Chapter 37: The Trial of Life and Death

Though age had bent Gorash’s frame, his height still exceeded two and a half meters. When he effortlessly swung that massive bone club and let out a chilling, grotesque laugh at his adversary, the sheer brutality was suffocating. The real reason Bruce was reluctant to bring common militia to hunt the ogre was likely because ordinary people, when confronted with such man-eating monsters, would inevitably be paralyzed by fear—a primal terror of a natural enemy, ingrained deep within the blood, almost impossible to resist.

In Victor’s previous life, humanity had already vanquished all rivals and stood atop the world. In this life, however, humans faced many more competitors—predators, even—and their future was uncertain, fraught with slaughter and challenge. How far they could go, Victor simply did not know.

Yet, seeing Sir Bruce stand unyielding as a boulder before Gorash’s overwhelming attacks—never stepping back, never wavering—Victor felt a surge of pride. Yes, even in the face of natural enemies, mankind would never lack the courage to fight. That, he thought, was enough.

Bruce parried, battered, and deflected Gorash’s relentless blows with his tower shield, while the forty-kilogram adamantine halberd in his other hand whooshed through the air, aiming to cleave the old ogre. Against an ordinary ogre, such a sharp and fearsome weapon would have left nothing but wounds upon wounds. Yet Gorash’s strikes were nothing like his kin’s clumsy savagery; instead, he exhibited astonishing agility and remarkable skill. Each time, Gorash used his massive bone club to block Bruce’s blows, leveraging his height to launch fierce counterattacks.

Victor noted that for every attack Bruce landed, the old ogre would strike twice. The club in Gorash’s hand—whatever beast’s remains it was fashioned from—could endure the adamantine halberd’s onslaught without so much as a crack.

Victor recalled seeing Baron Eskri duel Hogg, the gnoll chieftain. Back then, facing a berserk, bloodthirsty gnoll, Baron Eskri had displayed overwhelming superiority, beheading his foe within moments. But in this battle, Sir Bruce had gained no such advantage against the old ogre—in fact, he seemed faintly suppressed. This left Victor uneasy.

Victor entered his heightened sensory state. Physique: 22, Spirit: 17, Perception: 14, Vitality: 8—these were Gorash’s stats. Physique: 23, Spirit: 12, Perception: 13, Vitality: 16—these were Bruce’s. Statistically, Bruce had the edge in physique and vitality, but with only one point’s lead in the former, and since vitality gave no direct boost to combat prowess, this advantage was nearly meaningless. In contrast, Gorash’s higher spirit and perception gave him the upper hand in the fight.

“Master, Sir Bruce’s situation seems far from good. Should we prepare ourselves?” Victor glanced at the ground, now pitted and uneven beneath the combatants’ trampling, and voiced his concern to Edwin.

Victor was confident that, in his awakened state with a military crossbow, he could deliver a fatal blow to Gorash, who was locked in battle with Bruce. After all, Gorash was not an ogre chieftain with the berserker’s gift. As for the knight’s promise to the old ogre, Victor cared little; he was not Bruce’s subordinate, and intervening would not count as Bruce breaking his word.

“Don’t worry. Bruce hasn’t shown his full strength yet. He’s been wearing the old ogre down. If Gorash doesn’t reveal some hidden ability soon, Bruce will finish him,” Edwin replied, shaking his head to reassure Victor.

As they spoke, a dusty yellow aura appeared around Bruce. His physique surged from twenty-three to a staggering twenty-seven. Physique reflected the concentration of earth element within a living body, manifesting most directly as raw strength. At twenty-seven points, Bruce’s might was enough to utterly overpower the old ogre.

With a mighty blow, Bruce slammed his heavy tower shield against the incoming club. The force caught Gorash off guard, sending the club flying and the ogre staggering back. Bruce seized the moment, swinging his adamantine halberd at Gorash’s neck—a strike as swift and unstoppable as a thunderclap.

Just as Bruce was about to decapitate the old ogre, Gorash let out a wild shriek and threw himself to the right. The halberd instead struck his raised left shoulder, slicing through tough hide and muscle, splitting the iron-hard bone halfway, but failing to sever the arm completely.

