I, Guinevere, am going to crush you, you curry stick, today!

"And then you'll mistake Fina for Kai?"

"Correct."

As she spoke, soft fingers pressed against her shoulder from behind, the perfect pressure causing Artoria to unconsciously exhale softly. But then she frowned slightly: "But..."

The tuft of hair on his head suddenly stood up!

Her intuition told her that saying those words could make her suffer terribly. But perhaps her intuition had kicked in too often that night, because this time it was a little slower, and the words, already on the tip of her tongue, slipped out: "But then, Fina, wouldn't you be my son... Ah, that hurts!"

"Ah—sorry—I didn't adjust my strength properly—"

*******

As dawn broke, the music had quietly stopped, replaced by the sounds of villagers talking and walking. Since there was little entertainment at night, people went to bed early and woke up early. Even before it was light, people were already moving around in the village.

But compared to usual, the atmosphere was heavy and somber. The old village chief, with a few men, went door to door, knocking and carrying out food hidden in various places. Some people were crying, some were cursing, but most remained silent, occasionally glancing at the small wooden huts on the edge of the village. Because of the injuries he sustained yesterday, the middle-aged man was still unable to move normally and should be resting in bed, but... but perhaps, he could do something.

Like a drowning man grasping at a straw, their only hope lay in the druid they perceived as exceptionally skilled. Even though Uru was merely an apprentice, these villagers, who had never left the area, couldn't discern the difference. "You can do what we can't, that's certainly impressive," they thought, "but just how impressive isn't the point—at least not in their consideration."

As for the three who arrived yesterday, although the two teenagers both carried swords and, according to Uru, were quite powerful, they weren't fools. They knew that children in their teens at most couldn't possibly have any skills. Besides, even if they did possess some ability, did they really need to go and ask them for help? Not only would it likely be a waste of time, but for people in their thirties or forties to need help from two teenagers—did they have no shame?

The other red-haired knight might be really strong, but he's the king's lackey. It's already good enough that he doesn't help oppress us; expecting his help... is like hoping a boar will climb a tree. Someone insulted him again last night—it was the father whose child was kicked to death, so it's understandable, but how could we possibly ask him for help now...? And with the king being such a behemoth, even these short-sighted villagers understand deep down that Uru can't do anything alone. But to ask them to swallow their pride and beg two half-grown children or the kingdom knight who had been insulted to their face—no one was willing to do it.

Even though the druids they trusted swore that the two children were not to be underestimated and were far stronger than themselves, their experience over the past few decades showed that children and teenagers could not defeat adults. Therefore, they believed Uru was lying—on this point, they trusted their own experience and judgment more.

Even though the knight named Tristan was verbally abused like that, he didn't attack or utter a single curse. But so what? The kingdom's knights were all scoundrels and rogues; that was their accumulated experience.

And experience is never wrong.

"At least... that demonic boar is gone." The old village chief sighed deeply as his cane fell to the ground. "That should keep us going..."

"But we still don't know if that demonic boar has really been defeated... Should we send someone in to check?" someone whispered. The old village chief glanced at him: "You go?"

"Uh……"

The man hesitated, momentarily speechless. Looking at him, the old man shook his head. "Believe it. Otherwise… what else can we believe?" Without waiting for a reply, he waved his hand. "Go check on the others. The knight is on his way. If this drags on any longer, people will really die…"

The morning breeze carried these conversations over. On the mountainside, the hand massaging the shoulders paused, then clenched into a small fist and gently pounded it, softly repeating what it had heard. The girl dressed as a boy sat on the mat, her expression serious: "We can't just stand by and watch..."

“Yes,” Guinevere responded, then continued, “But after we finish, we’ll be at odds with that King Marco. He seems to be very close to the King, which might make Vortigern notice us sooner…” The muscles her fingertips touched stiffened as she spoke, and she smiled, “That’s a possible risk. If you still don’t change your mind, Al… whatever you want to do, I’ll be with you.”

"That's not fair to you..."

