I Pulled Out Excalibur Chapter 160

Clown or Knight? (3)

They lived happily ever after.

That single line, adorning the end of fairy tales and heroic epics, is a lie. The protagonists of such tales, having achieved great feats, may live a long life, but if asked whether that life was happy… Bernstein would shake his head.

‘No, it cannot be happy. Absolutely not.’

From the mont he was exiled to the Outland at over 150 years old, his life could no longer be beautiful or joyful. That place was hell.

Had those 150 years on the continent been happy? Had that happiness felt eternal?

Look at the ground beneath your feet in the Outland. Buried there are stars who once shared your hopes upon arriving, only to plumt in the end. Do you think you’re any different? You’re the sa, and the sa wretched fate awaits you.

‘I know. I know.’ Despite this… Bernstein, like countless other heroes, dread of a beautiful end—a aningful final act, a glorious fall, even if it led to ruin.

He knew what such a wish was, but he could not let it go.

“Human greed knows no bounds,” Bernstein scoffed, directing his mockery inward. As his laughter faded, he made a decision—one he had delayed for 150 years.

Thud.

He swung his sword and carved out his own heart.

As Helt Knight stared wide-eyed, Bernstein incinerated the extracted heart with his Sword Aura, and the flas devoured the star embedded within.

“Even now, I’m consud by greed… The greed to have my na etched into the final chapter of your story. A greed I’ve harbored for over 200 years. Like any knight who idolizes heroes… I wanted to appear in those tales.”

Bernstein then plunged his sword into Helt Knight’s heart. Not to kill, but to save. He shared his dwindling flas with Helt Knight’s fading embers.

At that mont, Helt Knight felt an ancient thirst quenched. Starlight flooded his body, wounds healed, and his withered arms regained flesh.

Bernstein chuckled as Helt Knight gaped at him. “A ntor must always appear dignified before their student. That is a ntor’s duty. How unsightly would it be to stumble like a cripple?”

He transferred all but a handful of his starlight to Helt Knight. His body rapidly eroded, yet his eyes remained vivid. “Is this how you endured 150 years? Remarkable. Truly, you are the Empire’s hero. Yes, you should be at least this formidable.”

“Bernstein, you—”

“Well, my star is nearly spent, so this won’t help much… but it’s enough for a final farewell.” Bernstein shoved Helt Knight aside.

Blocking Quixote’s lance in his stead, he declared, “Go. Now.”

He did not look back. Instead, he fixed his gaze ahead, to where the clown charged—a jester intent on turning his tale into farce.

He raised his sword and, brandishing the blade as radiant as sunlight, roared, “Co at , clown!”

150 years prior, in days of glory…

Recalling those illustrious tis, Bernstein proclaid his na, “I, Bernstein Vanmore, knight of the Empire and sword of the royal family, shall face you!”

Helt Knight stepped into the Forbidden Zone. Beyond the opaque barrier lay a graveyard of his comrades and the battlefield where he once claid glorious victory.

There, his student awaited.

Najin, perched on a rock, glared at him.

Though countless words lingered unspoken, the boy remained silent. His gaze alone conveyed what he wanted to say.

Helt Knight smiled bitterly. “It’s dark. Let’s light a fire.”

Just as on the day they first t, Helt Knight sat opposite Najin and kindled a fla. Crackle. The campfire blazed.

Through the flickering light, he spoke. “Najin…”

“Yes.”

“Listen without interruption. Can you do that?”

Najin nodded silently.

Helt Knight stared into the fire, not at him. “150 years ago, I made a deal with the Carnival King. A wager, to be precise.”

Crackle.

“The day I shattered half of the Carnival King’s star and lost my own… I could have fought harder and taken one or two more of her stars, but I saw no aning in it. What good would it do if she just revived again?”

There were no gods there, no priests to hear confessions, yet he confessed—not for absolution, but to bare his sins.

“As doubts plagued , the Carnival King proposed a deal. If I withdrew, she would spare my comrades from becoming clowns. It was a favorable term, regardless of her motives.”

There existed a ans to grant peace to the dead. Helt Knight could have honored their deaths, but if they beca the Carnival King’s clowns… there would be no return.

They would dance eternally—puppets mocking and insulting others.

Helt Knight could not endure such an end for his comrades. He refused to let history record them as clowns instead of knights.

“I knelt before the Carnival King and accepted. At the ti, I believed it was the best choice.”

Still, every deal demands a price.

“The Carnival King could have killed and turned all here into clowns, absorbing the loss. She is a demon who craves everything she desires. Such a creature would never release their prey willingly.”

Helt Knight pointed at himself. “The deal had a condition… The Carnival King wagered on my final mont.”

The final mont…

“She said, ‘At your end, I shall ask you…’” Quoting King Arthur’s words, the demon had sneered, “Are you a clown or a knight?”

Najin’s face twisted in understanding.

“If I die as a knight, the deal stands, but if I perish as a clown—a fallen star—the deal becos void. The Carnival King would gain the right to enter the Forbidden Zone and turn all buried here into her clowns.”

The demon had the power to do so.

“I accepted, believing I could endure. It was arrogance. A foolishly arrogant choice.”

“…”

“The Carnival King cursed with oblivion and layered dozens of curses—erasure, incineration. The world forgot ; even I forgot myself. Thus, I could not earn new stars.”

