A sea of roaring flames.
From every direction came the dance of fire, the raucous, unrestrained laughter of Saxon soldiers, and the agonizing wails and pleas of men and women being violated.
Artoria took a deep breath.
The air she inhaled was thick with searing embers that scorched her lungs, but for her current state, the pain was a necessary tether to reality. Her gaze swept over the surroundings—over the Saxons who were either watching or committing atrocities against the innocent, over the fallen town guards, and over the cold corpse of Sir Pancy, who had served her foster father.
Finally, Artoria locked her eyes on the man standing before her. He wore a suit of full-body plate armor that left only his head exposed.
The Saxon leader—the man who had killed Sir Pancy.
Artoria lunged, her boots kicking off the scorched earth. Using the momentum, she closed the distance and swung her longsword.
CLANG!
The screech of metal on metal echoed through the square.
She couldn't break through his guard. It was partly because she had swung her sword too many times, draining her stamina, and partly because she hadn't rested properly in years. But most importantly, it was the sheer gap in physical strength. In a contest of raw power...
As Artoria focused everything on the blade, she suddenly noticed the man's face twist into a cruel grin.
Bad!
The realization hit her a second too late. As she struggled in the deadlock, the man raised his foot and drove it toward her chest. She wanted to react, but she didn't dare pull her sword back, and her mind was sluggish from the exhaustion of prolonged combat.
Before she could devise a counter, the foot slammed into her sternum.
A massive force sent her flying. Artoria traced an arc through the air before crashing heavily into the dirt. Her grip failed; her sword fell to the ground with a hollow clatter.
"For someone your age, your swordsmanship is decent," the Saxon leader said, walking toward her with his heavy greatsword as his men cheered. "But your style is too rigid. You put too much faith in your blade."
He spat on the ground. "Real combat is about using any means necessary to win. It's not a knightly game of 'house'."
Artoria bit her lip and said nothing. She reached for her sword, trying to push herself up, but the Saxon leader kicked her again.
She flew back once more, crashing into the earth amidst the jeers and whistles of the surrounding Saxons.
CRACK!
A burning timber above finally gave way. With a fragile groan, the flaming beam collapsed, pinning her leg to the ground.
"Nngh...!"
Artoria let out a muffled cry of pain and reached for her sword again.
But a small throwing knife whistled through the air, piercing her right wrist and pinning it to the dirt.
"Agh!"
She couldn't stop the cry of agony this time. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.
"Don't be afraid."
The Saxon leader stood over Artoria. He looked down at the young girl who, despite her terror and pain, still maintained a face of defiant strength. His eyes were filled with twisted admiration.
"As a breeder, you are more than excellent."
"I won't treat you as crudely as my men treat your countrywomen. I will marry you. You will be my wife, and you will bear me strong, exceptional sons."
Uncontrollable horror flooded Artoria's eyes.
She wasn't afraid of death. She had reasons for wanting to live—she didn't want her brother to be sad, and she didn't want to fail the expectations of her foster father and teacher. She hadn't yet driven out Vortigern or saved the land she loved.
But she wasn't afraid to die.
Becoming this man's woman, however? Bearing his children?
Artoria heard the renewed screams of men and women nearby. She looked up and saw a married couple being tortured by a group of Saxons. A look of grim resolve crossed her face.
Even if I have to die, I will never let that happen!
Just as she reached out with her left hand to pull the knife from her right wrist to end her own life...
"ARGH!!!"
A scream cut off abruptly, followed by even more terrified wails and the sound of men scrambling away. The Saxons who had been reveling in the carnage suddenly fell silent.
Artoria looked toward the source of the noise.
Down a path carved by walls of fire, a Saxon soldier came stumbling, crawling in desperation.
"My Lord, it's bad! There's a—"
A Saxon corpse slammed into his back, cutting off his frantic report. There was no need for further introduction.
Everyone looked up.
At the end of the fiery path stood a blonde youth. He held a longsword that was constantly dripping blood, and the expensive fabric of his clothes was entirely soaked through with crimson. Blood was smeared across his brow and cheeks, lending a touch of ferocity and coldness to his peerless features.
The Saxon leader's gaze lingered on him for a moment.
Judging by the few tears in the youth's clothing, he had clearly taken some hits, but the sheer volume of blood on him was undoubtedly from the men he had cut down to get here.
Artorius's eyes immediately found Artoria. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat on her fear-stricken face and the wound on her wrist. Then, he raised his eyes, meeting the Saxon leader's gaze with an expressionless, icy stare.
"Kill him," the Saxon leader ordered flatly.
