A Villainess pulled out the Sword instead of the Hero.

 

Keeping still, he reached out with his remaining left hand to cover Morgana’s eyes.

 “So don’t look.” 

Tilting her head, Morgana avoided his hand and stood up.

 “I have some herbs, I’ll go get them.” 

Luckily for him, he had some herbs from Duke Fay that he could use to heal the wound.

 

I hadn’t realized how useful some of the things I’d packed as extras would be.

 

Herbs alone would not cure it, but I would use my powers to heal it to a certain point.

 

‘After all, he was injured defending my manor, and I have too much of a conscience to ignore it.’ 

 

Even Percival wasn’t looking for it.

 

Grabbing a few familiar vials of herbs and a cloth from the room’s large closet, Morgana strode back to the reception room.

 

When she burst through the door with a confident bang, he quickly clenched his hands to hide them.

 “I’ve seen it all, what’s the point of hiding it, open your hands, open them!” 

With that, she set the bottle roughly on the table, and he slipped his hands underneath to hide them.

 

Morgana squinted at him, and he grinned, holding out his hand.

 

The ground herbs were placed on top and wrapped in a cloth, his hand wincing at each touch. His knuckles were callused and rough.

 “Confucius, you didn’t look like it, but you were very scary.” “Scary’? I thought I was being careful.” “Why hide your injuries? You’re a grown man, you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

His hand flinched again. It was hurting.

 

Tightly wrapped in a cloth, Morgana’s power slipped out, and he fumbled with his hand, trying not to show it.

 “You’re supposed to be a swordsman, and you left your sword behind!” “…” “Where did the thief come from, Avalon?” “…” “Or did you have something to hide?” 

After the frantic wrapping, one of his hands was curled up in the cloth so tightly that he couldn’t see it.

 

Oh well, if he’s uncomfortable, he could unravel it himself. It’s better than hiding it with gloves, right?

 

For some reason, his head dropped lower with every word he spoke, until finally, he sank back and didn’t answer.

 “What’s wrong, does it hurt a lot?” “My heart, a little…” “Are you hurt there too? Let me see.” 

As I grabbed his collar and lifted it to unfold it, he looked up.

 

Our eyes locked, our breaths just inches from each other.

 “I’d be happy to show it to you if you’d like, but is the lady ready?” “Uh, ready for what?” 

Oh, my voice trembled.

 

At first, I grabbed his collar without thinking, and then I wondered if he was joking.

 “I’ve never taken my clothes off in front of anyone before.” 

The smile was gone from his face, and his expression was cold. His gaze was steady and penetrating, unflinching.

 

It was strange, like he wasn’t the same person he’d been smiling and trying to keep things light.

 

Kellive asked in a low voice, barely above a whisper.

 “Does it matter?” 

His breath brushed against her skin, and for some reason, it tickled the hairs on her back. He gripped Morgana’s wrist lightly in his large hand where she held his shirt collar.

 “Just leave it, it’s nothing to die for.” 

Thirty-two brothers. The twenty-first prince among them.

 

The late King Argan, his father, had seen children as tools to draw the sword.

 

He would have children, and if they failed to pull the sword, he would have another, and another, and another.

 

He didn’t care if they were from a noble family or a commoner on the street.

 

All he needed was the royalty of Avalon to draw the sword. That was all he cared about.

 

The countless concubines were merely there to give birth to objects for him to draw the sword on, and to be locked away somewhere in the vast palace.

 

His mother hated everything about Avalon.

 

Every day, as young Kellive remembers, she blamed everything that was falling apart on the oracle that would one day rise.

 “Kellive, if only you had pulled that sword.” “Mother.” “I have given birth to a child whose father is incompetent enough to be a vassal of Britain.” 

The realization that Avalon had no future was felt by all.

 

Children who didn’t pull the sword were abandoned in the royal palace. But as royalty, they were sure to be purged in the event of war with Britain.

