Episode 207
A barren, frozen wasteland stretched endlessly to the horizon. In the midst of the icy expanse stood a knight clad in black and gold armor.
“Where on earth am I…?”
Mordred tried to recall his last memory. The Hall of Swords, where he had dueled with Saxon’s “Black Prince” for the title of the Celestial Sword. Right after, a chilling cold had enveloped Mordred, and he had lost consciousness.
Or so it should have been.
Instead, a bone-chilling cold, as if his skin were being flayed alive, began to consume Mordred’s very being. It was no mere metaphor; it was a literal storm of ice piercing his flesh.
“Ugh, it’s so cold…!”
In agony, Mordred, the seventh prince and knight of black and gold, shivered uncontrollably. With each breath, the cold seeped into his throat, spreading a painful chill throughout his body.
He felt as if he might freeze to death.
The icy cold penetrated every bone and organ, and even breathing became an excruciating ordeal.
Kneeling in the snow, Mordred was overwhelmed by the pain, unable to even scream for fear of the cold invading his body with each breath.
All he could do was writhe in agony.
Then, a voice broke through the torment.
“Prince Mordred of the Empire.”
Mordred looked up sharply.
Before him, on the desolate frozen ground, stood the Shadow Lord, surrounded by an aura of inescapable cold and darkness.
“Do you wish to be freed from this cold?”
”…!”
Mordred swallowed hard at the question.
“What are you willing to offer in return?”
“What… what do you mean?”
“Can you kneel and pledge your loyalty to me?”
The Shadow Lord, Dale, asked with an emotionless expression.
“Would you forsake your gold and become a knight of the shadows?”
“You dare…!”
“Then forget it.”
As Mordred began to protest, Dale extended his arm dismissively.
Whoosh!
A wave of cold, far more intense than before, swept over him. The previous chill felt like a gentle spring breeze in comparison. As Mordred silently screamed in agony, Dale spoke again.
“Where do you think you are?”
There was no time to respond, but Dale’s voice pierced through Mordred’s consciousness.
“Your body in the outside world is frozen, a shining ice sculpture.”
Dale continued.
“But your consciousness is not.”
”…!”
Mordred grasped the meaning of those words—his body was frozen, but his mind was not. He swallowed hard.
“Are you prepared to remain imprisoned in your frozen body, facing this cold for the rest of your life?”
Dale asked. Mordred, desperate to speak, tried to open his mouth despite the bone-chilling pain.
But the Shadow Lord was already gone, as if he had never needed to wait for Mordred’s answer.
“Wait! Please, wait…!”
Left alone in the endless winter of despair, Mordred began to cry out in desperation.
But no answer came.
Dale opened his eyes.
In the Hall of Swords, where the contest for the Celestial Sword was held, a beautifully frozen statue stood before him. It was Prince Mordred, who had fought Dale for the title and refused to accept defeat until the very end.
“How dare you lay a hand on the prince…!”
The Sword of Ghosts, Sephilia, placed her hand on her sword hilt, exuding a murderous aura. Likewise, Saxon’s Three Swords—Sir Helmut, Master Baro, and the Wandering Sword—reached for their weapons.
“There’s no need to worry.”
Dale broke the tense standoff.
“Prince Mordred is still alive, as you can see.”
”…!”
“If I choose, I can easily dispel this cold and restore the prince.”
Dale said.
“Then do it immediately. If even a hair on the prince’s head is harmed, your entire Saxon family will bear the consequences.”
“Ah, but I cannot.”
Sephilia raised her voice in threat, but Dale shook his head calmly.
“Prince Mordred has not yet accepted his defeat.”
“What do you mean…?”
“His consciousness, trapped in the frozen body, still resists and fights against me.”
”…!”
Blue magic governs more than just ice. It manipulates and brainwashes consciousness and spirit with deceit and strategy.
As the Blue Shadow, Arachne, once did, binding or manipulating a person’s consciousness is not difficult for them.
As a legitimate blue mage, entering Mordred’s consciousness through the medium of the end’s cold was not a challenge.
“We are engaged in a fair contest for the title of the Seven Swords. If the opponent does not accept defeat, why should I stop my ‘attack’?”
Mordred’s consciousness remains imprisoned in his frozen body. The experience is slower, more tedious, and closer to eternal torment than anything felt in the outside world.
“The contest isn’t over yet.”
Knowing this, Dale smiled quietly.
While Dale and Mordred dueled for the Celestial Sword, another battle unfolded in the Hall of Swords.
The Grand Duke of Lancaster, now bearing the name of the Divine Sword, faced his protégé, Charlotte.
