School Transmigration: I, Chosen as the Saint by Dragons at the Start-Chapter 230 --Memories

"That’s quite the compliment," Kistan managed a bitter smile, feeling his body beginning to numb.

The orc leader approached Kistan, picked up the heavy sword, and pressed it against Kistan’s left shoulder, saying, "For this honor, I shall personally see you off."

With those words, he thrust the sword through Kistan’s chest.

Kistan slumped against the orc leader, uttering something.

Owen caught the words "city walls."

"Ah, your people are still resisting; you haven’t lost yet." The orc leader withdrew the sword.

Kistan’s eyes quickly dimmed of life.

The orc leader gently laid him down on the ground and bowed in respect.

Owen also bowed, honoring Kistan’s spirit of sacrificing everything to protect what was behind him.

After bowing, Owen looked up to find his surroundings had instantaneously changed.

Now, he was at the northern part of the great city, right before the city walls.

He heard someone speaking on the walls.

"Saint, the western wall has been taken, and our left flank is now engaging the enemy in close combat."

The speaker, identifiable as an adjutant by his attire, was covered in blood, his sword-holding hand trembling.

His commander ordered, "Understood, prepare to open the city."

Despite the cacophony of the battlefield, Owen found the commander’s voice eerily familiar.

He floated towards the commander’s front to see his face.

"This! You are...me?"

Suddenly, Owen was struck by an intense headache, dropping the Ice Sword as he clutched his head.

"Aaah!"

When he came to, he found himself back in the magic tower, crouching on the ground, gasping for breath.

He struggled to his feet, seeing Kistan before him with the Ice Sword embedded in his chest, indicating that Owen had won the final strike.

"Do you understand now?" Kistan suddenly spoke, "Go on, up another level, someone is waiting for you."

Owen, taken aback, watched as Kistan began to fade away like the guardian on the fifth floor, and in his final moments, Owen saw Kistan smile.

Owen lingered on the sixth level for a long time before he could partially organize his tumultuous thoughts.

On his journey towards the magic tower, he had begun to recall memories that seemed to belong to a past life.

Seated on the ground, Owen concentrated all his attention and let his arcanergy circulate around his body, attempting to retrieve his lost memories.

After dozens of circuits of arcanergy across his forehead, Owen felt a strange sensation between his eyes.

Closing them, he was met with a blinding white light, and after the light faded, he heard his own voice, "Betrayal? I seem to recall killing one or two high-ranking traitors."

When had he said that?

The thought pierced Owen’s heart like a needle.

He opened his eyes.

"Hmph, have you ever seen the true face of the faceless? Would you like to witness it now?" Owen found his own lips moving.

"No, no, that’s not necessary, please follow me." The color drained from the face of the person in front of him.

Where am I?

Who is this person?

Owen strained his thoughts, and suddenly, it was as if a current shot through his brain.

I am in Mingate.

I am Owen.

Owen’s heart pounded fiercely as he finally remembered his identity.

Owen observed the person leading the way, recalling his name to be Miguel, the Prime Minister of the Snow Kingdom.

Having seen much of the world, Owen trusted that Miguel was well aware of the faceless’ tendency to reveal their true faces as a precursor to lethal intent, thus he used this knowledge as a veiled threat.

Clearly intimidated, Miguel had fallen into Owen’s trap.

Before leading Owen to the main hall, Miguel handed him a vial.

Owen couldn’t remember how the vial came into his possession, but he was familiar with the events that unfolded thereafter.

Now certain he was reliving his memories, he attempted to break free from them but to no avail despite his efforts.

He once again experienced the assassination of the snow king within the Snow Kingdom’s palace.

As he was trapped within the physicality of his own recollections, the experience felt unnervingly real.

He disregarded the nearly one hundred royal guards flanking the main hall, focusing solely on the figure standing before the throne, back turned towards him.

Such a gaze, even now, felt overwhelmingly powerful.

Approaching within about ten meters, he waited for Miguel to bow to the figure atop the dais.

"My king, an envoy from the demon army seeks audience."

As Miguel finished speaking and the figure began to turn, that was the moment Owen struck him down with a single move.

The severed head rolled to a stop in front of Miguel, who froze in shock.

Before Miguel could utter another word, Owen ended his life with one swift sword stroke, his expression pitiable even in retrospect.

Owen broke out towards the palace exit, overturning royal guards in his path.