 

The thirty-two brothers and nobles began to split.

 

The Loyalists, who would defend Avalon with their lives and fortunes.

 

The Royalists, would fight to the death and defend Avalon.

 

And the centrists, who would live as one, neither here nor there, and accept the consequences as they came.

 

Each side had to take the throne to get what they wanted, and in the process, death became trivialized and ridiculed.

 “I hear that the 21st Prince has died this time.” “Princess Guinevere was born, so it’s probably time for the House to favor the transfer faction.” 

In the halls, it was commonplace for anyone, maid or noble, to die.

 

Kellive, for his part, had to deal with poisoning and assassins on a daily basis.

 

Every day in the palace was a battle to survive.

 

At some point, he learned to recognize poison, and a life of being on the lookout and trusting no one became the norm.

 

Just because someone smiled at him yesterday doesn’t mean the person he’s facing tomorrow would do the same.

 

If he wanted to live, he had to show his strength.

 

Strength to face the Oracle, strength to win.

 

The first brother he killed to save his life was a centrist, but his mother was a loyalist, and he had become their focal point.

 

Intentionally or otherwise, all thirty-two of his brothers were.

 

On his deathbed, he smiled at Kellive.

 “Now you can be free.” “…I’m sorry, brother.” “No, kill him. If Avalon is turned to dust because of my death in the middle of nowhere, then it’s a life well lived.” “…” “You must not die, but keep it, for it was not the home of your birth, of your growth, of your joys and sorrows, to be torn down like this.” 

There was no mourning or sorrow as he watched his brother close his eyes in peace, but a sense of desolation washed over him.

 

‘How can such an oracle foretell the future of a nation?’

 

One oracle, and all lives fall apart.

 

If there was such a god, Kellive chose not to believe. He didn’t want to believe. He wanted to prove himself right.

 

Avalon would survive.

 

He would make it so, and he would keep it so.

 

After slaying all thirty-two of his brothers, the last was his father, Argan.

 

To inherit the throne, he must take over Tyrving, the magic sword that had been passed down for generations.

 

At dawn, I visited Argan in his bedroom. He offered no resistance, as if he had foreseen this day.

 

The Tyrving was taken from him too easily.

 

As I aimed for his throat with the sword that had put him on the throne, Argan laughed.

 “Haha, hahaha. Finally, you’ll be free of that hell.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve been seeing the Duke of Fay a lot lately, and must have heard things.” 

If it was a rumor about the royalist Duke Frederick Le Fay, he knew it.

 

That his two daughters were in quite a bit of trouble for their lack of power.

 

But Argan smiled at him, his eyes looking even bluer in the moonlight.

 

Somehow, it was almost regretful.

 “As long as you have Tyrving, Avalon is doomed to fall anyway.” 

The precise nature of the Tyrving’s purpose was such a taboo that, even within the royal family, no information was allowed to be exchanged except amongst enemies.

 

Kellive was neither an enemy nor a crown prince, so he was told nothing.

 

‘So it’s not just a magic sword.’

 

I’ve heard it’s the reason Avalon has become a great power.

 

All he knew was that the royalty had been given their powers because they could wield them.

 

As he pushed the Tyrving closer to Argan’s throat, blood trickled down his neck like incontinence.

 

Closing his eyes, Argan chanted like he was dreaming.

 “A magic sword must have human blood in its wielder’s hand, even if it is the blood of the master.” “Today it will be your blood.” “Eventually, it will gnaw away at its owner’s mind. Such is the price of the sword, poor Kellive. Now that the Fairy of the Lake has abandoned us, I see the end of Avalon.” “What do you mean?” 

Tyrving glowed red, more powerful than ever, in honor of his new master.

 

My mind pinged like it was reacting to blood at the echoing, throbbing sound.

 

At the same time, his slowly diminishing mood soon turned into an uncontrollable discomfort.

 

It felt like the only way to get rid of it was to cut him down now.