Arthur's vial had shattered in his pocket, and in an instant his body regained its strength.
The caravan moved slowly through the darkness.
They had not noticed Asmodeus.
He held his breath.
If he revealed himself, it would mean his end.
In this world, only the Dark Sword Bloodline was born with purple hair and purple eyes.
It was both a curse and the seal of absolute power.
That seal was never meant to be released, but Asmodeus was not yet aware of what it truly meant.
He was the last surviving heir of that ancient lineage.
Or perhaps… he was not.
Trusting Arthur's words, he had set out on his journey.
But along the way, he realized a bitter truth:
He had no money.
Arthur had told him that in this world, money meant everything.
If he wanted to survive, he would have to earn it.
As he drew closer to the city, the pressure in the air grew heavier.
A lone mage stepped into his path.
This mage had not appeared by coincidence—he had sensed the power of Excalibur.
"Foolish boy," the mage said coldly.
"Do you truly think someone dressed like that would be allowed to live in this city?
A remnant of Dark Blood…"
Asmodeus's hand instinctively moved toward his sword.
The mage's gaze sharpened.
"These eyes and this hair are unforgettable," he said.
"Centuries ago, the Church tried to silence a truth forever.
But your blood did not allow it."
Asmodeus frowned.
"What are you talking about?"
"I am saying this," the mage replied.
"If you are alive today, it is not by fate alone."
The mage extended his hand.
In his palm lay a magical artifact that could alter hair and eye color.
Beside it, he placed a small pouch of coins.
"Why are you helping me?" Asmodeus asked.
The mage answered calmly, "Because you are Arthur's legacy."
Arthur knew that if someone sensed Excalibur's power, they would appear.
"This city will not accept you as you are," the mage said.
"For now, remain unseen."
"What is your name?" Asmodeus asked.
"Merlin," the mage replied.
Asmodeus recognized the name.
Arthur had spoken of him—the great mage.
"If one day you seek the truth," Merlin continued,
"many in Britannia know where to find me."
Asmodeus nodded and continued on his way.
Now he had golden hair and blue eyes.
He looked like a completely different person.
He barely recognized himself.
---
As he continued on the road, the pain in his body still had not faded.
He had not rested properly for days.
At the edge of a foggy valley, he saw a flickering lantern light.
An inn.
"One night…" he thought.
"I just need one night of rest."
From the outside, the inn looked old but warm.
The wooden door creaked as it opened.
Inside, there was dim light, the heavy smell of meat, and an oppressive silence.
The weapons hanging on the walls were rusted.
A few travelers sat at the tables, but none of them spoke.
It made Asmodeus uneasy.
Behind the counter stood a large, bald man.
His smile was artificial.
"Welcome, traveler," he said.
"The night is long… and the roads are dangerous."
"Food and a room," Asmodeus said shortly.
"For one night."
The man's eyes scanned Asmodeus's face.
Golden hair. Blue eyes.
An ordinary traveler.
"We take payment in advance," the man said.
Asmodeus pulled out his pouch and placed a few coins Merlin had given him on the table.
The man's smile changed in that instant.
A brief… greedy glint.
"We also have food," he said.
"A special meat stew."
Asmodeus nodded.
"Bring it."
---
When the food arrived, the smell was heavy.
There was a sense of rot, barely masked by spices.
Asmodeus lifted his spoon…
and stopped.
His instincts screamed.
Something was wrong.
At that moment, the inn's door closed.
The sound of a bolt sliding into place echoed.
Silence.
Then…
drip
drip
drip
A liquid fell from the ceiling.
Asmodeus looked up.
Dark red.
Blood.
A scream echoed—but it was very short.
The "traveler" at the next table suddenly jumped to his feet.
His cloak fell away.
A dagger gleamed beneath it.
"Now!" someone shouted.
Everything happened at once.
The rusted weapons were taken down from the walls.
Beneath priestly robes, armor was revealed.
This was not an inn…
It was a slaughterhouse.
Asmodeus kicked his chair away and leapt back.
He slit the throat of the first attacker in a single motion.
Blood splattered across the floor.
"Damn it!" the innkeeper shouted.
"This one's fighting back!"
Asmodeus drew Excalibur.
The sword shone in the dim light.
Everyone inside the inn froze.
"That… that sword—" someone stammered.
But it was already too late.
Asmodeus moved.
