WE TRIED TRANSLATIONS

Translator: Ryuu

Editor: Ilafy

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ I Pulled Out Excalibur

Chapter 149

──────

The Silent Knight, Crunbelle (4)

Crunbelle thrust his lance.

Though it was a simple sentence, the weight carried by Crunbelle’s name made it anything but light.

Crunbelle was a warrior who transcended mortality with a single lance. Just as the phrase, “A Sword Master swung their sword,” carried a certain gravitas, so too did, “Crunbelle thrust his lance.”

When he stomped his foot, a storm roared. When he extended his arm, the storm coiled around the shaft of his lance, and the moment the lance pierced the air…

A storm erupted from its tip.

‘The Battle Ram’ was Crunbelle’s most powerful strike. Even if no Imagery imbued the blade of his lance, even if he was no longer a Transcendent, the technique remained undiminished. He had simply refrained from using it because no weapon could endure its force.

At that moment, things were different—he held the Lance of the Crossed Star in his hands.

Forged by the Empire's master craftsmen and embodying the pinnacle of Crunbelle’s feats, that lance was his symbol. Held in its rightful wielder's hands, it withstood the full force of his technique as its cross-shaped blade gleamed, shining for its master.

Thus, the perfected technique defied comprehension. As transcendent beings rejected the understanding of mortals, so too did Crunbelle’s strike.

Slicing through split seconds, the lightning-quick thrust surpassed Helmet Knight’s reaction speed.

Ka-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga-gak!

The storm churned, tearing the ground asunder and grinding obstacles into dust in its relentless advance.

Helmet Knight reacted belatedly, but it was too late. Gripping his lance, he swung it toward the oncoming storm; the shaft shattered. Swept away, he was flung to the side as if by the storm’s command.

Even so, the storm’s true target was not Helmet Knight—It was Najin, who stood behind him. Even though Helmet Knight mitigated its power slightly, Crunbelle’s ‘Battle Ram’ possessed strength comparable to a Transcendent’s strike.

It was a force Najin could not withstand.

Crack.

Najin’s eyes—his gaze and reflexes—were not inferior to those of a Transcendent. Moreover, he had witnessed the technique, ‘Battle Ram’, several times through Helmet Knight. Though dodging or deflecting it was impossible, blocking it—just barely—could be within reach…

‘Ah…’ The moment his Sword Aura clashed with the storm, Najin realized how arrogant that thought had been… It was a delusion; blocking it was never an option.

Thud.

His feet left the ground. The moment the storm touched his Sword Aura, it unraveled like threads, scattering into the air. His fingers on the sword fractured; his arm, braced against the impact, twisted with a sickening crack.

Rrr-r-r-rip!

Everything in the storm’s path—Najin’s Sword Aura, his body, and the surroundings—was ground down.

Hurled backward by the tempest, Najin glimpsed the aftermath: fine dust swirling where the storm had passed. He knew, with chilling certainty, that if he faltered, he would end up the same.

Gritting his teeth, he refused to let go of his sword. His heart pounded furiously as he channeled Sword Aura into his blade without pause.

If his Sword Aura dissipated entirely, the sword would shatter, and his body would be impaled.

‘Endure. Endure. Endure…’ In the seemingly endless tug-of-war, his Sword Aura ultimately prevailed, and the storm dispersed, pushing him one last time.

With a resounding crash, he was thrown into a boulder.

Thud thud thud.

Debris tumbled down, striking his head. His arm was broken, and blood poured from his eyes and nose.

He coughed violently, black blood spewed forth.

His insides were a wreck. Even breathing felt like torment. One strike—just one strike—and his body was reduced to tatters.

Blinking against his blurry vision, blue hair came into view, swaying in front of him—Merlin, his guide.

Crack.

She gnawed on her thumb, her eyes trembling fiercely. Raising and lowering her hand repeatedly, she seemed lost in contemplation.

Najin let out a bitter chuckle. ‘Merlin.’

“Ah.” Their eyes met, and Merlin’s gaze finally steadied.

‘I’m not dead yet. I’m fine.’

“You… you really…”

‘What will you do if you start panicking already?’

