Type-Moon: Star Redemption of Arthur Pendragon

The training in the Land of Shadows has no end.

Arthur has stopped counting the marks on the wall.

The number of engraved lines increased from one to dozens.

It went from dozens of lines to a dense mass, like some kind of code that only Scáthach could decipher.

All he knew was that he was repeating the same thing every day… no, every “cycle”:

Hunting, getting injured, bandaging up, sleeping, then waking up and continuing.

But his progress is visible to the naked eye.

From initially only being able to deal with Shadow Wolves, he can now hunt Shadow Demons alone.

From being shot away by Scáthach's gun, he can now block three to five attacks before being knocked down.

From needing Scáthach's guidance to find the "Dead Line" to now being able to autonomously capture those fleeting openings in battle.

"Your rate of progress surpasses that of all my disciples."

After a training session, Scáthach said with a rare hint of approval in her wine-red eyes, "Including Cú Chulainn."

Arthur, panting as he leaned on his sword, a hint of doubt flashing in his emerald eyes: "Then why can't I even withstand one of your spear thrusts?"

Scáthach gave a soft hum:

"Because I am not your 'enemy,' I am your 'master.' A master does not need to be surpassed by his disciple...at least not until you are not qualified."

She turned and walked deeper into the castle.

"Come on, we're not hunting today. I'll teach you runes."

Arthur paused for a moment, then followed.

They came to a room that Arthur had never been to before.

The room was small, and the walls were covered with dense runes, each of which emitted a faint light.

In the center of the room was a stone table with several polished stones and a carving knife on it.

"Runes are one of the foundations of magic."

Scáthach picked up a stone, ran her finger lightly across its surface, and a pale golden rune immediately appeared:

"It can be used to enhance weapons, heal wounds, set traps, and even distort cause and effect."

She handed the stone to Arthur.

"I don't expect you to become a magician, but you should at least learn two runes: 'Healing' and 'Perception'."

Why these two?

"Because 'Healing' allows you to survive in battle, and 'Perception' allows you to detect danger in advance."

Scáthach's wine-red eyes looked at him:

"Your 'Star Trail' can already help you see the 'Death Line,' but that ability is unstable and consumes a lot of resources."

When you don't need it, use runes to sense enemies to save your energy.

Arthur nodded and took the stone and carving knife.

"How do we begin?"

Scáthach stood behind him, extended her right hand, and grasped his right hand.

Her hands were cold, and her fingertips had a thin layer of calluses, marks left from holding a gun for thousands of years.

"Follow my strength and carve this rune into the stone."

Her voice came from my ear, deep and clear:

"Don't rush, take it one stroke at a time."

Arthur paused slightly in his breathing.

This was the first time he had been so close to Scáthach.

She had no fragrance, only a cold, wintery scent.

But that aura wasn't repulsive; on the contrary, it made people feel at ease.

He followed her force, carving runes into the stone stroke by stroke.

When the last stroke was completed, a burst of pale golden light erupted from the stone.

The rune was successful.

"Not bad." Scáthach released his hand and took a step back. "You have magical talent, not top-tier, but enough."

Arthur looked down at the stone in his hand, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"Next, inscribe the 'Healing' rune."

Scáthach then handed him a stone:

"This is much more complex than 'perception,' and you may fail many times."

She was right.

Arthur failed ten times.

Each time the stone is halfway carved, it cracks and the rune's light fades away.

His fingers were cut several times by the carving knife, and the blood dripped onto the gravel, making a slight hissing sound.

"The eleventh time," Scáthach said, handing him a new stone in a flat tone. "Continue."

Arthur took a deep breath and gripped the carving knife tightly.

This time, he closed his eyes and recalled the feeling of Scáthach holding his hand.

Force, angle, speed.

Then, he opened his eyes and began to make his cut.

One stroke, two strokes, three strokes.

The stone did not crack.

Ten strokes, fifteen strokes, twenty strokes.

The rune's light grew brighter and brighter, changing from pale gold to a warm orange, like the color of a sunset.

As the last stroke was made, a dazzling light burst forth from the stone, illuminating the entire room.

After the light faded, a perfect "healing" rune appeared on the stone, with smooth lines and a stable glow.

"It worked." Scáthach's voice carried a hint of satisfaction. "Faster than I expected."

Arthur put down his carving knife, looked at the stone in his hand, and a warm light shone in his emerald green eyes.

"How severe can this rune heal?"

"Behold your magic," Scáthach said.

"At your current level, you can handle superficial injuries. You can even set broken bones, but internal organ damage and massive blood loss... you're not up to it yet."

She took the stone from his hand and put it back on the table.

"But it's okay, you'll get stronger and stronger. Whether it's magic or swordsmanship, it's the same principle. The more you practice, the stronger you'll become."

Arthur nodded.

"That's enough for today." Scáthach turned and walked towards the door. "Next cycle, we'll continue the hunt. This time, the target won't be Shadow Wolves or Shadow Demons."

Arthur stood up: "What is that?"

Scáthach turned her head to the side, a sharp glint flashing in her wine-red eyes.

"The fallen dead."

Arthur's heart skipped a beat.

Those are cursed, resentful, and unable-to-reincarnate souls.

"Scared?" Scáthach asked.

"I'm not afraid," Arthur said, "but I'll take it seriously."

Scáthach glanced at him, a slight smile playing on her lips.

"That's good."

She disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

Arthur returned to his room and lay down on his bed.

He was still holding the stone with the word "healing" engraved on it.

Scáthach didn't take it back; she probably left it for him.

He looked at the stone over and over, its orange light flickering faintly in the dim room.

"Runic runes..." he said softly, "She's really teaching me seriously."

This wasn't perfunctory; it wasn't just a few casual words of advice. It was genuine, hands-on teaching.

He remembered the feel of Scáthach's hand when she held his.

The hand was cool, but its strength was steady, like a mountain that had never changed in a thousand years.

"She's actually very gentle," Arthur told himself. "She just doesn't want to show it."

He placed the stone beside his pillow and closed his eyes.

At the highest point of the castle in the Land of Shadows, Scáthach stood on the terrace, her wine-red eyes gazing into the distance.

She held a stone in her hand, exactly the same as the one Arthur had just carved.

But the rune above is not "healing," but a more complex rune that Arthur has never seen before.

"guard."

She whispered the name of the rune, her fingertips gently stroking the stone.

For thousands of years, she has taught countless disciples.

When each disciple leaves the Land of Shadows, she gives them a stone engraved with the rune of "Guardian".

It's not for any other reason than to hope that they have a better chance of surviving on the battlefield.

Cú Chulainn had one, Diarmuid had one, and all of her disciples, whose names she could barely remember, had one.

But they were all dead.

The stone couldn't save them.

Scáthach gripped the stone in her hand, a fleeting, indescribable emotion flashing in her wine-red eyes.

"This child..." she whispered, "Will he be different?"

She had no answer.

But she decided that on the day Arthur left, she would also give him a "Guardian" rune.

Even if it might not save him, even if she might never see him again.

This was the only thing she could do.

She turned and walked back to the castle.

On the terrace, the deep purple enchanted flowers swayed gently in the magic, their petals glistening with dew.

No, it's not dew.

It is a drop of water formed from the eternal mist of the Land of Shadows, cold and bitter.

As Scáthach walked through the flowerbed, her fingertips gently brushed the edge of a flower.

The petals trembled slightly, as if responding to her touch.

"You will not wither either," she whispered. "Just like me."

She entered the castle and disappeared into the darkness.