The sword stabbed silently, and a hint of surprise appeared on Soram's face, which immediately turned into self-deprecation.

"Amazing, my lord, I must admit that I underestimated your strength. With Solam's muffled voice, several thick gray gases erupted from under his feet without warning, stirring and spreading.

The force of the force pushed Sirian backwards for some distance, and the sword stabbed in the chest missed. The Duke adjusted his breathing, stared at Solam and said, "Underestimating the enemy will cost you your life, and next time you won't be so lucky." ”

"You think it's luck? Solam smiled exaggeratedly, as if he had heard something ridiculous, "Haven't you noticed yet? We believe in the true gods, not the false gods of swagger, or some unknown monster." The gray air mass condensed into Solam's hand again, "Strength comes from the blessing of faith, this can't be faked, can it?"

Sirian frowned, and did not answer Solam's question, because it involved a question that he had not usually faced, and even that would only be treated as a psychopathy - how could the followers of the Chaos Sect have the power to bless, was it deliberately not mentioned in the texts of the Holy See of Order, or had it never appeared in the previous two Sardinia wars?

In any case, it cannot be denied that no matter where the gray knight in front of him gets the blessed power, the god he believes in is probably a true god, the difference is only whether this main god comes from the supreme heaven or the burning hell.

"For the sake of the Lord God, it is indeed a waste of time to reason with the lackeys of the Holy See of Order. Seeing that Sirian did not answer, Soram said sarcastically. The gray air mass moved again, and soon condensed into a long bladeless knife. "Let's prove you and me right or wrong with our actions!" said Solam, charging towards Sirian again.

Two figures collided, separated, collided and separated again on this field of life and death. Sparks bloomed between the two swords with a piercing roar, and the gray long knife brought out trails like catapulted poisonous snakes, and the golden brilliance that symbolized the power of order guarded the bodies of his believers, and even the noble faith.

This is a battle that no one else can intervene in, this is a contest between warriors who stand on the pinnacle of two sects, in the name of faith, there is no death, no right or wrong.

There was another loud bang, and Sirian was knocked back a few steps, strands of long flaxen-colored hair sticking to his cheeks covered with fine beads of sweat, his violently undulating chest greedily sucking in fresh air, and his entire left arm was already stained with blood, and drops of blood slowly slipped from the hand that held the long sword.

Before Sirian could stand still, Solam, who had a bloody cut on the left side of his face, roared frantically and swung his long gray knife. "Isn't it okay, Lord Duke, try this!" the long knife suddenly became soft, and its blade grew longer and longer, and it whipped towards Sirian like a whip.

The gray aura quickly crossed the distance between the two of them, and wrapped around Cyrian's neck, tightening tighter and tighter. Cyrian's face was red from suffocation, and he opened his mouth in vain, but he could only make a "gurgling" sound.

At this time, Solam fell into a hideous madness due to his excitement, and saw the life of his mortal enemy pass by little by little in his hands, and he laughed and roared: "How does it feel to be dying! My duke! Where is your lord god at this moment?! Where is your omnipotent and omniscient Somu?! Is this all you have to do? Will you only rely on the kingdom's iron-mounted horsemen to slaughter the pitchfork-wielding civilians to earn your hypocritical glory? As he spoke, he tugged suddenly, and the gray gas suddenly straightened.

Solam's words struck Cyrian in the heart like a sledgehammer, and the glory of the Knight of Order, the blood of the Duke of Junhe, and even the name of the Lord God Somu, did not allow him to die here. A roar mixed with blood exploded in Sirian's throat. "You will pay the price of death for your blasphemy!"

Falling to one knee, Sirian held the sword in his right hand, his left hand gripped the blade tightly and slammed downward, red blood gushing out of the wound and coating the slender blade. Sirian thrust his sword into the ground in front of him with all his might, staring at Soram resolutely and shouting, "In the name of order!"

At this moment, a huge golden enchantment bloomed at Cirian's feet, and countless pillars of bright white light accompanied by dazzling runes rose into the sky in the enchantment, and the gray long whip dissipated like smoke and dust in the golden light.

"The Holy Sword of the Law!" With Cyrion's roar, the pillars of light in the air and the beating runes seemed to hear the call of their masters, and suddenly turned around, converging on the long sword stuck in the dirt. The next moment, a light that could compete with the sun rose from the ground, and along with a string of golden afterimages that Sirian had left in the air, it disappeared into Solam's chest.

Everything happened so fast, and time just blinked at this moment. Soram looked fixedly at Cyrian in front of him, the dying man who was in front of him one moment, the knight of order who stabbed his sword into his chest the next. The pain of ** is no match for the frustration of faith, the loss of life is no match for the scars of the soul, and Solam's face is even paler.

The lightless sword fell to the ground with a heavy muffled sound, and to Cillian's surprise, the man in front of him showed a strange smile after a brief moment of dazed and lost.

