147: The Evolution of History

In the midst of the rotting swamplands, a blond-haired boy trudged forward.

His pants were covered in mud, his shoes were filthy, and his once-golden hair was a complete mess, tangled with clumps of dirt.

He seemed like a talkative sort—because he never stopped mumbling to himself, grumbling like a madman, muttering over and over about some vampire he clearly held a grudge against.

His name was Philo Gilligs, a werewolf from London.

…No, perhaps that wasn't quite right.

Philo only lived in London. He liked big cities—just like many modern werewolves did.

He was born in Ireland, but he didn't remember his parents. His earliest memories were of a swamp witch raising him—feeding him rotting flesh and bugs to keep him alive.

Eventually, Philo had escaped from that hellhole, fleeing to London. Then to New York, where he lived recklessly, drowning himself in drunken nights and fleeting pleasures.

But now… he wanted to uncover the truth about his birth.

That was why he had returned to Ireland.

Back to the place where his first memories had begun.

"Oi, old hag! Hey—you old witch, I'm back!" Philo kicked open a familiar thatched door, stepping inside as he spat out a string of foul words he had learned in New York.

He scoured the dimly lit shack, searching for the hideous woman who had raised him.

But there was nothing.

The swamp witch's cottage was completely empty—it looked like no one had lived there for a long, long time.

…

As for the Spirit of the Lake—Nolan wasn't entirely sure what it was.

To the forest elves, it seemed to be something akin to God—a being on a higher plane, a creator.

But when asked whether this Spirit had truly created them, none of the elves could give a clear answer.

"In our recorded history, the Spirit of the Lake was once the youngest daughter of the Ancient Elf King," Priestess Lúthfa explained. "Two thousand years ago, she sacrificed herself during a great war to save our kind.

"Her body perished that day… but the elves soon discovered that she did not truly disappear.

"She continued to appear throughout history—each time leaving behind footprints in our past. And every time our people's fate stood at a crossroads, she would emerge again.

"We revere her as our guardian deity."

As a priestess, Lúthfa regularly taught her people to offer prayers to the Spirit of the Lake. Occasionally, she even led sacrificial rituals in its honor.

The elves sought to communicate with their guardian through prayers and offerings, hoping to earn its protection.

…

By the filthy lakeshore, Nolan paced back and forth, casting spells into the water.

His magic sent jets of water spraying into the air, eliminated aquatic creatures, and annihilated parasites lurking beneath the surface.

But no spirit emerged.

Nothing answered.

Just then—Nolan caught sight of a figure approaching from the distance.

A young man in a hooded cloak.

In his hand, he carried a longsword—its blade crystal clear, adorned with intricate carvings and exquisite engravings. The weapon had an ancient elegance, an air of nobility that seemed out of place in the wretched swamplands.

Nolan narrowed his blood-red eyes.

In one swift motion, he drew his dagger—and his wand.

"You again, wizard."

The young man sighed, looking at him with a knowing gaze. "Nolan Von Draugr. I see you've brought the Philosopher's Stone here… just as expected."

Then, with a faint smile, he added, "Perhaps I should introduce myself properly… because whether I like it or not, this matter is deeply entwined with my family.

"I was born into this name. Raised in its traditions. Taught its beliefs."

He pulled back his hood.

"My name is Lancelot.

"Or perhaps… Lancelot the Twenty-Fourth.

"Who knows? In my family, we have no need for any other names."

…

"Lancelot?!" Nolan arched a brow.

That name… to Muggles, it was one of legend.

"Impossible!" Ligeitoli gasped. "I know Lancelot! He's from the stories of King Arthur! That's just a legend! Even the Muggles say so!"

The young man named Lancelot shrugged, a smirk playing at his lips.

"And Muggles also believe magic and elves are just fairy tales," he said. "And yet… here you are."

Nolan remained unfazed.

"Arthur was a real historical figure," he stated. "I studied him at Hogwarts.

"Though the records are incomplete—contradictions exist between different sources, and over thirty different versions of his story have been told.

"The Muggles have their interpretations. Wizards have theirs.

"But I can assure you—those people existed. Just as Merlin truly lived… and was a remarkable Dark Wizard in his own right.

"In fact…" Nolan's blood-red eyes gleamed coldly. "If I took the time to search, I might even find an ancient vampire who's lived for over a thousand years—and they would tell me everything."

Ligeitoli's long ears twitched.

She had been spacing out for quite some time, her mind wandering as she tried to digest everything she had just heard.

After a long pause, she hesitantly asked,

"But… even if Lancelot really did exist, wouldn't he be over a thousand years old by now? Is he really that old?

"Does that mean I've spent the past year traveling with some ancient grandpa who's been alive since the Dark Ages?!"

The young wizard let out a small chuckle.

"The Lancelot who lived in Arthur and Merlin's time was my ancestor," he explained. "He passed away long ago.

"But in my family… every generation inherits his name—to carry on the duty passed down through the ages."

Nolan's gaze remained unreadable.

"Is that something we need to know?" he asked coolly.

The young man gave a slight nod.

"Of course," he replied. "I can tell you this much—when Arthur built his kingdom, when the Wizarding Empire was established, wizards won their war against the Muggles.

"They claimed their own land, their own nation… but it didn't last.

"Wizards will always be forced into hiding.

"That is a truth we all understand."

His voice darkened.

"In the end, Arthur's kingdom was overrun by Muggles.

"It was the era of the Witch Hunts—and every Muggle became an executioner.

"They sent knights and archers to hunt down wizards.

"And the wizarding dynasty… drowned in blood."

Ligeitoli paled at his words.

"To preserve the last remnants of our kind," Lancelot continued, "the great wizard Merlin led the survivors into hiding.

"He took them to the Rodtabh School of Magic—a sanctuary deep within the heart of Ireland.

"And there, he cast an ancient and terrible spell…

"A spell so powerful that it concealed the entire castle—vanishing it from the world!"

Priestess Lúthfa's expression shifted.

In an instant, she made the connection.

"That's it…" she murmured. "That spell is what's been draining the magic of the Elven Forest…"

Lancelot nodded.

"Not just the forest," he said, turning toward her. "At the time, elves were also being persecuted alongside wizards.

"The forest elves of today are merely the descendants of those who failed to escape."

His eyes then drifted to the murky, foul waters of the lake.

"Merlin knew that once he cast that spell, he would be sealed away—unable to awaken, with no one strong enough to break the magic.

"Which is why, before he vanished, he summoned the bravest knight in Arthur's army—Lancelot himself.

"And he entrusted him with a single mission…"

Nolan's red eyes narrowed.

"Merlin wanted Lancelot to one day break the spell," he guessed.

"To awaken Rodtabh… and bring back what was lost?"

"Exactly!"

Lancelot raised his longsword, his voice brimming with conviction.

"A thousand years ago, no wizard could break Merlin's enchantment.

"But as time passed… magic evolved.

"One day, a wizard would emerge—someone capable of undoing the spell."

He took a deep breath, eyes blazing.

"And so, my family waited.

"Year after year.

"Generation after generation.

"Passing down this mission—until the day it could finally be fulfilled.

"And now… that day has come!"

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