mtl008 Chapter 21 Knight of the Lake
Chapter 21 Knight of the Lake
Lancelot has no name.
To be precise, he did have a name.
Before he was seven years old, before the sunken merchant ship was still floating on the sea, his mother had called to him in a soft voice.
But that name sank to the bottom of the sea along with that ship, washed away by the sea and the passage of time.
When the fairy of the lake lifted him from the waves, his lungs were filled with water and his consciousness was already blurred.
He only remembered a pair of cold yet gentle hands and an endless expanse of starlight.
"From today onwards, your name is Lancelot."
That was the name the fairy of the lake gave him.
He didn't know what the name meant, nor did he ask.
For a seven-year-old child who has lost his mother, father, and his entire past, having a name to be called is enough.
He lived by Lake Avalon for ten years.
For ten years, he practiced his swordplay while looking at the reflection in the lake.
The lake is a mirror that doesn't lie; it reflects the flaws in every movement he makes.
His wrist shifted an inch, his steps slowed by half a beat, and the tip of his sword trembled slightly at its highest point.
He corrected his movements again and again, swinging his sword repeatedly, until the reflection in the lake perfectly matched his actions, leaving no room for error.
When he was seventeen, the fairy of the lake told him, "You may leave now."
"Where to?"
"Go to the human world, and become the person you want to be."
What kind of person do I want to become?
"Find it yourself."
He left Avalon.
Carrying a nameless sword and riding a nameless horse, I crossed the French countryside.
He knocked on the gates of lords' castles one by one, challenging them.
It wasn't for honor, nor for status, but simply to find an opponent who would make him give it his all.
But he couldn't find it.
Every knight he defeated looked at him with the same eyes.
Admiration was mixed with fear, and praise was tinged with alienation.
You are too strong, so we dare not approach you.
You're too strong, so you don't belong here.
He earned the title of "Invincible France".
But he didn't win against any of his companions.
Three years later, he heard about the new king of Britain.
It was in a tavern, where a wandering bard was playing an off-key harp and singing a song in a hoarse voice.
It's about a boy who pulled the sword from the stone, about a king who appointed a witch as his ruler, and about a table without beginning or end, without height or depth.
"A round table," said the bard.
"He called it the Round Table, where the knights sat in a circle, and everyone could hear what they said. He called the knights 'comrades,' not 'subjects.'"
Lancelot put down his wine glass.
"What's that king's name?"
"Arthur, Arthur Pendragon."
Three days later, Lancelot set off for Britain.
It was afternoon when the gates of Camelot opened before him.
The sunlight turned the city walls golden, and patrolling knights walked along them, the tips of their spears gleaming in the sunlight.
The city gates were wide open, not out of negligence, but because the owner of the castle never intended to shut anyone out.
Lancelot rode into the city, but the knights guarding the gate stopped him.
"Who goes there?"
"Knight of France, I challenge the Round Table."
The words spread throughout the entire castle within half an hour.
On the training field, Kai was the first to step forward.
He was Arthur's sworn brother, and they had grown up together before Arthur drew his sword.
His swordsmanship is expansive and powerful; he once single-handedly killed three Shadow Wolves while suppressing bandits in the North.
Lancelot used three moves.
The first sword strike shook off Kai's sword momentum; the second sword strike forced Kai back his steps; the third sword strike stopped three inches in front of Kai's throat.
Kai looked down at the cold glint in front of his Adam's apple, then looked up at Lancelot's face.
"...Seriously?"
"I never joke with a sword."
Kai was silent for two seconds, then burst into laughter.
He sheathed his sword, stepped forward, and patted Lancelot on the shoulder forcefully.
"Fine! I admit defeat! I accept it wholeheartedly!"
Lancelot frowned slightly. "You're not angry?"
"Angry? Why?" Kai looked confused.
"You're better than me, that's a fact, why am I angry?"
And even after you won, you didn't take the opportunity to humiliate me. The sword stopped at just the right moment; any more and it wouldn't have hurt me, any less and it wouldn't have been enough. I admire that sense of proportion.
Lancelot didn't know what to say.
He had seen countless knights defeated by him; some were angry, some were frustrated, some forced a smile, and some turned away in anger.
But no one would laugh and pat him on the shoulder after losing.
The second person to go on stage was Gao Wen.
The Sun Knight of Orkney, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a tall stature.
The Holy Sword of the Sun in his hand gleamed in the afternoon sun, its blade radiating a scorching light.
From sunrise to sunset, his power increases with the sun's altitude, and at noon he is invincible.
It was afternoon, and his power was at its peak.
Gawain and Lancelot exchanged ten blows. Each strike of the Sun Sword was accompanied by a scorching sword wind, leaving charred tracks in the sand of the training ground.
But Lancelot's sword was faster.
It wasn't about suppressing strength, but about precise angles.
His sword tip could always find that almost invisible gap in Gawain's sword technique, and then with a light touch, he would deflect the trajectory of the Sun Holy Sword.
In the eleventh move, Gawain's sword slipped from his hand.
The Holy Sword of the Sun spun half a circle in the air before embedding itself in the sand.
Gawain looked down at his empty right hand, then at the sword stuck in the ground, and then raised his head, revealing a bright, sunny smile.
"Awesome! I lost!"
He drew the Holy Sword of the Sun and sheathed it, walked up to Lancelot, and extended his hand.
"Your swordsmanship is the most exquisite I have ever seen. It is an honor to fight against an opponent like you."
Lancelot hesitated for a moment, then took his hand.
Gao Wen's hands were warm and dry, and his grip was just right.
It's not a protest, it's an endorsement.
The third is Tristan.
The knight with the lyre and bow did not draw his sword. He stood at the other end of the training ground, took the longbow from his back, and nocked a practice arrow without an arrowhead.
"My swordsmanship is inferior to Kay and Gawain's," Tristan said, his grey-blue eyes calmly fixed on Lancelot.
"But if you want to test the strength of the Round Table, you shouldn't just test melee combat."
He loosens the string.
One arrow, two arrows, three arrows—three arrows flew toward Lancelot in a triangular formation, so fast that they left three white trails in the air.
Lancelot parried with his sword, the first one was deflected, the second one was knocked away, and he dodged the third one to the side while simultaneously lunging forward.
But Tristan's arrows did not stop.
The rain of arrows continued unabated, each one precisely blocking Lancelot's path forward.
Tristan's fingers danced across the bowstrings, the rhythm as fast as when he plucked the strings of his harp, quick yet orderly, urgent yet composed.
Lancelot pressed forward a full thirty steps without retreating an inch.
His sword formed an impenetrable barrier in front of him, deflecting or ricocheting all the arrows.