Bruce wrenched his halberd free from the jammed bone, ready to deliver the final blow, when Gorash drew a deep breath—his belly swelling like a pregnant woman’s—and a torrent of multicolored filth spewed from his mouth with the force of a pressurized hose. Bruce hurriedly raised his shield to block, while the old ogre seized the chance to flee into the brush across the stream; in the blink of an eye, he vanished, leaving only a puddle of foul, reeking vomit.

He had escaped.

Bruce’s face was ashen. His great shield had stopped most of the ogre’s filth, but from the knees down he was smeared with sticky, vile, and malodorous digestive matter.

“That old ogre is gravely wounded. The four of you go hunt it down together—consider it a test. But remember: don’t separate. If you can’t handle it, send up a signal and I’ll back you up.” Bruce tossed his tower shield to the ground and instructed his four squire-knights.

As a noble-born knight, Bruce took great pride in his appearance. Such a humiliating state was intolerable to him; all he wanted now was to clean himself, with no desire to personally pursue Gorash.

While the four squires checked their gear, eager for the hunt, Nicole stepped before Bruce, plunged her gleaming longsword into the earth, knelt on one knee, and spoke in a clear, resolute voice: “Sir Bruce, Squire Nicole requests the trial of life and death by hunting the ogre.”

At her words, the whole camp fell silent.

The trial of life and death was a knight’s solitary challenge against a seemingly invincible monster—a crucible where one either perished or transcended, with no third outcome. It was both tragic and sacred.

“Nicole! You must be mad! There’s no need for this!” Bruce’s retainer, Carvin, cried out.

The trial was perilous in the extreme; most who attempted it died. Unless one’s advancement was truly at a dead end, few knights would stake everything on such a desperate gamble.

“Carvin is right—Nicole, you have great talent. At twenty-two, you’ve already awakened ten elemental slots. I was twenty-seven when I became a bronze knight. You still have time to hone your battle aura and advance normally. Besides, you serve the lady, not me, so I cannot grant your request,” Bruce said gently.

Generally, a squire’s hopes for advancement only died once they passed thirty. For someone as young as Nicole, there was no need to risk her life in such a trial.

“My lord, I am already twenty-two, and this is why the lady sent me to follow you here,” Nicole replied calmly, rendering Bruce speechless.

As a female squire of low birth and without a family name, if Nicole had not become a bronze knight by twenty-two, custom dictated she would be given as a tool to curry favor with a powerful warrior or noble—Nicole was no exception.

Most such girls from the York family accepted their fate; becoming the companion of a knight or a noble was no poor prospect. Yet Nicole was among the rare few who did not.

Bruce knew that, upon her return, Nicole would be sent to serve as the personal maid of Sir Hanas, a silver knight who had once served another duke in the eastern provinces. After his liege was hanged, Hanas secretly pledged himself to the Yorks. Though powerful, Hanas was crude and lacked any trace of noble bearing—hardly Nicole’s type. Sylvia had arranged for Nicole to accompany Victor as a final wish, but the countess would not change the family’s stance. Victor knew none of this.

“Nicole, by custom you have an entire day to prepare. But the ogre can heal by consuming flesh, so I suggest you set out now. If you do not return by this time tomorrow, we’ll enter the woods to slay the beast and avenge you. Until then, you will receive no aid. Good luck.” Faced with Nicole’s resolve, Bruce relented.

“Thank you.” Nicole pulled her sword from the earth, rose, and strode toward the woods.

“Nicole! Wait!” Victor rushed after her, his anxiety and confusion boiling over into anger. He seized her arm and demanded, “Why are you doing this? What is it you wish to prove?!”

Seeing Victor’s face, furious with worry, Nicole gently embraced her lover and whispered in his ear, “I want to be the master of my own fate.”

She removed her helmet, letting her chestnut hair cascade down. Lifting her sword, she severed her locks at the shoulder; her bright features instantly acquired a heroic, almost breathtaking beauty.

