Chapter 8: The Silver-Armed Knight
Shasha—!!
The icy wind and snow outside kept lashing at the glass, rattling the wooden windowframes of the castle with sharp, creaking complaints.
At the far end of a private woodland estate—perpetually blanketed in storm and frost—on the outskirts of Germany, stood a secluded castle belonging solely to the Einzbern family.
This was a mysterious domain cut off from the outside world—so isolated that even the merciless wind and snow seemed to pause here, as though reluctant to intrude.
On a languid afternoon, the pale warmth of the post-snow sun poured into the winter castle. By the window sat a white-haired woman whose face was as exquisitely perfect as a doll's, her still silhouette leaving an almost unreal impression of beauty.
She rested her cheek on one hand, eyes turned outward. Beyond the glass lay the same unchanging snowfield she had watched day after day. Her ruby-red eyes were bright and lively, yet veiled by a thin mist—no one could guess what thoughts she was sinking into.
If the Zōken Matō who had just left could appear here now, he would surely be unable to stop himself from crying out a name he could never forget:
Justeaze.
But the one seated here was not Justeaze, the Winter Saint who had long since become the core of the Grail.
This woman was an artificial being—created by the current generation of Einzbern to fight the coming Holy Grail War, modeled after Justeaze.
She was the Winter Saint of this era, the princess imprisoned within the ancient fortress, the "Lesser Grail" of the war—
Irisviel.
For her, this was yet another day of boredom, unchanged since the moment she had been born in the workshop.
Ever since her creation in this snowbound castle, her days consisted only of studying magecraft… and staring at the same unvaried winter scenery from her room. She no longer knew how long that routine had lasted.
Compared to the usual monotony, the only difference today was that Achad wasn't by her ear, endlessly drilling the Einzbern mission into her mind.
And though the old man's nagging was absent for once…
"Still… it's so boring…"
She waited and waited for the person she expected, but no one came. Irisviel swung her legs idly, then called toward the attendant standing near the door.
"Lucius, could you bring me another piece of cake?"
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Miss Irisviel."
The one answering was a handsome young man with an androgynous beauty.
He smiled gently at her adorable request. "It's already afternoon—mealtime is over. And you've already had two pieces of cake today. More wouldn't be good for your body."
"…All right."
Rejected outright, Irisviel let out a small sigh, but didn't insist.
This attendant—soft-voiced, refined in manner—was clearly no ordinary servant.
He had long silver-white hair tied into two low ponytails. Pale skin set off emerald-green eyes, and his gaze carried a warmth that made people feel as though they were standing in spring sunlight.
But the most striking feature was his right arm.
It wasn't a normal arm at all, but a prosthetic etched with strange patterns, shimmering with an uncanny silver glow—so eye-catching that it was hard not to stare.
As for this elegant, mysterious attendant, Irisviel didn't know much.
She only knew that one snowy day he had come to the Einzbern estate as a visitor, spoken with Achad about matters Irisviel wasn't allowed to hear—and afterward chose to remain, serving within the castle as an attendant.
Though he always wore a calm smile and an even temperament, Irisviel could sense he was unusual.
Otherwise Achad wouldn't have repeatedly warned her that once she entered the Grail War, she must listen to this man's advice, cooperate seriously, and never act recklessly alone.
Only through coordination, Achad had said, could victory be achieved.
Irisviel had tried to ask Lucius about his past—his origins—but every time, he would simply smile and brush it aside, unwilling to elaborate.
Which, of course, only made her more curious.
And though he looked young, Irisviel—naturally sensitive to souls—could feel something on him:
A peculiar "scent."
Ancient, yet extraordinarily tenacious.
She couldn't describe it, only that it was the first time she had ever sensed a soul like this.
Who is he, really?
Tilting her head, Irisviel fixed her gaze on Lucius's impossibly handsome face, thinking seriously.
"Is something the matter, Miss Irisviel?" Lucius asked, noticing her stare. He lifted a hand to his cheek, sounding mildly puzzled.
"Is there something on my face?"
"Or… did I do something discourteous just now?"
"No, no—nothing like that." Irisviel shook her head quickly, then hurried to change the subject.
"By the way, Mr. Lucius… do you know where Achad went?"
"Yesterday he said that today he would bring Avalon as the relic… and teach me what to watch for when summoning a Heroic Spirit."
Avalon…
Britain, and…
the King.
At that extremely familiar name, the attendant called Lucius froze.
His eyes flickered. Even the serene beauty of his expression shifted, as though he had been caught by a sudden storm of complicated thoughts.
"Lucius? Lucius…?"
Only when Irisviel's gentle call reached his ear did he snap back, realizing his moment of distraction. He bowed quickly.
"My apologies. I lost myself for a moment."
"It's all right." Irisviel smiled and shook her head.
"Achad said an old acquaintance came to visit, so he stepped out first," Lucius explained. "But he asked me to watch over you, Miss—he warned you not to go out alone, and said he would return soon."
"As for Avalon… I believe Achad will bring it as quickly as he can. Please don't worry."
Near the end of his sentence, a faint uncertainty slipped into his tone.
"I understand. Thank you, Lucius—you've worked hard."
Irisviel's face brightened with a pure, spotless smile as she offered her gratitude.
In Lucius's eyes, that smile was like a lily blooming in an instant.
And with it, two figures he could never forget rose unbidden in his mind.
