WeTried Translations

Translator: ZERO_SUGAR

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◈ I Pulled Out Excalibur

Chapter 422

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Witch (6)

Mordred, the Knight of Betrayal.

He stood atop a cliff with a crossbow trained on Najin. The moment their eyes met, silence fell. In that split second, countless thoughts flashed through Najin's mind.

'Why is he here?'

Mordred, the witch's apostle, was supposed to be unable to move from the innermost depths of the Abyss. This was the outer reaches of the Abyss, so why? And even if he could move, why only now?

Questions piled upon questions.

In a fraction of a second shaved razor-thin, Najin's mind accelerated. He set the why aside for later. He focused on Mordred's appearance and his movements.

'Different.'

This was not the Mordred he had faced in the Underground City.

That Mordred had been a Double, and even so he had faced Najin bare-handed with nothing but his beloved sword Clarent. His build had not differed much from Najin's own.

But now......

Now, it was different.

His frame was two or three times the size of Najin's. Thick leather and iron plates encased him from head to toe without a single gap, leaving no skin visible. At first glance he might have passed for an enormous knight in full armor, but something was off.

Not human. He gave the impression of a precision-engineered mechanism, or an iron-plated golem produced by a magic tower. As evidence, a cylindrical pipe driven into Mordred's spine blazed with dark crimson flame. Steam hissed and billowed from it without pause, as though the thing was breathing.

Najin had seen that kind of armor before.

"All the technology of my homeland is concentrated within my single body. My bones and flesh are made of iron, and instead of blood, mana flows through me."

The Tower of Heroes, the Argo. While climbing that tower in the Sanctuary of Oblivion, Najin had come across a certain knight.

"Sentry."

"I am Sentry, the knight."

A knight who had traded every bone and scrap of flesh for iron.

The shape of Sentry he had seen back then and the form Mordred now wore before him resembled each other. Not identical, but built on similar principles.

'A being that has had mechanical devices embedded in the body, with the flesh reforged to run on a specific power source in place of a heart.'

Najin looked at Mordred.

At the center of the iron plating, right in the middle of the chest, a dark crimson crystal jutted out. It scattered dark crimson light, the kind that called to mind a Blight Star.

And then, thwump.

Time, which had been moving sluggishly, reached its breaking point. The snap of a bowstring rang out. Dark crimson light swirled at the tip of the crossbow.

Light was sucked inward, air coiled around it......

'Ah.'

Najin kicked off the ground. Almost simultaneously, a streak of light shot toward him from far away. He had glimpsed a few seconds ahead and chose to evade. He did not think he could cleanly deflect that blow in his current condition.

That choice was wrong.

The instant he chose to dodge, his instincts screamed. The moment he stepped, the future shifted. The streak of light that had been flying in a straight line suddenly bent. Its path curved toward the direction Najin was stepping.

Thwack!

The streak of light tore through Najin's thigh. No, tore through was not quite right. It was closer to being ripped away. His leg had not come clean off only because he had barely managed to twist his body at the last instant.

"......Ha."

A hollow laugh slipped past Najin's lips. It was similar to the marksman with the blessing of certain-hit he had faced before, but any comparison to that person would be an insult to this power. Whatever arrow was loosed from that crossbow would hit, by any means necessary.

Did Mordred possess any stars related to certain-hit?

Not that Najin recalled. Among the Round Table, only one person had ever held a star tied to certain-hit.

'Tristan.'

The Round Table's finest marksman, Tristan.

The knight known as Sir Tristan the Unfailing. He had pierced his enemies in any situation, and his arrows had even punched through the prophetic eye of the future-demon.

Thinking of that story, Najin narrowed his gaze.

What he sensed from the crossbow Mordred was now loading was the aura of an entirely different star, not Mordred's. A star and Sacred Object belonging to someone else entirely. Realizing that, Najin ground his teeth.

Of course it was unavoidable.

