After parting with Prince Reivan, Mordred did not return to the safe house.

Instead, she returned to the area right at the edge of what was predicted to be Aguru's perception range. It was a nifty thing, how she figured it out. An Ascendant's perception wasn't like a veil or a net cast across a wide area—it was like an enormous ghostly hand covering part of the world. Other ghostly hands could cover the same thing, but each hand would inevitably feel the others.

The fact that Mordred did not feel any hands she didn't know meant that she wasn't in Aguru's range or the Simian wasn't reaching out at the moment. And if she was in range, she could quite easily make sure that she wasn't detected using her unique gift.

'Hm. Should I kill it, after all?'

Unbeknownst to the prince, she had orders to discern whether to slay the hidden sage of Arkhan after the deal was done. It pleased her that High Command—meaning the current king advised by the Knight Commander and a host of numerous experienced people—thought highly enough of her to believe she could complete the task without much trouble. After all, a battle between beings of their caliber rarely went unnoticed. Ascendants did not go quietly into the night, and the ape-thing was particularly formidable according to Prince Reivan's very useful gift and her own discernment.

No matter how much of a pacifist Aguru apparently was, power was power. Even when unskilfully utilized, a force that could shatter mountains could, well, shatter mountains.

'I always get stuck with the worst jobs.'

Mordred chuckled as she stood still in the middle of the forest, even the wildest of animals giving her a wide berth. No matter how much she complained, she knew who she truly was. She wouldn't have become as strong as she was if she didn't like the work. Having no free time was a boon to her, though not many people in the world would understand.

If she wanted to have an ordinary life, she wouldn't have signed up as a squire and taken her oaths. She would have become a farmer like her old man—or a harvester, as recent generations called it. And while she didn't have some grand reason to fight for her nation, some kind of heroic origin story like so many of her fellows in the Twelve Helms had, Mordred had been born and raised on that soil just like most of them.

On a tiny hut, close to the Wolf's Jaw and far away from the big cities, her farmer of a father raised her on his own when her mother died giving birth to her. At a time when the Church of Sormon was yet to truly take root, such occurrences were relatively common. It was a quiet and peaceful childhood where she ate until she was full and went to a small mountain school like the rest of the kids who lived in mountain huts. And as soon as she could, she'd signed up as a squire so she could be a big strong knight that could buy a nice house for her old man—minus the "big" part, since she'd always been a runt.

In that tiny little corner of the world, she'd been born and raised. That was where the mother she loved but never met was buried. It was also where her father who died from old age rested too. And impudent though it may be, she'd like it if she was laid to rest there too, if they ever found enough bits and pieces of her to bury. As she understood it though, Ascendants didn't really leave behind much of a body when they died, being creatures mostly composed of energy and whatnot.

Preferably, of course, she'd like to live forever. Hey, maybe if it was in the cards, she'd become a Transcendent too. Unlikely, but a girl could dream. Mordred lived under the assumption that her life would end with a blade or something similar. Living so closely with violence tended to make people think that, she assumed. Luckily, she was quite proficient with the use of violence, so she'd always ended up on the surviving side.

But even with that experience and proficiency, she still didn't want to fight whatever that monkey-thing was. Her gift ensured that she would be the first to strike. And because of it, she had honed the lethality and absoluteness of her ambushes—a very un-knightly way of fighting but the crown never complained as long as she delivered the heads they wanted.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean everybody died from the first exchange. Mordred was a bit uneasy about whether Aguru was one of those cases. Her instincts told her that he was, and it had rarely, if ever, been wrong.

'Good thing I'm not alone, then.'

A familiar presence popped up in the edge of her perception and she made sure that he could feel her reach.

Moments later, a spatial rift opened up close to her, and Galahad, a colleague of hers, stepped out. He was as handsome as usual, like all those of the Mercer bloodline were, and it really made her want to try sitting on his face. Just for a bit. Sadly, past attempts had already proven that she'd have more luck trying to fuck a tree. What infuriated her the most was how she still hadn't figured out what team the knight swung for, and at this point, she was beginning to think that he didn't swing for any team at all.

