It was a dark night.
The moon did not shine upon the Silvermoon Mansion.
It felt as though the moon itself knew something was terribly wrong, for even the stars were hidden behind thick clouds.
Blood.
Blood was all that could be seen on the floor of the master chamber.
This was the private chamber of the head of House Silvermoon and his wife.
It was meant to be a place of peace and comfort, yet the air was heavy with betrayal.
Duke Darren Silvermoon—a name known to all races.
He was the man who had single-handedly raised House Silvermoon from a baronial house to a ducal one.
Just, passionate, and deeply loved by the people of Silver City, he was known by many titles: the Holy Knight of Justice, the Knight of Knights, the Silver Rider.
To his people, he was hope.
To those beyond his dukedom, he was fear.
While his people praised him with glorious titles, his enemies knew him by another name—the Bloody Silver Knight.
But no matter how good a man may be, no matter how fiercely he fights to protect what is his, there will always be those who wish for his downfall, especially those closest to him.
It was no secret that the households under House Silvermoon opposed him.
They plotted against him at every turn.
To survive, Darren had learned to become cunning, unpredictable, and decisive.
Yet the act that truly made him an enemy of all races had occurred only ten years earlier, when he extended his protection to monsters.
The monster race was viewed as lesser, unfit to be anything more.
They were used as slaves by the so-called superior races.
Humans used them for labor.
Elves used them to test potions and medicines.
Dwarves forced them into dangerous mines.
Beastkin hunted them for sport.
Demons abused them without restraint.
And in return, they received only scraps.
This had been the way of the world for generations.
While the other races prospered economically and militarily, the monsters steadily declined.
That was until Darren changed everything.
He gave monsters opportunity, structure, and dignity, allowing them to prove their worth.
Yet instead of praise, he was mocked.
Nobles claimed he had lost his mind.
Commoners whispered that he had been bewitched.
Still, he persevered.
Within ten years, the Silvermoon Dukedom generated more revenue than it had in the previous twenty.
Darren believed this success was due to the unwavering support of his younger brother and, above all else, his wife, whom he loved with all his heart.
But on this night, the people he trusted most betrayed him.
He had just returned from battle, gravely injured, and had chosen to wash himself before the summoned bishop arrived.
The moment he stepped out of the bath, his brother attacked.
The shock of the betrayal made him momentarily forget his injuries as he instinctively defended himself.
As a Level 154 Momentum Holy Knight, Darren possessed limited healing abilities, though healing had never been his specialty.
His recovery skills were only superficial.
His brother, Jark, was a Level 137 Magic Swordsman armed with a legendary-grade sword.
Darren was unarmed.
Unprepared.
Wounded.
He managed to deflect the blade by striking its flat side with his palm.
Even so, the sword’s tip grazed his shoulder, drawing blood.
Despite everything, he fought back with his bare hands, confusion etched across his face.
The killing intent radiating from Jark’s every strike finally shook him from his stupor.
“What is the meaning of this, Jark?” he demanded.
The only response was another thrust aimed directly at his heart.
His expression darkened as qi surged through his body, allowing him to sidestep the attack.
“What has gotten into you?”
No response.
The sword came again and again.
Darren desperately tried to question his brother, but all he received was silence and relentless, murderous attacks.
He began to wonder if Jark was under someone’s control.
Thinking this, he decided to capture him rather than kill him.
With his decision made, Darren finally went on the offensive.
The bracelet on his right wrist flashed.
A full suit of silver armor materialized around him.
At the same time, he began applying his Concept of Momentum.
Until now, Darren had merely been neutralizing the force behind Jark’s attacks.
But now, every strike that met his right hand had its momentum redirected into his left.
The force accumulated and merged with his own power before being unleashed.
The process repeated endlessly.
Each attack strengthened the next.
The room had been built from rare-grade materials and protected by a legendary-grade rune formation crafted by Darren himself.
Yet cracks now spread across the walls under the pressure of the concept he wielded.
Every blow led to a stronger one.
Every exchange forced Jark farther into a corner.
Slowly, Darren wore him down.
His punches grew heavier while Jark’s movements became sluggish with exhaustion.
Eventually, Darren forced an opening and capitalized on it, inflicting severe injuries upon his brother.
Just as he was about to subdue him—
A blade pierced his back.
Through his rare-grade armor.
Through his heart.
And out through his chest.
At the Demigod Realm, it was nearly impossible for anyone to approach him from behind without being detected.
And yet—
He had sensed nothing.
Then he looked down and saw it.
Covered in blood or not, he would recognize that knife anywhere.
Without needing to turn around, Darren spoke in a hoarse voice, blood staining his teeth.
“Why?”
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