With a light and cheerful heart, Alistair returned to Snowmantle Citadel, having smoothly completed the last of his daily villain quests.
His target had been a slavelord who was viciously beating his chattel. While such sights were common, that didn't mean Alistair had to tolerate them. Consequently, the man was charged with "the crime of disturbing the lord with excessive noise" and was soundly thrashed by Alistair's knights. As for his slaves, Alistair appropriated them as well, arranging for them to become servants in the castle.
The shameless System hadn't specified what kind of subject to beat, just that it had to be a subject. This was the only task Alistair had completed with a clear conscience, one that required no clandestine compensation.
…
"And now, for the thrilling reward ceremony!"
Alistair rubbed his hands together in excitement. He sat upright at the long table in the dining hall, a spread of roasted meat and fine red wine laid out before him.
"System, I'll take my reward now!" Alistair declared with a swagger, taking a pleasant sip of wine.
[Ding! The Host has completed all daily tasks. Claim rewards? Y/N?]
"Yes!"
Alistair heard the sound of celebratory fireworks going off in his mind, and a virtual prize wheel materialized before him. The wheel was divided into five equal sections: Troops, Combat Arts, Equipment, Potions, and Curios. It was a thoroughly traditional design.
Alistair was neither surprised nor particularly disappointed; his expectations for the shameless System were already rock bottom. Of the five reward types, he wanted Troops most. As a newly appointed lord, what he lacked most was talent. For now, Thorne alone was not enough.
His second choice was Equipment. As for Combat Arts, Alistair had no need for them. His master had been a legendary Sword Saint; the techniques he had already learned were among the best in the world. He had no idea what Curios were, having never encountered them in the game. With a system this shameless, wasn't his life strange enough?
Potions were likely the most useless prize. In Alistair's view, any boost that wasn't permanent was just a empty threat.
Let's go.
With a mental command, Alistair pressed the button in the center of the wheel. It spun rapidly before gradually slowing, passing Combat Arts, then Troops, before finally coming to a gentle stop in the Equipment section.
"Not bad!" Alistair was quite pleased to have won his second-most desired prize.
[Congratulations, Host, you have received the Excellent-grade armor: Dragon-Shatterer Heavy Plate… Ding! Triple critical chance obtained! Critical success! …Congratulations, Host, you have received the Hero-grade armor: Triumphant Paladin Hero Plate.]
"Alright… wait, Hero-grade?" Alistair shot up from his chair.
[Congratulations, Host, you have received the Hero-grade armor: Triumphant Paladin Hero Plate. Manifest now?]
"Yes, manifest it now! I've never even seen a piece of Hero-grade armor before!"
Alistair was ecstatic. His own master, the legendary Sword Saint Thalric, possessed only a single Hero-grade sword; his armor was merely Master-grade.
The skill of human smiths was limited, with Master-grade being the pinnacle of their craft. Equipment of a higher grade could only be forged by Dwarven masters. And even then, creating a Hero-grade item was incredibly difficult, requiring not only peerless materials but also a perfect alignment of time, place, and spirit.
As for the Epic-grade and Legendary-grade equipment that lay beyond, they were things of myth.
Under Alistair's expectant gaze, a suit of armor so magnificent it bordered on divine materialized on the dining table.
The armor was a brilliant silver-white, accented with flourishes of gold. The joints were crafted from a highly resilient soft gold, while the main body was forged from the hardest dragon-patterned steel.
During his studies at the Knight Academy, Alistair had learned of this material; only trace amounts could be found deep within the earth's core or in the lairs of fire dragons.
The most eye-catching feature was on the breastplate. In the center was set a golden dragon crystal the size of a man's face. Though cut and polished, it was clearly from at least a mature brass dragon.
The crystal was linked to a web of mana circuits etched into the armor, which would passively amplify the wearer's aura. The wearer could also actively channel their energy into the circuits, projecting a protective barrier.
Without a doubt, even among other Hero-grade equipment, this was a top-tier piece.
Alistair eagerly donned the armor. The mana circuits activated, and he felt a jolt of energy. A surging wave of power emanated from his chest, spreading throughout his body. He had the distinct feeling that, wearing this armor, he could now fight Thorne on equal footing.
