Chapter 79: Important? Or… Not Important?

Chapter 79: Important? Or… Not Important?

Blood is hot.

But—

How could someone who isn't injured possibly know this?

Because it wasn't their own blood.

It was someone else's blood.

To be precise, it was Ian's blood.

The moment she realized this, Artoria's emerald-green eyes, which had been brimming with joy, plunged into a frigid abyss.

The starlight that should have gleamed brightly in her vision was replaced by an endless darkness.

The heart that carried the blood of dragons now beat with an unimaginable intensity.

Mana Burst.

In just a few breaths, the young girl's body was enhanced to a terrifying degree.

Even without Excalibur at her side, in her current state, she was capable of killing anyone.

"Who are you?"

"Why did you do this to Sir Ian?!"

Upon hearing the name "Ian," the shadowy figure cloaked in Magecraft froze.

It was as though a harsh truth had struck his consciousness, causing him to stumble back a few steps before tripping over a rock and collapsing to the ground.

In that state, he might have even forgotten how to escape.

The situation was utterly chaotic.

But one thing was certain at that moment:

Artoria would absolutely not forgive that shadow.

With her Mana Burst state, a single punch from her could end his life.

Yet, the enraged girl could not take a single step forward.

The one holding her tightly was none other than Ian himself.

Blood continued to flow from Ian's chest, and he seemed to be using all his strength to keep Artoria in place.

The two of them seemed bound together by an invisible chain of iron, unable to move.

In that fleeting moment of confusion, the shadow regained its composure.

"I'm sorry… Father, I never wanted to do this."

"Please forgive me."

He murmured words only he could hear, struggling to lift himself off the ground.

By the time Artoria came to her senses, he had already disappeared into the distance.

Dawn.

The sunlight fell upon Ian's body, illuminating the dagger that had pierced through his back.

The thought of revenge no longer occupied the girl's mind.

She only wanted to save the man she loved.

"Sir Ian, I'll find someone to help you right now!"

[Artoria, disregarding all decorum, carried you and sprinted straight back to the camp.]

[Your blood trailed from the riverbank all the way to Camelot's banner.]

["Curse of the Princess++" obtained: The dagger that pierced you is cursed with Morgan's malice. This curse will follow you to your death.]

["Blessing of the Lake+" lost: The curse has severely weakened your resistance to Magecraft, leaving you unable to sustain your vitality or perceive certain types of Magecraft.]

["Gift of the Red Dragon+" activated: Artoria's Mana flows rapidly through your body, greatly enhancing your resistance to Magecraft and restoring your ability to sense Magecraft.]

["Excalibur Galatine: Sword of Revolving Victory++" activated: The sun's blessing envelops you, allowing you to resist the curse from the one you love.]

["Battle Continuation" activated: You survive the curse but remain gravely wounded.]

[You fall into a coma, the duration of which is unknown.]

The army of Camelot halted its advance.

It wasn't because they encountered a formidable enemy, nor due to any catastrophic event.

It was a decision made by the will of King Arthur.

"Until Sir Ian wakes up, all military actions are forbidden!"

The young king, wielding the Sword of Promised Victory, issued this command to all knights under her banner.

No one questioned this order.

Ian was King Arthur's shadow, and no king could ignore their own shadow.

The knights sincerely hoped their formidable comrade would awaken and once again wield the Sword of Revolving Victory to lead with strength equal to that of their king.

This was the shared aspiration within each of them for the light of victory.

But what they didn't know—

Was the immense pressure weighing on the girl bearing the title of "king."

The moment she crossed the curtain into the tent, her icy demeanor completely shattered.

The face that was usually stoic now bore a sorrowful expression, soon followed by tears.

Clear droplets gathered at the corners of her eyes, forming tiny pools before cascading down like scattered raindrops.

An endless pain blossomed into wet, sorrowful flowers in this fleeting moment.

Her voice, filled with regret, echoed within her heart:

"If only I hadn't selfishly brought him to the lake."

"If only I hadn't woken up earlier because I missed him so much."

"If only I hadn't called him to my side."

Countless regrets born from her own misguided choices etched themselves like sparkling crystals deep into her heart.

This was something she would never be able to forget for the rest of her life.

Days and nights passed in torment.

The girl removed the armor and cloak of the king, baring her fragile self to remain by his side.

She waited.

Waited for that familiar voice to call her name.

No matter the shame she might endure, it didn't matter.

She only prayed to hear his voice once more.

["Maiden's Prayer" achieved: Artoria's deepest feelings have become a thread connecting to you through sound.]

[You hear her call.]

[You refuse to surrender your life to the divine.]

[This decision seems to have brought you some trouble.]

["Curse of the Princess++" upgraded to "Curse of the Princess+++": You feel your life entering a countdown, though it appears to be far off.]

[You have awakened.]

[You see Artoria by your side.]

Ian opened his eyes—how much time had passed since the last time he did so was unknown.

The first image that came into view was Artoria lying beside him.

To be precise, "sleeping" might not be the right term to describe her.

"Half-asleep, half-awake" would be more accurate.

Her long, radiant blonde hair was hurriedly tied up, resulting in an unkempt mess.

Her snow-white body leaned against the edge of the bed, her chest softly pressed together, forming the shape of a heart.

Even in such a vulnerable and disheveled state, she held his hand tightly, as if fearing she wouldn't sense the moment he awoke.

Seeing Artoria in this condition, Ian felt his heart churn, as if it were being shattered all over again.

"Artoria," Ian softly called her name.

The girl slowly opened her eyes.

Dazed.

Hesitant.

Astonished.

Reassured.

"Sir Ian, you're awake!"

As she exclaimed these words, she nearly threw herself into his arms.

