I, Guinevere, am going to crush you, you curry stick, today!

Royko's eyes narrowed!

It was a young man about the same age as Meyer, with neat short hair, a slender build, wearing leather armor, and several short daggers hanging from his waist in addition to his sword. He held a long spear in his right hand, the blade stained with blood, which was still dripping down the tip of the spear. However, his left hand was holding a head with its eyes wide open, and the smell of blood was overwhelming.

"Get out of the way!"

"Wait, wait, wait..."

Behind him, his two companions seemed to be arguing, but Royko didn't have time to pay attention to what was happening there. His eyes were fixed on the blood-dripping head in the young man's hand, and he said, word by word, "Meyer!"

The roar was both angry and mournful. Royco instinctively tossed aside his sword sheath with his left hand, gripping his sword in his right, and charged forward recklessly. The young man outside didn't slow his pace, seemingly crashing into him. But as the distance closed, he suddenly flicked his left hand, and blood splattered. Meyer's head, its eyes wide open in death, flew towards the cave like a ball with a "whoosh."

Royco was suddenly taken aback.

He almost instinctively reached out to catch it—this was his own son!

But he also knew that if he reached out or showed even the slightest weakness, the young man's spear in his right hand would pierce through his body the next moment.

In a split second of hesitation and decision, Royco swung his sword, the sharp blade cleaving the head in mid-air in two, blood gushing out. At the same time, he twisted his wrist, using the residual force of the first sword strike and relying on his intuition honed over years of navigating life and death, and before the two behind him could catch up, he had already unleashed the second sword strike!

Amidst the blood-red curtain, a spear thrust straight at him from behind, aiming for his chest. However, Royco had anticipated this move. The spear tip had barely appeared before his eyes when he swayed to dodge, while his sword slashed at the enemy who hadn't had time to retract his weapon.

He clenched his teeth, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had only one thought in his mind:

He killed my son—

You'll pay with your life!

But the young man did not resist or dodge as expected. Instead, he suddenly let go, letting the blood-stained spear fall down. His free right hand suddenly swung up, and Royco felt as if a faint white light flashed before his eyes.

Without reaching out to touch it, he looked at the youth through the rain of blood and suddenly realized what that white light was. Royko opened his mouth, intending to speak, even though he didn't know if he was going to warn the other two or say something else. But when he opened his mouth, he found that he couldn't utter a single word. The pain in his throat intensified, and a huge darkness surged up.

He lowered his head one last time, taking one last, reluctant look at the two halves of Meyer's head that he had cleaved apart with his own hands, still not falling to the ground, before falling backward. A sharp dagger pierced right through his forehead.

Three muffled thuds, one heavy and two light, and the young man rushed into the cave amidst the rain of blood. With a flick of his toe, he gripped the spear in his hand again, and with his other hand reaching to the side, he drew his short dagger as he passed Royko's corpse. He slightly turned to the side, dodging a stray arrow of blood, and turned his gaze forward to the two people, one standing and one sitting.

He grinned.

He gave a provocative laugh.

P.S.: Strange, where are my drafts? All my (stretching hands) drafts are gone!

Chapter 109 Bait and Hook (Part 2)

The battle inside and outside the cave did not last long.

Despite having the advantage in numbers, the enemy was caught off guard. Meyer and his son Royco were killed one after another, and the young man, whose strength was slightly inferior, was soon stabbed to death by the campfire.

Inside the cave, flames flickered, blood seeped into the soil, and the stench of blood gradually intensified. Three companions had died one after another, leaving only the tall, thin man with fierce, eagle-like eyes who was still gritting his teeth and persevering. He slashed with his sword, clashing in mid-air with the spear thrust at him by the young man. Both retreated, their shadows falling on the rock wall behind them, like demons and monsters from rural legends, indescribably eerie and frightening.

Feeling a slight pain in his hand, he suddenly leaned back. With a loud thud, the spear grazed almost a few strands of his hair, embedding itself in the rock and sending dust flying. Before his opponent could retract the spear, the man abruptly raised his foot and kicked him hard in the chest with his dust- and blood-stained boot, sending the man staggering back several steps, past the campfire, and slamming his back heavily against the stone wall.

