I Pulled Out Excalibur Chapter 196

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The Free Knight (1)

Requiem, Najin’s fifth star, ant to carry a corpse to where the dead rightly belong—akin to funeral or burial. Looking up at the star in the heavens, Najin interpreted it sowhat differently—a place where one rightly ought to be laid to rest.

It was not rely a tomb. He thought of it as, “The end one is ant to et.” In other words, a proper death; the finale one wished for—a last mont to one’s own judgent.

To him, that was Requiem.

The Outland, where a rightful death was never granted, where Forgotten Ones sward, felt like hell itself because even rest was forbidden.

There, the Star of Requiem couldn’t be insignificant. Gazing at it as it glowed overhead, Najin fell silent. It felt as though sothing heavy were lodged inside his chest. He pressed his heart firmly.

He could never beco accustod to it.

Each ti he parted from soone with whom he had forged a bond—each ti he witnessed their end—he felt his heart grow heavier. Perhaps that was inevitable; he had, in effect, interred their existence within his own heart.

Najin adjusted the ribbon binding his hair—a Star Relic left by the Star of Detachnt. He had no clear idea what power dwelled in the relic. He cinched the ribbon tighter and exhaled a long breath.

Hero, Viola Ordina. Perforr, Violet… After casting one last look at the twin headstones bearing the nas, he turned and walked away.

Having secured his fifth star, he learned several things.

– Usually, after six stars, you end up a Transcendent, don’t you?

The first was the link between stars and Transcendents.

– Not every Transcendent owns six stars or more, but everyone with six or more is a Transcendent. Well, not everyone, exactly; in the last thousand years there have been a handful of exceptions.

“Then what about ?”

– You look like you’ll be one of those exceptions. You’re still a long way from Sword Master, after all.

Normally, upon reaching five stars, one was either on the threshold of becoming—or already was—a Transcendent. Najin, however, was an outlier. His feats amassed far faster than his cultivation rose.

– There was even soone who held ten stars and still wasn’t a Transcendent. Only one in all of history.

“Who was that?”

– Galahad.

A na Najin knew: Sir Galahad of the Round Table—reputedly the strongest knight save for Arthur himself, fad for defeating all the remaining Knights of the Round Table at once.

“Really? The tales describe him as a Transcendent.”

– He wasn’t a Transcendent. He was simply stronger than most of them. Outrageously strong.

“Then why?”

– Hmm, it’s complicated. He’s a special case. Galahad could never beco one.

Najin tilted his head. rlin rubbed her chin.

– How should I explain this? He was perfect, a human who renounced humanity, a constructed being, a prop on the stage …

Wrestling for a proper way to describe it, rlin shook her head.

– It’s tricky, and even if I spelled it out, you probably wouldn’t grasp it. Point is: piling up deeds usually leads to transcendence, but not invariably. Understand?

Najin nodded. A person had to refine the soul to ascend. Although his deeds rivaled any Transcendent’s, his soul had not yet matured.

– Well, it’s a matter of climbing one step at a ti.

The longer the road, the more reason to slow down, hadn’t Helt Knight said as much? Hurry, and nothing works.

Najin worked to keep impatience at bay.

That was the first thing he figured out. The second ca from a visitor.

“Greetings, Master Najin. I am Soless, retainer to Gerd, First Pillar of the Empire.” Sohow, in the vast Outland, she had found Najin, a feat that surprised even him. She arrived abruptly, brandishing the First Pillar’s sigil and announcing, “Lord Gerd sends his regards.”

“According to schedule, I should have t you eleven days ago, but your trail vanished, delaying my arrival. I apologise.” Bowing, Soless fixed her gaze on Najin. “If I may ask, where were you in that interval?”

“I stepped inside the Star Tomb.”

“Ah, that makes sense. My reach does not extend there.”

“Then may I ask how you located at all?”

“The details are classified, suffice to say, I used a blend of Mystique and a Masterpiece.”

Najin recalled sothing Gerd had once said: ‘No matter where you go, I have ways to reach you. When there is news, I’ll make contact.’

So that was that thod.

Soless cleared her throat and began, “Over the past month we have uncovered significant intelligence on the Carnival King. I’ve co to share it.”

Najin’s gaze sharpened.

When he nodded, Soless continued, “Across the Empire’s five‑hundred‑year chronicle, 781 incidents were expunged; 754 connected to the Carnival King. We cross‑checked roughly two hundred period docunts, sketching their outlines.”

She did not ntion that many an archivist’s hairline had paid the price—such sacrifices were inevitable. “The key ca from minutes kept by a knightly order whose sigil was a horned helm. Their na is gone beyond recovery, but their record states …”

The Golden Horn Knights… Najin bit his lip.

“Confronting the Carnival King inside her own desne is virtually impossible.”

“…Impossible?” He sifted through what he knew: the Carnival King sequestered herself, loath to appear, never stepping on stage unless victory was assured, clutching over a hundred spare stars—extra lives—so she never wagered her own.

She was a puppet‑master behind the curtain. If her estate was both stage and hide‑out, it was bound to be tricky. Even so, what Soless revealed exceeded imagination.