"There's nothing unfair about it. Although it's not certain yet, I bear some responsibility for the Sword of the Chosen breaking. And it seems—though I hate to think so—that if Terena really did what happened to Uru's wife and daughter… there might be more complications in repairing the sword. I've dragged you into this. So, until the Sword of the Chosen is repaired and our agreement is fulfilled—"

She rested her chin on Artoria's shoulder and gazed at the view below the mountain: "I'll be your sword for now."

“I’ve heard that phrase from Hector. To become a sword and fight bravely—isn’t that the oath a knight makes to his lord?” Artoria paused, taken aback.

“That’s not right.” Guinevere shook her head, her hair brushing against the other’s neck as she swayed. Artoria flinched slightly, but then heard her say, “This is the vow that Fina made to Artoria—it has a time limit.”

In their field of vision, a man and a horse were galloping towards them on the dirt road outside the village. For a moment, the dust kicked up by the horse's hooves dimmed the light of the morning sun.

After a while.

A soft laugh was heard.

"That's not bad."

……

"...That's not bad either."

At the same time, the exact same words were uttered, yet a faint sadness lingered on their lips. He hadn't slept all night, but something weighed on his mind, so his expression betrayed little weariness. Tristan sat on a branch, his distinctive bow clutched in his arms, his fingertips resting on the strings, but no sound was played. At the edge of his vision, a figure on horseback drew closer; no helmet was worn, so the rider's features were clearly visible.

It turned out to be him...

A slight realization dawned on him. If it were him, he might indeed have done those things—kicking the child's ribs, causing him excruciating pain and death, all because of a mere accidental bump. The other acts—drawing a sword to kill at the drop of a hat, taking pretty girls away to do *that* with them—were just what he'd seen and heard in one village. In other places, similar things must have happened countless times. And, as far as he knew, there were far more than one morally corrupt knight in this kingdom.

"A knight is one who is loyal to his lord, protects the people with his life, not for personal gain, but to protect the country and his beliefs, and to wield his sword for justice and honor—" This was the education he received from childhood. For hundreds and thousands of days and nights, he believed in these principles and constantly honed his skills, hoping that one day he could personally pluck that glorious laurel wreath.

"However... now, I suddenly don't know where my own glory is anymore, Uncle... where have your beliefs and justice gone..."

I couldn't help but sigh, but all I received in response was sunlight and the sound of the wind.

"At least...not here."

His tone suggested he had already made a decision. The horse stopped at the village entrance, the rider dismounted, and the villagers noticed, whispering amongst themselves. Tristan braced himself and leaped down.

The tree he chose happened to be right next to the village entrance, and upon landing, it blocked the knight's path. The knight seemed to only then realize that there were other people nearby, and was startled, taking a step back and placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. When he saw who was blocking his way, he was taken aback and asked, "What are you doing here?"

“That’s a question I should be asking you,” Tristan said coldly, his right hand still resting on the bowstring. “Oh, to be precise, there are two questions. How did you get here, and who are you?”

As he finished speaking, his tone suddenly turned cold, and the knight frowned: "You..."

"You claim to be a knight of King Marco, but I have never seen you in the king's court. Why are you lying? What is your purpose?"

"Tristan, what nonsense are you spouting—" His gaze fell on the other's right hand, which seemed poised to pluck the strings at any moment. Suddenly realizing something, the knight's hair stood on end, and he shouted.

But before he could finish speaking, the seemingly refined red-haired knight suddenly roared, "I am Tristan! So what!"

"You, you, you're insane!"

An indescribable sense of crisis washed over him, alarm bells blaring in his mind. The knight could no longer care about anything else; he gripped the hilt of his sword and, with a "whoosh," drew it. The two were only three or four steps apart. He was massive and incredibly strong; even a brown bear wouldn't necessarily lose in a one-on-one fight. Now, with his sword in hand, he felt slightly more at ease: "What's wrong with you? You and I are both—"

His eyes suddenly widened.

Tristan's expression remained unchanged. With a flick of his fingers, the moment the zither music began, he also swung his sword. With a clang, the longsword seemed to clash with something invisible, followed by another zither melody.

This time, the longsword was not blocked. It whistled as it slashed towards the red-haired knight's forehead, but halfway through the swing, he suddenly took a step back, then another, his steps becoming unsteady. With a clatter, the longsword fell to the ground. His other free hand pressed against his throat, clutching it tightly. His eyes bulged, bloodshot, and his throat made gurgling sounds, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't utter a complete syllable. Flowing blood stained the iron gauntlet with red spots.

