I stood there, transfixed by the sight of the undead knight's shattered suit of armor, strewn across the ground like a macabre work of art. His decapitated head lay a considerable distance away, severed from his body by the sheer force of my final strike. The room in which our battle had unfolded now lay in ruins, its walls marred with cracks and its floor littered with debris, serving as a testament to the relentless clash that had transpired.

As weariness washed over me, a heavy sigh escaped my lips. This confrontation had proven far more arduous than I had initially envisioned. Facing the unwavering resilience of an undead warrior alone would have been a formidable challenge, yet the presence of a Sword King, endowed with unparalleled skill, elevated the struggle to an entirely new level. With each hard-fought victory, I could discern a gradual ascent in the undead knight's power. His mastery of the blade became more refined, his weapon honed to an exquisite sharpness, and his movements imbued with graceful fluency.

Were it not for my own proficiency in the art of combat, I doubted I would have emerged triumphant. Though, my expertise did not lie solely in swordplay; I possessed a formidable advantage of a different nature. I commanded the forces of a divine element, capable of overwhelming my adversary with a single devastating Holy Attack, reducing the entire dungeon to naught, as the Hero has done.

However, my purpose extended beyond the mere defeat of Rython; I aimed to recruit him. Thus, I had chosen to painstakingly chip away at his undead form, strike by strike. Each blow I delivered infused a minute trace of divine energy into his being. Under normal circumstances, such an infusion would have seared his undead flesh, as Divine mana acted as a poisonous bane to creatures of his ilk. Yet, through careful precision and immaculate timing, poison could metamorphose into the most potent remedy.

Divine mana possessed a singular and scarce attribute—it held the power to directly influence the essence of souls. The rarity of such a quality became even more pronounced when one considered the limited number of elements capable of mending souls without inducing any detrimental repercussions—only three, to be precise, a fact I had come to learn through traversing countless realms.

In theory, I held hope that I could cleanse Rython's soul in this manner, though the concept remained untested. Few, if any, priests of sound mind would dare venture into such uncharted territory, especially when it concerned an undead entity. Reasons abound, ranging from ignorance of the concept to the fear of committing blasphemy, or the most common reason they simply lack the necessary expertise.

I, however, faced none of these hindrances. Thus, I resolved to embark on this audacious endeavor. With meticulous precision, I methodically stripped away the cloak of undead mana that enshrouded Rython's soul, gingerly severing the tendrils of darkness that threatened to corrupt its core. This delicate and demanding process was akin to surgically excising the very notion of "undead" from a creature of such nature.

To be exact, it took a staggering 229 incisions, each one tantamount to engaging in a fierce duel with a Sword King. With each subsequent clash, Rython grew stronger and stronger, amplifying the difficulty of my mission. Yet, against all odds, it was done.

I approached the severed head of the Undead knight, its Helm adorned with an exquisitely detailed design, and took a seat beside it.

"Now, onto the next step," I placed my hand on the helm, manipulating the divine mana into delicate threads that intertwined with the helm like an intricate spider's web. I shifted my perception by closing off my other senses, intensifying my focus on the sensations emanating from the mana threads. "I hope this works out"

With a solemn tone, I chanted, "Atrium Memento."

*****

It was the throne room, a stark contrast to its current ruined state. Instead, I found myself in a mirage of its former glory—a lavish and opulent chamber adorned with intricate carvings, exquisite tapestries, and shimmering chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow. The faint scent of incense hung in the air, adding to the mystical ambiance that enveloped the room.

In the heart of this resplendent space stood the Undead Knight, a figure cloaked in darkness and foreboding. Clad in black armor, he stood out amidst the grandeur that surrounded him.

As I approached, our gazes locked onto the Golden throne, both drawn to its commanding presence.

"What is this place?" he inquired, his eyes still fixed on the throne. His voice echoed through the air, reminiscent of air blowing out of a metal pipe—rough, yet discernible.

"This is a space inside your subconscious, created with the memories that were extracted using mana," I explained. "It was a method developed by an acquaintance for memory extraction, and I've made modifications to it,"

I modified it into a trap that can imprison one's mind, but I decided to leave that out

The Knight nodded, his eyes gleaming with an understanding as if appreciating the intricate layers of the technique. "So, all this resplendence is a manifestation of my own memory," he mused, "I remember" his voice tinged with a touch of awe. "Truly an ingenious concept, deserving recognition from someone of Archmage caliber."

"Indeed, it is remarkable," I agreed, my voice tinged with a hint of irony "except for the fact this skill was developed by him to extract information from me in the first place" I confessed. 

The Knight turned to face me fully, his gaze piercing. His curiosity was evident as he delved into the depths of my confession. "A betrayal," he stated, more as an observation than a question

I nodded, the memories of that betrayal resurfacing.

The Knight's brow furrowed, his mind piecing together the fragments of our conversation. "But I assume he failed in his attempt," he speculated. 

I shook my head. "Quite the contrary. He succeeded, perhaps too well. My memories overwhelmed him, driving him to madness and depression, ultimately he took his own life," I revealed. Turning to the knight, I added, "My memories are not exactly adorned with pleasant hues"

A pregnant silence enveloped us as we locked eyes, the weight of the moment hanging heavily in the air. After a lingering minute, I glanced around and broke the silence, remarking, "So, this is your throne room?"

His response came as a hushed murmur, barely audible as if carried on the wings of a whispered secret, "Never mine."