Guinevere… and the King…
He lowered his gaze, murmuring softly, and his fingertips brushed the silver-glowing prosthetic arm—then, in the span of a breath, he crushed that wistful, impossible thought back down.
"You needn't thank me. This is merely my duty, Miss."
"If you have no other needs, then I will take my leave. Please rest well."
After confirming she wanted nothing else, Lucius offered a courteous bow and turned to leave.
"Wait."
Just as he was about to go, Irisviel spoke again from behind him.
"Yes? Is there something else you need?" the silver-haired attendant asked, turning back with a questioning look.
"If it's about dessert again—"
"No," Irisviel cut in gently.
She hesitated, then asked, half unsure, half earnest:
"Mr. Lucius… are you troubled by something?"
"And… I'm curious what your wish is."
"If you're willing to help me in the Holy Grail War… then you must also be hoping to use the Grail to fulfill something important, right?"
"My wish…" Lucius's gaze drifted, as though a fog had briefly rolled across it.
Then, quietly, an irrepressible remembrance crept into his eyes.
"Yes. I do have one."
"But if I must put it into words…"
He answered, voice low and steady:
"To make amends for the mistakes of the past."
"To return what should never have been in my hands to its rightful owner."
"Then… to go back to where I belong."
"And when the journey ends—"
"To rest properly."
"…What a strange wish," Irisviel murmured, her small eyes widening into a big, baffled stare.
She didn't understand what he meant at all.
But even so, she could feel it—his unwavering seriousness, the stubborn determination in his eyes.
So she nodded, expression solemn.
"I don't really understand yet… but let's do our best together, Mr. Lucius."
"Yes." Lucius smiled again, gentle as ever.
"Then I'll be in your care as well, Miss Irisviel."
And with that, he did not linger. He left the room without looking back—his movement and departing silhouette as light as a soft breeze.
Tap… tap… tap…
Footsteps sounded, then gradually faded.
"…."
Alone in the castle corridor, the silver-haired attendant walked onward.
Only when he was far from Irisviel's room did the gentle smile finally vanish from his face.
In its place, his eyes filled with something far more complex.
If someone happened to see him now, they would find it unbelievable—
because in that single gaze were tangled emotions such as:
Longing.
Joy.
Fear.
Pain.
Self-reproach.
All of them flickered and rose within the eyes of this "silver knight."
He was clearly trapped in an unbearable knot of conflict and suffering.
He had left in a hurry precisely so Irisviel wouldn't see it—so he could hide in an empty corner and suppress the storm inside his heart.
He longed to meet his King again.
He was overjoyed that after a thousand years he might finally repay his sin.
And yet… because he had clung to life for a millennium, he couldn't stop fearing the moment death would finally arrive.
He was ashamed of his weakness, his evil.
Drowned in guilt and contradiction.
From the day King Arthur died—
from the moment he committed the unforgivable sin of failing to return the holy sword, letting his King lose the way and fall into eternal agony—
he had set out alone, carrying the unreturned sword on a journey that never ended.
Now, a full fifteen hundred years had passed since that beginning.
Only recently—guided by Merlin—had he come here.
He had approached the Einzbern family of his own will, proposing an alliance for a single purpose:
To see the King again… and atone for what he had done.
Now everything had reached the final stage. By all logic, his journey should finally come to its end.
He lifted his head toward the window, where the snow had begun again.
And without warning, an old scene surfaced before his eyes.
In the glow, the beautiful man named Merlin spoke to him:
"Sir Bedivere—though this outcome is surely one you already know—let me remind you again."
"You understand the price of what you're about to do, don't you?"
The silver knight, newly awakened, had nodded with profound solemnity.
Merlin continued:
"Body, soul, mind—three-in-one. All of it is already rusted through in you, a wanderer worn down by centuries."
"Go and fulfill the promise of a sinner."
"This time is somewhat special, but one thing is certain—King Arthur needs your help."
"You may be a key capable of breaking a deathbound situation."
"But as your friend, I want to confirm one thing in advance."
"No matter how this journey ends… you will die."
"You will exhaust your soul to break the shackles of reincarnation—"
"and even your very existence will fall into nothingness."
"Even so…"
"Will you still go and fulfill that promise, Sir Bedivere?"
Even now, Merlin's final question echoed in his ears, refusing to fade.
"I…"
Remembering his sins, and everything that had led to this point, the silver knight struggled only briefly.
Then his true name—Bedivere—lifted his head again.
He forced his near-broken body upright.
He steadied his left wrist, already so brittle it was like deadwood.
Just as Merlin said, his life was a candle sputtering in the wind.
His body, driven for too long, had rotted to the point it could barely move.
His soul… was nearly gone.
To keep this immobile flesh marching forward, he had long since burned it as fuel.
His mind, too—fragmented and hollow—had been worn away in the distant past, just like his body and soul.
The fact that he could still maintain a sense of self—without falling into a mindless, walking corpse—was already his limit.
No… not this.
This—this I will never, ever let go out.
Even now, my soul exists only for the radiance of my King.
He bowed his head and whispered, recalling the tragedy of his life, the original sin he carried, and the unforgettable brilliance of the King.
Slowly, the conflict inside him steadied.
He was, wherever he stood, King Arthur's knight.
No matter what it cost, he would repay the sin he had committed.
Even if his soul would one day burn down to nothing—
the light upon his arm would never dim.
Because that was—
He stroked the silver arm and murmured softly:
"…the true holy sword."
Join here to read ahead.
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