“Her domain is layered with multiple Forbidden Zones designed solely for her.” Forbidden Zones: fields that weaken, erode and warp uninvited guests. There were at least dozens; perhaps a hundred. “Fighting the ten‑star Carnival King there is practically impossible. One would need a constellation on the level of the Round Table, and that, of course, is also near‑impossible.”

“Then what do we do?”

“The knightly order tried to draw her outside, but Lord Gerd believes that she will only burrow deeper due to her injury. Luring her out is unlikely. Lord Gerd proposes dismantling the Forbidden Zones.”

It was very straightforward.

“Among them are several core zones. Destroy a core zone, and the rest collapse, opening a route to her estate.”

“How do we destroy a Forbidden Zone?”

“Simple… kill its creator, the constellation that owns it.” Soless spread her hand, folding her thumb and leaving four fingers. “The Carnival King commands four constellations called Apostles, or Court Jesters. They are her greatest clowns and the anchors of the cores.”

“Court Jesters?”

“Yes. Two remain unknown, but the other two are identified.” She folded one finger. “One is Carpe Diem, the Demon King of Lantation.”

Najin knew the second already.

“The other is Quixote, the Star of Scorn.”

Knight‑Clown Quixote—Najin’s fingers tightened on his hilt.

Soless cleared her throat. “Lord Gerd’s ssage is as follows.” Imitating Gerd’s voice, she said, “I will kill Carpe Diem. You track Quixote, Star of Scorn. Quixote has a “weakness.” Find it.” Soless pointed at the earth. “Sowhere in the Outland lies a place called La Mancha. Look there for clues.”

“La Mancha…” Najin rolled the na around his tongue.

“That concludes the ssage. Finally, Lord Gerd bade deliver this.” She produced a wooden box.

Najin opened it, blinked, then laughed aloud—it was exactly what he needed. He nodded. “Please tell Lord Gerd he has my thanks.”

“Hrk huff huff…!” Sir Jowel sprinted, feeling as though his lungs would burst. He never looked back; he only ran. His sprint was graceless, nowhere near knightly, but he had no room for pride—he had to run.

‘How did it co to this?’ Jowel wondered. He had volunteered for the front. After turning one‑hundred‑twenty and being forbidden to remain on the continent, he enlisted. Rather than wander the Outland and becoming a Forgotten One, he would die gloriously battling demons.

It struck him as splendid.

Serve as a knight on the continent, then go beyond and fight demons—what nobler choice? Jowel was drunk on his own virtue and pride. So said honor and pride were like strong drink: pleasant while you’re tipsy, painful when you wake.

“Huff… huff… huff!”

They were right. Risking a glance, he saw a horde of beasts, Forgotten Ones and worse, tearing after him. He cursed himself and forced his legs faster.

Why—how had it ended like that?

The front was nothing like he imagined. Fighting there was on another scale. On the continent, as a Sword Seeker, he dazzled wherever he appeared—a splendid knight.

In the Outland he was a re soldier—less. Demons rioted, forgotten Transcendents ddled, monsters rampaged; on that field, a lone man was negligible.

No honorable death awaited, no splendid end; certainly no rest.

He wished to flee but pride said a knight mustn’t. After holding out, Jowel and comrades t a swarm of beasts and Forgotten Ones. Terror froze his fellows, death lood. Beating his breastplate, Jowel shouted with a shaking voice, “Leave this to and run! I’ll draw them! My legs are still swift!”

Summoning starlight, he bolted. The swarm gave chase—and so to the present.

“Hrk!” Legs ready to snap, he regretted it. Why had he done it? To save comrades? No—he wasn’t that noble, and he knew it. He just wanted a dramatic death. He had seen many crushed by demons, torn by Forgotten Ones, dying like dogs. aningless deaths. Staying there, he would share that fate.

If that was certain, then a heroic self‑sacrifice seed better—that was his reasoning. As death neared, terror swamped him. Images of being eaten alive made him sob.

He didn’t want to die. Honour, pride—who cared? A grand finale—what was it worth?

He kept running, discarding breastplate, sword, shield, anything to be faster. Stripped even of honour, about to scream in despair—

A footstep from ahead reached him.

Jowel looked up.

A young man walked toward him, sword in one hand, lance‑shaft in the other. Jowel’s eyes narrowed; he studied the clothes. That garb, he’d seen it sowhere. Not the armour of front‑line knights. Where—?

“Ah.” He let out a faint sigh. In his squire days, he’d seen it in history books: attire of free knights who fought with King Arthur a thousand years ago. Why was he seeing it there? Surely such garb belonged only in stories.

Perhaps, to chastise him for discarding pride, his mind had conjured a vision.

No, the young man was real, approaching. Jowel saw differences from the classic garb: horn‑shaped epaulettes like a horned helm, a tattered banner over one shoulder.

Forgetting danger, Jowel called out, “Who are you?:

The young man answered briefly, “Najin.”

A Free Knight, Najin?

The young man brushed past, hurling himself into the horde chasing the old knight.