It would have been fine if he rejected her for looking like a pre-pubescent girl—she could accept that—but the man didn't seem to like anyone. And it bothered her quite a bit because what twisted god gave the man such divine looks and decided "Hm, yes, you're not going to be making any children. Ever."...? To top it all off, the man was such a stickler for rules and protocol that Mordred really wanted him to just loosen up a little.

"Dame Mordred." Galahad greeted him formally and with a crisp salute even though they'd fought together back to back on countless occasions, making her feel as if she was the only one who thought they had a bond between them. "Well met."

"Oh, fuck off, Galahad." Mordred crossed her arms. "Where have you been, anyway? You completely missed the Second Prince who we were supposed to be corresponding with. Terrific job, on your part, by the way."

Galahad nodded and didn't even comment on her rough language. "I saw him. After you left. Though I didn't waste his time with a greeting. There will be other opportunities."

"Whatever."

"And so? What is your judgment on the sage of the forest?"

Mordred raised a brow. "Is that what we're calling that monkey-thing now?"

"A respectable creature needs to be referred to in a respectable manner."

"And we're going to kill that respectable creature, y'know? Possibly, that is."

Galahad nodded as if it was a matter of course. "I am aware. But even then, we can't just call him, as you put it, the monkey-thing."

Mordred rolled her eyes. To her, such measures of respect hardly mattered to the creature in question once they became a mere corpse. Though perhaps it was exactly that kind of thinking that led her to develop the technique on how to create puppets out of cadavers. "You've been observing him too, presumably. What is your opinion?"

"I was not given jurisdiction on this. The trigger is in your hands. I am here for support."

"Humor me."

Galahad hesitated for a few moments before, surprisingly, sharing his thoughts on the matter. "I do not believe combat to be wise."

'Oh? Well, would you look at that...'

It wasn't every day that this colleague of hers felt so cooperative outside of official duties. That inevitably raised her mood a little, enough to let a smile grace her lips. "And why is that?"

"Because that's how it feels."

"I know right? I thought the same thing."

Both nodded and left it at that. It was a lackluster explanation for the vast majority of the world, but it made enough sense to knights who'd lived as long as they had. They practically breathed combat by the time they swore their eternal oaths. Their instincts were a weapon unto itself.

Galahad gestured toward her. "You were the one who presumably accompanied His Royal Highness, the Second Prince Reivan, to get a closer look. What is your opinion on his nature?"

"Oh?" Mordred impishly grinned, sensing an opportunity to raise his hackles. "Is that doubt toward the royal family I hear? The information that the sage-thing being a pacifist came from Prince Reivan, y'know?"

"Fool. One does not doubt the crown." Galahad, as she'd expected, immediately blistered. Showing the first true bit of emotion in a while. "I was merely asking what you thought."

"Sure, sure. I believe you, Galahad."

There was a tense silence before the male knight sighed. "Well? What are your thoughts? Speak quickly."

Mordred smiled, glad she'd teased out some semblance of humanity from the man who seemed to always have a stick up their asshole. "There wasn’t much to go off of, but he didn't strike me as particularly malicious."

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“I see…” He crossed his arms and nodded. “Then that’s that. We don’t need to kill him. According to the outline of our orders, we’re to let him Transcend if possible and see where that goes. Whether he lives quietly or comes into conflict with the Tower, both are to our advantage.”

She frowned with a tilt of her head. “That’s it? You’re just going to trust my judgment on this?”

Though knights generally had ridiculously sharp intuition when it came to combat and staying out of danger, that sixth sense didn’t seem to apply too deeply to other things. Otherwise, Mordred would have used it to lead the way toward a decently good-looking man of fine moral compass with a good personality and a stomach for her childish appearance. And then she would have done everything in her power to get that man to marry her so she could finally stop being a spinster.

Sadly, that was not the case. Fighting was all it was good for. Most of the time, anyway. It did tell her whether someone was a pedophile, however. Which was certainly useful, but not what she needed.

Galahad nodded as if it was a matter of course. “Dame Mordred the Insidious says so. How could I not trust her words? You are the expert on all things… unsavory.”

Mordred froze before clenching her fist. It was a good thing her oaths prevented her from going after fellow knights because she may have opened up a spot on the Twelve Helms otherwise.

