Chapter 239: He Will Be Like Him

Doug was overwhelmed with excitement when he saw Oliver. Now that he was alive, Isolde wouldn't have to be a widow. “It’s the Great Marshal!” the North Campth Army roared with excitement, raising their blades high, their eyes burning red as they charged into battle.

The North Campth Army, once defeated, regained their fighting spirit with Oliver's arrival. The situation quickly reversed. On the other side, the palace guards, unfamiliar with Oliver, hesitated as they saw him easily defeat several men. Doubt grew in their hearts, and some lost confidence. The palace guards had never seen a battlefield, unlike the North Campth Army, who had crawled back from piles of corpses. Even against skilled martial artists earlier, they hadn't backed down; they were prepared to fight to the death. Their sheer resilience alone shook the palace guards' confidence. The battle had completely turned.

Doug stared at Oliver in shock. He knew Oliver's combat skills, but he didn't know how he had become so powerful. In a moment, the long spear had taken down three men in blue. These warriors were highly skilled; it had taken Oliver nearly an hour of fierce fighting to kill just three of them. Doug noticed a sword at Oliver's waist—one he recognized. This sword was forged by the Prince Regent before leaving the capital, re-crafted from a Darksteel blade. The Queen Dowager named it the Primordial Sword. Its predecessor was also called the Primordial Sword; there were two, a pair of husband-and-wife swords, the other yet to be unearthed. It was said that whoever possessed the Primordial Sword would rule the world.

“Primordial Sword!” Kamari also spotted it from the high platform. Ashley had been watching Oliver closely from the moment he entered. As she watched the situation reverse, her expression changed drastically.

“Call for reinforcements!” Kamari spun and shouted. The commanders on the platform immediately leaped down. But the soldiers below were filled with killing intent and wouldn't let anyone leave to call for reinforcements. Fifty soldiers were stationed at each entrance; Isolde had ordered that not even a fly be allowed to leave. This was Kamari's first battle, and he had no second chance. If he lost, there would be no opportunity to turn things around.

To rise in rebellion, he needed Ashley with him—her weapons, gunpowder, and strategy. His eyes burned red as he glared at her, his face twisted with desperation. “Think of something. Hurry!”

Ashley looked at the battlefield below. The North Campth Army had secured victory. The warriors in blue-green robes lay dead or wounded, while Oliver stood unscathed, growing stronger with each fight. Kamari had lost; victory and defeat were decided in an instant.

Ashley turned back to him, stepping forward slowly. She still held the dagger used to kill the princess consort. In a soft voice, she said, “King Kamari, stay calm. I will not lose. I will win.” Her eyes locked onto the veins on his neck, bulging with fury and desperation. Gently, she hugged him, her voice soothing. “Don’t worry, I never lose. Isolde alone cannot defeat me.”

For the first time, she embraced Kamari, and for the first time, he felt a strange sense of peace. Something irresistible in her voice, a quiet power, eased his doubts. In that moment, he truly believed Ashley could turn the tide.

But Kamari never saw the fleeting murderous intent in Ashley's eyes. He didn't realize the meaning of "I will never lose"—that her only way to win was by defecting to the enemy. It wasn't until he felt the cold blade against his throat, until his blood sprayed into the air, that he finally understood. However, it was too late. A throat cut was one of the fastest, most decisive deaths. He didn't even manage a single word before collapsing.

Without hesitation, Ashley seized his sword, severed his head, and raised it high atop the platform. Her voice rang out over the battlefield. “The Rebel King, Kamari Conway, has been executed by my hand! Surrender now, and you will be spared!”

The clashing of weapons fell silent. All eyes turned to Ashley. The palace covered a vast area; the front courtyard alone spanned over a thousand acres. From the high platform, one could see to the end. This place could accommodate thousands fighting here. Kamari, the ruler of Zloimond, held his court in this grand palace.

The sky had brightened, and after the heavy rain, the sun emerged, its rays illuminating the blood-soaked grounds. All chaos and slaughter halted as Ashley raised Kamari's severed head. Looking down at the battlefield, she knew it wasn't the North Campth Army's victory; it was hers. She was the granddaughter of the renowned Finnian of Zloimond, and she had personally killed the Rebel King.

With the loss of their commander and king, the palace guards surrendered their weapons.

Isolde, weakened and on the verge of collapse, stared at Ashley. This person was truly rising steadily. Yet, perhaps at this moment, she didn't realize that victory never belonged to just one person. There was someone she couldn't afford to offend in the place she yearned for. And the person she aspired to become was far beyond her reach. She was a big fish in a river, but the person she longed to replace was a great shark in the ocean that could swallow anyone whole.

Isolde slowly withdrew her gaze. The sunlight above her was quickly blocked, and with a faint, weak smile, she was pulled into a cold embrace. His icy armor, somehow, brought her inexplicable warmth. A few pills were pressed into her mouth. She didn't know what they were, but she swallowed them without hesitation.

Her vision blurred. She didn't know if it was from tears or dizziness from exhaustion. She let go of her whip and hugged him, reaching for his hands—one warm, the other cold. She felt a chill all over her body, barely holding onto her breath. With disbelief, she slowly looked at his left hand—a hand made of steel, cold and without warmth. Though polished to a perfect shine, it wasn't the color of human skin.

The cold iron hand gently stroked her cheek. His gaze was tender and lingering, and in a soft voice, he said, “It’s alright, I can still hold you.” Tears flooded Isolde's eyes, and she choked out, “Yes… as long as you’re alive, nothing else matters. Nothing matters. I have a pair of hands. I can do anything you can’t do.”

She cried uncontrollably, clutching him as if holding a lost treasure regained. Even when she had heard of his death, she hadn't cried this much.

“Silly,” Oliver's eyes softened, but his throat tightened. A mixture of bittersweet emotions surged in his heart, tinged with a slight pain.

“Tend to your wound first!” Oliver let go of her, staring at her for a moment, his eyes dazed as if lost in a trance, as though he came from another world. He wiped away the tears on her face with his unscathed hand, which carried a warm touch. Kolton and Doug tactfully attended to the remaining battle matters, while Harlan stepped forward to retrieve a pill to save Geoffrey. Anthony stood at a distance, his body wounded several times, his face pale, yet his eyes unusually determined—the determination of a warrior who had fought through a great battle. He was not as good as Oliver now, but he would become someone like Oliver.