Chapter : 629

The wait was the purest form of agony he had ever known. Every second the knight advanced was a second his control frayed, a second the Major General screamed to be unleashed. The garden had become his own personal crucible, and he was being burned alive by his own inaction.

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The Curse Knight advanced, each step an act of desecration. The air grew thick and heavy, tasting of ozone and old graves. The students on the lawn were succumbing rapidly to the curse's debilitating effect. Their limbs felt like lead, their minds filled with a creeping, irrational despair. Master Horatio, his face beaded with sweat, maintained his weak protective ward, but it was like trying to stop a flood with a teacup. He was a scholar of theory, not a battlemage, and he was hopelessly out of his depth.

“Stand back, you fiend!” the old professor managed to shout, his voice trembling but defiant. He positioned himself between the knight and his cowering students, a frail, white-bearded shield against an encroaching nightmare. “This is sacred ground! You have no right!”

The Curse Knight didn’t even deign to look at him. His focus was absolute, a predator’s unwavering gaze locked on the fallen form of Airin. He raised a gauntleted hand, and a tendril of purple-black energy, a whip of pure curse magic, lashed out. It didn’t strike Horatio; it simply brushed against his warding spell. The fragile shield of light shattered with a sound like breaking glass, and the old professor was thrown backward, collapsing in a heap, his staff clattering to the ground. He was not seriously injured, but his spirit was broken, the magical backlash leaving him gasping and powerless.

With the final obstacle removed, the knight continued his slow, inexorable march toward Airin. The sheer, overwhelming terror of the moment had frozen her in place. She could only watch, her heart hammering against her ribs, as the embodiment of her worst fears drew closer.

Lloyd, watching from his window, felt his control slipping. The cold, calculating Major General was being consumed by a white-hot, protective rage. Move, his instincts screamed. Intervene. Annihilate. But the strategist held him in check. Not yet. Revealing your hand too early is a fatal mistake. Wait for the board to shift.

And then, the board shifted.

A new sound cut through the air, sharp and clear as a trumpet call. “For the Lion and the Light!”

From the archways of the main Academy building, they appeared. A flash of silver and gold, a vision of disciplined, righteous fury. At the head of the formation was a figure who moved with the grace of a panther and the authority of a queen. Princess Isabella, her face a mask of cold, regal rage, her silver-gilt cadet-officer’s uniform gleaming in the sun, her hand already on the hilt of her sword.

Behind her, a dozen members of the Royal Lion Guard fanned out, their movements a testament to years of brutal, elite training. They were the Princess’s own, the well trained warriors in the kingdom, and their presence was a statement. They formed a living wall of polished steel and unwavering resolve between the Curse Knight and the terrified students.

“Altamiran dog,” Isabella’s voice was low, but it dripped with glacial contempt. “You have made a grave error. This Academy is under the protection of the Crown. These students are subjects of the King. And that young woman,” she said, her eyes flashing as she gestured toward Airin, “is my scholar. You will take not one more step.”

The Curse Knight finally stopped. He turned his helmeted head slowly, as if noticing the princess and her retinue for the first time. A low, rumbling chuckle echoed from within the helm, a sound that grated on the nerves like grinding stone.

“The little lioness comes to protect her pet,” the knight mocked. “Your courage is admirable, Princess. And utterly pointless.”

Isabella’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. She drew her sword, a magnificent blade that hummed with latent power. “You will find the teeth of the Bethelham lion are far from pointless. Captain Eva!”

“Your Highness!” A tall, powerfully built woman with a severe expression and a captain’s insignia on her armor stepped forward. Captain Eva of the Lion Guard, a warrior whose reputation was almost as formidable as the princess’s own.

“Secure the students. Get them clear,” Isabella commanded without taking her eyes off the knight. “The rest of you, with me. We will teach this cur the price of trespassing in the lion’s den.”

“Yes, Your Highness!” the guards roared in unison.