Being part of such a group was bad enough, but then she went and got called The Insidious of all things. Who the hell gave her such a name anyway? It made her sound like some demon. What really annoyed her was how the others had such grand titles.

Like Lancelot the Everpresent.

Or Bedivere the Unbroken.

Lamorak the Mistweaver and Percival the Abyss had nice monikers too. Heck, the prick right next to her had a good title too; Galahad the Unforgiving, he was called, because he would obliterate all who trespassed against the kingdom’s interests.

Damn her for feeling so, but she wanted a different one. Something that made her seem more amiable or cute. Sormon save her soul, maybe it’d help her find a man or a woman who wasn’t a degenerate pervert to marry.

As it turned out, nobody ever got to pick their own nicknames, and before she knew it, the name had stuck while she was away, deep behind enemy lines and slowly whittling down imperial Ascendants like a festering disease—which was precisely what got her such a villainous name in the first place. The fact that it fit her to a tee did nothing to alleviate her irritation. She’d threaten everyone to stop calling her that if she had the time and if the literal Sword Star wasn’t one of the people who used it.

Well, the old man only ever said it with that familiar affection that old men had, so she could kind of deal with that. He was allowed, and not just because he was too far up the heavens for her to threaten.

Mordred the Insidious.

By Sormon’s fluffy pillow, if that wasn’t a big scary villain’s name, nothing was. Big wasn’t an adjective she was normally associated with though. She wasn’t a villain either. Not to the kingdom, at least, but most definitely so for everyone else. And fine, she’d admit that she had a bit of a rough personality too. It was deeply entertaining to tease friends to see their reactions. Of course, seeing her enemies break down in fear from the paranoia of never knowing when she would see fit to reap their lives was also deeply satisfying.

‘Agh, fine. It fits so well. I deserve it. I’ll admit that my personality isn’t the best!’

Damn it all to the hells, though. If she could.

When she found out who decided it was a good idea to call twelve randos the Twelve Helms, there were going to be words. Maybe she wouldn’t kill them, but she’d shave their head or steal every left sock they had. That’d show them what she thought of their so-called bright ideas.

Bastard hid so well though. But she’d find them eventually. She had faith in destiny.

“So that’s that?” Mordred wearily gestured in Aguru’s direction. “We just leave him?”

“As I’ve said, you hold the trigger, Dame Mordred.” Galahad clasped his hands behind his back and looked at her with serene calm. “Dangerous though it will be, I will complete the trials bestowed upon me. Or die trying. I’ve lived a good life and I won’t stop until someone stops me. Permanently.”

“You’re not helping…” Mordred rolled her eyes and decided to ignore the hopeless loyalist, falling into her own thoughts.

The fate of Aizen was potentially in her hands with this decision, as taking Aguru out after he rose to the next stage of existence would be significantly harder or even outright impossible without the fatal loss of Aizen’s one and only Transcendent.

Now was, perhaps, the last chance.

‘What do I do here…?’

Just like all little girls and boys in Aizen, Mordred was raised on stories of knights and heroes fighting against monsters of all kinds.

Growing up meant realizing that the true monsters were on their side. While the stereotypical ones were locked away somewhere, chained to a wall, and harvested for everything they were.

Regularly, at that. Their intrinsic regeneration and hardy nature were a curse, their meat feeding the majority of the kingdom’s population for millennia.

Mordred would know, because her father had been a farmer—a profession that served a very different purpose in Aizen compared to the rest of the world. For in the kingdom, one did not farm just the soil, but whatever once lived in it.

Who could blame them? Monster meat tasted amazing. Better than chicken, pork, or beef. And a hell of a lot cheaper too. Her father was always sent back home with a few kilos worth of meat every day as a job perk, which was a huge help since they were on the impoverished end of society. She got sent to a pretty good school because of the money her Pa saved up from their meals being taken care of. They even got to eat some of the good stuff once in a while, like Grade-S dragon meat, something they would have never gotten to afford even if they sold everything they owned ten times over.

And so, truthfully, she looked at Aguru like a monster. An intelligent one, but still a monster. Something to be harvested, but not feared. Never feared.

