Chapter Twenty-One: The Knight of Blood

As the opposing leader pondered how to resolve the scene before him, a series of synchronized footsteps rose from the mountain. Soon, a young man dressed in blue appeared, leading a group down the slope. Their movement was utterly silent, yet there was an unmistakable air of desolation about them.

“My king.” The five turned to see Toria standing behind them, flanked by all her followers.

“My king, this is our failing. We did not stop the rioters.” Lance had long since buried his feelings for Toria deep within his heart, knowing full well that before him stood not just Toria but King Arthur.

Though Toria was powerful, she had never witnessed true war, and the scene before her left her momentarily stunned. Yet perhaps, from the moment Excalibur was bestowed upon her, she had truly become a saint—for her expression betrayed not a flicker of emotion.

The elder knights, all veterans of countless battles, were equally struck dumb by the sight. It was not for lack of experience—they had seen such carnage on the border battlefields against the Vikings—but that was precisely why they understood the true strength of these five young knights.

The enemy leader saw his target standing before him. Knowing retreat was impossible, he said nothing, merely raised his blade in silent command.

–––––––––––– The Passage of Time ––––––––––––

In a tavern just outside the castle.

“Hey, Lance, what was it like when you went to the border last time?” Gaheris cradled a mug of ale, his voice casual. It was hard to imagine this was the same timid boy who, just a year ago, had cowered before Lance.

“Tch, what do you think? I chopped those bastards into pieces.” As Lance spoke, a chill seemed to settle over everyone nearby.

“Hmph, serves them right.” The memory of his first encounter with those men made Gaheris feel ill; he took a long draught of ale to steady himself.

“Where’s your brother?” Lance had no desire to linger on the subject, deftly steering the conversation away. Though Gaheris’s strength and standing had grown, his manner of thought remained childlike and easily diverted.

“Him? Off hunting bandits,” Gaheris emphasized the words, and Lance immediately understood—most likely Roman spies again.

The two boasted idly, but those who had been sitting nearby quietly moved away. The reason was simple: the mere presence of Lance and his companions was intimidating. Ever since the rebellion of that noble house, their name had become taboo. No one wanted to recall the massacre that had led to their erasure. That night, Lance alone had entered their lands and wrought slaughter. The next morning, both soldiers and spectators found only a sea of blood—every male, regardless of age, had been exterminated. Only the frightened women and children remained.

Lance paid little mind to the fear around him, murmuring to himself, “If there is light in this time, then let me become the darkness.” With that, he drained his cup and vanished from the tavern.

“Has Lord Lance left?” asked a man who had been nearby, turning to his drinking companion.

“Yes, indeed. No wonder he’s called the ‘Knight of Blood’—the stench of death never leaves him. Terrifying, really.”

“Idiot, what are you saying? The lord’s hands may be stained with blood, but never with that of the innocent. Those he’s killed were traitors or the truly damned.” The man disagreed with his companion’s assessment; though Lance was fearsome, he believed the knight’s actions justified.

“But weren’t there children? Did they betray anyone?” the other man retorted.

“Boy, do you know what I saw in their eyes? Only hatred—a deep, festering hatred. If they lived, they would only poison the country I love. Even if I must bear the world’s scorn, I will snuff out the seedlings of threat before they grow—evil must be cut down!” Lance’s voice startled them; he had returned unnoticed, addressing the man who had just questioned him.

“My lord…” The man had never imagined his casual remark would draw Lance’s attention.

Lance simply waved a hand and returned to Gaheris, who was slumped over the table, fast asleep. “Even now, he’s still just a boy,” Lance muttered, then the two of them left the tavern together.

A voice drifted back through the door: “If you have the courage to bear all the nation’s sins, come to the royal city for the ‘Scorpion’s Sting’ selection.”

The man, left in silence, was stunned for a moment before shouting, “My lord, my name is—Maple Cast!” But there was no reply from outside.

Lance escorted Gaheris back to his room in the castle, then headed toward the Scorpion’s Sting mustering ground. He did not expect to encounter someone he hadn’t anticipated.

“What is it, Toria?” Though the common folk saw Lance as a demon, to those who truly knew him, he was simply a “fool.”

“Lance, do you regret it?” Toria asked, her head bowed.

“Idiot, haven’t I said it before? You are our king, our light. You need only stand beneath the sun and guide your people forward. I will be the darkness, swallowing all shadows that approach you. I will bear every sin in your stead.” Lance’s words went beyond those of any loyal subject, yet both understood and did not dwell on them.

“So, what is it?” Lance asked, watching the girl before him. She would not have come here for matters already settled, for she was strong.

“Mm. Teacher said a knight waits by the lake—he is to become my knight and bear the duty of protecting my queen.” At these words Lance already guessed who it was. In the original tales, Merlin’s prophecy spoke of Lancelot’s father, but when Arthur arrived at the lake, it was the son he found, and tragedy ensued. Lance understood why Toria sought him—she wanted company, perhaps protection. He had no intention of preventing Lancelot’s appearance; as a peer of Gawain, Lancelot’s presence would strengthen Toria’s forces. And as for Guinevere? Would Lance allow any harm to come to her? What he did not know was that his own arrival was altering the world, and the first whose fate would shift was Guinevere.

“Come with me tomorrow, then. The Scorpion’s Sting also deserves a respite; aside from those on watch, everyone can rest. After all, even the Scorpion’s Sting are only human.”

Lance nodded and whistled. A great white falcon soared in through the window, landing on his shoulder.

He took a slip of paper, drew a strange mark upon it, and sent the falcon back out into the night.

“The greatest of knights—the Knight of the Lake, Lancelot. At last, we shall meet. I’ve been wondering just how strong I am now.” With that, Lance left. It was not that he did not wish to remain by Toria’s side; rather, he feared that his feelings would sway her ideals. He knew that only the girl who would fight for her nation, even to her last breath, was the true Saber. So, he forced his attention elsewhere—toward Lancelot. After all, he was an outsider, a figure not found in legend.

What he did not know was that, from the moment of his arrival, he had become a part of history himself.