Chapter 121: A Tale of Valerian Lost

Thunder cracked, deep and violent, rattling the concrete beneath Godric's boots. Rain poured in sheets, a cold, relentless curtain that drenched him to the bone. Water streamed down his face, soaking through the strands of his hair, washing streaks of black from his roots—revealing glimpses of the fiery red beneath. The dye couldn't hold. Not anymore.

He sat slumped on a wooden bench in the town square, shoulders hunched, head bowed. The world around him blurred into rain and stone, but he barely noticed. This was the bench. Their bench. The place where he and Raine first kissed. Where laughter once warmed the space between them, where hearts opened, and promises were made. He could still feel the ghost of it—her head resting against his shoulder, her fingers laced through his, her breath against his skin. Now all of it felt impossibly far. Faded. Like chasing warmth in a winter that wouldn't end.

He didn't care that he was soaked, or that the storm seemed endless. He just needed to be anywhere but behind the walls of Excalibur. The stone halls had begun to feel like a prison. Cold. Silent. Indifferent. There was no sanctuary within them—not for him, and certainly not for Shana.

His jaw clenched. He imagined what she must be feeling. Not just the trauma left behind by Cardin's cruelty, but the weight of it still growing inside her—without her choice, without a voice. Because to the world, she wasn't seen as a person. Just property. Just stock. And it killed him. The world he had saved Raine from had come roaring back, and this time he hadn't stopped it. He had failed her. Failed Shana. Failed himself.

The sword on his back—a symbol of everything he once believed in—felt heavier now than it ever had. His title, the Lion of Ignis, rang hollow. Empty words, echoing in a void where pride used to live.

He tilted his face to the sky, the clouds above thick and roiling, dark as pitch. No stars. No moon. Just storm—wild and ceaseless. It mirrored the chaos in his chest. And for a single, aching moment…

He wanted to disappear into it.

To let it all go.

But then—something stirred.

His eyes snapped open.

A pulse.

Not in the sky or the ground, but inside him. A jolt in his chest, like lightning crawling beneath his skin. A whisper—no, a pull. He couldn't explain it. He didn't need to.

He just knew.

"…Salazar," he breathed.

Circuits flared to life across his arms and chest, searing with radiant white-blue light. A voltaic hum surged through the air. Raindrops around him seemed to freeze mid-fall, suspended like glass beads in a frozen moment of time.

Then Godric stood.

And with a crack of thunder, the ground trembled beneath him—then he was gone, vanishing in a flash of blinding light.

****

The club groaned under the fury of combat. Blades screamed with every strike, each clash a thunderclap that split the air and sent cracks racing through the walls. Dust and debris burst outward in violent gusts, pushed by the sheer force behind their swings. Asriel was a whirlwind, his blackened claymore moving with unrelenting savagery, streaked with flame-veined magic. Godric matched him, bolt for bolt—his circuits ablaze, veins lit like lightning coursing through his skin. They circled each other like dueling storms, blades sweeping wide, spinning at the wrist, slamming into steel with bone-rattling impact.

From the floor, Salazar watched—wide-eyed, bloodied, breath held. These weren't men. They were something more. Elemental. Relentless.

A final strike sent both combatants skidding back across the fractured floor, their boots scraping marble, breath heaving. Across the distance, their eyes met—not with hate, but exhilaration. In Asriel's amber gaze, fire danced. He smiled—not cruelly, but with something bordering joy.

Without a word, they lunged again. Blades clashed; sparks leapt like firecrackers. Asriel vanished in a swirl of smoke, but Godric met him each time, matching his teleportation with blinding speed. Their swords locked, cross guards biting, and the two leaned in—faces inches apart, every muscle trembling with exertion.

"By the Gods," Asriel growled, a wild grin spreading across his face, "I've spent so long butchering the feckless cowards of the Tower, I'd nearly forgotten the thrill of crossing blades with someone who actually knows how to fight!"

His smirk widened. "Name, boy."

