150: The Graveyard of the Lake Knight

"Get up!"

Nolan reached down and ruffled Ligeitoli's hair. The elf girl struggled to her feet, her body trembling. She was terrified—because they were fighting a spirit of the lake.

Even though this Lake Spirit didn't match the legendary descriptions, she was filthy, twisted, and didn't even resemble an elf. There was no denying what she was. She was an ancestor of the forest elves, an existence akin to a deity. A being that should not be challenged.

Worst of all—the rangers' pride and joy, their enchanted arrows, were utterly useless against her.

Ligeitoli clenched her fists.

"...Our arrows don't work," she muttered under her breath. "How can we possibly win against a spirit of the lake?"

She winced as she saw another one of her ranger comrades get struck by a warhammer made of pure magic. That single attack shattered the elf's body. Skin tore open—limbs twisted at grotesque angles—a spray of blood painted the battlefield.

Nearby, Shafa was desperately trying to reorganize the ranger formation.

"Formation—! No—scatter! SCATTER!"

Another warhammer came flying. The elves had no choice but to abandon all dignity and flee in different directions. The hammer detonated upon impact, sending swamp water and mud flying like an explosion of filth.

Nolan lightly tapped Ligeitoli on the head again.

"Stand up, shorty."

His voice was calm, almost indifferent.

"What's the big deal? She's just an elf, same as you."

"She's got strong magic, sure—"

"But she doesn't know a single spell."

"And she doesn't use a wand or any catalysts."

"In other words—"

"As a wizard, she's weak."

Ligeitoli's breath hitched. Could that really be true?

Nolan continued, "Try shooting her again. Do it when you feel it's the right time."

He gave her one last look.

"Let's see if we've got good synergy, shall we?"

And with that, he vanished.

The next moment, he was already rushing back into battle.

A warhammer came soaring toward him. Nolan twisted his body at the last second—barely dodging.

In response, he flicked his wand—

Fiendfyre.

A flood of black, monstrous flames surged forward—a fire so unnatural it could devour even souls.

But—

The Lake Spirit simply waved a hand.

The flames vanished instantly.

As if they had never even existed.

Nolan's expression didn't change. He adjusted his stance—

And unleashed another spell.

Diffindo!

Invisible blades of air shot forth—a dozen of them, slicing toward the Lake Spirit from all directions.

But once again—

They clashed uselessly against her magical barrier.

By then, Nolan had already reached striking distance. With his left hand, he swung his long knife in rapid slashes—

With his right hand, he cast a barrage of Reducto spells, bombarding her defenses.

The Lake Spirit had no rational intelligence. She was powerful—but predictable.

Once again—

She self-destructed.

A shockwave of pure magic erupted from her core, surging outward to obliterate everything nearby.

Nolan didn't hesitate.

His blade came down—

Aimed directly at her heart.

At that same moment—

Ligeitoli had been watching closely. She bit her lip, gripping her bow tightly.

She held her breath—

Waiting.

Waiting for that perfect moment.

And then—

She found it.

With a single swift motion—

She loosed her arrow.

Everything happened in an instant.

Nolan's blade broke through the Lake Spirit's defenses—the tip plunged into her heart.

And—

From behind—

Ligeitoli's arrow flew straight toward them.

Nolan, as if he had eyes on the back of his head, subtly tilted his head to the side.

The arrow whizzed past his ear.

Shhhk!

It buried itself into the Lake Spirit's chest.

A second later—

Splurt!

A massive spray of blackened blood erupted from the wound.

The Lake Spirit let out a final, gurgling wail—

And then collapsed.

Nolan barely even reacted. The filthy blood splattered over him, soaking into his coat.

Without a word, he crouched down—

And retrieved his long knife from the spirit's corpse.

"Not bad."

His voice was quiet—but there was an undeniable satisfaction in it.

He glanced at Ligeitoli.

"Having synergy is a good thing, isn't it?"

Then—without even looking back—he murmured:

"Alright. Let's move on."

"Next target."

Meanwhile—elsewhere on the battlefield—the duel between Sheila and Lancelot was approaching its climax.

Lancelot wielded a blade forged by elven smiths, yet that alone wasn't the reason he could hold his ground in close combat. His skill, his instincts—those were what kept him alive.

"I don't understand you," Lancelot muttered, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. His eyes burned with frustration. "You're a hunter—a slayer of magical creatures. Why the hell would you side with the vampires?"

Sheila's expression remained icy cold. She pressed her long knife against his throat, her voice flat and emotionless.

"That's none of your concern."

