The three-day period went by in a flash. During that time, the imprisoned boy, true to his deal with his supernatural partner, learned all he could about the nature of his magical power. There was substantial growth in his quest for knowledge, and it showed well in his current state.

The boy sat still in the middle of the damp prison cell with his legs crossed and his hands resting on his thighs, wisps of steam slowly emanating from his body. His eyes were shut tight, but there were no signs of discomfort – it only looked like he had achieved the rare feat of sleeping while sitting up. Gathering around him were glowing orbs of pure energy, though unlike his last spiel with them, they were only dark yellow in hue – still not up to par with the quality of healing that he had received from his demonic aid, but miles better than his own attempt the first time around.

The balls of power circled the boy before one by one was absorbed straight into his body with little resistance. When the last condensed energy orb flew inside him, Peter’s eyes opened.

[Looks like you’ve managed to master regeneration magic.] Inside his head, the familiar voice that had been his only companion for the past few days commented.

“Meh, it’s still not that great.”

Peter was in no way humble with his response. The truth was that his healing magic was lacking. The steam that escaped him, as well as his slightly flushed skin, was the most definite proof – during the whole process, the boy was still burning up inside. The nature of the matter just wasn’t nearly as severe as last time, when he felt like he was being tossed into an oil cauldron.

[Still, that was only three days of practice. It’s much better than what I expected, at least.]

“Sounds more like you were underestimating me,” the boy shrugged.

[Perhaps.] Balam chuckled. [But hey, it still did wonders, right?]

The demon’s words caused Peter to glance at his current body. He didn’t notice during the days he spent in the cell, but he did feel like he had gotten a bit stronger. Save for the old arrow wounds, all of which had already closed, the muscle features on his torso and limbs were more refined, and with a touch, the boy could tell that they were firmer as well.

“Was this due to magic too?” He asked.

[More or less. Humans of old often mistook magic for a force completely foreign to their mortal bodies. But in reality, it was the reverse: a good physical core could vastly improve your sense of magic and vice-versa – a good understanding of the flow of mana could enhance your physical body to a new degree.]

“How strong do you think I am now?”

[If I were to make a rough estimation, about twice as strong. You can probably hold your own against a regular knight with just a sword.]

“Sure wish I had a sword then.” The boy snickered. He had not forgotten the only weapon that he had on him, one that he mistakenly believed was the proclaimed “strongest sword known to man”.

[In time, it’ll answer your call.] The demon answered. [In fact, it could very well be close to that time.]

“Is that so?”

Before Peter could continue his mental conversation, however, the door to his cell slammed open. Clanking sounds of metal echoed through the prison room, followed by a grunt from the knight guarding his chamber:

“Hey, heretic. It’s been three days. Get out.”

Without waiting for the boy’s reaction, the knight barged into the cell and cuffed his hands in a flash. Then, still without another word, the guard grabbed the chain connecting the lone prisoner’s hands and dragged him out of his confinement.

“H–Hey, what’s going on?” Peter asked in bewilderment.

“Your trial is about to start.”

“Trial?” The boy continued to cock his head in confusion.

There was no answer from the guard. Instead, a mocking tone echoed in Peter’s head.

[Execution, more like.]

Care to explain, Balam? In the presence of another, Peter couldn’t voice his thoughts out loud.

[Remember how the little princess said she’d “help” you get out of the situation?]

Yeah, why?

[Well, this is her big idea. You’ll be put on trial soon, and if she can prove your innocence, you’ll be out scot-free.]

Isn’t it great news then?

[I wouldn’t count on that if I were you.] The demon snickered. [It’s just to show how wholly detached from reality that sheltered lass really is.]

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

But there is a chance, right?

[... Think how you will. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Oh, and you can do that thing now.]

… Come, Carnwennan.

While still cuffed, Peter’s right hand formed a slightly open fist, just in time for a minuscule gale to form around it. Though it seemed as if nothing else had happened, none but the boy knew that the mythical dagger had already appeared in his hand, though it was cleverly masked away from sight, blending itself into the air around it.

[‘Like a seedling preparing itself to bloom’... good thing you still remember my instructions.]

The nature of magic was intrinsically related to one’s imagination. And so, during the three days that Peter spent learning Balam’s powers, including the dagger that had come with the demon’s assistance, the boy was fed countless images and demonstrations in the cross’s realm. One of them was the plant-based metaphor that he was reminded of, since it was the closest connector to the demon’s specialty.

It’s not that hard to remember, the boy thought.

[Then do you remember what we planned before?]

We’re not doing that, this time, there was no hesitation in his words.

