Dietrich

After underground vaults, long-sealed monsters and weapons that had somehow slipped outside of the very world itself, finding the treasure of the Niebelungs felt almost mundane.

Simple and easy.

Tons, literal tons, of valuables ranging from gold to gemstones to metals he hadn’t even known were considered precious until Mia had started naming them, such as platinum or iridium, had been hurled into the Rhine river and swept away, never to be seen again, by Hagen, murderer of Siegfried.

Murder in general, murder out of greed, murder purely to work out his emotions … stealing from a widow and then causing the treasure to be lost would barely have even registered by comparison if it hadn’t been for the sheer value of the treasure.

Hagen had been a deeply unpleasant person in general, and the only thing Dietrich regretted about the man’s death was how many others had died in the “battle” that had killed him. In fact, if Dietrich had just killed him on the spot, involved himself before things had ever started going terribly wrong, the whole fight at Etzel’s castle might have remained a mere embarrassment and flaunting of the rules of hospitality, rather than the utter disaster it had become.

So as he broke through the thin wall that had formed from a series of dripstones and entered the cavern all the valuables had been swept into, one of the only thoughts in his mind was just how furious that bastard would have been if he’d been aware of it.

These were the kinds of treasures that one could buy and then run a kingdom with. These were the treasures that would finance their fight against the otherworldly monstrous hordes that threatened them.

Not to mention that according to Mia, a lot of the things he’d have dismissed as “useless” were, in fact, vital components of the wonderous technology of the modern day.

“Oh, did you know you actually have a connection to this place?” Dietrich asked after a good fifteen minutes of “learning.” Well, he probably wouldn’t retain much beyond “these things are valuable,” but it had been interesting nevertheless.

“No?” she said, uncertainly.

“There were three swords, forged by a dwarf named Alberich, a smith second only to Wayland. Nagelring, my first magical blade, which I gave to your brother even if he rarely uses it. Eckesachs, my second magical blade, for whom I have not found a suitable bearer for, and finally, a third blade. His finest, one that remained the property of the dwarven kingdom of his birth, the crowning jewel of their treasury.

“Time passed, things happened, and eventually, the dwarves and Siegfried came to blows, leaving him in possession not only of their treasures, but also the blade. When he died, his murderer Hagen took it, only to eventually be executed with it, and the blade went to my mentor, Hildebrand. When he passed on from old age, the blade was stored, never to be retrieved until the modern day. And I gave it to you. Your blade, Balmung.”

Mia smiled slightly and began staring around once again, occasionally glancing down at the arming sword in her belt. She was actually in a position to just leave that lying around wherever she’d last used it since she could instantly teleport it into her hand, and usually did that rather than drawing it directly from its sheath, but she carried it around anyway.

Proper discipline was always nice to see in one’s apprentice.

Though for now, it was time to figure out how to get this treasure out of here.

Thankfully, thanks to one particular occurrence, getting the treasures elsewhere wouldn’t be as much of an issue as it might otherwise have been, though it would still be a pain.

[King of Adventure Lv. 56 -> King of Adventure Lv. 57]

[Skill gained: Artifact Hoarder]

His second Level gained merely from going treasure hunting. And the Skill was a useful one, though after Mia informed him of the modern implications of the term “hoarder,” he wished Skill names weren’t set in stone.

It was a spatial storage ability, which let him store a small amount of whatever he wanted, but also a far, far, larger amount of “artifacts” he found. It was more than enough space to carry all this off, but this hoard had been here for over a thousand years. Stones and soil had settled on them over time, meaning much of what he wished to carry off was at least somewhat “load bearing,” as Mia put it.

Bringing down the roof wouldn’t necessarily be fatal, but even if they survived completely unhurt, being buried would be an issue regardless of the exact circumstances.

Mia’s knowledge of engineering was helpful, true, but there was a wide gulf between that knowledge and the ability to glance at a section of cave and know exactly whether or not and how it would have to be propped up after the treasure was removed.

He’d considered going to look for these particular lost riches before, in his first lifetime, however, he’d never ended up doing so. And now that he’d found it, well, it was little more than a logistical issue, but one they solved. Eventually. And while enough dirt and small rocks cascaded down in the process that they were banged up and utterly filthy by the end, they managed everything without even a single true cave-in.

Just one more treasure to retrieve, then they would be done. For now.

The lance of a dragonslayer.

***

Mia

The more things changed, the more things changed the same. Some things might be different, the circumstances may not be the same, but ultimately, she’d somehow found herself back in the same exact spot, marching through the woods to find a scenic spot to spar.

Of course, ironically, sparring was safer right now despite the fact that they were wielding not just sharp weapons, but magical weapons. The kind that could cut plate armor like tissue paper and fell trees by accident if they weren’t careful with them.