Because the crossbow Mordred had aimed at him had originally been a bow, and that bow carried the legend of one who "never misses its mark (Fail-not)."

A Sacred Object imbued with the star of Tristan, Knight of the Round Table.

The bow that never misses, Failnot.

Looking at the crossbow leveled at him once more, Najin let out a bitter laugh.

"You would even steal the weapons of your old comrades?"

A traitor who had dug up the graves of his dead companions, pillaged their stars and Sacred Objects, and fled into the Abyss. The Sacred Object in that traitor's hands blazed with dark crimson light.

"......"

Mordred said nothing. As if there was no conversation worth having, he leaped from the cliff and fired a streak of light at Najin.

Dark crimson light embroidered the air.

2.

Streaks of light poured down.

Sheeeeew!

A chilling sound tore through the air, plunging earthward one moment, then bending without warning, the howl of rising streaks gouging up the ground echoing all around.

Clench.

Najin gritted his teeth and ran. Only a handful of steps remained before he broke free of the Abyss, yet those steps felt impossibly distant. His body was already at its limit. He could not fight Mordred head-on in this state.

Every time he deflected a streak from Failnot, Najin's arm shook. His shoulder grated, and the fingers gripping Excalibur snapped with a crack.

Kaboom!

The instant one barely-deflected streak buried itself in the earth, a cloud of dirt billowed high. But as though that alone could never be enough to dodge an arrow of certain-hit, three more streaks punched straight through the dust cloud and bore down on him.

'Unbelievable.'

Limping on his punctured leg, Najin threw himself aside. A crimson streak grazed his shoulder. The pain of skin being ripped away sent sparks across his vision.

Roll, crash.

He rolled across the ground and shoved himself upright, lifting his head. Five steps ahead. Five more steps and he would be clear of the Abyss. But there was no chance Mordred would simply watch him take those five steps.

At this rate he was going to get shot through and die.

"Huu......"

Najin exhaled slowly and made a choice.

Thud.

Rather than turn his back and run, he planted his feet and took his stance. Watching the streaks painting the air, he let his sword hang at an angle.

'Find an opening.'

Deflect however he could and look for an opening. If he was willing to sacrifice an arm or a leg, he could watch for a chance. He breathed out, holding that resolve.

"Najin!"

A voice came from behind him. At the same instant, a streak of light was fired from a hole torn in the Abyss's barrier.

Clang!

The dark crimson streak aimed at Najin and the white light fired from behind collided. At the moment of impact the arrow shattered, and the dark crimson trajectory scattered. What remained was a single spear.

Najin recognized it in one glance. He recognized whose presence had appeared at his back as well.

The White Spear, Bedivere.

Having turned aside Failnot's arrow with a thrown spear, Bedivere reached out toward Najin. The distance that had needed five steps closed in an instant. Najin broke his stance and threw himself toward Bedivere.

Throb.

But the punctured calf and the accumulated exhaustion made his body waver. He moved a beat slower than he intended.

'Too slow.'

He had given an opening. An opponent like this would not miss it. Najin twisted his body, trying to protect his heart, determined to at least keep it from being pierced.

Thwump!

Sure enough, Mordred had been waiting for that opening and loosed an arrow. Najin grabbing Bedivere's hand and the streak of light punching through Najin's shoulder happened at almost the same moment.

Yank.

Bedivere's prodigious strength hauled Najin out. Nearly flung bodily, Najin burst through to the outside of the barrier. The moment he escaped, the hole torn in the barrier sealed shut.

"Huff, huu......"

He rolled across the ground, gasping for breath. Looking back, he could see Mordred glaring at him from the other side of the barrier. After staring him down for a long moment, Mordred turned and walked away.

Mordred was moving off.

Watching him go, Najin glanced at his burning shoulder. The arrow Mordred had loosed at the very last moment. He gripped the arrow buried firmly in his shoulder with his bare hand.