The narrow cave seemed to sway as well. The firelight dimmed and then brightened again. He gripped his sword with both hands and lunged forward, the cold blade piercing the young man's abdomen!

The young man twirled his spear, gripping it with both hands, and suddenly raised the spear shaft upwards, blocking the sword at the last moment. However, the sword's edge still flashed forward, sending out a series of dazzling sparks.

Seemingly in great pain from the kick to the chest, the young man frowned, then with a sudden burst of strength, swung the remaining half of his spear horizontally, striking the man's neck with a loud thud. The blow caused him to black out, his body swaying as he stumbled several steps toward the campfire, sword and all. Before he could regain his footing, a flash of white light appeared before his eyes again. The young man barely moved to retract his spear and thrust again; he merely raised his hand, and the spear, like a snake, clamped down tightly upon him once more.

In the blink of an eye, figures clashed, swords and spears struck several times, and two corpses and broken heads lay beside the fire. The flames flickered violently, and the prepared firewood was scattered all over the ground, many of which were trampled and broken by the turbulence. At one moment, the fierce-looking man threw away his sword and, with a loud shout, lifted the young man up, paused in mid-air, and slammed him down into the raging flames!

Swish! Bang! Crash!

"what--"

The campfire died down, and darkness enveloped the cave. A series of scattered and rapid sounds followed. In the darkness where the light had faded, two figures overlapped and then separated. Suddenly, someone let out a miserable cry filled with resentment. Then, everything fell silent again.

A night breeze rustled, stirring up a few fallen leaves outside the cave.

The moonlight shone down.

The young man placed one foot on the extinguished campfire, released his hand from the other man's mouth, and with his other hand still holding the dagger stuck in the other man's chest, he exerted a little force, and the other man groaned. His eyes were no longer as fierce as before, but in his weakness, there was a hint of resentment.

The spear and the two men's swords lay scattered at his feet. The man's upper body was a bloody mess, bearing burn marks, but mostly from sharp weapons. A short dagger was embedded in his chest, even the hilt stained crimson. The young man's hands were also covered in blood; he shook them violently a few times, his face contorted with disgust.

"I know you..."

His throat had been punched several times in the chaos of the fight, and when he tried to speak, he only felt waves of pain, and the voice that came out was so hoarse that he couldn't believe it. But the man struggled a few times, staring straight at the person opposite him: "I know you, you are... Kai—Arthur's sworn brother!"

With a sudden burst of strength, he grabbed the young man's collar: "His Majesty will kill you, ha, ha ha ha... kill your whole family!"

A cold laugh, a resentful gaze, and words of curses that seemed to come from the depths of the underworld in the dead of night—Kai merely stared at him indifferently. A moment later, just as his last strength was about to run out, he suddenly smiled: "You've probably forgotten that my brother and Vortigern are actually family."

"you……"

"Although none of us want to admit it, it's an undeniable reality... If Vortigern were to commit suicide for this reason, it wouldn't be a bad thing. At least he could be remembered as a comedic prince, not—a tyrant who invited foreign invasion." His expression turned cold at the end, and the mocking smile vanished. Kai pried open the other man's fingers, one by one, from his collar, and turned to leave. Throughout, the tall, thin man made no other move, only staring at him with a fierce gaze.

"Oh, by the way."

As if suddenly remembering something, the young man turned back.

Do you know why you were exposed this time?

Upon hearing this, the man's eyes, which had been gradually losing their luster, suddenly regained focus: "You mean—" he asked in a hoarse voice, only to see Kai's wicked smile.

"You guess."

“Yes…” In an instant, all sorts of thoughts flashed through the man’s mind like a raging storm. He stared at the young man in front of him, his eyes unblinking, as if he wanted to get an answer from the other’s eyes, an answer that was utterly absurd, yet one that he had no choice but to think.

Why wasn't it exposed earlier or later? Why did it have to fail at this crucial moment?