"Godric Gryffindor," came the answer. "Etch it in your memory. It'll be the last name you hear before you die."

With a roar, Godric pushed him back, their blades tearing free in a screech of metal.

Asriel drove his blade into the marble with a violent crash, sparks flaring as the steel screeched along the floor. He slid to a halt in its wake, breath rising in clouds, a wild grin splitting his face like a wound.

"Gryffindor?" he echoed, breathless with thrill. "So, you're the boy setting the Congregation aflame. Hell, all of Avalon's been whispering your name. The fabled Lion of Ignis."

His eyes narrowed, the grin widening. "I'll give you this— the tales don't come close. It's been years since anyone's matched my blade like that."

"Spare me the flattery, Valerian," Godric snapped. "Coming from a man who just tried to murder my friend, your words mean nothing."

Asriel laughed—low and steady. "Fair enough." His expression shifted, the mirth fading to something darker. "But I feel it… burning under your skin. That fury. That grief. You want it, don't you?" He leaned forward slightly. "You want blood. Just like me."

Godric's jaw clenched, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.

"The Tower took something from you too, didn't they?" Asriel's words dropped to a hush. "Something… or someone."

He wrenched the blade from the ground with a rasp of steel, rolling his wrist to spin the claymore once before lowering it to his side. "Vis Vitalis…" he mused aloud. "I've heard of it. Read the legends. But I've never seen it—until now."

His gaze narrowed, a glint of amusement returning to his eyes. "I was just a boy back then, but I remember the whispers in the trenches—half myth, half madness. Stories of a silver-haired ghost on the battlefield, carving through men like a living tempest. Said he moved like lightning itself—so fast, you never saw the swing. Only the blood it left behind. They claimed his sword could part oceans… split mountains clean down the spine."

Godric blinked, taken aback. "There are others?" he asked quietly. "Others like me?"

Asriel gave a slow shake of his head. "Maybe. Maybe not." He shrugged. "Nevertheless, you would've made a fine brother under my banner, back when I ruled from the Table."

Asriel paused, raising a hand—not in mockery, but as an invitation. "Or perhaps… one who shares my thirst for the Tower's ruin."

Godric's gaze faltered, dropping for the briefest moment. Salazar noticed the shift—the hesitation—and recalled Godric's words at the hospital. That grim possibility of siding with Nemesis.

But then the circuits along Godric's arms flared to life, casting his form in a shimmer of blue and gold. The wind seemed to hush. The air pressed heavier.

"Not interested," he said.

Asriel exhaled as he stepped back into position. "I thought as much."

Godric raised his sword. "Come on, Valerian," he growled. "Let's end this."

****

Godric and Asriel clashed furiously, their blades colliding with deafening clangs, movements so swift they left ghostly afterimages trailing in their wake. Godric gritted his teeth, sparks of electric-gold circuits blazing along his skin, each motion becoming faster, more precise, as Vis Vitalis surged within him.

Every strike sent violent shockwaves rippling across the shattered marble floor. Even Asriel, formidable as he was, struggled momentarily to match Godric's escalating pace, yet deep within, Godric understood one bitter truth: without the overwhelming power of Vis Vitalis, Asriel would have effortlessly cleaved him in half with a single stroke.

Nearby, Salazar groaned, grimacing through the pain as he pressed a hand firmly against his wound. Emerald eyes reluctantly lowered, pulling aside the torn, blood-soaked fabric of his shirt, only to swiftly avert his gaze with a sour grimace.

"Good heavens, that's truly ghastly," he muttered, drawing labored breaths. Just then, an instinctive awareness alerted him to a presence nearby. He turned his head slightly, spotting Nirah approaching quietly. The slender white serpent gently held his wand between her jaws, carrying it like a faithful hound with a stick.

Salazar's lips curled into a grateful smirk. "Much obliged, my dear," he whispered, carefully retrieving the wand from her grasp. Taking a steadying breath, he aimed the wand at his wound.