He remembered clearly that he had restrained himself; otherwise, few of them would have survived.

Exiting the main hall, Owen retraced his steps back through the palace gates.

The number of guards he encountered along the way was surprisingly few, a detail Owen still couldn’t fully comprehend to this day.

In a short while, Owen made his way to the palace gate.

Hundreds of guards were arrayed at the entrance, poised for battle.

Owen knew it was time for Blight to make his appearance.

He remembered Blight as the Snow Kingdom’s third centurion, a decent man in his recollection.

Although his consciousness was aware there would be no more combat, his body braced for a decisive battle.

Blight let him pass.

Stepping outside, Owen was suddenly thrust back to the present.

Feeling slightly dizzy, he slowly rose to his feet, now vaguely recalling his identity.

Yet, many details and individuals remained elusive or only half-remembered.

For instance, he knew the snow king assassinated was merely a double, but he couldn’t recall who had informed him of this.

With many such fragments of memory, Owen believed he must continue forward to find answers.

Thus, he ascended to the seventh level.

Awaiting him was a formidable military figure.

"Who are you?"

Owen searched his memory, certain he had seen this man before but unable to place him.

"Never mind who I am for now," the seventh level’s guardian— the military figure—responded, "Look at the sword before you."

Owen saw an ironblade planted in the ground at the center and replied, "It appears to be an ordinary iron sword, yet it exudes a sense of solemnity."

"This is The Last Ironblade."

"The Last Ironblade?"

"I have driven this sword into the ground with all my strength."

The military figure locked eyes with Owen, "If you can remove it from the ground, it will prove your strength surpasses mine, and I will acknowledge you and let you pass."

"Alright."

Owen approached the center, placing his Ice Sword on the ground and grasping The Last Ironblade with both hands, pulling upwards with all his might.

The ironblade remained immovable.

Channeling his body’s arcanergy towards his hands, he exerted force again, yet the ironblade was steadfast in the ground.

"This sword," the guardian began, "to pull it out, you must exert a force slightly greater than what was used to drive it into the ground. Even a marginally greater force would suffice to remove it smoothly. However, if your strength falls even slightly short, the sword won’t budge."

Hearing this, Owen paused.

He recalled that, according to the magic tower’s enchantments, his strength was equal to that of the military figure at this moment.

In other words, he was lacking just that almost imperceptible bit of strength, ensuring he couldn’t remove the sword.

He thought the magic tower seemed like a tower of perverse trials, always equalizing the challenger’s and guardian’s strengths, making each battle fiercer and more perilous, subjecting the participants to extreme duress.

Whoever built this magic tower must have had a penchant for mischief. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

With these thoughts, Owen picked up his Ice Sword, concentrated his arcanergy with both hands as if using all his remaining strength, and drove the Ice Sword into the ground as well.

Then, with a mischievous grin, he said to the military figure, "My sword is now the same as yours.

If you can pull it out, I’ll also acknowledge your strength surpasses mine."

"Ha, don’t joke," the military figure responded, "The Ice Sword doesn’t have that feature."

"You’re familiar with the Ice Sword?"

Owen asked, watching the military figure guardian, who summoned a portion of his arcanergy, grasped the hilt with one hand, and pulled upwards with effort.

Just then, Owen suddenly grasped the military figure’s hand that was holding the sword hilt and, using all his strength, jerked the sword out of the ground.

"What are you doing?" the military figure nearly stumbled, asking somewhat displeased.

"Nothing much." Owen chuckled mischievously, "Just making The Last Ironblade leave the ground, that’s all."

"Hm?"

The military figure peered closer, realizing the sword Owen had extracted was indeed The Last Ironblade.

He had an epiphany: "You little trickster, you used an illusion to swap the appearances of the two swords!"

"Exactly."

"But this shouldn’t count as you pulling it out, should it? After all, my hand was on it."

Owen grinned, "Maybe it doesn’t count. But I did make the ironblade ’leave the ground’ as you said, didn’t I?"

"Ha ha ha, this really caught me off guard," the military figure laughed, "A bet’s a bet, you may proceed."

Owen lifted his Ice Sword, nodded in acknowledgment, and turned to ascend to the eighth level.

Just as he stepped onto the first stair, something dawned on him.

He turned around and shouted, "Lord of Ironblade City, Lord Dawson!"

However, the so-called "Lord Dawson" had vanished, along with The Last Ironblade, disappearing without a trace.