"Anda, tell me—if you were Teacher Kal'tsit, how would you deal with me?"
"I do not know. The Khagan respects her, yet she betrayed the Khagan. I do not understand why the Khagan still respects her."
"Because she is my teacher. Without her, there would be no me."
"..."
This was a grassland that did not exist in the Hotland—a grassland that existed only in memory.
The aged Khagan of the Nightzmoras looked up at the sky. A feathered beast let out a long cry, swooped down into the grassland, and, upon taking flight again, clutched a grazing beast the size of a calf in its talons.
In the grassland, grazing beasts were the lifeblood of every Kuranta living there. Their wool could be made into clothing to trade in the city; their milk could improve the memory of younglings; their meat could make people grow taller and stronger.
The towering Khagan of the Nightzmoras drew his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming at the feathered beast as it flew farther and farther away. The beast flapped its wings, climbing higher into the sky.
Swish!
The long arrow tore through the air, covering a distance of a thousand meters in an instant.
Thud!
The feathered beast released the grazing beast from its talons, narrowly avoiding the Khagan's arrow by a hair's breadth.
Cough, cough
The Khagan of the Nightzmoras coughed lightly.
"Anda, have I grown old?"
"No, Khagan. How could you be old? The power of that arrow—no archer in the grassland could match it."
"You're lying."
The aged Khagan pointed at the tall figure beside him, shaking his head with a wry smile.
"I am old. When I first came here, I wasn't this old. But I was afraid—afraid of growing into the pathetic state I am now."
"Teacher Kal'tsit said the secret to immortality was here."
"She didn't lie to me."
In the eyes of the nearly two-meter-tall elder, a deep weariness lingered.
"But I lost, so I couldn't obtain true immortality. I couldn't stay forever young like Teacher Kal'tsit."
"I must pay the price!"
As his words fell, the weariness in the elder's eyes gradually faded. His hunched back straightened bit by bit, and thick, tawny-red hair spread like a lion's mane over his shoulders.
The Khagan of the Nightzmoras, the Master of Nightzmoras, had to be the mightiest Nightzmora.
For Nightzmora Knights would only follow the strongest.
To become the King of Nightzmoras, one must naturally be the strongest.
The vast grassland began to fracture, as if it were a lagging projection, causing the aged Khagan and the towering Nightzmora's forms to twist and distort.
"It needs me now."
The resonant voice echoed through the cold chamber. It was a voice that seemed capable of piercing through metal and transcending spatial barriers, reaching the ears of the line of knights standing outside the sanctuary.
Though their mechanical bodies could not be restored, the bones that formed these knights could still clearly hear the voice of the Khagan they followed.
Even if they were buried in this land, leaving behind only fragments of their skeletons, they would still follow their king—their Khagan.
Thousands of years ago, the Nightzmora who followed the Khagan of the Nightzmoras into the Hotland numbered 300. Only the strongest and most resolute warriors among the Nightzmoras could earn the title of Chochek.
This made them the trusted elites of the Nightzmora Lord, the warriors he relied upon the most. Even when the Nightzmora armies swept across half of Terra and 100,000 Nightzmora riders charged into the Hotland, the true Chochek remained only 300 strong.
It was these 100,000 Nightzmora riders, and these 300 Nightzmora, that silenced the ancient civilization—one that should have revived countless years ago—for a thousand years.
Now, only 19 knights stood outside the sanctuary.
Those willing to abandon their human bodies, to be transformed into machines, and to have their souls forever imprisoned within cold steel numbered just twenty, including those destroyed by Garde's Originium bomb suicide attack.
The remaining knights offered their bones but refused to follow their Khagan any longer.
Nineteen intelligent humanoid Nightzmora knights, thirty-four centaur-like Nightzmora knights built from the bones of their fallen comrades—just these 53 alone were enough to obliterate a modern mobile city or devastate an entire modern army. Even the ship guns of high-speed battleships were no longer lethal threats to these mechanized knights.
And behind these 53 Nightzmora knights surged an unrelenting tide of mechanical troops and augmented soldiers.
"The rain has given Teacher Kal'tsit an opportunity. Otherwise, her forces would have been detected long before they got close to us."
City-defense cannons with ranges exceeding 50 kilometers were a concept the Khagan of the Nightzmoras had never encountered in his time. In his era, even mobile cities did not exist.
But as time passed, more sophisticated weapons of war were crafted, and as long as he could secure more resources, he could always upgrade his knights with sturdier bodies.
The terminal he had destroyed with his own hands was now fused with him, feeding its knowledge directly into his brain bit by bit.
A thousand years ago, he and his knights had given everything to prevent the resurrection of the Hotland's ancient civilization.
This time, who could possibly stop them? Those genetically modified test subjects?
"If I were Teacher Kal'tsit, I wouldn't attack hastily without amassing enough forces."
The resurrection of civilization required resources. Cutting off the supply lines from the outside world would drastically hamper its progress.
Even if he sent his knights to escort supply convoys, the limited number of knights made it impossible to protect every shipment. And for a resurrecting ancient civilization, daily resource needs were astronomical.
More critically, sending smaller groups of knights increased the risk of ambushes.
The Khagan of the Nightzmoras pondered. Civilization had not yet been reviving for long, and if Kal'tsit's army of test subjects exceeded 100,000, failure might indeed become a possibility.
This was the purpose of his existence.
"Teacher Kal'tsit, I await your attempt to kill me!"
The Khagan let out a booming laugh. The ultimate joy of a disciple was to engage in a battle of wits with their teacher.
A thousand years ago, he had lost his gamble with Kal'tsit. He never imagined he would get another chance to bet against her a millennium later.
This time, he would not lose.
Suddenly, the Khagan's gaze shifted to the city's outermost edge.
The city was the limit of his sight.
A returning Nightzmora knight had brought back many memories. In one of them, he saw his teacher surrounded by allies—including a member of the Adakrys, who exudes an aura rivaling his own in his youth.
And now, he saw that same Adakrys standing alone outside the town.
Alone.
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