“You’re driving me insane, you know that? Absolutely insane,” Merlin groaned, running a trembling hand down her face as she struggled to catch her breath. Though she respected Najin’s decisions and refrained from intervening, the anxiety was unbearable.

Unlike when she had faced death alongside Arthur, she could only watch as Najin teetered on the edge of life and death.

‘Still, I think I’m starting to understand,’ Najin silently said.

“What?”

‘I think I understand… What I need to do.’ Closing his eyes for a moment, Najin recalled what he had just witnessed. In his mind, Crunbelle’s every movement disassembled and reassembled.

The Lance of the Crossed Stars Helmet Knight had used; Crunbelle’s ‘Battle Ram’…

He suddenly grasped the difference between the two. Drawing on the principles and motions he had learned from Helmet Knight, he pieced together how Crunbelle had modified and executed the technique.

No matter how transcendent a skill may be… if one observed it enough times—and even attempted to mimic it with their body—understanding became possible.

Opening his eyes, Najin smiled.

He finally understood.

Helmet Knight deflected Crunbelle’s lance and widened the distance between them before starting to run.

‘Damn it, I should’ve reacted faster.’ He sprinted toward Najin’s location. ‘It has to be that boulder.’

“Agh, khuh…” Najin was there, coughing up blood. As expected, he was in shambles—unable to continue fighting.

Groaning, Helmet Knight reached out to him, intending to take him and flee.

However, Najin did not grab his hand.

“Move,” was all the boy said. “Ack, pte.” Spitting out blood, he slowly pushed himself up.

Each movement was accompanied by sickening cracks and grating sounds, but he paid no mind to his injuries. Walking forward, he stomped his foot to set his bones in place, adjusted his shoulder, and began resetting his fingers.

No, calling it “setting his bones” was an understatement. It was more like he was assembling himself piece by piece.

Relying on his terrifying regenerative abilities, Najin reassembled his body.

“Move. Don’t block my view.”

“What?”

“I can’t see the enemy.” Blood rushing to his head, Najin abandoned all decorum and gestured impatiently at Helmet Knight. It was a clear signal to get out of his way.

“You… you’re seriously going to fight again in that condition?”

“Why not? That one over there is still fighting, even without a head.”

“This is reckless.”

“A razor’s edge separates recklessness and valor.”

“You’re insa—” Helmet Knight’s words were cut short when Najin let his sword hang by his side. Though he might not have realized it, his Sword Aura had taken on a completely different form.

“Now I get it.” Najin swept his hair back with a hand. “Step aside.” His platinum-hued eyes locked onto Helmet Knight’s.

In those entrancing eyes, flames of determination burned. Through his gaze, Najin made his intent clear: don’t interfere.

The duel wasn’t over, and he had a duty to respond to his opponent’s best efforts.

“Heh,” Helmet Knight let out a hollow laugh, “You’re a madman.”

“Took you long enough to notice.” With a crooked smile, Najin strode past Helmet Knight.

The older warrior couldn’t stop him.

Though the boy had yet to experience transcendence, the aura he exuded was enough to force Helmet Knight to admit his power.

Tap.

Planting both feet firmly on the ground, Najin stared at Crunbelle.

The Silent Knight remained as he was, gazing back at him. His lance was aimed not at Helmet Knight but directly at Najin.

It was clear that Crunbelle, too, sought a decisive conclusion to their battle.

‘Yes. That’s how it should be. Whether you are a Forgotten One, a Forgotten Star, or a Fallen Star—it doesn’t matter to me. So long as our swords clash, you are a knight. Even if you don’t see yourself as one, I will make it so.’

Najin inhaled deeply; then, he shouted, “Crunbelle!” He raised his sword, the tip of the blade pointed directly at Crunbelle’s heart. “Come.”

With bloodshot eyes and a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, he declared, “This time, I’ll crush you head-on.”

Whether Crunbelle understood the words was unclear. He probably didn’t. However, the meaning behind Najin’s stance and the fervor in his voice reached him.

Slowly, Crunbelle adjusted his stance with a flawless posture, overwhelming momentum, and a sheer pressure that subdued the surroundings.

Despite the suffocating intensity, Najin stood his ground. He raised his head high, maintaining his composure. Challenging a stronger opponent head-on was a reckless and foolish choice.

