socalfunplaces Chapter 24 Dream
Chapter 24 Dream
The hall remained silent for a long time, and no one asked who the "unspeakable lover" was.
The first unspoken understanding at the round table was established silently at this moment.
Everyone's past belongs to them.
Lancelot was the last to stand up.
His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and his light purple eyes swept over the people present.
Kay's arrogance, Bedivere's composure, Gawain's burning passion, and Tristan's melancholy.
Four faces, four swords, four lives.
Three days ago, he didn't even know them.
At this moment, they will take an oath together.
"I, Lancelot, swear," his voice was deep and calm, like a still lake, "to protect the honor of the Round Table with my sword."
He remained silent for a moment, a rare hint of vulnerability flashing in his light purple eyes.
"But I have a request."
Everyone was looking at him.
"I've been invincible in France for far too long," Lancelot said.
"It's not because my sword is so powerful, but because no one dares to come near me."
They treated me as the "Knight of the Lake," as a title, a legend, a monster who shouldn't exist among humans.
I spent three years looking for an opponent I could give my all to.
But what truly terrifies me isn't the lack of opponents, but rather the fact that even after finding one, I'm still "alone."
His fingers tightened, and his knuckles turned slightly white.
"So my request is... if one day I lose my way."
If I were to lock myself back in that "invincible" cage...
If I start to feel again that I don't belong anywhere.
He looked up and stared directly at Arthur.
"Any one of you, strike me awake with your sword."
Arthur looked at him, his emerald green eyes showing no hesitation.
I promise you.
Lancelot nodded, and then he drew his sword.
The sword gleamed like lake water in the afternoon sun, cold, clear, and unfathomable.
"I swear—I will never betray the Round Table, and I will never betray those who trust me."
Five swords were stacked on the round table.
Kai's sword is as heavy as a mountain.
Bedwell's prosthetic limbs were as white as moonlight.
Gawain's Sun Sword was as hot as midday.
Tristan did not draw his sword. He placed his hand on the overlapping blades, on the hand that played the harp, long and strong, with thick calluses on the fingertips.
Lancelot's sword was as cold as lake water.
Six people held hands on the same round table, clasping the same vow.
The sword light illuminated six faces.
Resolute, loyal, sunny, melancholic, calm, cold.
Mary peeked out from behind the bookshelf, holding a stolen apple in her hand.
She didn't say anything, but took a bite of her apple, her amethyst eyes reflecting the six overlapping swords.
"The oath of the round table..." she said softly, her voice so low that only she could hear it.
"From this day forward, Britain is truly different."
She retreated behind the bookshelf, as silently as she had come.
Only the lingering scent of apples in the air proves that she was once here.
Morgan stood alone in the twilight at the tower window.
She looked towards the hall, but through the stone wall and the courtyard, she couldn't see the round table or the six overlapping swords.
But she can see magic.
Six distinct beams of magical light intertwined in the hall, forming a warm and solid light she had never seen before.
Kay's crimson, Bedivere's silvery white, Gawain's golden yellow, Tristan's deep green, and Lancelot's lake blue.
And at the very center, Arthur's Starlight encompasses all five colors, transforming them into a tranquil and dazzling starry sky.
Morgan's hand unconsciously tightened its grip on the window frame.
She did not take an oath; she was not a Knight of the Round Table; she was a magical archon, an observer standing outside the Round Table.
But the "Guardian" rune in her hand was glowing faintly.
It's as if it's saying: I'm here too.
Morgan glanced down at the rune, a faint hint of gentleness flashing in his icy blue eyes.
Then she loosened the window frame and turned back into the shadows of the tower.
The pale blue light returned to the tower windows.
In the hall, Arthur looked at his five companions.
Kai patted Lancelot's shoulder forcefully, saying, "Your oath is much better than mine. No, I'm going to make it again."
Bedwell scribbled down everyone's oaths on the parchment, his silver prosthetic arm holding the pen with a unique elegance.
