klisemfg Chapter 133. The Magical Cauldron and the Holy Lance
Chapter 133. The Magical Cauldron and the Holy Lance
Knight huddled in a corner, trembling with fear.He’d never seen such a massive, terrifying creature!
The mere thud of its footsteps numbed his body.
After fleeing from Thunder, Knight had been searching for the Holy Lance.
His reasoning was straightforward.
Compared to Antler, he was the weaker one.
The Twilight Path excelled at prolonging life, and the Adaptation Path was adept at hiding.
If two of the three—himself, Antler, and the assassin—were to die, Knight assumed he’d be one.
His only option was to find the Holy Lance.
The Lance, capable of defeating giants, could also defeat Alastair.
Taking it would reveal his location to others, but if he could face Alastair, he’d fear no attack.
If the Lance couldn’t stop Alastair, he’d be hunted down eventually anyway.
And if Antler or the assassin who killed Cloud sensed the Lance and came, Knight could try killing one or let Alastair, drawn by the same signal, do it.
He was undeniably the weakest among them.
With no room for luck, he had to take the riskiest path to have any chance of winning.
The question was—where was the Holy Lance?
Knight’s thinking was almost naive.
Since the ritual was crafted by the Silver-Crowned Dragon and Serpent Father, without the Great Sage or Hourglass—Pillar Gods who favored the clever—the puzzle shouldn’t be complex.
It had to be solvable by anyone.
If it was too hard for him, others might struggle too.
The Silver-Crowned Dragon and Serpent Father wouldn’t favor Balance or Wisdom Paths, so the puzzle had to be simple.
From this angle, Knight interrogated his intuition: what was the clue?
He quickly settled on an answer.
The Devotion Path was tied to light and fire—candles, brightness.
In a dark environment, the Holy Lance, a Devotion Path apostle’s relic, would be where light was.
That had to be the Pillar Gods’ hint.
And he was right.
Following the light, he soon reached a brightly lit giant hall.
At its center stood an enormous cauldron.
No fire burned beneath, yet its contents boiled.
Stew bubbled with eggplants, carrots, onions, corn, cabbage, potatoes, apples, and grapes, spilling over as more food surged, piling higher.
The cauldron’s intense heat blurred the air, and steam made the room damp and hazy.
This had to be the magical cauldron, Knight thought.
As he approached to inspect it, a loud crash echoed.
“Ugh…”
A deep, aged voice grumbled, faintly annoyed.
“What’s going on…”
With a creak, a pair of red-furred giant feet hit the floor.
As the giant stood, his shadow loomed like a collapsing sky, engulfing Knight.
His legs weakened under the overwhelming presence.
He couldn’t clearly see the giant’s face—the light was too low, shrouding it in darkness.
But a foul stench hit him, unmistakably the odor of a furred beast.
Paralyzed by fear, Knight froze in the corner.
Fortunately, the giant’s static vision was poor.
Knight’s stillness kept him unnoticed.
The giant lit a lantern and left the hall, barefoot, with heavy thuds.
Even long after, Knight felt the ground trembling—or perhaps it was his numbed body’s illusion.
It took ages to recover.
Could they really kill such a giant?
His earlier ambition to wield the Lance against a giant now felt clownish.
The “true history” fragment from Cloud only deepened his turmoil.
How had the Round Table Knights, mere humans then, defeated such a mighty giant legion?
Were they too weak, or were their ancestors too strong?
He couldn’t stay here.
The giant hadn’t noticed him leaving, but might on return.
With numb legs, Knight searched the hall for the Lance—or at least a drawer to hide in.
Unknowingly, he’d shifted his goal.
After seeing the giant, he realized even Alastair couldn’t defeat it.
But hiding under their noses might let him survive to the end.
Survival meant victory.
Ironically, while searching for a hiding spot, he found the Holy Lance.
“What… is that?”
Knight looked up, murmuring in despair.
He hadn’t touched it, but he knew instantly—it was the Lance.
A golden spear, over ten meters long, shaped like a closed umbrella, etched with dense black runes in an ancient script he couldn’t read.
It seemed solid.
Even scaled down to a tenth, he’d struggle to lift it.
No wonder only the Lance could shatter the cauldron.
A human-sized spear against that house-sized cauldron was like a sewing needle against a soup pot.
This was a giant’s weapon.
And the giant wielding it was likely taller and larger than the one who’d just left.
How could a mortal wield it?
“Need help?”
A low, hoarse voice broke the silence.
A chilling aura snapped Knight out of the cauldron’s oppressive heat, which had tightened his skin and dazed his mind.
He turned toward the voice.
Alastair stood quietly at the hall’s entrance, where the giant had just left.
With a distant noise drawing the giant and Alastair now before him, Knight realized—he was likely the last.
“Are you going to kill me?”
To Aiwass’s surprise, Knight relaxed, raising his hands in surrender.
“Can I say a few words?”
“I’m not going to kill you.”
Alastair gazed calmly.
“You said at the end, you’d work with me and the gray-hooded gentleman.
Now’s that moment.
To prevent interference, everyone else is dead.
Or… Knight, were you just boasting to deceive me?”
At that, another figure emerged silently from the shadows, glanced at Knight, and vanished again.
“You’re alive?!”
Knight blurted out.
He’d assumed the assassin was dead.
A demon-possessed man showing such integrity stunned him.
Compared to Antler’s group, he was the weakest.
Yet Alastair chose cooperation, just because of his genuine goodwill?
“Outside identities don’t matter here.
We’re rivals, enemies, but also potential allies… your words, right?”
Alastair chuckled softly.
“I took them seriously.
Didn’t you urge me not to talk with them?”
“…You believed me then.”
Knight felt a warmth, murmuring softly.
The Authority Path’s secrets, Avalon’s altered history—all lies.
Yet Alastair, a Transcendence Path demon-possessed, showed him what integrity meant.
Past and present misconceptions clashed, leaving him dazed, unsure who to trust, who was right, who was just.
“Mr. Alastair,” Knight couldn’t help asking, “are you a good person?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Alastair smiled, dodging the question.
“Why does it matter so much?
Are good people always good, and bad people never good?
Who decides good and bad?
Your inner morality?
Or Avalon’s laws?”
Knight opened his mouth but fell silent.
Then, resolute, he spoke.
“I’m Barton.
They call me ‘Restless Barton.’
You’ve never hidden your name.
If I keep using ‘Knight,’ I’d feel ashamed.
I owe you my surname.
Just call me Barton, Mr. Alastair.”
He pressed on.
“One question…
How did you enter the Transcendence Path?
Is it possible for me?”