novel bin Chapter 5, Lesson 1
Chapter 5, Lesson 1
The light faded.
Arthur found himself standing amidst ruins.
No, not ruins... it's Camelot.
It is a burning, collapsing, and deathly silent Camelot.
The sky was obscured by thick smoke, and the ground was littered with shattered tiles and broken weapons.
Only ruins remained of the palace hall; the round table was split in two and lay in a pool of blood.
The air was filled with the smells of burning and rust, and in the distance came the crackling sound of flames devouring wood.
This was not a "fragment of the future" he had seen before; it was a "phantom" unfolding right before his eyes at this very moment.
But everything was too real.
He could feel the pain of the gravel under his feet, smell the choking smoke, and hear the cries carried on the wind.
Arthur gripped the sword in the stone and walked toward the sound of weeping.
He walked around the collapsed pillars and saw a person, a woman, Guinevere, kneeling on the ground, her face covered in tears, her eyes staring blankly ahead, her lips trembling.
On the ground to the side lay a knight in armor, his helmet shattered, revealing a young, bloodless face.
It's Kai.
"You're late." Guinevere looked up at Arthur, her voice devoid of blame, only a heartbreaking calm: "You said you would protect us."
Arthur opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
He turned his head and saw more corpses.
Lancelot leaned against the wall, his own sword embedded in his chest.
Gawain collapsed on the steps, still clutching the Holy Sun Sword tightly in his hand.
Mordred lay sprawled on the wreckage of the round table, his mask shattered, revealing a young face devoid of hatred, only filled with bewilderment.
At the far end of the hall, Morgan Lefebvre stood alone on a high platform.
Her wand was broken in two, her long black dress was soaked in blood, and she looked at Arthur with a bitter smile on her lips.
"You see," Morgan said, "you can't save anyone."
Arthur's breathing became rapid.
He knew it was an illusion, that it wasn't real.
But those faces were too real, those voices were too real, and the smell of blood was too real.
He closed his eyes.
"This is fake," he told himself. "This is a trial, an illusion created by Scáthach, not real."
He opened his eyes.
Everything is still there.
Kay's body is still there, Guinevere's cries are still there, Morgan's cold laugh is still there.
"You know it's fake." Morgan's voice came from the platform, carrying an eerie echo:
"But you can't control your heart, because your heart is saying, 'This could come true,' isn't it?"
Arthur remained silent.
"You saw fragments of the future: Camelot burning, the Round Table shattering, and your loved ones dying one by one."
Morgan stepped down from the platform, her black skirt trailing in the pool of blood: "You think you can change things? You think becoming Scáthach's apprentice will reverse your fate?"
She walked up to Arthur, reached out her hand, and pressed her icy fingertips against his chest.
"How can you change your destiny if you can't even control your own heart?"
Arthur felt a sharp pain in his chest.
It wasn't physical pain, but a deeper, tearing pain.
He looked down.
Morgan's fingers had pierced his chest, but no blood flowed; only darkness seeped from the wound.
"This is your fear." Morgan's voice softened, a softness that sent chills down your spine.
"You're not afraid of death, you're afraid of failure, afraid that even if you give it your all, you'll end up with nothing."
Arthur gritted his teeth and gripped the sword in the stone tightly.
"Maybe," he said, his voice hoarse, "but even though I'm afraid... even though I might fail..."
He raised his head, a certain light burning in his emerald green eyes.
"I want to try it too."
He brandished his sword.
It wasn't a strike aimed at Morgan, but at himself.
The blade sliced through his vision, and all illusions shattered in that instant.
Camelot, Morgan, Guinevere, Kay, all the corpses, all the pools of blood, like a shattered mirror, turned into countless fragments that scattered in all directions.
The light once again engulfed everything.
Outside the arena, Scáthach's brow twitched slightly.
The light within the magic circle was changing, gradually shifting from an initial dark red to a pale gold.
The gold was faint, but it stood out starkly in the eternal darkness of the Land of Shadows.
"You saw through it so quickly?" Scáthach said softly, a hint of surprise in her voice.
She had seen far too many people struggle in their trials.
Some people are trapped in illusions, unable to extricate themselves from their deepest fears.
Some people may see through the illusion, but they cannot escape from it because their hearts have been captured by fear.
But this young man chose to cut himself.
It's not about escaping or denying, but about confronting "fear itself" and then cutting it off with a sword.
"Interesting." Scáthach's lips curled up slightly.
The light from the magic circle completely dissipated.
Arthur stood in the center, soaking wet, as if he had just been pulled out of the water.
His breathing was rapid, and his hands were trembling slightly, but his eyes were clear. There was no fear in his emerald green eyes, only a calm that came after surviving a disaster.
"I made it through," he said, his voice a little hoarse.
Scáthach didn't answer; she just looked at him, his image reflected in her wine-red eyes.
"Not an hour has passed yet," Scáthach finally said, "but you've passed."
She raised her hand, and the light from the magic circle went out completely. The arena returned to a dim silence.
Arthur stepped out of the magic circle, his steps unsteady. He leaned against the stone wall, panting heavily.
In the illusion, he thought only a few minutes had passed, but in reality... he didn't know how long he had been standing in those ruins.
"What did you see?" Scáthach asked, her tone flat, as if she were just asking casually.