Gawain stretched by the window, the afternoon sun shining on his golden hair as if crowning him.
Tristan held his harp, his fingertips plucking a string of light, cheerful notes—the first smile of the day.
Lancelot frowned slightly as Kai patted him, but a faint smile played on his lips, a smile he himself was unaware of.
Arthur didn't disturb them; he simply stood quietly by the round table, watching the scene unfold.
The sword in the stone glowed faintly at his waist, as if to say:
This is what you need to protect—not the throne, not the territory, not the glory.
It's this table, and it's the person sitting at this table.
It's the lines around their eyes when they laugh, the slightly trembling fingers when they make a vow, and the composed way they pat their opponent on the shoulder after losing.
Arthur placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"I will," he said softly.
No one heard it, but the light from the sword in the stone shone faintly for a moment.
……
Seven days after the oath at the Round Table, Arthur gripped his sword in a dream.
That was no ordinary dream; ever since he returned from the Land of Shadows, his dreams had never been peaceful.
The power of the Star Trail never truly sleeps.
It operates every moment he closes his eyes, weaving countless fragments of world lines into images that flow silently through his consciousness.
Most of the time, those images are blurry and distant, like reflections seen through water.
But tonight, the image is terrifyingly clear.
Arthur stood on a boundless wasteland, the sky a dark red, like a scar scorched by flames.
Holding the sword in the stone, the sapphire on the blade shimmered with a faint light, and the warmth of the hilt felt as familiar as the lines on his own palm.
The enemy standing opposite him had no face, or even any form.
It was a pure darkness, deeper than the eternal night of the Land of Shadows, from which countless voices mingled.
Wailing, cursing, maniacal laughter, weeping.
It was as if everything abandoned by the world had gathered in this mass of darkness.
Arthur swung his sword, and the light from the sword in the stone tore through the darkness, illuminating the wasteland with blue and white starlight.
But the darkness did not retreat; it flowed past both sides of the sword light, then converged again, thicker and colder than before.
Arthur swung his sword again and again, each strike faster, more ruthless, and closer to the law of "god-killing" than the last.
But each time, darkness would gather again after the sword light dissipated.
Then he heard a voice.
It didn't come from the darkness, but from the sword in my hand.
It was a very faint, mournful cry, like the final sigh of some ancient life.
Arthur looked down and saw a crack appear on the blade of the sword in the stone.
It spread out from the hilt of the sword, as thin as a hair, yet it was dazzlingly clear against the dark red sky.
"No..." He gripped the sword hilt, trying to fill the crack with magic.
But the cracks continued to spread under his fingertips, one becoming two, two becoming four, spreading from the hilt to the middle of the blade, and the sapphire's light began to flicker erratically.
Darkness descended, and Arthur raised the sword in the stone to parry.
The sword shattered the moment it collided with the darkness.
It wasn't broken by a blow, but rather the sword itself couldn't withstand his force and disintegrated from the inside.
Countless fragments scattered in his hands, and the sapphire's brilliance was extinguished the instant it shattered.
The shards cut his palm, and blood dripped through his fingers onto the scorched earth of the wasteland.
Darkness swallowed him.
Arthur suddenly opened his eyes.
The familiar stone pattern on the bedroom ceiling came into view, while pale blue morning light streamed in through the window.
His breathing was heavy and rapid, his heart was pounding like a drum, and the clothes on his back were soaked with cold sweat, sticking to his skin, cold and sticky.
His right hand was still in the position of holding a sword, his five fingers stiffly curled up, and his palm was empty.
He sat up, buried his face in his hands, which were trembling.
It wasn't fear, it was anger.
Anger towards oneself.
He realized the cause of the crack: it wasn't because the enemy was too strong, but because of himself.
The Sword in the Stone could not withstand the "God-Slaying" power he brought back from the Land of Shadows.
The Sword of Kings' mission is to "choose a king," but it has transcended the realm of "king" and ventured into the domain of slaying gods and destiny.
The sword was not wrong, nor was he wrong, but their being together was wrong.