Tristan took a step forward, then the man glared, and took a step back. But as he took the second step, Tristan was already standing in front of him, the two men about half a head apart in height. The red-haired knight slightly tilted his head back, his half-open eyes meeting his for a moment, his gaze hardening—

"Shameless——"

The next moment, Tristan released the bow. Before the bow even hit the ground, his left fist struck the knight in the stomach. The knight, apart from not wearing a helmet, was properly armored. Perhaps he knew what kind of image he presented to others and dared not be too careless. But no one knew how much force Tristan used in that punch. The blow to the lower abdomen shattered half of his fist in an instant, and blood gushed out. The burly, bear-like knight suddenly bent over like a shrimp, his throat still gurgling, and his eyes had turned completely red.

But as he bent down, Tristan pressed his right hand against the back of his head, slamming him to the ground with force. At the same time, he drew the longsword from the man's waist and raised it high: "You kind of person—"

"What do you mean!"

The sword fell like a white rainbow, reflecting the rising sun, with a faint halo of seven colors.

"--knight!"

The head rolled away.

He gripped the sword, the headless corpse lying at his feet, his fist soaked in blood, dripping down the hilt, the blade, and finally the tip, forming a long, crimson line that seeped into the soil. He took a couple of breaths, turned around, and found only silence, absolute stillness. The people gathered in the village square were all stunned…

P.S.: Actually, the previous chapter was originally over 4,000 words, but I felt it would be a waste to just post it like that, so I split it into 3,000 words. Then I plan to write another 800 or 900 words on top of the remaining 1,200 words, double update, how wonderful...

……

I've come to my senses and this chapter is already 4700 words. I originally wanted to split it up, but I couldn't find a suitable place to break it up around 2000 words, and if I kept adding more, it would never end, so I had to just post it as is... I could have updated three times a day! Anyway, I've updated over 7000 words today, so please vote with your recommendation tickets and monthly tickets!

Chapter Thirty-Two: Their Own Directions

The whole thing happened so fast, so suddenly, so unexpectedly… The knight dismounted, and the two exchanged a few nonsensical words. From realizing something was wrong to drawing his sword, Tristan suddenly shouted and slashed the man to the ground with one stroke. The man's head rolled on the ground like a series of rapidly changing slides, and Guinevere just stared blankly at it.

Only when the red-haired knight, half-covered in blood, turned around, her gaze sweeping over the stunned villagers before turning towards the mountainside, did she blink and swallow hard. Tristan's lips parted, and he spoke a single sentence, not loud, but amplified by the power of the Wind Seal: "I will handle this. You two need not worry." He then bowed, his refined demeanor contrasting with the glaring bloodstains on his body, creating an inexplicably strange effect.

When Guinevere nodded, she wondered if he had noticed—even in his fury just now, Tristan had only opened his eyes a crack and had already closed them again—he really wasn't afraid of bumping into things or falling on the road, she thought to herself.

The man went over, lifted the headless corpse, and placed it on the horse's back. The horse seemed a little restless because of the smell of blood, neighing and circling a few times, but it didn't immediately run away. Tristan patted the horse's neck, took a few steps to the side, picked up the head from the ground—its eyes wide open, its deathly gaze unseeing—and held it high above his head, showing it to the villagers.

The village remained deathly silent.

Even the bravest person could never have imagined such a thing. The king's messenger, a distinguished knight, had died so simply, like a dog... His lips were dry, his mind a jumbled mess, unable to comprehend what had happened. He could only subconsciously stare at the man who had killed the knight, and when their eyes met, he could only feel panic and terror.

"I am Tristan, a knight of Cornwall and nephew of King Marco! Therefore, I can testify that this man is not an envoy sent by King Marco!" Suddenly, Tristan proclaimed loudly, "He obtained this engraved longsword from who-knows-where and used it to commit evil deeds under the guise of the king's orders! I have come here for two reasons: first, to subdue the mountain boar, and second, on the king's orders—to slay this shameless villain!"