Soram wiped a handful of wounds on his chest, and the gushing blood unexpectedly wrapped around his hand, forming an unknown rune, and then slammed into Cillian's breastplate before disappearing. Cyrian, who had already lost his strength, was knocked back a few steps and sat down on the ground, the sword drawn from Soram's chest, bringing out a stream of crimson blood in the air.

"What is this?" asked Sirian, enduring the pain.

"I ...... To you, the last ...... Gifts!" Soram gulped down blood.

"You!"

"Rest assured...... It's not your life!" Blood kept oozing from Soram's fingers pressed against the wound, but he smiled at the enemy who had dealt him the fatal blow, "This ...... This is just the beginning! Gears of Destiny...... When turning...... Anyone can ...... Can't stop it...... Neither can God!" Soram raised his head and cast his gaze into the blue sky, as if searching for something, longing for something, his eyes flashing with fearlessness, "In the name of Chaos...... Any Faith...... Not baptized by blood and sword...... will eventually be lost in the long river of time...... If I were an evangelist of the Lord God...... I am willing to give everything I ......have! Good luck...... The ...... of the River Duke ......"

In the gradual deepening of the words, the gray figure fell to the earth beneath his feet.

Sirian struggled to his feet, barely supporting his crumbling body with his sword, he tried to ignore the sting pain on the **, and the impact of the vicious fight just now on his heart. Yes, the joy of the victors has long been insignificant, and the loyalty that Soram has shown to the Chaos Sect is the real source of palpitations, that is the courage to die calmly, that is the persistence worthy of the faith.

When was the last time he witnessed the power of faith illuminate his soul?When was the last time he was a knight of order instead of a duke of the river?When did the good of the kingdom become the criterion of his actions rather than the noble faith? Sirian asked himself bitterly, only to find that years later, the young man who had sworn in front of the statue of Somuel had long since become a nobleman of the kingdom, and those simple and righteous dreams had long since disappeared behind the mask of sleek and hypocritical......

The Duke of Junhe stood there fixedly, with a somewhat lonely Xiao Suo on his back.

The afterglow of the setting sun gilded the towering canopy of the forest at the beginning of the month with a golden edge, and the wavy clouds covered the distant horizon, exuding an orange light, soft and warm, as if to cover the sun that was about to rest under a thick quilt. A huge shadow was cast on the grass at the edge of the forest, like a thick black line, gradually extending into the distance, and a faint mist rose in the forest, obscuring the verdant it should be.

The battle, which lasted for a day, finally ended in the defeat of the rebels. The blood-soaked earth had long since faded from its former freshness, the pitch-black scorched earth mixed with broken grass stalks scattered everywhere, the flames that would be extinguished emitted thick black smoke, and the corpses that littered the entire battlefield horizontally or vertically, and the survivors who stepped on the corpses of their allies or foes to usher in victory.

Some of these survivors cheered to celebrate the end of the war, some wept and wept to be glad that they had not died on the battlefield, some walked like corpses looking for familiar comrades, and some sat on the ground with empty eyes......

Jean Gusta died, in Malca's arms—the old man who asked Jean to help carry his relics back that morning.

When Malka's axe got stuck in the collarbone of the opposing infantry and could not be pulled out, another Sardinian rebel rushed from the side, and at that moment, Marca knew that he was going to die here. It was Jean who appeared in time to kill the rebel from behind. But before Marka could shout words of thanks, an arrow flew from nowhere and pierced Jean's neck.

Marka held down Jean's wound with all his might, but the bright red blood could not be stopped. Jean kept opening his mouth to speak, but only blood and inexplicable syllables spilled out of his mouth, and Marka roared with tears on his face. "I know, I know, you want me to bring back my brothers' relics. Then Jean stopped struggling, smiled and clenched Malka's hand and died.

The war was over, and Malka's tears had dried up, their hands still clasped together as their sinuous tears hung on their dusty faces. The blood clotted into a dark red scab, but Marka refused to let go, as if he was about to lose something as soon as he let go.

Some people say that those who survive the battlefield have left a piece of their soul in the land of life and death. Some people say that the piece that is lost is the desire for life and the awe of death, some people say that the piece that is lost is the love of good and the hatred of evil, and some people say that the piece is the nostalgia for the past and the expectation of the future......

I don't know when, I don't know by whom, the battlefield floated the ancient ballad of the Eloline Continent:

Warm around the campfire,

The troubadour is playing and singing softly,

The notes flow at the fingertips,

Stories drift in the night sky.

......

It was a small village,

The boy fell in love with a girl with long flaxen hair.

He stroked her smiling face,

She leaned against his strong shoulders,

In front of you is a faint hill and an orange sunset.

......

Fate is always impermanent,

The trumpet came from far away on the other side of the mountain.

The boy is about to set foot on the battlefield,

They speak of the sorrow of parting,

They agreed that he would be her bridegroom.

......

Horse clothes flutter in the wind,

Swords collide in the hand.

Strange people cut through strange dreams,

Blood bloomed on the boy's chest,

His clothes were dyed red.

In the distance, he seemed to see the mill of his hometown,

At the entrance of the village, the bride who stood waiting for him to come home.