"Sanavulnera."

A sharp, burning sensation seared through him, forcing a strained groan from his throat as the torn flesh gradually knit itself together.

"Ah, I'd nearly forgotten how unpleasant that feels," he muttered weakly. "That should suffice for the moment. Though now I'll have the delightful task of explaining to Doctor Adani precisely how I managed to get myself skewered by none other than Asriel Valerian."

Salazar fixed his gaze once more upon the two warriors, their clash unrelenting, neither yielding an inch of ground. Nirah hissed quietly beside him; her serpentine eyes also trained intently on the raging battle.

"Yes, my dear," Salazar muttered, eyes narrowing sharply. "They appear evenly matched—but I can see through it. The look in Asriel's eyes. He's merely toying with our brave lion." His teeth clenched. "There's a reason they call him the Terror of Death."

Asriel and Godric met once again in a violent clash of blades, sparks scattering around them. Locked momentarily, Asriel leaned closer, eyes gleaming with a dark excitement.

"Your form needs refinement, though your technique... that's something special," Asriel said, pushing Godric backward with a powerful swing. "You've had an excellent teacher, Gryffindor. I'll give you that much."

He paused, twirling the sword effortlessly around his wrist, muscles tensed, posture coiled low. The blackened steel of his blade ignited, bathed in a fiery crimson glow, flickering dangerously.

"As for me, I had no such fortune. My sword was forged in the fires of war, my only teacher the battlefield. Every life I've ended was a lesson, every scar a memory etched in failure. But every wound, every brush with death, every moment I stared into the void—each made me stronger."

A wild grin spread across his face. "Now, Gryffindor, let's see if you can do the same."

Godric spun his sword, his circuits blazing with renewed intensity as golden lightning danced along the blade.

"Bring it on, Valerian!"

A battle cry ripped from their throats as they surged forward, the sheer force of their charge shattering the marble beneath their feet. Both men gripped their blades in both hands. They closed the gap in an instant, muscles coiled, fury blazing in their eyes.

And then—they swung.

The moment their blades met; it was as if the world held its breath.

A blinding shockwave erupted on impact, light swallowing the room in a white-hot flare. Time seemed to shatter with it—sound vanished, vision blurred, and for an instant, there was nothing but white.

****

The cool spring breeze drifted across the lake, carrying with it the scent of pine and fresh bloom. The aroma of damp leaves and faint wildflowers mingled in the air, riding the wind with a whisper. Overhead, branches rustled softly, their murmurs folding into the gentle symphony of nature.

Asriel had never cared for such things. Not truly. He'd grown used to harsher scents—the stench of rot, of blood thick in the mud, of flesh torn open on cold steel. The battlefield had been his cradle, and its horrors still lingered in the back of his mind. Screams, sobs, the rasp of final breaths—the soundtrack of his past clung to him like a second skin. Peace, for him, had always felt like a lie. A memory borrowed from someone else's life.

Until he came to Excalibur.

Now he sat alone beneath the pavilion at the center of the lake, the breeze brushing his cloak—the Visionary's grey, stitched with the silver crest of House Ferrum. It hung over his frame like a mantle of expectation, though he wore it more from duty than pride. His claymore leaned against the railing beside him, gleaming and well-kept, the five-foot blade a familiar weight he could never quite let go.

He laced his fingers together, silver eyes cast over the lake's rippling surface. The world here was alive in color—deep greens, soft blues, warm sunlight that filtered through the canopy. It was a place of stillness, of serenity. A stark contrast to the endless grey skies and crimson-soaked fields of his homeland.

But even here, a part of him remained guarded. Suspicious. Peace felt dangerous. Fragile. Like a dream that would vanish the moment he reached for it. And if it did—if he dared believe in it—what would be left of him when it broke?

What would remain of the sword if the edge dulled?