He paused, seemingly waiting for the others to react, before continuing, "Now that the matter is settled, I will take this man's body back to report to the King! And I can guarantee that such an incident will never happen again!"

"R-really?" someone in the crowd asked timidly. Tristan didn't answer, but simply nodded in the direction of the voice. He then picked up his bow and longsword, turned to his horse, and with a push, mounted it, his weapons and still-dripping head hanging beside him. His figure, bathed in the morning light, seemed exceptionally tall. Just as he was about to take the reins, someone behind him called out in a trembling voice, "You mean... the King hasn't abandoned us?"

The hand holding the reins paused in mid-air. From this direction, only a silhouette could be seen, a cloak fluttering in the wind. The rider remained silent for a moment, then the horse let out a long neigh and galloped off. The man and horse quickly disappeared into the dazzling dawn. The villagers looked at each other, their faces still showing lingering panic, but gradually, a sense of relief and joy welled up from the bottom of their hearts.

"us……"

"saved?"

"So that guy was an imposter..."

"turn out to be……"

"He is the king's nephew..."

"Yes, such a great person wouldn't lie to us..."

Whispers and chatter filled the air, but everyone seemed to be keeping their voices down. The old village chief glanced back at the wooden hut with its doors and windows tightly shut at the edge, paused with his crooked cane, his brow furrowed, and remained silent. The hunched figure standing amidst the noisy crowd seemed... somewhat out of place.

On the mountainside, beside a large rock, Guinevere was watching the knight heading southwest until he completely disappeared on the other side of the horizon, then she shook her head.

"Al, what do you think?"

“The knight’s gait, the way he drew his sword, and so on, clearly showed that he had undergone a long period of rigorous training… This kind of person doesn’t seem like a conman. And those words he just said… He must know Tristan, which is why he was so surprised at the end…” Artoria answered carefully.

“Yes…” Guinevere sighed, feeling a heavy weight pressing on her heart. “I never expected him to be so decisive. He killed the person the moment they met and left these words behind… He’s trying to force King Marco to compromise.”

"To kill a knight of one's own faction without the lord's permission is a serious crime. Even if the offender is not executed, at the very least he will be banished from the court, which is a form of exile..."

“He’s gambling, gambling that the king won’t be willing to lose a highly capable subordinate.” Looking up, the magnificent sunrise filled the sky, a breathtaking spectacle. “But even if the king accepts this explanation, he’ll still harbor resentment towards such a ‘reckless’ subordinate. And once that resentment grows, it might become uncontrollable… Besides…”

"Besides?"

"nothing."

In a sense, it was only a matter of time. As long as history didn't change too much, Tristan would eventually be banished from Cypher because of his love for Princess Isolde, which would arouse the jealousy and hatred of his uncle and other colleagues. He would then follow King Arthur and become one of the famous Knights of the Round Table.

"I hope he'll be alright." A thousand thoughts swirled, ultimately culminating in this weightless hope. Guinevere finished speaking, and her companion nodded, "Yes."

“Let’s get ready to set off too. Uncle Druid’s injuries are so bad, he’ll probably sleep until the afternoon, so we won’t say goodbye to him…” He rummaged through his clothes for a bit, took out something, placed it in his left palm, and handed it to Artoria.

"This is... a small stone I picked up in the mountains yesterday?"

“Yes.” Guinevere said, pressing two fingers of her right hand against the back of her left hand. As a green leaf pattern appeared on the back of her hand, a mark of crossed swords also appeared on the surface of the ordinary stone. “This is the Mark of the Sword. The Nine Witches of the Lake can sense each other’s marks to a certain extent… This stone must have been used as a medium for casting spells, so it still has remnants of the Mark of the Sword’s power. With this stone, we should be able to find Terena.”

"Besides this Wind Seal, I only know the names of four other seals: the Thunder Seal, the Fire Seal, the Water Seal, and the Sword Seal that Terena possesses… Terena once demonstrated her abilities to me, easily repairing a sword broken into several pieces to its original state. Although this Sword of the Chosen King is rather special, and I don't know if she can repair it, but… if there's no other way, this is a path worth trying. That's what I was thinking…"

After hearing Uru's story, even though she didn't fully believe it, she understood that sword cultivation probably wouldn't be as easy and pleasant as she had imagined. Thinking of how she had dragged the person before her into this mess, she felt apologetic, and her gaze and voice softened. Artoria, however, simply gave a warm smile: "Every ship eventually capsizes. The smoother the journey now, the worse the fall will be… That's what Brother Kai once told me. Besides… if it's too smooth, it can't be called cultivation, can it?"