Like a shadow.
One man's arm flew through the air.
Another's chest was split open.
The wooden floor was drenched in blood.
Someone tried to cast a spell—
Asmodeus's blade passed through his forehead.
The last remaining innkeeper fell to his knees.
"Stop!" he begged.
"We only… only did it for money—"
Asmodeus looked into his eyes.
Cold.
Empty.
"How many people did you kill?" he asked.
The man could not answer.
Asmodeus ended it with a single strike.
---
The inn fell silent.
Asmodeus stood there, breathing heavily.
His hand trembled.
He moved to the back room.
There…
Chained corpses.
Stripped travelers.
Some were still warm.
He closed his eyes.
"This world is truly rotten…" he whispered.
He set the inn on fire.
As the flames rose, he turned away.
He had only wanted one night of rest.
But in this world…
Weakness meant death.
And Asmodeus would never forget that.
---
At last, he reached Camelot, but a bad feeling gnawed at him.
When he fully arrived at the city's borders, his heart sank.
This was not the Camelot Arthur had described.
The city had become a puppet of the Church.
Church towers dominated the skyline.
Priests roamed the streets like guards.
The oppressive presence of holy power filled Asmodeus with disgust.
When he arrived at the address Arthur had given him, only a ruined structure stood there.
"What happened to this place—"
BAM!
A cold blade stopped just a centimeter from his throat.
"Who are you, boy?" a harsh voice roared.
"Do you not know that no one may enter this house?"
When Asmodeus had grown cold on the road, he had taken a white coat from somewhere;
on it was the emblem of the Church.
"Damn dogs of the Church!"
"From the Church—"
Lancelot lunged forward.
Asmodeus leapt back and drew Excalibur.
The sword tore through the night with holy light.
At that moment, fate changed course.
The man's gaze locked onto the sword.
This man was Lancelot.
The most honorable blade of the Round Table.
A warrior whose strength came neither from ambition nor jealousy.
But Camelot was no longer the Camelot it once was.
"Drop the sword," Lancelot said harshly.
"Anyone who comes here in the name of the Church is an enemy."
Asmodeus could not answer.
The words would not leave his mouth.
He only took a defensive stance.
Lancelot hesitated—
but only for a breath.
Duty came before thought.
He charged.
Steel clashed against steel.
But Asmodeus's body was still weak.
A momentary opening—
And the blow landed.
The blade pierced Asmodeus's shoulder.
Blood spilled onto the ground.
Lancelot stepped back.
"Enough!" he shouted.
"Who are you?"
Asmodeus breathed in pain.
But he did not avert his gaze.
Arthur's words echoed in his mind.
If you find Lancelot, tell him this.
"If Camelot still speaks of honor," he said, spitting blood,
"it is not decided by slaves of the Church…
but by Arthur's sword."
Those words stopped Lancelot.
Arthur.
The name struck his chest like a spear.
His eyes returned to Excalibur.
The sword…
did not react.
On the contrary, it was calm in Asmodeus's hand.
Lancelot's voice faltered.
"Arthur…" he whispered.
"Is this possible…?"
The truth slowly settled.
This boy was not an invader.
Not a spy.
He was a legacy.
Lancelot knelt.
He placed his sword on the ground.
"Forgive me," he said, bowing his head for the first time.
"My honor was sworn to protect…
but my eyes failed to see the truth."
Asmodeus's legs gave out.
He lost consciousness.
That was enough.
Lancelot caught him, not letting him fall.
The magical artifact on Asmodeus's arm slipped to the ground, revealing his purple hair.
But Lancelot did not care—Arthur had already made his decision.
"You will live," he said firmly.
"This is my debt."
He stood.
Camelot had fallen.
But there was still one place that defied the Church.
The legendary Avalon Academy,
which Lancelot himself served as dean,
built upon a massive ancient tree.
A refuge for scholars, former knights, and free will.
Lancelot carried the last legacy of the kingdom on his shoulders.
And that night,
Merlin's prophecy echoed in his mind:
"When the purple-haired child is born,
the world will reject him.
His blood will be called a curse,
but swords will bow to his will.
If he lives, the order built by priests will collapse.
If he dies, darkness will claim its rule without delay.
His path will not bring peace—
it will start a war.
And this age,
depending on whether he lives or dies,
will either be destroyed
or rewritten."