He felt her presence before he saw her—the soft brush of her hair cascading down to her waist as she leaned gently against him. Her arms slid around his, one hand finding his palm, their fingers locking together in a quiet, familiar clasp. She nestled her cheek against his shoulder, breathing in slow, content.

"Mmm… I know that look," she murmured, her voice a warm whisper against the breeze.

Asriel turned to her with a soft smile. The elven girl beside him barely reached his shoulder, her frame delicate beside his own—no surprise, given how he towered over most their age. Years on the battlefield had carved his body into steel, but beside her, he always softened.

Her hair, golden and impossibly long, spilled to her thighs. Her pointed ears peeked through strands of silk, and her sapphire eyes met his with quiet knowing. The uniform of House Ventus clung to her with grace, its deep blues matching the sigil that rested proudly on her chest. But what stood out most was the scar—a harsh burn that traced over her right eye and down her cheek, a mark from another life.

"And what look would that be?" Asriel asked, dipping his head slightly, meeting her gaze more closely.

"The one where you stare out into the distance, wondering if any of this is real," she replied with a light chuckle, lifting her chin to kiss him—brief and gentle. "Well? Real enough for you?"

His smile grew, and for a moment the weight in his chest lessened. "As real as you can get, Tala."

"You know," Tala began, her eyes drifting to the horizon, the blue of the sky melting into the lake's shimmering edge, "I've always wondered why you're so keen on us meeting out here like this. There are plenty of places in Caerleon."

Asriel rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "You know why," he muttered. "I just... don't want people getting the wrong idea. You're... beautiful, and I…" His gaze fell to the wooden planks beneath their feet. "Most of all, I don't want the other Visionaries to know."

Tala blinked once. Then twice. And then burst into laughter, her voice echoing across the water as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

"What? What's so funny?" Asriel asked, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment.

"Oh, Asriel, you daft boy," she said between laughs. "Everyone already knows. Bran, Laxus—they were placing bets on when you'd finally stop pretending it was a secret."

His eyes widened. "B-but, how?"

Tala gave an exasperated little smirk, though affection never left her expression. "Please. Don't you think people noticed the two of us sneaking off? How we're always seen together in town?" She leaned in, brushing a hand against his cheek. "I love you, Asriel Valerian, but sometimes you're as dense as that bloody sword you swing."

Asriel winced. "When you put it like that…"

She kissed his cheek softly. "That's what makes you charming."

Her words turned gentler, her fingers tightening around his. "If only the world could see you the way I do—not as the brooding warrior they've named the Terror of Death, but the sweet, gentle boy who gets flustered when I tease him."

He gave a low chuckle, though his eyes dropped again. "I'm many things, Tala. But sweet and gentle? Might be the last words anyone would use to describe me."

"Well, I do," she said firmly. "And when we walk through those gates after graduation, I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you."

Asriel turned to her, his silver eyes warming as he smiled. "Neither can I."

They leaned in. The kiss they shared was slow, deep, and brimming with a love stronger than any blade.

But the memory shattered like glass.

The light, the warmth, the scent of spring—gone.

He awoke in a dark cavern, his body trembling, soaked in sweat. Blood pooled beneath him, hot and thick against the sand. His fingers clutched at his side, lungs heaving, vision swimming. The world around him was silent save for the rasp of his own breath.

And then, the light.

Faint—just a single shaft descending from the mouth of the cavern above, illuminating a blade.

Black steel, darker than midnight, buried upright in the sand.

He saw a figure beside it. Cloaked in shadow and clad in ancient armor, the man stood still, watching him with eyes that burned amber. A hand was offered.

A choice.

A vow.

Revenge for what had been stolen.

Justice for the lives broken by the hands of others.

To make the wrong things right.

And as Asriel hovered between life and death, he reached out.

A scream tore from his throat.

His fingers wrapped around the blade's hilt, and in that moment—through pain, rage, and fire—

He was reborn.