Letting the shorn hair scatter on the wind, Nicole gazed deeply at Victor, as if to imprint his face forever in her mind. She smiled faintly, turned, and departed without a backward glance.

Victor stared after her graceful, slender figure as it vanished among the trees, unable to speak, his throat tight with emotion.

As dusk fell, the camp was silent save for the crackling of the fire—an oppressive, suffocating atmosphere.

Victor paced restlessly. He turned to Edwin and spoke loudly.

“We must do something!”

He had rallied his men, intent on entering the woods to aid Nicole, but Bruce’s four squires blocked his way like a wall.

If a trial of life and death is interrupted, the candidate suffers an indelible sense of failure—it spells the end of their path as a knight, a fate worse than death.

“Victor, whether slave or king, everyone has the right to defy destiny. Even if the price is high and success uncertain, that is the root of all miracles,” Edwin said, his gaze heavy and voice full of strength.

Suddenly, a wailing came from the woods—a death cry of a gnoll—followed by a chorus of howls that turned everyone’s face ashen.

“Damn it! That cunning ogre has enslaved the gnolls—it’s a trap, set long ago! This is beyond Nicole’s trial; it’s suicide! We must go save her now!” Victor shouted, all trace of noble decorum forgotten.

The four squires rose, tense, looking to Bruce for a decision.

“As knights, we cannot interfere with the trial. If Nicole breaks through, she’ll return safe and sound.” Bruce lightly stroked his adamantine halberd. If Nicole died, he would avenge her with this very weapon.

Despite Bruce’s seemingly heartless words, Victor smiled faintly. He raised his hand, and a dark shadow plummeted from the sky with a caw, landing on his arm—the alchemical raven, Blackfeather.

“Go.” Victor offered Nicole’s shorn hair for Blackfeather to scent. The raven took off, circled overhead, gave another caw, and flew into the woods.

“As lord, I have decided to purge the gnolls and monsters from my domain—tonight. Nalson, prepare yourself. You’re coming with me,” Victor said calmly to Nalson.

“As you wish, my lord,” Nalson replied gruffly. To leave a comrade in peril was never the way of the Bear Mercenaries.

“Everyone, arm yourselves. Tonight, we hunt gnolls!” Nalson called to the guards, but Victor stopped him.

“No, Nalson. Just the two of us.”

Nalson was taken aback, but soon his eyes shone with gratitude.

To enter the woods at night in leather armor and fight gnolls meant casualties even for the Bear Mercenaries. Though they feared no sacrifice, the lord’s consideration moved them.

“My lord! The Bear Mercenaries fear nothing!”

“My lord, wait here—we will not disappoint you!”

“My lord, we have slain countless gnolls!”

The guards were eager, each vying to join the fight.

“My lord, I can go alone. I can bring Miss Nicole back without issue,” Nalson urged in a low voice.

“Who decides here?” Victor met Nalson’s gaze. Though Nalson could be trusted, Victor could not bear another moment’s delay while Nicole was in deadly danger.

“I have moon-elf blood. I can see clearly in the dark. And... I can do more than shoot arrows.”

Victor drew his shortsword. Encircled by a whispering breeze, the blade seemed almost alive, swirling in his palm. With a flick of his wrist, the sword sliced silently through a nearby tree, thick as a bowl.

The cut was silent and ghostly—like the work of a spirit.

When Victor, armed with two hand crossbows, and Nalson entered the woods, a squire brought the severed tree trunk to Bruce and Edwin.

“This is hemlock—dense and hard. Ordinarily, it would be no easy matter to chop it down.”

“The cut is smooth as glass. A squire with a sharp sword might manage this, but to do it as lightly as Victor did—not even I could. It’s astonishing.”

“It must be wind element concentrated on his blade, just like the feats of a silver knight. The moon-elf bloodline is truly extraordinary. The Wimbledons are indeed one of the ancient noble families.”

Edwin stroked the hemlock’s cut face, then saw Bruce rise with sword and shield.

“What, you’re going too?” Edwin asked with a smile.

“Heh. A knight must protect his allies, must he not?” With that, Bruce strode into the woods.