Chapter : 630

The battle began. The Lion Guard moved as one, a wave of disciplined steel charging across the lawn. Their blades, empowered by their own spirit energy, glowed with a soft, golden light. They were a righteous host, a force of order against the knight’s encroaching chaos.

Their charge was magnificent. It was also utterly futile.

As the first guards reached the knight, they swung their swords in powerful, synchronized arcs. Their blades did not clang against his armor. They passed through a shimmering, almost invisible field of dark energy that surrounded him. The curse aura acted as a perfect, intangible shield, deflecting their physical attacks while simultaneously sapping their strength.

With every failed blow, the guards grew visibly slower. The golden light on their blades flickered and dimmed. The curse was like a poison, seeping into their very spirits, turning their strength to weakness, their resolve to doubt. The knight didn't even bother to counter-attack. He simply stood there, a bastion of darkness, letting his malevolent aura do the work for him. He was a fortress, and they were waves crashing uselessly against his walls.

Isabella watched, her fury mounting as she saw her elite guards being worn down, their power draining away with every passing second. This wasn’t a battle. It was a slow, agonizing execution. She knew then that conventional tactics would fail. This was a foe that could not be beaten by steel alone. Gripping her sword tighter, she prepared to enter the fray herself, ready to pit her own considerable power against the suffocating darkness of the Curse Knight.

Princess Isabella was a storm of silver and gold. She moved with a speed and ferocity that belied her royal station, her blade a blur of light as she wove through her flagging guards and engaged the Curse Knight directly. Her personal spirit, a fierce and noble creature of light and power, roared within her, pushing back against the encroaching curse with sheer, indomitable will.

“Your aura is a coward’s weapon!” she snarled, her sword striking the knight’s dark shield with a percussive blast of energy. Unlike her guards, her attack had an effect. The dark shield buckled, and the knight was forced to take a step back.

For a moment, hope flared. The remaining students, who were being herded to safety by Captain Eva, watched with wide eyes. Perhaps the princess, their indomitable leader, could turn the tide.

The Curse Knight let out another of his grating chuckles. “A strong will. The King’s blood runs true. But even the fiercest flame must eventually run out of air.”

He began to fight in earnest. His movements were economical, precise, and brutally effective. He didn't use flashy techniques; he used the curse as his primary weapon. With every parry, a wave of debilitating magic washed over Isabella. Her armor, which should have felt like a second skin, began to feel like a leaden weight. Every swing of her sword required more effort than the last. The air itself felt thick, resisting her movements, a swamp of invisible malice she was forced to wade through.

Lloyd watched the duel from above, his analytical mind dissecting the fight with cold precision. The knight isn't just projecting a static aura, he realized. He's actively manipulating it, focusing it on his primary target. It's a psychic and spiritual attrition. He’s not trying to overpower her; he’s trying to suffocate her spirit.

Isabella was a lioness, fighting with all the pride and fury of her lineage. She roared her defiance, her spirit flaring brightly, pushing back the darkness with a sheer force of will that was nothing short of heroic. She landed another blow, scoring a deep gash across the knight’s breastplate. But the victory was hollow. The effort it took cost her dearly, and she stumbled back, gasping for breath, her face pale.

The knight, in contrast, seemed tireless. The curse was his native element. The gash on his armor sealed itself with tendrils of purple shadow. He was an engine of despair, and his fuel was limitless.

“You see, Princess?” the knight taunted, his voice a low drawl. “Your strength is a candle. Mine is the abyss. You can only burn for so long before you are consumed.”

The tide of the battle turned decisively. The knight went on the offensive. His own blade, a wicked-looking sword of black, serrated steel, became a blur. It was no longer just deflecting; it was attacking. Isabella was forced into a desperate defense, her movements growing slower, her parries weaker. The curse was winning. Her spirit, which had burned so brightly, was now a flickering flame, guttering in the suffocating darkness.