Her father had always talked about being careful around monsters, but the man had never talked of dread. And that had bled onto the daughter who devoured the words of her hero, a man who raised her on grit and love. As such, she would be careful. It was a farmer’s greatest shame for mere livestock to get the better of them. Today was not the day she would shame her father’s memory.

Mordred pondered, combining her intuition, discernment, experience, logic, and everything else she could. It was only for a few minutes, a long time of thinking for an Ascendant, but Galahad waited patiently all the same.

Eventually, she came to a conclusion and turned to her colleague with a solemn gaze.

“We leave him.”

Galahad nodded, accepting it without question. “Understood.”

Mordred tilted her head. “C’mon. At least ask me why.”

“I don’t need to. As I’ve said, the decision was handed over to you from the start, Dame Mordred.”

“I had this whole bit thought up, y’know? About how he could have taken what he wanted and not given Prince Reivan anything as payment. Or how his humane mannerisms showed a lack of trickery and whatnot. Go on, ask.”

“No need.”

Galahad, in a surprising turn of events, smiled at her as he ripped open a hole in reality.

“I trust you. I always have.”

Mordred’s brows rose but before she could respond, he’d already stepped through the rift. And she was left there, thinking about how annoying his face was. That a simple smile could send her heart into a frenzy. Or words of implied camaraderie could fill her with so much joy. It wasn't fair, how easy he had it.

Really, who the hell had any right to be that handsome? One of these days, she was going to sit on that man’s face and he was going to admit that he liked it.

Not today, it seemed. For she wasn’t as great at rending space as the Everpresent or his biggest admirer, Galahad the Unforgiving.

But one of these days, she would get her dues.

‘Now that this entire affair is dealt with…’

Mordred recalled the instructions Princess Jiji gave her. Nothing too complicated. Just a few foreign politicians who apparently tried to step on Aizen's toes these past few months.

Though the princess had phrased it nicely—requests, she called them—Mordred didn’t see them as such; they were orders and she knew it. The Insidious Knight knew her place on the hierarchy and she was nice and cozy in it. She didn't want to do something stupid like leave or try to climb higher.

Because if shit ever hit the wheel, the royal family was probably going to eat all the blame. Which struck her as terribly unjust, because the knights they tasked duties with were only human, and as such were fallible. It only took one fuck up to, well, fuck up everything. All the people involved were to blame, not just the royal family.

But that was simply how society worked. Authority was a boon and a chain. Unfair though it was, one couldn't deny the fact that people placed their expectations on their rulers and were disappointed when those expectations weren't met. Mordred wanted no part of that. Life was easier and simpler when the only thing she’d ever get blamed for was her personal failings—and she was competent enough not to have those on a regular basis.

She’d toil away like the good little soldier that she was because she liked being one. And she was damned good at it too.

In any case, it seemed the adopted princess wanted Mordred to kill some people. Quite understandable. Mordred wanted to kill a lot of people too. Sadly, a number of them were fellow knights—and of course, she was kidding.

Jokes aside, she just really wanted the freedom to beat them up a little for all the lip they gave her about her height and whatnot. They all refused her sparring requests though, the craven whelps.

‘I’m free to choose how they die. I just need to make sure it’s never linked to us. So it has to look like an accident or the work of someone else…’

In typical royal fashion, she was given decision-making power in her unofficial mission—which, she realized, should probably be communicated to the king and officialized, just in case. There apparently wasn’t any beef between the royals of this generation either, but it never hurt to be careful not to get caught up in highborn games.

Not that those were ever prevalent in Aizen. But years in Argonia were enough to convince her she wanted no part in that kind of mess. She preferred her messes to be of the red and liquidy kind, and of course, at the expense of her enemies.

‘Vicious little thing, that princess. I like her too.’

Truly, the Aizenwald royal family could not disappoint. They always popped out whatever the era needed, one way or the other—in this case, they adopted. Mordred was only 400 years old, nothing compared to the true old guard. But even if she initially took up her oaths for monetary reasons, she’d eventually grown convinced that the crown and its brood were meant to be there. And she’d fight however many battles she had to keep it that way.

‘Well, back to work, then.’

Mordred grinned, happy to have a job worth doing.