Arrows flew one after another.
Some shattered against the stone. Others fell uselessly into the lava below.
Then—he switched to magic.
But even that couldn't last.
Faced with a ceaseless tide of enemies, Tristan had no choice but to adjust his tactics. He fought in a way that minimized his magical consumption, preserved his breath, and bought what little time he could. Eventually, all his arrows were spent, his mana nearly exhausted.
At last, with a deep breath, he drew his sword—an inelegant move for an archer like him.
Compared to Kay, his melee abilities were woefully lacking. He could barely keep up with the man's pace, let alone match it.
"Sir Kay, please calm down! If we keep fighting like this, we'll burn out first!"
Tristan tried to shout over the din—but Kay was too far gone in the bloodlust. His pace quickened, not slowed. His blows grew heavier. He was no longer fighting like a knight, but like a wild animal.
That was precisely why Arthur had always kept Kay at his side—as a personal guard, not a general.
Kay was strong. In raw strength, he rivaled Lancelot and Gawain.
But his fighting style was too savage. Ordinary soldiers couldn't follow him. Even the other Knights of the Round Table struggled to keep pace. In a battlefield of armies, Kay might defeat ten thousand on his own—but he couldn't lead ten thousand.
That was why he was the Fourth Seat—a protector, not a commander.
Tristan now understood.
And with that clarity, he charged forward anyway.
His mission hadn't changed: protect Kay and Merlin, no matter what.
Even if it meant sacrificing his life, he would preserve Kay's strength for the king.
He gritted his teeth and swung his sword forward.
But determination could not compensate for weakness.
Tristan's blade struck true, but the strain was evident. His breathing was ragged. His body trembled. But he did not stop.
One quarter of an hour.
One hour.
Two hours.
In this hellish domain filled with smoke, heat, and an endless storm of enemies, the battle dragged on.
And finally—Kay began to slow.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
He struck five times in quick succession, clearing a path through the nearest group of vengeful spirits.
In the past, such blows would have instantly vaporized his enemies.
But this time, only three disintegrated. Two more were merely knocked back, snarling with lingering rage.
"Sir Kay!"
Tristan appeared just in time, slicing down a spirit that had crept into Kay's blind spot.
But he had no time to defend himself. Several more ghosts were already descending upon him.
He smiled.
I helped him. I fulfilled my duty. Now I can die in peace.
My king, I'm sorry. I ended up like this after all... I wasn't of much use in the end.
He closed his eyes.
Pain surged through his arm. It felt like it had been torn clean off.
This time… I'm dead.
Or so he thought.
"Idiot! If you're an archer, stay behind me! Who told you to charge ahead? Do you have a death wish?!"
Kay's voice broke through the haze.
Tristan's eyes snapped open.
Before him was Kay—his arm glowing with cherry-red light, magic surging wildly, his flame-wreathed sword cleaving through the vengeful spirits in a blazing arc.
"······"
"What's with that look?" Kay said proudly. "Do you think the Knights of the Round Table are still like the old days? If you can't fight ten thousand by yourself, what kind of Round Table knight are you?!"
And then, as if to answer his words, the shadows finally stilled.
The vengeful spirits were gone.
"…Oh? Looks like you've wrapped things up here."
Merlin's voice chimed in. He reappeared casually, as if strolling through a garden.
"Well done, Sir Kay. Mission accomplished. And with Sir Tristan injured, my spell finally comes in handy~."
He waved his wand. A soft glow washed over Tristan's wounded arm, healing it completely.
"······"
Tristan couldn't speak.
His shame was beyond words.
In the end… was I just being self-righteous again? Always pretending to shoulder more than I do…
No. I really am unworthy. I should have died.
"MERLIN!! YOU PIECE OF SHIT! Now you decide to show up?! How long do you think I've been tangling with that disgusting thing?!"
"Oh my~ It's not so easy moving something as large as a red dragon corpse, you know. One of its eyeballs is bigger than you. And if I didn't move the body in time, the spiritual veins would keep generating vengeful spirits. You should be thanking me—it was Big Brother Merlin who saved you~!"
"GO TO HELL, YOU DAMN FAKER!!"
So the mission was completed... probably.
And if you ignore Tristan quietly spiraling into depression, it was nearly perfect.
Ten Days Later – A Roman Port City
Festivities filled the air.
There was music. Joy. Markets bustling with energy.
A British merchant ship had arrived, driven ashore by a storm.
Of course, no one dared to mistreat them—after all, Rome and Britain were technically in a state of "truce."
At least for now, the mighty Sword Emperor had not yet made his move to conquer the island across the sea.
And so, in this supposedly friendly atmosphere, the people of Rome welcomed the British caravan with open arms.
Why wouldn't they?
British products were prized among nobles.
Magical gifts, fine swords, exotic foods, beautifully crafted tools—any Roman of status craved them. Owning something from Britain was enough to brag about at banquets for weeks.
Some of these treasures were even used to curry favor with more powerful lords. It was rumored that the Sword Emperor himself had a fondness for British trinkets.
Naturally, the arrival of a British caravan stirred the entire city.
And this time, there was even a Camelot princess among the traders.
While the Romans often looked down on their "backwater" cousins, Britain's status had risen in recent years. The nobility had no choice but to acknowledge the princess's rank.
Everything was going smoothly.
…Until one week later.
Gods above! (Roman profanity)
It's a disaster!
At first, no one thought much of it. A missing person here, another there—nothing unusual.
But suddenly, the numbers began to climb.
From the usual two or three every five days…
To six or seven per day.
And then, in the most terrifying instance, twenty-seven people vanished in a single night.
And those were only the reported cases. Who knew how many went unaccounted for?
Yet despite everything, no one dared point fingers at the British caravan.
Why?
Because they were the first ones to report the missing person cases.
We're victims too! they claimed.
What could the Romans say?
The Camelot princess herself had filed a formal complaint with the local guard.
She even helped organize a search party.
No one could accuse them without evidence.
And so the panic spread—quietly, beneath the surface.
Everything was fine… until they came.
Something's wrong with that caravan...
As night fell—
Something stirred.
-End Chapter-
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