****

Both Godric and Asriel slammed into the far wall with a bone-rattling crack, marble and plaster exploding beneath the impact. Asriel hit back-first, choking on the force, eyes wide with disbelief. Godric's vision swam—then went dark. He collapsed face-first onto the ruined floor, his sword skidding from his hand, clanging loudly across the fractured marble.

Asriel dropped to his knees, one hand gripping his blade, the other pressed to his chest. His breath came ragged, drawn through clenched teeth as he struggled to remain upright. Slowly, painfully, he lifted his gaze to the boy crumpled across from him.

"W-what was that…?" the words trembled out of him, barely audible.

His eyes shifted to the glowing silver blade lying inches from Godric's outstretched hand. Its faint light shimmered under the fractured crystal lights above. Then he looked to his own weapon—the blackened claymore, pulsing with veins of fire. A flicker of something passed across his face.

"That sword…"

The sound of sirens pierced the silence—distant but closing fast. Red and blue lights danced across the rain-slicked street outside the shattered entrance. Asriel scoffed, pushed to his feet, and vanished in a swirl of blackened smoke.

The smoke slithered across the floor, reappearing beside Godric. Salazar's eyes widened as Asriel reformed, lifting Godric's limp body under one arm.

"Wait—where are you taking him?!" Salazar shouted, trying to rise. The pain in his side stole the strength from his legs, forcing him down again with a wince.

Asriel looked back over his shoulder; eyes gleaming beneath the blackened hood. "Don't worry, Slytherin," he said. "Me and the boy just need a little chat."

Salazar raised his wand with trembling fingers. "Let him go! Now!"

Asriel grinned. "You let the Sheriff walk free—but this one?" He glanced down at Godric. "This one might just change everything."

He began to vanish once more, flames curling at his heels.

"Stop—!" Salazar fired a blast of neon magic, the spell cracking through the air like thunder.

But it hit nothing.

Asriel and Godric were gone, swallowed in smoke and embers.

Salazar was left standing alone in the shattered ruin of the club, wand still raised, chest heaving. "Godric!" he cried out.

The next moment, the pounding of boots echoed across the marble. Armed AEGIS operatives stormed through the ruined entrance, their weapons raised, eyes scanning the wreckage. Sirens screamed outside, drowned by the storm.

But Salazar didn't hear them. His gaze remained locked on the place Godric had vanished, heart thundering like the storm outside.

****

The storm howled beyond the thick wooden doors of the old pub, rain lashing against the windows like a curse long denied. Nestled in a quiet corner of Camelot, The Hole in the Wall stood as one of the city's oldest establishments—weathered brick and aged oak now dwarfed by the looming towers of steel and glass that had grown like weeds around it. Inside, time seemed to stall. Amber lamplight glowed softly over warped floorboards and worn tabletops, casting long shadows across the room.

Bran and Laxus sat tucked away in a back cubicle, the wooden walls closing them in like a confessional. The Adjudicator's eyes flicked to the clock above the bar. Midnight. The hands pointed skyward. The soft chime that followed seemed almost reverent. His fingers tapped absently on the scarred tabletop, its surface dented from decades of stories, fights, and confessions.

Beside him, Laxus wrapped a calloused hand around the tankard before him, beer foaming at the lip. His sapphire gaze scanned the faded photographs lining the walls—snapshots from another age. His brow furrowed as he stopped at one in particular. Three young men stood arm in arm, grinning like devils. One was a mountain of muscle, taller and broader than even Laxus himself. The second—bespectacled, dark-haired, and unmistakably Bran's likeness. The last wore a boyish smirk, his brown eyes full of bravado.

"Wilhelm, Grandfather, and Un…" Bran's words caught in his throat. He adjusted his glasses. "Lamar. This was their haunt. Back when things were simpler. Before it all turned to rot."

Laxus leaned back, his expression skeptical. "You sure coming here's wise? I mean, this place practically has Lamar's ghosts crawling up the walls. He might still have ears in here."

