It might sound absurd for a single person to determine the fate of a nation. But Winston Light, the Silvermoon Knight, was worthy of such an honor.

Everyone knew that Winston Light was the strongest paladin, without exception.

Even Arthur Lyon, the empire's founding emperor, likely could not match him if the historical records were to be believed.

Yet unlike many prodigies, Winston Light only became a legendary warrior at the age of seventy-eight.

Compared to those paladins who reached the legendary realm in their forties or fifties, his talent seemed far more ordinary, and his earlier battle records were hardly remarkable.

But from the moment he ascended, Winston Light had elevated the very meaning of "legend" to almost unbelievable heights.

He once slew a lich, together with its phylactery, in a single strike. That feat alone shocked the whole of the Lyon Empire. The emperor personally granted him the title Silvermoon Knight, an honorary title that stood above all noble ranks.

The holy light he wielded appeared plain and unremarkable, yet its purity surpassed that of anyone else's. It was almost like a miracle cast by a god.

His Sacred Slash had long since evolved beyond its original form into something incomprehensibly powerful.

He was not particularly skilled at commanding armies, and neither was he adept at political intrigue. But as long as he remained on the battlefield, a single stroke of his sword could change the course of a war.

Winston Light was the undefeated legend of the Lyon Empire. No evil had ever withstood the edge of his blade.

But even the legend among legends had finally reached the end of his strength.

Inside Tusk City, a group of paladins waited anxiously outside a door. Inside the room was old Winston Light himself, now over one hundred and fifty years old.

He lay on the bed, his complexion waxen.

No matter how much life force the priests poured into him, they could barely keep his breathing.

The human body was fragile. Even someone who had lived in comfort would struggle to reach one hundred and fifty years of age, let alone a man who had spent half his life on the battlefield. Time had left him not only with wrinkles, but with scars from tens of thousands of battles.

He was like an old cloth sack that had been patched and stitched for years. Now even the original fabric had worn thin and transparent. One gentle tug would tear it to pieces.

A priest who had just finished casting a spell shook his head at Allen Watson, who stood beside the bed.

Grief spread across Allen's face.

The old man lying on the bed was not merely the empire's hero, but also Allen's teacher.

Though Winston Light had never formally acknowledged their relationship, he had spared nothing in guiding this young man. He had even staked his own reputation on the line to help Allen become the commander of a city. And he had taught him every bit of his combat experience.

During the invasion into the Orc Kingdom, Winston Light had overruled countless objections to keep the disgraced Allen by his side.

And Allen had worked hard to prove himself. In an earlier battle, he had personally held off a legendary orc. Though several holes had pierced through his body, he still managed to restrain the stealth-specialized opponent for two full minutes until other paladins arrived to help.

After recovering from his injuries, Allen had finally stepped into the legendary realm himself.

He had just turned twenty. Overnight, he had become the youngest legendary paladin in the history of the Lyon Empire.

He had been overjoyed and eager to share the news with his mentor, but Winston Light had collapsed in the aftermath of that same battle. The old warrior who had been invincible on the battlefield had fainted before Allen's eyes. Startled, Allen rushed him to receive treatment—but the result was heartbreaking.

There was no saving him. Allen did not know what to do. Though he had not known Winston Light for long, he already regarded him as a father figure.

And now, after but a short time together, they were about to part forever. Even knowing that his teacher would surely enter the divine kingdom of the Lord of Dawn, Allen still felt his eyes redden.

Just as his tears were about to spill over, the old man on the bed suddenly chuckled.

"Heh… what are you crying for? I'm not dead yet."

Allen, startled, hurriedly looked at Winston Light.

The waxy pallor on his face had suddenly turned rosy, as if his vitality had returned. But Allen understood all too well that this could only be temporary. His mentor was about to die. Perhaps only a few minutes remained, or even mere seconds.

Allen wanted to reassure him, but the words caught in his throat. "Master, I…"

In the end, he could not hold back his tears.

Winston Light comforted him. "Alright, then. If you want to cry, then cry. There's no one else here anyway. But don't just cry: I have a few things to tell you."

Allen quickly wiped his eyes. "Please pass on your commands, Master."

"They're not commands, just… Forget it. Do you know why I never formally accepted you as my disciple?"

