"What?!"
All eyes turned to Percival.
"How can you be certain, Percival?"
"Because I've t him. A year ago."
The knight's expression darkened.
"Back then, he was weak—couldn't even defeat a common knight."
Silence gripped the room. After a long pause, Arthur spoke gravely:
"You're certain?"
"Beyond doubt. His face is unforgettable. Though he's grown nearly a ter taller, I'd recognize him anywhere—it's the sa man."
As Percival recounted the past, Arthur turned to the window, fingers tightening on the sill.
A re year.
For soone to undergo such physical and power transformations was... unnatural.
And that ability to enhance armor and food? He hadn't possessed it before.
"Holy Pitchfork..."
Arthur's whisper carried a dangerous edge.
Seeing this, rlin stepped forward, staff clacking against stone:
"Your Majesty, prophecies do not err. You are this era's destined ruler—the one who will unite all under his banner."
"But his power—"
"No! You mistake the source! That power isn't his—it belongs to the pitchfork! The third sacred relic!"
rlin's interruption was sharp. His eyes glead as he continued:
"You were chosen by the sword. The grail too shall be yours. You are the true Chosen King. He? A re opportunist who stumbled upon the pitchfork—stealing what should be yours while masquerading as royalty!"
Leaning closer, rlin's words dripped with honeyed venom:
"That pitchfork... that power... they were ant for you."
"...My pitchfork?"
"Indeed! The sword grants strength! The grail grants eternity! And the pitchfork? Authority! Do these not form a perfect triad? A trinity ant for one true king?"
His grip on the staff tightened.
"All three should be wielded by the Chosen One... my king."
(End of Chapter)
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