Bran shook his head. "He won't come near the place. Not after the rather public fallout with Wilhelm. I doubt he can stand the memories. Probably reminds him there was once a time he wasn't a complete bastard."

Laxus gave a grunt, nodding toward the bartender polishing a glass behind the counter. "What about him? Think he won't snitch if word gets out?"

"Relax," Bran said quietly. "He and Grandfather go way back. And this meeting was his idea, after all." He folded his hands on the table. "No one from the Tower sets foot here anymore. Too old, too quiet… too honest."

Laxus took a long sip from his tankard and muttered, "Wish I could say the same for the rest of Camelot."

The low creak of the pub door broke the hush of the storm. Two figures stepped in, their silhouettes framed by rain and lamplight. The door eased shut behind them, leaving only the soft patter of dripping cloaks and the faint shuffle of boots across old wooden floors. The bartender gave a quiet nod of recognition. No one else spoke.

Bran and Laxus didn't turn.

The footsteps approached. A presence settled across from them. Then another.

"Well, well," came a smooth, teasing voice. "We've received many summonses in our time—but never one from the famed Mister Ravenclaw and the elusive Mister Dryfus. Fellow Visionaries, no less."

Bran raised his gaze, meeting the piercing blue eyes of Arthur Pendragon. Artoria sat beside him, arms folded, her posture rigid, her own eyes sharp beneath her fringe of gold. Both wore their Visionary cloaks, the flame-shaped crest of House Ignis sewn proudly into the fabric.

"It's been a while, you two," Laxus said with a crooked grin. "Gotta admit, those cloaks look better on you than they ever did on me. Mine always gave me the itch." He scratched absently at his chest, as if still haunted by the fabric.

"My thanks for coming on such short notice," Bran said, fingers steepled. "I trust the journey wasn't too troublesome."

Artoria scoffed. "Count yourself lucky, Ravenclaw. If you hadn't been a fellow Visionary, I wouldn't have given this so much as a second thought—let alone boarded a ship for it."

"Do ignore her," Arthur said lightly, with a glance at his sister. "She's never been fond of airships. Turns her into a right stormcloud." Artoria shot him a cold glare, which he met with a cheeky grin before clapping his hands. "But truly, it's a pleasure. To see the two most decorated alumni in Excalibur's recent history? Quite the honor. I was something of a fan, Mister Dryfus."

"Please. Laxus is fine," Laxus replied, taking a drink from his tankard. "I'm nothing special. Back then or now."

"I must disagree," Arthur said, sincere now. "Your name still echoes through the Congregation like legend." His expression sobered slightly. "It's a shame what happened to your Clan."

Laxus waved him off. "Rules and Consequences. I backed the wrong horse. Paid the price."

The warmth drained from the table as Artoria cut in. "Enough pleasantries. Why are we here, Ravenclaw?"

Bran met her gaze without flinching. "Because I know where you went, a year ago." Her eyes narrowed. Arthur's jaw stiffened. "Your sabbatical wasn't a break. It was a mission. One ordered directly by His Majesty."

He nodded toward Laxus. "And we know the truth. Or, at least, pieces of it. The corruption festering within the Tower. The crimes that have been allowed to thrive beneath its gilded veneer."

Laxus leaned forward, elbows on the table. "We've seen the proof. Names, ledgers, transcripts, notes. Enough to put a stain on every white robe from here to Caerleon."

Bran turned back to the Pendragons. "I'm here at the behest of my grandfather—Winston Ravenclaw. We've been gathering evidence, threading together every sordid piece. But we're still missing something. The keystone. And I believe you have it."

Neither Arthur nor Artoria spoke. But Laxus noticed the way Artoria's fingers slid toward the sword hilt at her hip—slow, cautious.

Bran's tone softened, but the weight behind it remained. "I know the Council elected a Lord Regent. I know that wasn't a spontaneous act. It was based on what you uncovered. Something so damning, so irrefutable, it shook even the Council's confidence in the Tower."

He leaned forward.

"So, tell me—what did you find?"