Guinevere pursed her lips, and after a moment, chuckled softly: "Since you've said that, I won't care if you complain about being tired or anything like that in the future."

"it is good."

They nodded simply, tidied each other's messy hair, straightened the wrinkled corners of their clothes, and then put on their power cloaks. Afterward, they went into the mountains to pick some fresh fruit, some sweet and some sour. Guinevere was especially afraid of sour food, so she only took one bite and then put it away. Artoria took it and, before she could even react, had already devoured it all with a blank expression.

There was a little incident in the middle. She was just a little distracted when she saw Artoria about to put a brightly colored fruit into her mouth. She rushed over to stop her, saying, "Fruits of this color are poisonous! Extremely poisonous!"

"But my intuition..."

"Intuition can be wrong sometimes! Here, eat this. Look at its earthy color, you can tell it's a non-toxic variety..."

Halfway through her sentence, Guinevere looked at the ahoge (cowlick) on the other person's head that had stood up with a "pop" pointing skyward as a warning, then looked at the fruit in her hand. She stood there for a long time, not daring to eat it, and finally threw it away.

However, out of a last shred of "dignity," she endured Artoria's resentful gaze and insisted on throwing away the colorful fruit that Artoria had originally intended to eat.

"This is definitely poisonous..."

Because the radar on that tuft of hair wasn't responding, she spoke haltingly and without much confidence. But Artoria was the kind of person who refused to admit defeat. Later, she happened to encounter these colorful fruits again, so she picked some and asked the locals. Only then did the two learn that these fruits were actually edible, and that they were sweet, sticky, and delicious, as well as nutritious, and often served at banquets of very high-ranking people.

This also made Guinevere realize a truth: common sense on Earth doesn't necessarily apply to the Moon. Artoria wasn't the type to hold a grudge or be unreasonable, but whenever she thought about this incident afterward, she would stare at her with a very complicated look until Guinevere felt uncomfortable and took the initiative to act coquettishly before she would stop.

There was no other way; as the saying goes, if you're wrong, you have to admit it, and if you're going to be punished, you have to stand still. Guinevere readily admitted her mistake. As for the specific details of her subsequent punishment... that's a story for another time.

After a simple breakfast to the sound of birdsong, they took out their water pouches and exchanged sips. One of the princesses hesitated for a long time about who should drink first—she wouldn't normally think so much about it, but after spending the night together, she felt strangely preoccupied with these details. In the end, she quietly handed the water pouch to Artoria first. Seeing Artoria calmly rinse her mouth and gulp down a few more mouthfuls, she handed it back, saying casually as she drank, "This seems... like an indirect kiss."

"Indirect kissing?" He looked bewildered. "What does that mean?"

Then Artoria noticed that Fina seemed to have suffered some kind of blow, and for a while afterward, she was listless, like a wilted eggplant—oh, she'd never seen an eggplant before, so let's say a wilted potato—completely bewildered, thinking she'd ask Kai later. She figured he'd probably know the answer…

Having silently made up her mind, completely unaware of the ridicule and "coincidences" that would follow her in the future because of this decision, Artoria, holding the old horse Ete, followed behind Fina and left the small village in the morning light.

……

"This……"

As evening fell, the injured middle-aged man slowly awoke inside the wooden house. His consciousness lingered between sleep and wakefulness for a moment, and he was startled to notice the extra items in his house.

It was a cloth bag that was full.

It was filled with smoked meats and dried fruit—many of which were only available in northern Scotland. Even a regular knight's squire might only get one or two pieces of dried fruit a month to satisfy his craving, but now it was being presented to him in a large bag, as if it were the cheapest thing in the world.

Uru was stunned for a long time.

"Eat more good food so your wounds will heal faster. Share these with the villagers. Until we meet again—"