"There is...there is a traitor among us—"

He practically struggled to utter the words, and then a hint of pity crept into Kai's smile. The young man slowly walked over and gently patted him on the shoulder twice: "You have a rich imagination."

"Do you have it? Tell me... tell me!"

With his last ounce of strength, he grabbed Kai's hand, but before the other could respond, his gaze suddenly went blank, and his grip loosened, the hand falling limply to his side. Kai tilted his head to look at him, and after a moment, the various expressions he had deliberately displayed on his face slowly faded, leaving only a cold expression.

The young man patted the man's shoulder again, turned, and left without saying a word. Only four corpses remained, along with a extinguished campfire. In the quiet atmosphere, the darkness deepened. Suddenly, without any other source of fire, a small cluster of black flames quietly ignited in the cave, instantly burning the corpses and the scattered firewood to ashes, which vanished with the wind without a trace.

……

"Who could be the spy...?"

At the same moment, an old man exuding an aura of decay sat on the throne, one hand supporting his head. His gaze seemed to be casually fixed on a crescent moon outside the window. After a while, he looked away and stared at the black flames on his fingertips that were constantly changing shape, and murmured to himself.

The sound echoed through the empty castle.

The old man's features bore a striking resemblance to Artoria's.

……

“I understand what you mean. You want me to find an opportunity to mislead the King’s men, to make them suspect that there is a traitor among their own people… But why?”

"Rumor has it that King Vortigern is cautious and suspicious, and that he studied magic for a long time before usurping the throne. He also has countless extraordinary talents under his command. For such a person, the word 'trust' is far too unrealistic. Even if he sends out his trusted confidants to carry out missions, nine times out of ten he will leave a contingency plan on them beforehand, a plan that even the confidant himself is unaware of..."

"So, the person you really want to mislead is Vortigern."

"Sir Kay is truly a man of exceptional wisdom."

"Stop flattering me. I haven't even settled the score with you for what happened last time. Your name is fake, your identity is fake, and apart from this face, I really don't know what else about you is real... Sigh, letting a little liar like you stick around Al is the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life."

"The name and identity may be false, but the person standing before you now, and the one who usually interacts with Al, is real and authentic, without a trace of falsehood. Is that enough?"

"enough."

Walking along the desolate path, the night wind blowing against his face, Kai recalled his conversation with the Scottish princess who called herself Fina, introduced by Elaine. He smiled nonchalantly: "I don't know if it will be useful, but oh well, it was just a few words, no trouble at all. Next, I'll go back and meet up with that girl, and while I'm at it, enjoy the shy and embarrassed expression on my 'little brother's' face... Haha, I'm really looking forward to it."

He deliberately emphasized the word "younger brother," but his face didn't have the usual sneer of someone watching a good show. Instead, it had a genuine smile that few people had ever seen. He quickened his pace and soon disappeared into the vast night.

……

“It seems everything is going more smoothly than expected. No wonder he is King Arthur’s sworn brother, the son of Sir Hector…” Having witnessed Kai’s entire battle from beginning to end, Dreem shook his head and prepared to return to Plymouth to report to Fisher at dawn.

But he had only turned halfway around.

A snow-white and slender hand, clearly belonging to a woman, suddenly reached out from behind, pressed down on his cheek, and covered his eyes.

Before this, Dreem had not heard even the slightest footstep, nor sensed the presence of any other living being!

A sudden chill ran down his spine. He tried to struggle, but his mind went blank. All his thoughts stopped and vanished with that sound, leaving only endless darkness sweeping in.

It swallowed him whole, even though he offered no resistance.

……

The edge of a cliff.

The headless corpse swayed a few times before falling backward, but before hitting the ground, it strangely burst into flames. The black flames spread and transformed into blood-red leaves in the cold wind, fluttering down like a light rain.

The snow-white left hand slowly withdrew, and its owner took out a clean square cloth, carefully wiping away all the filth, red and white, that stuck to the hand, as if handling a precious and fragile treasure.

Then, with a snap of his fingers, the handkerchief was burned to ashes by a ball of black fire. The man slowly raised his left hand, made a loose fist, and placed it against his forehead, maintaining this prayer-like posture for a long time. Then, he gave a light, fleeting kiss.