At that moment, Nolan approached, wiping his own blade clean. His weapon shifted, shrinking once more into a dagger. His crimson eyes locked onto Lancelot, and his tone was light, almost casual.

"But I am curious about something…"

He stepped closer.

"You're after the Philosopher's Stone, aren't you?"

"You don't care about the so-called 'mystical Rodtab School'…"

"And you're not interested in the lost Arthurian Kingdom from a thousand years ago…"

"Your real goal is—"

"Merlin?"

Lancelot let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"So… it really is the curse of the Lancelot family," he muttered. "I was always destined to return to this place…"

His gaze darkened.

"Lancelot's grave lies here. Did you know that, vampire?"

"Every single one of my ancestors died by this lake."

"For generations, the Lancelot bloodline has been obsessed with breaking the curse, sacrificing their lives for Merlin's plan—"

"And in the end, we all died in this filthy swamp."

Lancelot's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"If I had a choice," he murmured, voice thick with bitterness, "I'd rather have been born as anyone else but a Lancelot…"

Then, as if realizing he was wasting his breath, he scoffed, "…But I suppose you don't care about any of this."

Nolan shrugged. His expression remained completely unbothered.

At that moment, a black, inky mass on the ground twitched and began to wriggle. Slowly, the shattered remains of Miss Nancy reformed themselves.

With a soft "meow," she stretched lazily, arching her back like a spoiled cat, before gracefully trotting back to Nolan's side.

Lancelot exhaled.

"My goal is simple…" he said, voice dull and exhausted. "I want to kill Merlin."

Nolan arched an eyebrow.

"So you stole the Philosopher's Stone from me for that?"

Lancelot nodded grimly.

"Merlin is trapped by his own Grand Magic—his time is frozen."

"The only way to undo it is with the Philosopher's Stone."

"And only then… can I avenge my family."

"For the past thousand years, the Lancelot family has been nothing but a pawn in his grand scheme—"

"Generation after generation… we all fell here, our corpses feeding this damned swamp!"

Nolan's expression remained impassive.

"Well," he said lightly, "that's convenient."

"Because just like your ancestors—"

"You're about to become part of the swamp too."

He tilted his head slightly.

"But before that… I have to ask—"

"Do you have any children, Lord Lancelot?"

Lancelot hesitated.

"…Not yet."

Nolan's lips curved into a mocking smirk.

"Ah. So that means the Lancelot family ends here?"

He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

"Going extinct, huh? Not a pleasant word, is it?"

"Even vampires hate hearing it."

"But for a short-lived wizard like you? Must be even worse."

Lancelot's eyes flickered.

"…Perhaps," he said carefully, "you might consider letting me live?"

"Let you live?"

Nolan laughed.

"A brilliant idea, Lord Lancelot."

He took a slow step forward.

"But let's take a moment to recall something, shall we?"

"Last year, you spent an entire year plotting against me."

"Let's revisit some fond memories—"

"In Diagon Alley, you and your men ambushed me like a bunch of low-life bandits."

Hearing that, Ligeitoli flinched instinctively. She shrank back, glancing at Nolan nervously.

Nolan continued, his tone casual—

"In Ireland, on that ship, you broke into my cabin, tried to steal from me—"

"Then sabotaged the ferry, nearly drowning me in the sea."

His crimson eyes gleamed darkly.

"So let's make a bet, Lord Lancelot—"

"Today, you die here."

"And that future isn't far away."

And just like that—

The fate of Lancelot was sealed.

Nolan felt no pity for him.

He understood why Lancelot hated Merlin. He could even sympathize with the tragedy of his family.

But sympathy and forgiveness were two very different things.

And at the end of the day—

Vampires aren't kind creatures.

Half an Hour Later—

Nolan and the surviving elves made their way into a cave—the same one Ligeitoli had once visited.

Inside, they found a man.

A wizard.

Seated on a stone, staring blankly at the wall—

As if he had been waiting for something for the past thousand years.

The legend himself.

Merlin.

Though he was said to be over a thousand years old, he appeared no older than a man in his twenties. A frozen relic of the past.

Without hesitation, Nolan tossed the Philosopher's Stone toward the elf alchemist.

"Here," he said dismissively.

His true interest was elsewhere.

He turned back to the motionless wizard—his lips curling into a sharp grin.

"Now then…"

Nolan took a step closer.

His voice was low, filled with dark amusement.

"Let's have a little chat, shall we?"

"Tell me—"

"What the hell happened a thousand years ago?"

~~~----------------------

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