"System, you absolute legend! You're not some useless piece of code anymore. You're really on the ball now!"
[Ding! This system is a data-based consciousness and is not physically situated on a spherical object.]
The System was as literal as ever. But that was a good thing. The dumber it was, the more loopholes he could exploit.
Mulling this over with glee, Alistair fetched his greatsword from its stand. He was now itching for a fight with Thorne.
..................…
"Lord Alistair, you sent for me?" Thorne, clad in his heavy knight's armor, pushed open the door to the private training room. He had just come from training the guards in the stables.
Alistair had been waiting for some time. The room he used for personal training was larger than the dining hall, sparsely decorated with training dummies and weapon racks. The floor and walls were tiled with slabs of Mana-Infused Obsidian.
"Thorne. I've acquired a decent suit of armor. Let's have a match and test it out," Alistair said, turning with a smile. The dragon crystal on his chest blazed with light.
Thorne stared at the armor in astonishment. He was a connoisseur of fine arms and could tell this was no ordinary set.
"Lord Alistair, 'decent' hardly begins to describe this masterpiece," Thorne said, his voice tinged with envy. Armor and a sword were a knight's lifelong companions. All knights yearned for better equipment, and Thorne was no exception. "In that case, I will be honored to help you test this new armor."
With that, Thorne made an inviting gesture. The two men walked to the center of the room and performed a slight bow. When Thorne looked up again, he drew the longsword at his hip. His entire demeanor shifted. In an instant, he transformed from a hale old man into a ravenous beast lying in wait.
Alistair marveled silently. This is the knight who held off countless Murderhobos for over two months by himself. The sheer killing intent—even as a fellow Earth Knight, Alistair felt a chill run down his spine.
But Alistair was not the worthless lord from the game. He was far stronger than that piece of trash who pursued nothing but flashy swordplay. He had learned from the legendary Sword Saint, whose famous style was the art of the heavy blade. It was a philosophy of overwhelming power: a heavy sword needs no sharp edge, and great skill appears artless. It was a simple style that crushed all opposition with tyrannical force.
Alistair gripped his greatsword with both hands, his eyes calm and focused. His entire being seemed to merge with his surroundings. Amplified by the Hero-grade armor, his presence was like that of a majestic brass dragon roaring at his back, carrying a weight so oppressive that the very air seemed to congeal.
Hah—!
Thorne took a step forward, launching the first attack. His longsword shot forward in a thrust. With a sharp hiss, a scarlet gleam of light erupted from the blade, darting out like a venomous dragon.
Alistair raised his sword to block, his arms powerfully sweeping Thorne's blade aside. He then brought his own greatsword forward.
ROAR—!
The mighty blade, accompanied by the phantom image of a roaring lion, swung down on Thorne's parrying sword. The terrifying force sent out a shockwave, cracking the obsidian floor beneath the old knight's feet.
Facing Alistair's fierce assault, Thorne sidestepped, using the momentum to retreat while simultaneously thrusting his longsword out again, its scarlet gleam tracing a crescent moon through the air.
The two men moved back and forth, their movements so fast they were little more than blurs.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The sound of weapons clashing was incessant. Golden and scarlet sword auras intertwined, and in the space of a few breaths, they had exchanged dozens of blows.
After a hundred moves, they were still locked in a stalemate. Alistair voluntarily disengaged. There was no point in continuing; it would only become a test of stamina. This had been a pure contest of swordsmanship; neither had used their full aura, lest Snowmantle Citadel be reduced to rubble.
"Lord Alistair, in that armor, you are like a brass dragon. Without using my full aura, I cannot even scratch it," Thorne said with a wry smile. His sword skills were born of battlefield slaughter, yet he could find no advantage against Alistair. The armor perfectly complemented Alistair's style of breaking skill with overwhelming force.
"You were holding back. Besides, relying on equipment is not as good as relying on oneself," Alistair said. He wasn't being falsely modest; Thorne's strength was undeniable.
After the duel, he was even more satisfied with this suit of armor. As a practitioner of the creed of the survivor, Alistair had always believed in one principle: only the living can deal damage. The dead are just dead.
…
That night, a smug smile appeared on Alistair's face as he slept. He was dreaming. In his dream, he was surrounded by a horde of players, but not a single one could break through his defense.