Because when she’d hit Level 20 in her [Legend’s Squire] Class, she’d gained the Capstone [Mentor’s Inheritance], which, in turn, allowed her to copy an attribute of one of her mentor’s magical items, making her sword just as sharp as Mimung.

That was magic for you. And not the kind of magic Tristan was passing onto her using his [Knowledge Trade], which was really cool even though she rarely used it.

No, this was her “magic.” Her sword, her skill with the sword, and the supernatural powers the System had tacked onto that. And she’d never felt more alive than when using it.

So when Dietrich had decided that the log bridge they’d found on the path to “picking up” the weapon of Saint George was the perfect spot for a spar, why, she’d jumped at the chance … and promptly taken a tumble into the safety net below, five times in a row.

These kinds of setups were actually pretty common in German hiking trails. A regular bridge, railing and all, for the parents and a log bridge plus a safety net for the kids (and any adults who still had a sense of adventure) to run across.

With a frustrated growl, Mia pulled herself back onto “her” side of the creek.

Of course, Dietrich was better, he’d been learning the sword for five times as long as she’d been alive, but he was bigger, wider, and a hell of a lot heavier even before he strapped on that armor of his.

How was he that steady while fighting on a bridge that narrow, even after she’d actually managed to hit him?

But she had a few tries left before they needed to continue onwards. So she climbed back onto the log and advanced, slowly, carefully, blade drawn. Until she crossed some imaginary line that Dietrich saw as putting her “close enough,” and he lunged.

She parried, the thrust having come from a predictable direction, and counterattacked only for her blade to come to an abrupt stop against Mimung, the force traveling through Dietrich’s body until the log underfoot trembled. Briefly.

Back and forth they went, sometimes taking a couple of steps back, sometimes advancing a little, always keeping to small, tight, movements that were unlikely to throw their balance off.

Until she decided to “try something.” The trick of summoning her sword into her off-hand an instant before their weapons clashed and then returning it into her actual sword hand just in time to smack her sparring partner was known, but it still worked sometimes.

In this case … it didn’t. The weight of her sword suddenly vanished shifting position, teleporting into her other hand, threw off her balance in that brief instant, and in an instant, she was floundering, arms flailing, trying to save her position at the top of this log at the cost of proper form.

In an actual fight, she’d have died right in that moment. But right now, all she had to “save” herself from was another trip into the net.

After a long moment, Dietrich grabbed onto her wrist and gave her the chance to stabilize herself.

“Would you like some advice?” he asked.

For a brief moment, Mia considered saying “no,” choosing to try to do it all on her own, to fall off this damn log as many times as was needed, but wasn’t this what training was for?

Plus, they had a time limit. A self-imposed limit, but a limit nonetheless.

“Yes,” she said. “What’s the secret?”

Dietrich shrugged. “Keep your center of gravity low, don’t try any big maneuvers, and anticipate.”

Mia winced. That last one had definitely been aimed at her most recent attempt.

“But once you can do that, you just need practice. Your footwork is perfect anywhere you have the space to change your stance as the need arises, but when you can’t do that, you need a different approach.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Hence, the impromptu “duel.” That made sense.

“Five more falls, then we continue,” he informed her, took a few steps back to open the distance, and drew his sword while she teleported her’s back into her right hand.

And after a quarter of an hour, they were done. She’d lasted longer each time, but didn’t “win” a single bout. She didn’t even want to consider the improvement a victory; she’d gotten trounced that badly by someone holding back most of their power.

They kept going, heading deeper into this part of the Black Forest, following a hiking path to where various signs announced the ruins of a small church lay. It had been a surprise that when Tristan had put “Ascalon, lance of Saint George” on the list of things they might want to look for, it had turned out to be found right here in Germany.

What, with him having been born in Turkey, killed the dragon in Libya, and buried either there or in Great Britain. But that was where the Skill had led them, so this was where they’d gone.

The ruins themselves came into view soon enough: a collection of stones on the ground, actual rubble, broken walls, and, of course, the usual amount of trash one could find in destinations people visited but not the street cleaners.

“Now, we dig,” Dietrich announced, pulling a couple of shovels out of his storage space and dropping them onto the ground. Then, he drew Mimung and slashed a large “X” into the dirt.

“How deep?” she sighed.

“Four meters. Some of that is hopefully the height chamber housing the lance, but ...”

Yeah, that was going to be a pain, superpowers or not. But it needed to be done.

They started digging, occasionally sweeping their ludicrously sharp swords through the ground to soften up the hard-packed dirt.

Of course, if their shovels were as sharp, it would be a hell of a lot easier, and Mia even attempted to transfer the sharpness bonus from her sword to her shovel before remembering that her Capstones were a matched set. The boost needed to be applied to her soulbound gear, which in this case, constituted of the legendary Balmung and a random helmet she’d taken from the arsenal (with permission) and empowered with the functional indestructibility of the one Dietrich wore.