As he’d said, the line between recklessness and valor is razor thin.

Only those who refused to yield at the brink of life and death could transcend; Najin did not falter as he faced the formidable foe before him.

The first star Najin possessed—the Star of Challenge—shone brightly.

To challenge an enemy was to face the opponent head-on.

The star scattered its light for its master, who sought to carve out a new feat.

Najin’s Sword Aura shimmered with the radiance of the star.

The Lance of the Crossed Stars, the signature technique of the Golden Horn Knights…

Its origin lay with their ancestors, who had sailed the seas long ago. They’d traversed vast oceans with the wind as their companion. On the prows of their ships had been affixed sharp golden horns—symbols of their lineage and the genesis of the Golden Horns.

“Advance. Advance. Advance.”

They crossed oceans, pierced glaciers, and rammed through obstacles with their horns, breaking everything in their path.

The golden horns mounted on their prows were their first lances, their first weapons, and their means of piercing through barriers. They named the brutish yet effective attack the ‘Battle Ram’.

Thus began the tale of the Golden Horns and the technique known as the ‘Battle Ram’.

As centuries passed, the tale and origins of the Golden Horns faded into obscurity. Even the Golden Horn Knights, who inherited their will, were erased from history…

Boom.

Standing there was a living relic of that history—Crunbelle. He was the Silent Knight, his star was the Hornblower, and his allegiance was to the Golden Horn Knights.

Crunbelle gripped the Lance of the Crossed Star.

From a young age, he had idolized the Golden Horn Knights. Enchanted by their battle cries as they charged under the Empire’s banner, he had been captivated by the Lance of the Crossed Star the captain carried.

He trained himself, became a knight, and joined the Golden Horn Knights. After achieving countless feats, he earned the captain’s recognition and was named his adjutant.

Though the Lance of the Crossed Star was traditionally reserved for the captain, the captain willingly bestowed it upon Crunbelle, claiming he preferred swords over lances, but Crunbelle understood the true meaning behind the gesture: ‘You are the next captain, Crunbelle.’

Truly, those were glorious days. Crunbelle had blown his horn and charged forward. Following his captain, he advanced endlessly. Forward, always forward…

All things eventually came to an end.

A moment from his past…

「Why must death be noble?」

The woman smiled.「Life is a comedy. From birth to death, it’s all nothing more than a farce, and I, this humble one, no, I cannot understand why death should be noble and solemn.」

She gave a maniacal laugh.「Why don’t you laugh? Why don’t you dance?」

Finally, she gestured.「Laugh. Sing. Dance. Make noise. Play instruments—loudly! Life is a comedy, and even death is no more than a jest. In this hell, revelry is the only value worth pursuing!」

The jesters danced; laughter, songs, grotesque movements, and the sounds of instruments filled the air…

Thunk.

Crunbelle’s head had fallen, but he never stopped. He’d refused to succumb to the circus of fools. Holding his severed head to his neck, he’d charged on.

“The Golden Horn Knights never stop. March forward. Advance. Pierce the enemy. We do not yield.”

His head had fallen countless times. It was crushed, his body burned, and his flesh reduced to ash, yet he’d continued his march. Cutting the threads that sought to bind him, he’d roared.

To drown out the jesters’ laughter and the sounds of their instruments, the Hornblower had blown his horn.

Blow the horn. March forward. Pierce the enemy…

What meaning did it have? He had forgotten, thus forgetting himself and becoming a Forgotten One. The six brilliant stars he once possessed fell and turned black.

Even so, he continued to shout.

‘Blow the horn. March forward. Pierce the enemy.’

The Hornblower, the Silent Knight, Crunbelle, blew his horn, stomped the ground, and thrust his lance.

The Battle Ram.

In that fleeting moment, he was a knight.

The one facing his lance wished for it to be so, and therefore Crunbelle could be as such. After all, a duel’s meaning is defined by the opposing combatants.

Najin charged straight into the surging storm.

Reading the storm’s trajectory, he propelled himself forward, his raised sword gleaming and illuminating the way to Crunbelle’s lance.

Crünbell with cracked stone armor and dark wings charges through slashing wind

‘Let us settle this.’

‘Will my blade cleave your storm, or will your storm pierce me?’