The young daughter of an old friend, her veins coursed with the undeniable blood of the Divine Sword. Yet, no matter how noble the lineage, it was up to her to unlock its potential.
In this regard, Charlotte Orhart was nothing short of a ‘genius of the sword.’
Upon reaching the Grand Duke of Lancaster’s domain, she quickly realized her true potential under his tutelage.
And above all, she possessed determination.
A burning desire to grow stronger.
The emotion within the delicate girl was incomparable to the simple competitive spirit or resolve of other swordsmen.
It was an obsession bordering on madness.
When asked why she sought such strength, one might assume it was to avenge her father and homeland against the Empire. But Charlotte’s answer was unexpected.
“To become a knight who can protect my lord.”
There was no doubt about who her lord was.
The one who had defeated the son of the Celestial Sword Lancaster, the hated “Black Prince” of Saxon.
And when she finally received her father’s sword from the continent’s greatest swordsman, who understood the Divine Sword Vadel, Charlotte’s growth was unparalleled.
Seeing Charlotte reach the level of an ‘Aura Master,’ the Grand Duke of Lancaster felt hope.
A chance to revive the fallen Lancaster family.
In the face of this, personal feelings were irrelevant.
For now, Charlotte Orhart was the sword of Lancaster, and opportunities to settle old scores would abound.
He accepted his son Michael’s death as an unavoidable fate. In truth, he no longer harbored personal animosity toward the “Black Prince.”
Yet, witnessing the talent dancing at the tip of Charlotte’s sword, a new ambition began to stir within the Grand Duke’s heart.
The contest for the Celestial Sword was not the only conflict in the Hall of Swords.
The Holy Maiden Aurelia, claiming the title of the Holy Sword’s master, was present.
A creation of the three demons, a false existence, she knew she was a fake, but it changed nothing.
The pure white Holy Maiden gripped her sword, the Holy Sword Durandal.
Before her stood a man clad in golden armor.
The Empire’s First Prince and leader of the Imperial Iron Cross Knights, the Sword of Lake, Lancelot.
Long known to possess skills rivaling the Seven Swords of the continent, he had never officially competed to prove his prowess.
Until now, when he finally sought the title of the Seven Swords.
“The Sister Goddesses resurrected the Holy Maiden from the ashes in Saxon’s wasteland.”
The Sword of Lake spoke.
“It seems certain that the Holy Maiden received a divine revelation, but the independence of the Kingdom of Britannia was not the will of the Sister Goddesses. That’s why the Holy Maiden was defeated by the ‘Black Prince’ and burned in Saxon’s wasteland.”
“How can we mere mortals fathom the deep will of the goddesses?”
“Indeed.”
The First Prince Lancelot smiled coldly.
“Therefore, if the Holy Maiden were to be defeated here and I were to claim the Holy Sword… surely, it would be due to the ‘will of the Sister Goddesses’ beyond our understanding.”
The pure white Holy Maiden Aurelia did not respond.
If the gods are truly incomprehensible beings beyond human understanding, why should people believe in them?
Surely, the goddess must have a plan to save humanity, driven by her love for them.
Believing this without a doubt, the holy maiden reaffirmed her existence, even if it was a mere facade, and gripped her sword tightly.
“Prepare yourself.”
She was convinced that her falsehood was truer than any truth.
A storm of aura raged across the temple grounds.
Yet, within this place fortified by ancient artifacts and magic, the simultaneous battles could not interfere with one another.
The pure white holy maiden launched herself forward, wielding the sacred sword Durandal.
Charlotte Orhart charged with her greatsword of Saxon.
The divine sword of the Duke of Lancaster met her challenge, and the sword of the lake was no exception.
Clang! Clang!
Four swords clashed, each driven by its own purpose.
Amidst the chaos, the ‘Black Prince’ closed his eyes in silence.
He reached out to the consciousness trapped within the frozen body of Mordred before him.
Using the coldness within Mordred as a conduit, their minds connected.
The winter of the apocalypse unfolded there.
“Heh, heh, heh…!”
In that place, Mordred, now stripped of his black-gold armor and left bare, shivered uncontrollably. Curled up in indescribable agony, he could only let out a hollow laugh.
And when the Shadow Lord appeared before him.
“Please, please forgive me!”
He had no pride or dignity left to uphold. Like a pleading slave, he bowed his head to Dale’s feet, kissing the ground.
“Please, release me from this hell!”
Mordred begged desperately, his head pressed to the floor. Watching him, Dale asked,
“Are you ready to become a loyal knight of the shadows?”
The response was desperate, almost pitiful. As if the moment had come, Dale quietly snapped his fingers.
From behind him, blue butterflies took flight.