No matter his deeds, he gained no stars. Only eroded remnants remained, gnawing at his flesh.

“Not coveting others’ stars, my soul eroded, threatening to turn into a Fallen Star. Without stealing, I couldn’t survive, but what value lies in such a life? Not honor or pride.”

It was a worthless existence. Helt Knight found no value in his life.

“I wanted to die. To beco a Fallen Star rather than live like that…”

Yet he could not die. Death would mark him as a Fallen Star, a broken constellation—a victory for the Carnival King and damnation for his comrades.

He had to live. Had to.

“While living… I grew disillusioned. I asked myself, ‘Must I, a hero, live like this?’ After a lifeti upholding honor and pride—values I cherished above life itself—did I have to abandon them all? Impossible.”

So he’d endured. “For 10 years, 50, 100, 150… I tried, and I realized the wager was unwinnable from the start.”

Crackle.

The dwindling fire began to fade.

As the last embers dimd, Najin tossed in fresh wood.

Helt Knight sighed. “You stubborn bastard.”

The flas roared anew—fierce and brilliant.

“You wouldn’t let . In that mont, you made a knight again. You forced to recall my glory days and stopped from fleeing.”

His voice carried no resentnt as laughter tinged his words. “You proved the regrets I cast aside… the end I desired… could still be achieved. You let dream anew.”

He’d drunk bitter wine and dread sweet dreams.

“Now, it’s ti to wake.” Sober from the wine, he returned from dream to reality. “150 years of wandering gained no enlightennt… but they let make a choice.”

He stood. “Now, I can answer.”

It was ti to pay the price for that intoxicating dream.

Bernstein Vanmore idolized heroes.

He revered the Empire’s savior, grew up on tales of his exploits, and beca a knight.

Helt Knight would never know how overjoyed Bernstein was to stand beside his idol as the royal family’s blade.

Recalling the past, Bernstein laughed.

Why was the past so beautiful when reality was so harsh? Even as a lance pierced him, blood cascading, he smiled.

“Why laugh? What amuses you?”

“You demand laughter, yet scorn mine? Clown.”

Quixote frowned. Bernstein’s laugh—light and unburdened—was one Quixote could never mimic. Those who craved what they lacked often despised those who possessed it—Quixote was such a man.

He thrust his lance violently.

Though Bernstein’s arm tore free, his laughter persisted.

…He lived idolizing heroes.

Though never a hero himself, Bernstein found satisfaction in having his tale woven into his idol’s epic. Not all can be protagonists, and Bernstein never sought to usurp Helt Knight’s role.

He admired, even envied him.

Above all, Helt Knight was his idol.

He played a supporting role to illuminate the protagonist. Glorify his idol sufficed, but when his idol’s light dimd, Bernstein lost purpose. He resented and hated Helt Knight, wandering for 150 years.

In his wanderings, he found an answer…

Crunch!

His bones shattered as he tumbled. Closing his eyes, he saw his ntal landscape—a realm where Helt Knight, his idol, stood unwavering.

Bernstein understood… He never abandoned being a knight. Not once.

“Yes, you were a hero. You never yielded. Not even for a mont…”

He gazed at his eroding body.

Agony… Had his idol endured it for 150 years?

‘Truly, the Empire’s hero. The man I admired.’

“Now I rember your na.” Bernstein laughed freely. After so long, he could admire his idol again. Helt Knight still shone. The sun, lost to Bernstein’s ntal world, rose anew.

He attained enlightennt.

Sprouting, Blossoming, Full Bloom… Though a wall lood beyond the three stages, it could not halt Bernstein. His 150-year odyssey had forged experience enough. Having found his answer, he shattered the wall and advanced.

Bernstein opened his eyes. At life’s end, he touched transcendence. Having burned all his stars, resolved to die there, his blade sharpened beyond asure.

He swung at empty air, yet his Sword Aura struck Quixote ters away.

Quixote’s eyes bulged.

Bernstein swung again.

And again.

A scorching sun incinerated the wasteland. Solar Sword Aura barred the clown’s path.

As he slashed, Bernstein murmured not to the clown, but to Helt Knight preparing his end in the Forbidden Zone, “Shine until the last. Die a hero’s death…”

He swung the Sun Sword, unleashing a technique crafted by Sir Gawain of the Round Table. Of course, Bernstein’s Sun Sword lacked Gawain’s brilliance, failed to scorch foes, and could not birth a sun in the Outland.

Yet its faint glow sufficed to light the path ahead.

Had Gawain been present, he would have praised Bernstein. It was a sword of beauty. In his final monts, Bernstein beca radiant.

Whoooooosh!

Solar Sword Aura swept the ground, yet the end approached. The Carnival Knight charged through flas, face lted, screeching.

Though a feat of might, Bernstein felt no awe. He rely thought, ‘Ah, I never apologized.’

He’d vowed to apologize if proven wrong… yet he never did.

No death is free of regret. All carry so lingering wish.

With slight remorse, Bernstein smiled.

In his final mont, he remained a knight.

“Am I a clown… or a knight?” Helt Knight posed the question to himself. Only he could answer—the reply deferred for 150 years.

“A knight, of course.”

At the end, he chose to die a knight.