Chapter Twenty: The One-Armed Knight

Hearing the scream, Lancer and his two companions turned to look behind them. All they saw was a severed arm flying through the air, while Bedivere, gripping his sword with his one remaining hand, forced himself to swing his weapon despite the pain. Gaheris wore a wild, almost crazed expression.

“Bedivere, you fool, why did you stand in the way? Do you think I’m afraid of death? Are you trying to make me owe you one? Damn you!” Gaheris shouted furiously. Though his words were harsh, they were filled with boundless regret. Because of his own mistake, his newly made friend had lost an arm at the shoulder.

“Can’t you stop yelling? I haven’t even started! I wanted you to owe me! So stay alive, and then you can take care of me!” Normally so polite, Bedivere shouted back in anger at the sight of Gaheris’s state.

“Aaah! Aaah!” The young man, new to battle, exploded with a terrifying aura no less than Kay’s, spurred on by his friend’s injury. In his fury, he seemed like a blazing fire, burning through every enemy on the battlefield.

Seeing Gaheris’s eruption, both Kay and Gawain nodded. Throughout their lives, they had seen people come and go, gaining and losing companions until they grew numb to this world. Witnessing Gaheris’s agony reminded them of their own friends and comrades dying before their eyes. The calm they had found was swept away by a tidal wave of emotion, and all they wanted now was to vent their rage.

Once second only to Lancer in their kill count, the two erupted again. Kay’s strikes became even more cunning, each thrust aiming for the throat, while the holy sword in Gawain’s hand blazed with renewed brilliance.

——— Divider of Events ———

At the highest seat of the ballroom, Toria sat idly with her wine glass, puzzled as to why Lancer was absent. He had promised her he would come.

“What is that?” Just as Lancer was lost in thought, a noble standing by the window shouted, drawing everyone’s gaze.

Toria turned to look. A blinding white light flashed, and for some reason, it felt to her much like the light emitted by the holy sword she held.

“Teacher?” When Merlin had confided in her, Toria learned that the sword in her hand was a gift from the Lady of the Lake. Now, Merlin’s brow furrowed as well. The Sword in the Stone was the prototype for all swords forged by the Lady of the Lake, and only a few others had this same aura. Besides the Sword in the Stone, there were three: one was the “Sword of Promised Victory,” not yet given to her; one was still by the lake with its master, awaiting Toria’s arrival; the last, called the “Shadow of the Sword,” belonged to…

———

“It appears to be Gawain’s weapon, but the Lady said…” At this moment, Merlin could only think of one possibility: someone must be threatening Toria’s life or rule, for only in such dire straits would Gawain draw that sword.

He whispered his thoughts to Toria, who now suspected Lancer’s absence was indeed connected to this incident. “All knights, assemble!”

Toria rose abruptly and drew the sword that symbolized the “King.” “Everyone, Sir Gawain is fighting below to protect us. As this ball, belonging to me as your king, has ended, I now invite you to attend my knightly gathering as fellow knights. Who will join me?” Clad in a blue warrior’s gown with a white cloak over her shoulders, Toria radiated a strange charm, the kind that inspired others to follow her.

“Where the king points, there our blades will follow!” All the knights rose as one, the sound of their armor echoing through the hall.

“Move out!”

Toria led the way, and each knight passing through the doorway took their sword from an attendant’s hands.

——— Divider of Carnage ———

Once slaughtering their enemies on all sides, the four gathered together, encircling the wounded Bedivere. Of them, Lancer was the most gravely injured, but with his inhuman body, those wounds barely hindered him. Gawain had taken the least damage, protected by his weapon, though his energy was all but spent and he breathed heavily like a winded mill. Kay and Gaheris were in dire straits. Gaheris, in his effort to help Bedivere, was covered in spear wounds, yet, fueled by his outburst, was steadily approaching Gawain’s level. In Celtic myth, elves were gods, and many heroes were called demigods or elves—a testament to their strength. Kay was the sturdiest of the four, but he wore no armor; his body was covered in small cuts, not life-threatening, but terrifying to behold.

“Huff…huff!” Though Kay’s wounds were not severe, his expression was the most dramatic. “Honestly, tonight was supposed to be Toria’s ball. What a state I’m in to attend now!” He had arrived late, which was why he had joined Lancer and the others in battle.

“Damn you, let’s talk about surviving first,” Gaheris still blamed himself for Bedivere’s injury but shouted at Kay nevertheless.

“Cut the chatter. All I want now is to wipe out every last bastard in front of us!” Lancer glanced at the timer on his ring, knowing true reinforcements would soon arrive. Though still in that strange state, his battle lust had been spent and he was no longer reckless.

“Hmph! If you hadn’t played the hero, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Gawain’s expression didn’t change; perhaps he didn’t even have the strength for that.

“I’m sorry.” Lancer apologized to Gawain, even though he knew Gawain didn’t blame him.

A strange silence fell among them. On the opposing side, their original force of three thousand had lost six hundred men outright, with nearly as many rendered incapable of fighting. They had come to fear Lancer and his companions’ overwhelming skill. Who would have believed a legion of three thousand infantry could be routed by a mere five?

“Step aside. If you let us pass, we promise not to harm you. Killing you five would cost us more strength than we can spare, so perhaps we can negotiate,” the enemy’s leader called. He truly didn’t wish to waste more fighting strength, but he didn’t know that even if Lancer’s group let them through, their mission would fail—the mountain was guarded by veteran knights whose strength rivaled their own. At that moment, Bedivere stood up.

“You want to pass? Leave your lives here. Any creature hostile to our king will cross our line only as a soul!” Bedivere, clutching his severed shoulder, stood pale-faced but resolute, each word ringing with determination.

“Well said! If you want to pass, leave your lives behind!” As if revived by a final burst of strength, the four remaining knights drew themselves up, forming a circle around Bedivere, eyes blazing toward the enemy like beasts ready to tear them apart.

The enemy leader remembered something his father, a hunter, once told him: “The most terrifying beast is not the adult, but the one protecting its young or its wounded.” Now, he faced five such beasts, all grievously injured and fighting to protect what mattered most.