She sighed, and went back to digging. Then, she did some more digging. And some more after that.

The two of them were able to move the earth faster than two people should have been able to with anything short of a backhoe, but it was still slow going. Especially when they started having to be careful and go slow for fear of whatever room the lance was in collapsing beneath them. Maybe in, they sure didn’t know, but they had to take precautions nevertheless.

“You know what?” Dietrich finally said. “We’re going to try something. Out of the hole, please.”

And once they were clear, he brought his sword up before swinging it back down as an aurora of energy streamed off it. She recognized that ability, it was the [Grand Slash] that Arthur had been using since the start of this entire mess.

At full power, it would have blasted apart the entirety of the ruins and possibly hammered the spear even deeper into the mountain, but Dietrich was holding back. A lot.

The force necessary to make a mortar shell look like a firecracker was unleashed yet reduced to the bare minimum, slowly but inexorably striking the bottom of the pit and breaking through, a loud “crunch” ringing out, followed by a sound like an avalanche. But it was over as quickly as it started, leaving them standing over a deeper crater, filled with large stone chunks.

“Now, we don’t have to be careful, and all we have to do is chop up those bocks and carry them out.”

Sure, it had been a little destructive, but damn if it hadn’t saved them a ton of time.

From that point on, it was a simple job of jumping down, grabbing rocks, and clambering out with them again, leading to a dusty and grimy but clear room barely half an hour later.

“Well, that explains why the lance is here,” Mia said, pointing at a shield sitting against the far wall. It had likely been white when it had been made, though it was yellow-grey now, and had five crosses it. A large one in the center, and four smaller crosses in the corners.

“I have no idea what that thing is called, but it was the symbol used by crusaders. They probably ran off with it.”

Though when the Crusaders had gone to Lybia was uncertain. Maybe Saint George had been buried with his weapon in his birthplace, in what was modern-day Turkey, which was a place the Crusaders had marauded through several times and they’d just run off with it?

A question for someone who actually cared. Tristan probably would, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to look. None of them was.

“And where is the lance?” she asked.

Dietrich just pointed at the ground at her feet.

“If whoever built this thing were here, he’d probably call that cheating,” Mia commented as she stepped back and they both started sweeping at the dust covering the ground. No obvious seams to be found, so Dietrich once again settled on “violence” as a solution, hacking apart the stone with Mimung.

Once the fragments had been removed, they were both staring down into a small nook carved into the ground, holding a spear. It was … simple. A shaft, entirely made of metal, with a three lines spiraling down it from the base of the spearhead to its butt end.

As for the head itself, it was a slim yet sturdy-looking leaf-shaped blade, polished to a mirror sheen, gleaming in the sunlight.

“So, what does it do?” Mia wondered.

“It’s a spear. You use the pointy end to poke your enemy until they’re dead,” Dietrich replied dryly.

Mia gave him a flat stare. He knew what she’d meant.

But Dietrich ignored her, bent over, picked up the weapon and made it vanish into his storage.

They were all the way back at the car when he finally relented.

“Fionn can probably figure out what it does,” he admitted. “I hope it’s something good, but even if Ascalon is merely a supernaturally durable weapon, it will still be a boon.”

But honestly, Mia couldn’t think of a single thing that lance could possibly do that made it more powerful than the monetary worth of the legendary Treasure of the Niebelungs.

Because now, they had money. Not just the gold that Dietrich and Charlemagne had found themselves in possession of after waking up in the modern day and whatever money the people currently manning the Untersberg fortress had been willing to donate, but they were flush with cash and able to lay their hands on the best stuff money could buy.

Emphasis on “could,” since there was plenty of stuff that couldn’t be sold to “civilians” by law, but tht was a problem for Tristan to handle. Thankfully.

***

Arthur

The modern world claimed that there was a … a kind of grace in admitting one’s failures, one’s mistakes, one’s poor behavior.

And it might even be correct, for the most part. No one liked a person who behaved like an absolute arsehole and then didn’t even have the good grace to apologize.

However. However. There was a difference between him and, well, everyone else. Historians and playwrights had turned him into a hero beyond compare, a symbol for England and royalty, a story about the power of unity and determination. Then he had returned amidst the absolute chaos of the current situation and becoming something of a guiding star despite the fact that he had not given a single interview, directly stepped in front of a single camera, or generally doing anything other than hunting down beasts.

Stepping out into the spotlight and listing off the “missteps” of the last few weeks … if that was even remotely the first public action he took, it would destroy not only his image, but also anything his symbolic presence had supported.

Yet he still felt terrible. Well, not that terrible compared to the state he’d been in after Lancelot and Guinevere had gone behind his back, but after the return of his mentor, a lot of things had come into perspective.

