Infinity, The Arcade Age-Chapter 423: The Real and the Fake Holy Relic

Qin Ming rode at the front of the formation on his tall steed, with thirteen knights following closely behind him.

These thirteen knights wore vastly different styles of armor and carried a variety of weapons. Nearly all of them had been part of the first batch of "Pitchfork Knights."

They were Qin Ming's newly established officer corps—the Thirteen Knights.

Their armor had been meticulously reinforced and fused, boasting exceptional quality. The armor and weapons also served as symbols of status and rank.

When a wearer grew old, their armor would be passed down to another to take their place.

Among these thirteen knights, Torretiya was one of them—and not just any member, but the leader, the vanguard.

As he gazed at Qin Ming at the front of the line, Torretiya's expression was complex.

After a moment of silent contemplation, he lowered his head and muttered softly, "Father, aren't we going too far? His Majesty hasn't spoken to us for a whole day."

Hearing this, the knight next to Torretiya—clad in heavy armor from head to toe, face hidden beneath a thick helmet—responded in a deep, muffled voice.

"There's no other way. If we want to deal with King Arthur and get His Majesty to act and save the other villages and towns, this is the only way."

The one wearing the heavy armor wasn't anyone else—it was the Imperial Deputy, Tored, who was officially rumored to be dead.

Forced by Tored's suicidal ultimatum, Qin Ming had been furious but eventually relented. After leaving, he returned to the room and force-fed the medicine to Tored.

Qin Ming didn't want to get involved in the mess of the Round Table Knights' world. He just wanted to get what benefits he could out of it.

Since this guy wanted to meddle, fine, he could handle it himself. Officially "dead" was no big deal—it was just a matter of wearing a helmet.

Qin Ming's time in this world was limited. He had originally intended to make the most of it by hunting down the bosses under the Evil Grand Duke.

After all, King Arthur's side was packed with elite mobs and backed by adventurers—it was a hard nut to crack.

But now, with the Pitchfork Knights staging a joint coup, Qin Ming had to change his strategy on the fly and go all-in against King Arthur.

At this point, finding the real Evil Grand Duke was no longer realistic—there just wasn't enough time left.

It looked like the only option was to wipe out Arthur and his forces to make up for the loss.

After that, he'd have to expand his territory, swallow up all those worthless villages, distribute food to solidify control, and by the time all that was done, the mission would probably be over.

Sigh... Who asked him to rise to power thanks to this mob of Pitchfork Knights in the first place? Since they were dead set on expanding the Empire instead of focusing on killing enemies, Qin Ming had no choice but to go along.

Call it repaying a favor. Once this mission was over, there was no way he was ever coming back to this dump again!

A bunch of ungrateful commoners! He gave them bread and weapons, and they still weren't satisfied! They even wanted to share with others! What, his time didn't count as time?

With a stern expression, Qin Ming led his forces to the front of King Arthur's town. After conquering three small cities in a row, they finally faced off against Arthur's main army.

Qin Ming's side was a dense sea of Pitchfork Knights—overwhelming in number.

On the opposite side stood the Round Table Knights, radiating murderous intent.

At the front, King Arthur himself sat upright and proud on his horse, brimming with spirit—not at all like a man whose elite troops had been wiped out and top generals slain. He looked more like a victorious general returning from war.

Looking at Arthur, who sat confidently atop his horse and stared back at him, Qin Ming's face remained grim as he urged his steed forward and locked eyes with him.

"King Arthur, you killed my general. How do you plan to settle that score?"

"So I killed him. What of it?"

Arthur gave him a mocking look, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"You're the so-called King of the Holy Pitchfork, aren't you? Such a grand title. Then tell me—where is your holy pitchfork?"

"Hm?"

Qin Ming froze instinctively at the question.

Seeing this, King Arthur burst into laughter. He suddenly reached into his robe and pulled out a small pitchfork.

"Can't summon it, can you? Of course you can't! Because the holy pitchfork is right here!"

As he spoke, Arthur raised the fork high above his head.

Qin Ming, standing across from him, snapped out of his daze and gave Arthur a strange look.

He'd been wondering—Arthur had nearly lost all his elite forces, so why was he still bold enough to confront him head-on?

So this was his plan all along, huh?

Without replying, Qin Ming suddenly opened his coat and glanced down.

Beneath it, dozens of forks—large and small—were strapped and dangling.

After a brief search, he picked out one that looked nice and raised it high into the air.

"You say that is the holy pitchfork—then what exactly is this in my hand?"

"Huh? Yours?"

Arthur stared at the new fork in Qin Ming's hand, utterly baffled.

"How would I know what you've got? All I know is mine is the real holy pitchfork—the one that cuts through iron like it's nothing—this thing..."

"Who told you the holy pitchfork's special trait was cutting through iron? Its real power is blessing all things!"

As he said this, Qin Ming pulled out a piece of black bread and lightly tapped it with the fork.

A flash of light shimmered—and the previously hard, ordinary black bread visibly turned soft and fluffy.

Seeing this, the soldiers in the back—who had begun to stir in confusion—burst into gasps and exclamations.

On the other side, King Arthur's eyes widened in disbelief.

No way! The fork in his hand had to be the real one! It was the same one Qin Ming had used before!

So why did he still have the abilities?!

Before Arthur could recover from his shock, Qin Ming—having already stowed away his fork—fixed him with a cold stare.

"You done with your questions? Good. Then it's my turn. King Arthur, where's your holy sword?"

"My holy sword? It's right here..."

"Exactly! Right here—in my hand!"

Shing! With a sharp sound, Qin Ming yanked out a replica of the holy sword from his waist—one that had been upgraded—and swung it with force, slicing a nearby stone clean in two. He then raised it high overhead.

"Your holy sword—has already recognized me as its master!"

Stealing holy relics? Arthur wasn't the only one who knew how to pull that move! Qin Ming could play that game too!

Looking up at the hastily forged replica in his hand, Qin Ming was filled with energy and shouted:

"Holy Pitchfork and Holy Sword in hand—I am the true chosen king!"

As his words echoed through the air, silence blanketed the battlefield—until, after a long pause, a roar erupted from all around.

"Holy King! Holy King! Holy King!"

Hearing the chant, King Arthur clearly panicked. He hurriedly drew his own holy sword, trying to explain—but before he could get a word out, Qin Ming had already raised his weapon and charged at him.

"Brothers—charge with me!"

Bluffing? What a joke! Qin Ming was a merchant by trade—there was no way he'd lose at that game!

If they both pulled out holy pitchforks, the Pitchfork Knights would definitely believe Qin Ming's was the real one.

But if they both pulled out holy swords—and Qin Ming's could cut through stone with ease—then the people on Arthur's side... well, who they believed was anyone's guess!

(End of Chapter)