Artorius watched the soldiers lunge at him. His eyes remained empty of emotion. He took a deep breath, and the world seemed to slow down for a beat.
Then, Artorius took a step forward.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
No one, save for the Saxon leader, could see how he swung his sword or how he moved. In an instant, his blade traced a beautiful arc, opening the throat of the nearest soldier.
He tilted his body slightly, dodging another soldier's slash, and threw a punch into the man's gut.
THOOM!
The dull sound of the impact was audible from ten meters away. The Saxon was launched like a cannonball, flying several meters before crashing into the sea of fire, causing a nearby, fragile building to collapse entirely.
Artorius leaned forward, his longsword snapping upward in a violent slash.
He sent another soldier's weapon flying while a line of blood erupted from the man's chest, bottom to top.
One strike. Two strikes. Three strikes.
Artorius had no wasted motion. Surrounded by a dozen Saxons, he evaded every attack with a single step and took a life with every swing of his blade.
Ten seconds later.
The last Saxon soldier standing before him collapsed. The path ahead was clear.
Blood dripped from the tip of his sword. From his hair to his boots, he was dyed a solid, terrifying red.
But everyone who had witnessed the last few seconds knew that this person who had just slaughtered a dozen men...
Wasn't a man. He was a monster.
The only injury this monster had sustained while being swarmed by a dozen men was a shallow graze on his waist. And in the very next second, he had killed the three men responsible.
Whether from fatigue or simple contemplation, Artorius, who had been looking down, finally raised his head. His gaze swept over the Saxons who were frozen halfway to him and those further back. Every man his eyes touched instinctively recoiled.
"Is that everyone?"
The raspy voice received no answer.
Artorius began to walk. He stepped over the pile of corpses, leaving a trail of death behind him.
The Saxons didn't speak. Not a single living soldier dared to block his path; they simply backed away.
They watched in silence as he approached the young girl knight. He looked down at her, kicked the burning timber off her leg with one foot, and knelt to pull the knife from her wrist.
"Ngh...!" Artoria groaned.
"It hurts, doesn't it?"
Artorius gently touched her wound. As his mana surged, the injury began to knit together before her eyes, forming new flesh and scabbing over.
Artoria wanted to say it didn't hurt.
But this was her brother—the only man she didn't have to be strong for. The words "it doesn't hurt" died in her throat.
"...Yes."
"I told you not to be reckless. Look what happened," Artorius said with a smile, using his relatively clean left hand to pinch her cheek.
He was smiling, but his hair was matted with red, and viscous blood was dripping from the tips of his bangs.
He was acting casual, but Artoria could hear his suppressed, heavy breathing. She could feel his exhaustion.
In that moment...
Artoria, who hadn't cried when her comrades fell, who hadn't cried when the townsfolk were tortured, and who hadn't cried when she was stabbed, finally let two lines of tears fall.
She thought of the past. She thought of their travels a year ago with Kay and their teacher. Every time she or her teacher caused trouble, her brother was there to clean up after them.
But this was different.
There were so many Saxons, and that leader was terrifyingly strong. Her brother was alone. He had used so much energy to reach her, he wore no armor, and he was wounded.
"Brother, I'm sor—"
She was cut off as a finger was gently pressed against her lips.
"I am your brother."
Artorius stood up, a smile still on his face. But as he turned to face the Saxon leader, his gaze turned utterly cold.
Intent to kill.
It wasn't a hot, angry rage; it was the purest form of killing intent. It was a declaration: 'You are already dead.' A frigid chill swept through the square.
The Saxon leader, however, showed no fear. Instead, he pulled his lips back into an excited grin.
Too weak!
That waste of space Sir Pancy, who couldn't even take two hits, and this young girl knight who had power but zero experience—they were all too weak!
The reason I ventured deep into Celtic territory, the reason I came to hunt the knights attending the Selection Ceremony, was for this! To face an enemy like this!
Only a strong enemy makes the kill worthwhile!
"My name is Henry Duncan, son of the Chief of the Lion Tribe, warrior of the White Dragon, and the predestined Chief of my people!"
Henry raised his greatsword, looking at Artorius with feverish excitement. "Warrior! Before I grant you an honorable duel, tell me your name!"
"I have no interest in giving my name to a dead man."
Artorius took a step toward Henry, raising his sword slightly.
The blood had finished dripping from the blade, revealing the silver-white steel once more. The blade reflected the corpses on the ground, the silent Saxons watching from the shadows, the broken men and women, the tearful Artoria, and the omnipresent fire.
The blade rose higher.
It reflected Henry's excited, savage grin, Artorius's expressionless face, and the massive greatsword that was now inches away.
CLANG!
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