Mostly bad things. His attitude, for one.

Yet for all the merit the idea of admitting one’s mistakes had, it was also not something he could afford to do.

So he would stand tall and behave as he should, with the dignity befitting of the crown he no longer wore, and never behave like that again.

He gritted his teeth and marched towards where he had been told his lance lay. Guarded by one of his men. And as the man’s sovereign, it was his duty to acknowledge his sacrifice and dedication.

So after a long talk with Merlin, young Mr. Vogt had teleported them to London before heading off towards Dublin while Arthur himself had stayed for a brief “chat” with the current government.

Nothing grand, nothing binding, merely a simple and basic agreement to continue his actions of fighting monsters. And maybe, perhaps, in the future, give some vocal support.

But he’d left that situation as quickly as he could without outright fleeing. He had hardly been fond of politics in his first lifetime, but the modern version of it was a few thousand times more unpleasant.

So now he was here. Walking through the woods from a borrowed military vehicle to what was apparently a sealed cave, with Merlin slowly striding after him, moving with slow dignity more suitable to the halls of a castle than the wilderness.

If they’d had any further to walk, they might have gotten very apart and things would have ended with him waiting for quite some time, but thankfully, it wasn’t very far.

As for the rock itself, it looked like any of a thousand other rocks like it, and any one of dozens in this very forest. However due to the miracles of modern technology, he was able to return here without difficulty or any risk of him getting lost.

They had even gone through the trouble of closing the hole back up behind them. Polite, and minimized the risk of robbery or intrusion by the forest’s denizens, but troublesome for him.

“Merlin, would you be so kind as to open the way?” Arthur asked and the ancient magus did so with nary and effort, he did not even have to move his hand. A simple thought had apparently sufficed. Clearly, despite all the devastation the System had wrought, it was also handing out significant gifts to all and sundry.

He lurched back into motion, slowly striding towards the new opening. As much as he wanted to see what was inside, part of him was also afraid. Terrified, practically, but he would never admit that out loud, not even to Merlin.

For this was the last piece of his old kingdom, the last loyal soul who had spent whatever was left of his life to …

Arthur froze as he caught sight of the kneeling figure. He knew that armor. The flesh below it may have long since rotted away and the body was hidden beneath metal regardless, yet … he was as certain as he could be that it was the original owner of this regalia who had died inside it.

Lancelot du Lac.

His greatest knight, his best friend, and … his worst enemy. For a time.

This was the man who had chosen to stand vigil, to guard his weapon potentially for the rest of time …

Arthur could feel the strength leaving his knees and barely managed to avoid collapsing to his knees. He swallowed thickly.

“Well, I suppose I’ll never know why you did what you did,” he sighed, right hand unconsciously clenching into a fist while he resisted the urge to lash out and pulverize the body before him. To desecrate it.

“But what’s done is done. What you have done here … I appreciate it, no matter happened in the past.”

He hung his head and closed his eyes, attempting to think of a suitable prayer, a statement, something, anything for his once-friend’s soul, but the rage once again simmering in his heart made it difficult.

After a long moment, he stepped past the body and up to the lance behind it.

Rhongomyniad looked just it always had, a glorious silver spear with an oversized head that made the weapon more like a halberd rather than a proper spear, similarly good at stabbing and cutting.

Even now, after all this time, it was free from dust, gleaming in the sunlight that came in from the entrance. The head had been razor-sharp, remained so from the time he’d gotten it to the time he’d died and likely still was.

Slowly, Arthur reached out and grasped the weapon, pulling. It came free in an instant, easily sliding out the rocks it had been wedged between. But there was a small “clink” that made him glance down. A small ring had sat on next to the lance, an intricate little thing made of … he honestly wasn’t sure. Metal, certainly, but as to what kind, he had no idea.

However, he recognized it. It had belonged to Lancelot; he had called it his “Ring of Dispel.” A magical artifact that protected him from illusions and allowed him to break spells outright. He had always worn it … yet he had put it next to the weapon he’d chosen to guard for the king he’d once served and, eventually, betrayed.

A gift?

That was certainly what it looked to be, yet if there had been a note attached, it had long since collapsed into dust.

Arthur picked up the trinket and slipped it into his left middle finger, sighing again, not even turning to look at the body of the dubiously loyal knight.

“I doubt I will ever forgive you, I don’t think anyone in my situation would ever forgive you, but I can see you tried. And I’ll see to it that you are buried with honor.”

As for where … a modern military graveyard sounded about right. Because even if Arthur were able to find the crypts of Camelot in the modern day, he would not suffer that man’s presence there.

One could forgive and forget, forgive without forgetting, or move on without forgiving. He chose the last option. The destruction that man had wrought would not be fixed and had led to so much more devastation, and as such, he could not forgive.