Rip, rip-rip-rip-rip.

Together with the flesh caught on the arrowhead, Najin tore the arrow free. He stared at it without expression.

'Why.'

His eyes narrowed.

'Why didn't he aim for the heart?'

At the last moment, Najin had made a mistake. He had shown his opponent an opening. Even with the twist of his body, one wrong move and his heart might have been badly damaged.

But Mordred's arrow had not aimed for the heart.

From the very start, it had been aimed at the shoulder.

Unable to understand why, Najin stared for a long while at the arrow that had pierced his shoulder.

3.

"Why didn't he aim for the heart, you ask?"

"Right, Tristan. Why didn't you aim for the heart?"

"Because it would have been a waste to pierce it."

"What?"

Mordred blinked at his old friend's answer.

"What do you mean, a waste?"

"That one, even in the state he's in now, was once a man of great pride. Truly, a friend who swung a greatsword with spirit."

"You knew him?"

"I do. An enemy I crossed paths with many times. We never settled things between us, no matter how many times we met."

"So you showed mercy."

"Hmm. Calling it mercy feels too simple."

Tristan's lips curled into a slight grin.

"He wasn't at his best. He was exhausted, about to collapse on the spot. And it wasn't even me who wore him down, he was spent from being chased by other people."

"Wasn't he."

"Piercing an opponent like that isn't satisfying. Settling it that way would be a waste for a fight that's stretched on for years. That kind of ending just isn't right. That would be a truly sad thing."

"So you let him go."

Tristan shrugged.

"Maybe my bow wanted that."

He plucked Failnot's bowstring as he spoke.

"Always the same. The more I've looked forward to a fight, the more this bow refuses to strike the opponent's heart. As if it's saying that isn't how things should end."

"That's quite a fussy bow."

"Tell me about it."

Perched on a boulder, idly touching the bowstring, he held his bow out toward Mordred on a sudden impulse.

"Want to try shooting it?"

"No. I'm no good with a bow."

"Fair enough. You always only handled the weapons the king wielded, didn't you-you who admired her so. That sword you carry around..."

"It's Clarent."

"Right, that. It looks similar to Excalibur."

"Not at all. Compared to the sword she carried, my sword, and my skill......"

"Huu, there he goes again."

Tristan shook his head watching Mordred launch into his praise of King Arthur. With a sigh, he pointed to his bow and said:

"Well, even if you can't use a bow."

He pointed at the weapons the soldiers below were carrying.

"A crossbow is something even you could manage, don't you think?"

"A crossbow?"

"Right. You just pull the trigger on that one. On the off chance I can no longer draw a bowstring, take my bow and convert it into a crossbow to use."

"That's an ominous thing to say."

"Unlike you swordsmen, I need both arms to use my weapon. If I lose one like Bedivere did, that's retirement right there."

Tristan waved both arms and laughed.

"So when that day comes, you take it."

"Why me of all people?"

"Well, Lancelot is too stiff. Gawain has a temper like fire. Bedivere is measured, and Agravain, Kay, Percival, none of them really suit me."

He pointed at Mordred.

"That leaves only you."

"And that's reason enough?"

"Yeah, more or less... and one more thing."

Tristan's eyes narrowed.

"You seem like someone who will make it happen no matter what."

"Make what happen."

"What our king wishes for."

"...For that reason, wouldn't Sir Bedivere or Lancelot be more fitting?"

"Bedivere only follows the path the king walks. A step behind. Lancelot tries to carve out a different road for the king's sake. But you're different."

Different how.

"You're someone who will get the king to that place by any means necessary. Truly, by any means at all."

"......"

"Am I wrong?"

"Talking nonsense again."

"Well, take it however you like."

Tristan smiled faintly and plucked his bowstring.

"The way I see it, that's what you are. Different from me, from Lancelot, from Bedivere, from all the other knights."

You.

"You will absolutely see her dream through."

No matter what you must carry to get there.

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