"Ah...!"

Ian took a sharp breath from the pain.

"Artoria, could you be a little gentler?"

"This... hurts a bit."

"Ah!"

Artoria quickly pulled back her hands.

"I'm sorry, Sir Ian!"

"There's no need to be so formal."

"..."

"..."

The atmosphere suddenly turned ambiguous.

Bit by bit, the girl moved closer, eventually tilting her head up to place a kiss on his lips.

Ian didn't reject this heartfelt gesture.

His fingers gently caressed her flushed cheeks, and his lips responded with tender meaning.

Time seemed to pause.

Eventually, Ian pulled away, leaving Artoria panting softly, her face a deep crimson.

"Sir Ian..."

Artoria wrapped her arms around the waist of the man before her.

"I thought I would never see you again."

"..."

Ian gently stroked her delicate back.

"At first, it seemed I might not have returned."

"But, Artoria—"

"I heard your voice calling me."

"My voice?" Artoria looked surprised.

"Yes." Ian nodded.

"You kept calling me, asking me not to leave, didn't you?"

"Yes."

Artoria nodded without hesitation, though she seemed somewhat astonished.

"Sir Ian... you truly heard it?"

"I did." The man's expression was filled with emotion.

"You might even call it a kind of 'miracle.'"

"Really?"

Artoria rested her cheek against Ian's chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Then I must be very fortunate."

"..."

Fortunate?

Ian found the word entirely unfitting for Artoria.

Her fate had been preordained.

Her life controlled by Uther and Merlin.

Her emotions stripped away when she pulled the sword.

And then there was the misfortune of encountering someone like him.

If this could be called fortune, then there must be no one in the world deserving of the word "misfortune."

This was never the life she deserved.

"Sir Ian? Sir Ian?!"

Artoria waved her hand in front of him several times, pulling his attention back.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Ian replied with a soft smile.

"Just a little groggy after waking up."

"I see."

Artoria nodded, her expression thoughtful for a moment.

But soon, she remembered what had infuriated her.

"Speaking of which, who was that assassin?"

"To dare do something like this!"

"I absolutely won't forgive him!"

Though small in stature and speaking with a relatively soft voice, Artoria exuded an overwhelming aura of resolve.

The sword of a king, even when wielded for vengeance, lost none of its sharpness.

However, Ian fell silent in the face of her anger.

After a moment, he finally spoke:

"Artoria."

"Sir Ian, what is it?"

"I want to ask you for something."

"What is it?"

"Well—" Ian took her small hands in his, gazing at her with utmost sincerity.

"If possible, please let this go, okay?"

Ian wasn't the kind of person who easily forgave and forgot.

Normally, being stabbed like this would never have been something he could brush off.

But this time, the issue lay with the person who had attacked him.

Ian knew the culprit was Agravain—it could only have been him. The unique blend of an assassin's style with a knight's precision in handling a dagger was unmistakable. This was just the first link in a chain of deductions.

The dagger-wielder was undoubtedly Agravain.

But placing all the blame on him would be a grave mistake.

"If Britannia's survival can be ensured, then no path is too unimportant."

This was a belief Ian had come to understand through conversations with Agravain about his unwavering convictions.

This quiet knight thought far more deeply than most.

For this reason—

There was no way Agravain would act on his own will to assassinate Arthur, the proud and commanding symbol of Camelot.

The only person capable of orchestrating such an act was his mother, Morgan.

Thus—

Artoria absolutely could not pursue this matter further.

If she did, the final person implicated would undoubtedly be Morgan.

Ian couldn't let that happen.

"..."

Artoria fell silent.

She looked at him, sensing an inexplicable unease in her heart.

"Sir Ian, can you tell me why you want this?"

"Because I don't want the knights wasting their time on this."

Ian met her gaze.

"We have far greater enemies to face, don't we?"

It wasn't exactly a lie.

But as an explanation, it felt weak and unconvincing.

Artoria gazed at the man before her, her lips parting slightly as if to speak again.

"Sir Ian, may I ask you one more question?"

"Of course."

"Then—"

She recalled a fleeting moment, an image her body had unconsciously committed to memory during a lapse in vigilance.

The dagger's true target hadn't been Ian.

It had been her.

The Dragon King's body could sense the resentment woven into the blade.

However—

Even if the dagger had struck her, it likely wouldn't have caused much harm.

After all, she didn't just carry the Sword of Promised Victory and Sword of Revolving Victory from the lake.

In reality, she possessed something more—Avalon, the sheath of the holy sword.

The latent power within Avalon was more than enough to counteract a curse of that level.

This assassination had been destined to fail from the start.

The condition was simple: the dagger's curse could only succeed if its target was Arthur in name and essence.

So then—

She decided to ask the question that mattered most.

"Sir Ian, why did you shield me from that dagger?"

She looked at the man before her, her gaze steady and searching.

"…"

Ian remained silent for a moment before responding.

"Because you are important."

"And so—"

"I thought I had to protect you from that strike."

"Even if it cost me my life, I wouldn't regret it."

Ian's words, however, were not entirely truthful.

Artoria was indeed important.

But her significance to him extended beyond personal attachment.

Everything he sought to accomplish was inextricably linked to her—the one bearing the title of King.

Yet—

Did he truly believe this in his heart?

Or were these merely words he'd crafted to answer her question?

Ian found himself unable to discern the truth.

But for Artoria, it was enough to create an illusion that felt real.

So, I truly matter to him.

But what has my title as King brought to him?

It's only inflicted wounds that seem impossible to heal.

Then, at the end of the war, a choice will have to be made.

The girl nestled into the arms of the man she loved, silently resolving to make that decision when the time came.