"The destruction of Camelot," Arthur said. "Everyone died before my eyes."
Scáthach showed no sympathy or pity. She simply nodded.
"Common fears," she said. "The fears of kings are mostly like this, but the fact that you can overcome them shows that your mentality is stronger than most people's."
She turned and walked toward the exit of the arena.
"Keep up."
Arthur leaned against the wall and stood up, following behind her. They walked down the corridor and into a different room.
This room is much smaller than the previous arena; it's more like a training room.
In the center of the room was an open space divided into areas by white lines. Various weapons hung on the walls: swords, guns, bows, daggers, and even some strange weapons that Arthur couldn't name.
"From today onwards, this will be your training ground."
Scáthach stood in the center of the room, arms crossed: "I won't teach you 'how to be a king,' that's your own business. I'll only teach you one thing..."
She raised her hand, and a scarlet spear appeared in her palm from thin air.
"How to kill those things that want to kill you and your loved ones."
Arthur looked at the gun, its tip shimmering with a dark red light, like congealed blood or flowing flames.
"The first lesson," Scáthach said, "the art of slaying kings."
She held the spear horizontally in front of her, her wine-red eyes staring directly at Arthur.
"Do you think 'killing the king' means killing the king?"
No, "king" here is not a noun, but a concept.
It refers to 'unshakeable authority,' 'predestined fate,' and 'despair that cannot be resisted.'
Her voice was cold and clear, each word as if carved on a stone slab.
"What you need to learn is not how to kill a person, but how to kill 'despair' itself."
Arthur remained silent for a moment.
"How do I do it?"
Scáthach's lips curled up slightly.
"First, learn to take a beating."
She made her move.
Arthur didn't even see her movements.
He only felt a gust of wind pass in front of him, and then he was struck in the chest by a tremendous force, and his whole body flew backward and crashed heavily into the wall.
"Cough..." He slid to the ground, his chest aching as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer.
"Stand up," Scáthach's voice came from above, devoid of any emotion.
Arthur leaned against the wall and stood up. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, and a sharp pain shot through his ribs.
It might be cracked, but he wasn't sure.
"Your swordsmanship is quite good," Scáthach said.
"But that's swordsmanship for dealing with 'humans.' Against 'gods,' 'kings,' and 'fate,' you're not even a beginner."
She raised her spear again.
"Again."
This time, Arthur saw her move.
It was just for a moment, but that was enough.
He dodged to the side, but Scáthach's spear tip still grazed his shoulder, tearing through his armor and leaving a shallow bloodstain.
"Too slow." Scáthach sheathed her gun and stood still, as if she had never moved. "Your eyes followed, but your body couldn't.
Arthur clutched his shoulder, panting heavily.
"This is the first principle of the 'King-Slaying Technique'," Scáthach said.
"You saw through the trajectory of 'despair,' you just witnessed my gunplay... even though it was only for a moment, the fact that you saw it shows you have talent."
She slung the spear over her shoulder and turned to walk to the other side of the room.
That's all for today. Your body needs to recover. We'll continue tomorrow.
Arthur paused for a moment, then said, "That's it..."
He looked at the hourglass in the corner of the room.
The hourglass had appeared there at some point, and all the sand inside had already flowed out.
At least four hours have passed since Scáthach made her move.
"The flow of time in the Land of Shadows is different from what you're used to," Scáthach said without turning her head.
"You've been here all day, but only an hour has passed in Britain. Don't worry."
She walked to the door and stopped.
"Your room is at the end of the corridor, turn left. There is food and water inside. Wait for me here at sunrise tomorrow."
As for when sunrise will occur... find out for yourself.
Arthur watched her retreating figure.
"Scáthach".
She turned her face to the side.
"Thanks."
Scáthach did not answer; she simply nodded slightly and then disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.
Arthur leaned against the wall, looking down at his chest.
There was a clear dent in the armor, left by the gun butt, and blood was still seeping from his shoulder, his ribs aching slightly.
But he smiled.
It's not because it doesn't hurt, but because he knows it.
He found the right place.
He leaned against the wall and limped towards the end of the corridor.
The room was simpler than I had imagined: a stone bed, a stone table with bread, water, and some unidentified fruit on it.
There was a small window on the wall, and outside the window was the eternal deep purple sky of the Land of Shadows.
Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, tore off a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. The bread was hard, but edible. He drank some water and then lay back down on the bed.
Exhaustion washed over him like a tidal wave. He closed his eyes, and the scenes of the day replayed in his mind.
The burning Camelot in the illusion, Morgan's finger piercing his chest, Scáthach's almost invisible shot.
"I will become stronger," he told himself, "strong enough to protect them."
Then, he fell into a deep sleep.
At the highest point of the castle in the Land of Shadows, Scáthach stood alone on the terrace, her long, deep purple hair fluttering in the night breeze.
She held the scarlet spear in her hand, its tip pointing towards the sky.
"Starlight..." she repeated the word softly, "There is something... different about that child."
She remembered the golden light in the training ground.
That was neither the light of magic nor the light of a holy sword.
That was some kind of older, purer... hope.
"Hope," Scáthach uttered the word, a self-deprecating smile playing on her lips. "For a thousand years, I thought this word had disappeared from my dictionary."
She turned and walked back to the castle.
There's training tomorrow, and that blond boy still has a lot to learn.