Suddenly, human figures materialized before us, moving like puppets without sparing us a single glance. We were witnessing a memory that belonged to him.

"I was destined to be anything but a king," he breathed, the longing in his voice echoing like a symphony. "All my existence, I yearned for naught but the knighthood, to wield my sword in noble purpose... and to safeguard her."

The memory shifted, transporting us to a breathtaking garden adorned with countless vibrant red roses. At its center stood a captivating woman with blue hair, her exquisite dress crafted from the finest materials and adorned with intricate designs. Before her knelt a knight in gleaming silver armor. His flowing hair danced in the wind, and his eyes sparkled with youthful vitality.

"There was something between us," he murmured, our eyes observed them. The lady raised her hands, tenderly caressing the knight's cheeks, her eyes filled with affection. "But I was a Knight, and she was the daughter of my Lord. I felt it would be a betrayal of trust, so I tried to deny what we had."

With measured steps, the knight turned his back on the princess, the embodiment of noble sacrifice, leaving behind a tempest of sorrow and despair in her wake.

"In my attempt to keep my distance, I became oblivious to the darkness that was festering within her. And when I finally realized it, it was too late," he confessed, remorse tinged his words.

The memories shifted once more, this time to a place consumed by flames. The air resounded with the sounds of battle, filled with cries of horror and screams of agony. Knights clad in armor clashed with skeletal soldiers, while others either attempted to escape or met their demise.

Within the desolate chamber of sovereignty, the princess, previously bathed in ethereal beauty, lay upon a blood-stained tapestry. Beside her, Rython, his body bruised and battered, cradled her outstretched arms. 

"All of this is because of me... I'm responsible," the princess uttered amidst sobs and painful groans.

Rython, his eyes filled with concern, sought to console her in her anguish. "Please, my lady, do not burden yourself with guilt. It is not your fault. The blame rests solely upon my shoulders. If only I had been more vigilant... if only..." His voice trailed off, the weight of his own remorse hanging heavily in the air.

The princess locked eyes with her beloved, her gaze filled with a potent mix of love, gratitude, and turmoil. She was on the verge of speaking when, in the depths of the throne room, a dark portal materialized, its ominous presence sending shivers down their spines. Her eyes widened, brimming with a palpable sense of dread.

"No... do not let them escape. They bring destruction... do not let them out," she urgently pleaded, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and desperation as she pointed a trembling finger toward the ominous gateway. Rython swiftly turned his head, his gaze fixated upon the chilling sight that had unveiled itself before them.

Squeezing the princess's arms gently, Rython mustered unwavering determination in his voice. "My lady. I give you my solemn word that none of these heathens shall lay eyes upon the light of day. I will be the unwavering sentinel of this sacred place, protecting it with every fiber of my being." His words were infused with a resolute conviction. "So please do not worry"

The princess's trembling subsided slightly as she absorbed Rython's vow, finding solace in his unwavering determination. A flicker of hope danced in her eyes, momentarily overshadowing the fear that had consumed her. She nodded, tears streaming down her face, mingling with the pain etched upon her features. She weakly reached out a hand towards Rython, her voice barely a whisper. "Rython... I am sorry… I am sorry for disappointing you"

Rython's heart sank as he witnessed the princess's fading strength, "No, I disappointed you, I am the one who should apologize… for being a coward, I am sorry Cathy"

The princess offered him a weak but loving smile. Her voice was barely audible as she whispered her final words, "That's... the first time... you say... my name."

In his grasp, the princess's hand grew limp, Rython knew she had departed from this world. Grief-stricken, he cradled her lifeless form, pressing a gentle kiss upon her forehead. A single teardrop flowed freely down his face as he whispered his final farewell.

With a heavy heart, Rython gently laid the princess back upon the blood-stained tapestry, her ethereal beauty now forever frozen in time. He rose to his feet, his resolve strengthened by her final words. Stepping away from her lifeless form, he turned toward the dark portal,

Rython's swords erupted in a blaze of incandescent Crimson flames, forging an embodiment of his seething fury. With a thunderous roar, he unleashed a cataclysmic swing, unleashing an arc of annihilation that cleaved through the air with unyielding force. The Vanguard, their bodies barely materialized from the accursed portal, were instantly reduced to ethereal shards, obliterated by the merciless impact.

A symphony of devastation unfolded as the sword king waded into the midst of the undead horde. Skeleton soldiers, once bony pillars of animus, crumbled beneath the relentless assault, their brittle remains reduced to a swirling maelstrom of pulverized bone. The indomitable head of the Dullahan, its grotesque visage defying death, met its ultimate fate as Rython's strike shattered it into a macabre mosaic of twisted metal and splintered bone.

The banshees, their mournful wails resonating through the air, were silenced even as their spectral forms were rent asunder, severed into spectral ribbons that dissipated into the ethereal abyss. One by one, the undead minions succumbed to the inexorable dance of steel, their twisted existence extinguished in a merciless symphony of cleaving blows. The very fabric of the undead army unraveled before the wrath of the sword king, their feeble resistance crumbling under his relentless assault.

In the wake of his unyielding onslaught, a wasteland of shattered bones and dissipating ectoplasm bore witness to the insurmountable power and unchained wrath of Rython. The oppressive shadow of the dark portal, once a harbinger of doom, stood impotent and devoid of life, its purpose thwarted by the indomitable might of the sword king.

Amidst the stillness that followed, Rython stood, his swords flickering with fading Crimson flames, a solitary figure bathed in the aftermath of his righteous fury. 

That was where the memory ended,