Inside the magnificent Imperial Audience Hall, millions of tons of pure gold silence pressed down, suffocating. A colossal holy radiance suspended from the dome cast an immaculate white light, polishing the floor to a mirror-like, cold sheen. There was no dust here, no shadows, not even the sound of breathing, swallowed by an overly sacred oppressiveness, leaving only a chilling perfection.

Tristan knelt on one knee, his knee touching the icy ground. For a moment, he could feel the cold seeping into his bones through the gaps in his armor. He kept his head bowed, his gaze daring only to rest three inches in front of the immaculate bare feet before him.

"Tristan, my child."

The voice flowed down gently from above, like melted honey enveloping all sharpness. Michael sat on the throne, symbolizing supreme power. He leaned slightly forward, his long, brown curly hair cascading over his shoulders, and his emerald eyes were filled with a compassion and tenderness that could soften even the hardest rock. He looked so troubled, his brow furrowed slightly with worry, as if all the suffering of the world rested on his broad yet not particularly strong shoulders.

"You must be aware of the unfortunate changes in the Demon Realm," Michael sighed, his slender fingers gently tapping the armrest, not out of impatience, but a heavy hesitation. "The former Demon King Leviathan has fallen, and a new king has ascended... That is Asmodeus, a child who hasn't even learned to sheathe his claws yet. I do not wish to see war, and even less do I wish to see the innocent citizens of the chaotic world displaced due to the change in demonic power."

Tristan tightened his grip on his sword hilt, squeezing a low, firm voice from his throat: "For the glory of The Celestial Realm, for the protection of the weak, my sword is always at your service, my Lord."

Michael did not smile at this pledge of loyalty; instead, he shook his head with even greater worry. He raised his hand, gently caressing Tristan's golden hair in the air, the movement as soft as if soothing a restless young beast: "No, not for glory, but for order. Go to The Borderlands, see what this new king is doing. Observe him, ascertain whether his actions in The Borderlands pose a threat to humanity."

Here, Michael's voice paused. Into his normally spring-like, gentle tone, a subtle, almost imperceptible coldness, like a surgeon's scalpel cutting skin, quietly entered: "You know, Tristan, if a disease is just showing its first signs, the best treatment is often to... completely excise it before it spreads."

Tristan abruptly raised his head, meeting Michael's eyes, which were still full of compassion. There was no killing intent there, only the helplessness and sorrow of having to make sacrifices for the greater good. Yes, my Lord was always like this; for the peace of many, he would bear the burden of slaughter without hesitation. Tristan's pupils contracted slightly, then he nodded heavily, his golden armor clanking crisply: "As you wish, my Lord. If there is any anomaly, I shall pass judgment in the name of justice."

He rose and departed, the doors of the conference hall closing with a thud behind him, like a giant beast closing its mouth, locking all light and warmth within that unattainable world.

The air in The Borderlands was murky, filled with the stench of sulfur, dust, and decaying plants. The sky here was no longer a pure azure, but shrouded in a hazy mist, with an occasional crow cawing hoarsely as it flew over dead treetops.

Tristan stood atop a precipice, his golden hair disheveled by the wind, his blue eyes scanning the gloomy ruins below with hawk-like intensity. The intelligence was correct; a powerful and restless dark magic swirled there, the oppressive aura of a Demon King, so heavy it made breathing difficult.

His gaze pierced through layers of mist, settling on the center of the ruins.

A young man in a black robe stood with his back to Tristan – it was Asmodeus. Before him, a human girl sat trembling on the ground. In Asmodeus's hand, a viscous, ink-black shadow was coalescing, its dark magic writhing like living tentacles, rapidly approaching the helpless child.

It was pure darkness, undeniable evil.

Blood rushed to Tristan's brain in an instant. Without any thought, instincts honed by years of training drove his immediate reaction.

"Stop—!"

The furious roar was like a clap of thunder from a clear sky. With that shout, Tristan transformed into a golden streak of light, leaping from the precipice. His Holy Sword flashed from its sheath, its blade enveloped in dazzling holy light, like the first ray of dawn piercing the night, carrying an absolute and domineering resolve to tear through everything, aimed directly at Asmodeus's back.

This strike held nothing back, no hesitation; it was a perfect killing blow.

The black-robed man below reacted with extreme speed. Just as the sword tip was about to touch the hem of his robe, he spun around abruptly. The shadow that had been surging towards the girl instantly changed direction, solidifying into an indestructible black barrier before him.

"Boom!"

Light and darkness collided violently at that moment, the resulting shockwave scattering all the surrounding rubble and debris. The rising dust instantly engulfed the figures of the three.