Peter took a deep breath. In his mind, the sight of the massacre that he himself caused resurfaced, churning his stomach just a little. Though he was fueled with disdain towards the beings that engaged him that day, the boy was still in his adolescent years, and so, he could never shake off the horror of the scene he took part in. As if his nose was still smelling the metallic stench of blood, or his hands were still feeling the warm, coagulated sensation of that crimson liquid in his hand, the boy had to hold himself back from vomiting all over.

[Are you getting cold feet now?] The demon asked, though for the first time, Peter could feel true mockery coming from his partner’s tone.

If I can, I don’t want to do it, answered the boy.

[Bit of a hypocrite for that, don’t you think? With all those angels you slaughtered, I mean.]

I didn’t actually kill anyone, did I?

[But you wanted to, right?]

Peter could feel the demon laughing at his face. But he had no retort – he knew. Deep within the disgust that he felt that day, there was indeed a sense of elation. The joy to finally butcher the cause of his misery, the excitement that coursed through his veins when he felt their blood on his hands… He might not want to admit it, but it would always be there. And that was why he had to deny it with everything he had.

However, he didn’t need to answer. His partner had already done it for him.

[I’ll humor the thought for now. But remember: there will undoubtedly come a time when you have to choose – their lives, or your own.]

… I know.

The boy might not think of himself as a hero, nor was he too naive to the point that he could believe in the thought that people could just settle their differences by holding hands, but he wasn’t about to lose his humanity either. When push comes to shove, he would, with no hesitation, fight for his life and disregard everything else, but if given the choice, he would much prefer to solve it in a peaceful way.

However, it was also the reason that his partner gave him another warning.

[And remember, don’t trust the little princess too much. Always prepare for when she inevitably fails.]

This time, Peter didn’t answer, instead just clutching his fists tighter than ever. Though he was aware that things could never go the way he wanted to, deep down, he still held a sliver of hope. Hope that the girl whose true nature he had come to know would pull out a miracle just like what happened on that night.

During his long conversation, the boy had completely forgotten the initial reason why he was walking aimlessly outside his cell in the first place. Only when the tugging of his chains became violent while his back was lightly stabbed with the end of a spear did Peter realize the predicament he was in:

“We’re here. Up.” While the same guard was still dragging him forward, another had already appeared on his back. That one was the one that stabbed him with the spear.

Before the boy was the end of a long staircase, signified by a wooden trap door above his head. They had been traveling to the surface once again, and his new destination was finally somewhere above ground.

As the door opened, a flush of air rushed into the boy’s lungs, while a bright light temporarily blinded his eyes. After his days in the moldy, damp cell, the fresh smell of outside was enough to ease the tension on Peter’s face and muscles, even though it still took him a few seconds to get used to the sudden influx of light around him.

When the boy opened his eyes, however, any sense of joy that he felt quickly went into smoke. There was no freedom from the start – at least, definitely not when he was already surrounded by a sizable crowd burning their gazes at him in all directions.

“So, this is the famed ‘Round Table’...” even if it was the situation that would decide his fate, Peter couldn’t help but mumble in awe.

The Round Table. Or rather, the “Round Seat”, was exactly what it sounded like: a bench that went around the circular room, with a symbolic stone table of similar shape lying in the center of it all. Before, the old rulers of Britain would gather with their knights around this table to discuss matters regarding their nation’s prosperity. Now, the table only acted as a guide for a council of royals and important figures, seated on their elevated bench, to cast judgment upon the poor souls that dared to disturb their so-called peace.

To Peter’s left, a group of knights in shining armor sat. Aside from the dark-skinned boy, whose face showed a few more bruises than he remembered, as well as the hulking man that he thought he once knew, the knights in this half were adorned with much more glamorous ornamental details, signifying their importance to the kingdom. To his right, there was a pack of unfamiliar faces, but their white robes and avian wings were more than enough details for the boy to recognize their nature.

In the center, directly facing him, were two giant thrones. A larger one to the left, where a woman stared at the boy with ice-cold eyes of indifference, the air around her was so chilling that one could easily mistake her platinum blonde hair for the pure white of snow. To the right, a smaller throne was stationed, and sitting on it was the only face that would give Peter a sense of comfort in this situation of staring daggers. There sat Bea with an opposite look to the woman beside her: the young princess’s silver hair lightly shook in worry as her hands clutched the ornamental sword for comfort, while her crimson eyes were filled with care towards the so-called criminal.

As the final actors had assembled, the woman finally spoke, her voice as razor-sharp as her looks:

“Greetings, Knights of the Round Table, Angels of Britain, and First Princess Beatrice. I am the current Queen, Elisabeth Victoria Bedryant, hereby gathering everyone to bear witness to the trial of the heretic Peter Pendragon. May God cast proper judgment on his soul.”

“May God cast proper judgment on his soul.” Everyone in the room repeated in unison, and thus, the event that would later shake the very foundation of Britain commenced.