He kissed his left hand expressionlessly, the back of his hand, his knuckles, his palm, the corners of his mouth gradually turning up with each delicate kiss, finally settling into a radiant—silent smile.

Under the moonlight, this scene was both solemn and frenzied.

……

P.S.: I promised two updates a day (yawn).

Chapter 110 Nightmares and Dreams

This is a dream.

A nightmare that has been repeating itself countless times in the past few days.

Although she was dreaming, it was precisely because she knew this that Guinevere was able to remain conscious, observing the scene unfolding below from a superior, detached perspective:

It was a lush, verdant forest. Deep within it, perhaps a fierce battle had just taken place; trees large enough to take several people to encircle lay scattered across the ground. Some had clean cuts, clearly severed by a sharp weapon, while others looked as if they had been broken off or even knocked down by brute force, their broken branches and leaves a scene of utter devastation. Blood flowed in a stream on the ground, its gentle murmur almost audible.

The surroundings were dark, except for the sunlight shining on this messy open space, like a spotlight on a stage. Particles floated in the air, and the two people, one standing and one sitting, had their faces shrouded in a layer of mist, making it impossible to see their specific appearances.

Sitting there was a girl of about ten years old, with neatly combed but dry, split, and dull golden hair, and wearing armor stained with blood. But for some reason, Guinevere felt that this person was herself.

As for the person standing, he was completely hidden in the gray mist from head to toe. He held a long knife in his hand and slowly raised it. The blade reflected the light of the sun. The girl covered in blood—"herself"—lowered her head little by little as the person behind her moved, revealing half of her snow-white neck.

Receive your neck and be killed.

"……Thanks."

She seemed to hear herself say this softly.

But I don't know why I'm thanking them, or to whom I'm thanking them.

The words had barely left his lips when the person behind him seemed to say something as well, but it was unclear. The next moment, the long sword swung down, and blood splattered. The scene before them froze on this incredibly bloody moment, then the colors gradually faded, like a yellowed old photograph, everything becoming hazy and indistinct. Only that unclear phrase echoed again and again, each time becoming clearer.

But what finally reached her ears was someone else's voice:

"Words spoken insincerely are meaningless."

Half asleep and half awake, despite being extremely tired, Guinevere forced herself to open her eyes. The next moment, she saw the figure in dark blue armor holding a trident again.

Perinoa called him Mananan.

If she wasn't mistaken, the being who briefly occupied Fisher's body was named Mananan Mark Riel—the sea god in Celtic mythology. She hadn't expected that the legendary, incomparably powerful trident of the sea god was actually a ritual implement used for "divine intervention," but what concerned her even more was the gesture and question the other party had given before leaving.

Even so?

With this question, what appeared before her eyes was this nightmare.

The brilliant sunlight, like a spotlight, shone down on the devastated forest after the great battle. As the long sword fell, the girl who should have been his revealed a relieved smile as blood splattered.

The girl said:

"Thanks--"

Guinevere knew that this strange dream had come to an end.

She will wake up soon, and in that instant of clarity, she will forget everything.

Only in the brief moment between waking and waking, she retains the memory of this dream, and can still feel doubt, confusion, and ponder the causes and consequences of this dream, and then... try to make changes.

……

"...Dad, Dad!"

The girl's childish voice gradually became clearer in her ears. At the same time, Guinevere felt as if something in her mind was receding like the tide, disappearing in an instant. Although she felt that it must be something very important, no matter how hard she thought, she couldn't recall any clues, and in the end, she could only give up helplessly.

Anyway, if it's really something important, I'll remember it sooner or later.

Guinevere reassured herself, and before Nemia could urge her again, she slowly sat up, covering her mouth as she yawned. Perhaps due to her restless sleeping posture, a few strands of hair stuck up and swayed near her eyes. Guinevere tried to press them down, but as soon as she released them, the small tuft of hair stubbornly stuck up again.

"One who stays near vermilion gets stained red, and one who stays near ink gets stained black... Could it be that I also have a cowlick?"