"A sneak attack? Is this what you in The Celestial Realm call chivalry?" A lazy yet somewhat annoyed voice emerged from the dust.

Tristan paid no heed. Using the recoil, he deftly flipped in the air and landed, his sword tip touching the ground before he charged forward again. His swordsmanship was broad and sweeping, each strike accompanied by sacred light, the sound of the blade cutting through the air sharp as tearing silk.

Asmodeus appeared somewhat disheveled. He hadn't drawn his sword, nor had he even fully removed his hand from his pocket, merely continuously conjuring layers of defense with that strange dark magic before him. He was retreating, his steps seemingly haphazard, yet always managing to evade Tristan's deadly edge at the last possible second. His posture suggested less of a fight and more of a… delay.

"To aim such dangerous power at a child, do you even deserve to be called a King?" Tristan gritted his teeth, his eyes practically spitting fire. He despised such bullying of the weak; it violated everything he believed in regarding justice.

The Holy Sword in his hand blazed with light. Tristan decided not to prolong the engagement; he would use this strike to utterly end the new Demon King's wickedness.

A massive phantom of a light sword materialized in mid-air, descending with the majesty of judgment upon all things. If this strike landed, not only Asmodeus but even these ruins would be leveled.

However, just then, the little girl, who Asmodeus had been protecting, suddenly shrieked. Instead of fleeing, she rushed out recklessly, spreading her arms, thin as two twigs, and stood in front of Asmodeus.

"No! Don't hurt Brother As!"

Her voice was childish, shrill, and cracked from extreme fear, sounding particularly piercing in the chaotic battlefield.

Tristan's pupils constricted violently. The descending light sword halted abruptly less than five centimeters above the girl's head. The immense inertia pulled at his muscles, causing him sharp pain. The backlash of divine power slammed into his internal organs, bringing a metallic taste to his throat.

"Get out of the way!" Asmodeus's face changed drastically; the usual nonchalant expression vanished. He grabbed the girl by the back of her collar and flung her aside. At the same time, from the shadows behind the girl, a giant demon spawn, its body oozing corrosive slime, suddenly lunged out. Its sharp fangs had been aimed at the girl's neck.

"Pfft!"

A black blade appeared out of thin air in Asmodeus's hand, accurately piercing the demon spawn's head. The monster didn't even have time to scream before it dissolved into a puddle of black water and vanished into the air.

Tristan froze, maintaining his sword-slashing posture, rigid as a lifeless statue.

He had seen it.

Here's the English translation of your novel excerpt:

The black shadow Asmodeus had cast earlier wasn't attacking the girl at all; it was trying to catch the demon seed lurking in her shadow, waiting for an opportunity. And during their earlier exchange, the reason Asmodeus kept retreating, only defending and not attacking, even appearing somewhat disheveled, was because the girl was not far behind them—if he wasn't careful, the lingering shockwaves of their battle could shatter that fragile young life at any moment.

"I thought the sharpest sword in The Celestial Realm was something to behold," Asmodeus said, brushing non-existent dust from his hands and casually tidying his wind-blown collar, a sneer of extreme mockery playing on his lips. "Turns out it's just a blind man who can do nothing but swing a sword."

He walked over to the still-shaken girl, knelt down, and with a gentleness utterly unlike his previous decisive killing, stroked her disheveled hair.

"You angels," Asmodeus looked up, his deep eyes devoid of mirth, holding only the coldness and sorrow of someone who had seen through a ridiculous lie, "you only care about slaughtering so-called 'heretics,' but can't even distinguish between good and evil?"

Tristan opened his mouth, wanting to retort, wanting to say that the laws of The Celestial Realm could not be wrong, wanting to say that demons were all cunning deceivers. But the sight of the little girl clinging tightly to Asmodeus's arm, those clear eyes filled with fear and hostility as she looked at him, felt like a red-hot iron nail driven fiercely into his throat, preventing him from uttering a single word.

Asmodeus didn't spare him another glance. He picked up the little girl and turned, walking towards the depths of the mist. His long black robe flapped in the wind, and he soon vanished into the grey expanse at the edge of the horizon.

The wind died down.

The ruins returned to their deathly silence, with only the sound of a few rolling pebbles echoing among the empty, broken walls.

The Holy Sword in Tristan's hand still trembled slightly. The Holy Light lingering on its blade, though so dazzling, now appeared so pale and powerless reflected in his azure pupils. He slowly lowered his arm, the tip of the sword touching the ground with a dull thud.

He looked up at the heavy dark clouds at the edge of the sky. Michael's compassionate face was still clear in his mind, but the echo of "cut him off completely" for the first time stirred an undeniable chill within him.

Silver-Winged Guardian — Chapter 7: The Holy Sword

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