"Because you didn't want me to feel too much pressure."

Winston Light nodded. "That's right. No matter what others think, if you're not my disciple, you don't have to carry my burdens. Perhaps… you might live longer that way."

Over the course of his life, Winston Light had taken many disciples. Every one of them had been a prodigy of the empire, brilliant young talents one and all. None of them had ever disappointed him. All had become heroes of the empire.

Unfortunately, the title of "disciple of the Silvermoon Knight" was far too heavy a burden.

As the Silvermoon Knight's disciple, shouldn't you be ten times stronger than others? If you cannot turn the tide of battle, what right do you have to claim that title?

No one would say such things aloud, but everyone thought them in their heads, including the disciples themselves.

They could never allow themselves to be ordinary, but the dangers of the battlefield did not grant mercy simply because of a name or a title. Every one of Winston Light's disciples had died in battle, some right before his eyes.

He regretted what he had done deeply. He should never have placed such pressure upon young people who were not yet ready to bear it.

Allen was like those former disciples. He certainly possessed extraordinary talent of his own. But he was still young and inexperienced. That was why he had been defeated again and again by that lich. It wasn't his fault. Even Winston Light himself had once been tricked by that same lich. He was an incredibly cunning creature. The empire should have placed him at the very top of its wanted list, not removed his name entirely.

In the final days of his life, Winston Light had taught Allen all he knew. But he had never given him the title of "disciple." Instead, he had kept him only as a "servant."

That way, Allen would not have to bear the weight of the Silvermoon Knight's name.

He wanted the young man to walk his own path. Perhaps one day he would become the Sun Knight, another great hero of the empire.

Winston Light had worried that Allen might misunderstand his intentions, and had wanted to explain himself before his death. Yet the young man before him proved wiser and steadier than he had imagined. He already understood the old man's true intentions.

There was nothing left to worry about.

"Allen, I'll give you three final pieces of advice. You must take them to heart."

"Of course, Master! I won't forget your instruction even on my deathbed!"

Winston Light spoke solemnly. "First: never show mercy to your enemies. That is merely cruelty to yourself."

Allen nodded firmly. "I understand. When my blade falls, it will never hesitate."

Winston Light nodded and continued. "Second: learn to recognize your enemies. Undead aren't the only evil in this world. There are many hidden sins within the empire itself. Do not remain blinded."

Allen's eyes widened in surprise. "Evil within the empire?"

Allen's father was the empire's High Inquisitor, effectively the highest judge in the land. If there truly were hidden crimes within the empire, then his father would either be guilty of negligence—or complicit.

But Winston Light did not elaborate. He continued, "Third: what we believe in is the Lord of Dawn, the embodiment of light and justice, not words written in books, and not doctrines memorized since childhood. If you are ever struck by indecision, remember that."

Allen frowned. Something seemed very off.

Had his master gone muddled in his final moments?

Sadly, Allen would never have the chance to ask. After speaking his last, Winston Light closed his eyes. His heartbeat weakened rapidly. His life had finally come to its end.

Allen hurriedly called the priests into the room. They rushed about, casting one divine spell after another on Winston Light.

Even though they knew it was meaningless, they still had to appear diligent.

After all, this man was the empire's hero. If they did not try hard enough and word spread, someone would surely hold them accountable.

Winston Light's brows furrowed in pain.

Just how much suffering was he enduring at this moment?

Allen suddenly remembered the words his master had just spoken. Forcing an old man to remain alive, refusing to let him die peacefully, inflicting continuous suffering upon him… Was this truly justice?

Allen roared at the priests in anger. "Enough! Let my master go to the divine realm that awaits him! Stop torturing him!"

But no one paid attention to him.

Instead, another elderly paladin with white hair shouted sharply, "And who do you think you are to speak here? Get out, Allen Watson! What happens to my grandfather is none of your business!"

This paladin was none other than Anron Light, seventy years old and Winston Light's own grandson. He had long disliked Allen Watson. Why should his grandfather keep that outsider at his side while even his own grandson was denied such an honor?

Allen had no response. The moment Winston Light closed his eyes, Allen had become an outsider.

He looked once more at his master, still being "resuscitated," then turned and walked out of the room.

From that day onward, he would have to forge his own path.