'Malehan's Rock of Continous Curing' worked wonders on my sore channels. Even with it safely stored in my inventory, I could feel the stone's cooling breath wash over me in slow waves. The tingly experience is exactly how the tea tree and eucalyptus body wash I like to use as a pick-me-up makes me feel. Only inside. On a soul level.
I'm not explaining this well.
It felt pretty damn good, is what I'm saying.
Under its influence, my Qi exhaustion was quickly a thing of the past, Merlin pronounced himself happy I wouldn't destroy the universe if I started cultivating again, and I was all 'fast travel' ready.
As it turned out, though, this was another thing that made Merlin sulk.
I am not sulking, my dear. I am just saying that there is no way you should have Tintagel as one of your fast travel destinations. You've never been there. This is not how these things are supposed to work.
"Mate, I'm not disagreeing with you. But, look," I indicated the page of my artist's studio that held my 'fast travel' options, "Tintagel."
The design of the fast travel system explicitly precludes cultivators from popping up in places they have never been. Can you imagine the chaos this invasion would have wrought if Saxon wizards could manifest themselves anywhere they wished? But it is more than that. Even had you been to Tintagel to plausibly have it as an option, I have, for obvious reasons, set up significant safeguards against anyone fast travelling to within many miles of the place!
"I kind of think you're yelling at the wrong person here, Big M. I don't know, is there not a Big Cultivator Manager in the sky you can complain to? Just so you know, you're giving off big Mystical Karen energy, right now."
I know it is not your fault, my dear, but we cannot overlook that you appear to be at the epicentre of the basic rules of magic breaking down. If you are not creating Qi techniques far beyond your expertise, you are crafting unique artefacts or finding ways to circumvent the fundamentals of cultivation. Such things should not be possible.
"You just said all that like it was a bad thing."
It is a hugely bad thing. Do you not see? Everything in this realm exists in a careful balance. The great powers wax and wane, and as one rises, another falls. Reciprocity in all things. But beyond all that, there are levels. There are thresholds. There are rules. And none of them seem to apply to you.
"Okay, so I'm Up Up Down Down Left Right B A Start. What's the problem?"
Gods help me, I actually get that reference. This is about far more than you being a 'cheat code', my dear. It is part of a wider breakdown in the fabric of the way things should be. I should not be dead, Isca should still be standing, and Arthur should not have been nearly torched out of existence.
"I don't wish to interrupt what appears to be a very tense conversation between you and your imaginary friend, but someone is coming. Several someone's, actually."
I looked to where Johnny Sins (My dear, no. That's as bad as Chemo-Arthur) was pointing and sure enough, a small group of horsemen were galloping towards us.
For clarity, I mean men on horses. Not, you know, centaurs. Although that would have been cool. I have some questions about the anatomical distribution there, if you know what I mean.
Far be it for me to comment, but I think you need to stop using that mana stone. It seems to be making you more ... lascivious than usual.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
"Fair point. Any ideas on the newcomers?"
None at all. There is a chance they could be friendly?
"Mate, the whole 'cheat code' thing aside, if we didn't have bad luck, we'd have no luck at all." I unslung Drynwyn from its scabbard, and it burst into flames. Arthur, to his credit, barely soiled himself.
From my inventory, I threw him a change of trousers, a sword, and a giant circular shield with a cross on it.
The shield was interesting, actually. Whereas most of the stuff I'd looted from Vortigern's Dragon stacked in my soul space, the shield was one of the things that took up a slot on its own. As it had its own name, Wynebgwrthucher, I'd kind of assumed it would be something I could speak to. Like I did with Drynynwyn.
Considering how that relationship was going, I did not know if I was pleased or disappointed when it didn't chat back.
As soon as Arthur caught the shield, however, there was a noise like the cracking of a giant stone table, and the cross at the shield's centre resolved itself into the face of a very pissed-off old woman.
Oh, great.
"What?" I was suddenly acutely aware that the last time Arthur had caught something of mine, it hadn't worked out too well.
No, it's nothing like that. Wynebgwrthucher's not dangerous. At least physically.
Oh, wonderful. All alone facing a charging enemy on horseback. I'm going to get smacked in the face again, aren't I? Great.
Who the fuck is that? Wynebgwrthucher? Where did you come from?
Some moist bint just threw me to this hunk of baldness. Drynwyn, is it? Well, isn't this the day that just keeps on giving? Never met an afternoon adding you to it wouldn't ruin.
Do not get me wrong, it is a very fine shield indeed. It is just not very good for morale.
Don't let me put you off here, baldy, but unless you hold me a touch higher, you'll be wearing that arrow as a necklace. There followed a sharp clang. Great. It's my first time out of that cave in years, and I'm already catching quarrels. Wonderful. No, don't you worry. Just leave it sticking out of me. I'm sure it'll just go away on its own. Oh, here come some more. Fantastic.
The men on horseback had pulled up a little way in the distance and were, yep, shooting arrows at us. That struck me as unnecessarily hostile At least try to get to know me first. Each shot embedded itself on Arthur's shield, which kept up a running commentary on the various flaws of his defensive technique.
If we got out of this alive, I couldn't help but feel the shield might be good for the Prince of the Britons. I did not sense he was overburdened with voices not raised in his acclamation.
"Okay, Big M. Moment of truth. Tintagel or not?"
It is, without question, the perfect destination. That is what is making me suspicious. At every turn, we seem to be able to call upon the ideal solution to our problems. It is as if there is a guiding hand in all this.
Our attackers seemed to quickly tire of playing catch with Wynebgwrthucher. Two had dismounted and had drawn insanely oversized swords. With a warcry that sounded like a rock troll clearing its throat, they began rushing up the hill towards us. The others remained on their horses and followed behind at a cautious distance.
Ah, claymores. It's been a long time since I've seen one of them wielded on a battlefield. I guess that answers where the Saxon sent us. Caledonia is so lovely at this time of the year.
I watched as Arthur moved to intercept the faster of the ones on foot.
What the fuck are we waiting for? Don't show me up in front of that fucking mood killer.
The sword fairly dragged me forward to stand at Arthur's side. Even though I was not sure having Drynwyn's fire so close to him was all that helpful to his concentration, I am going to admit the man could fight.
Full disclosure, outside of memorising each and every version of a lightsabre duel, I have no real frame of reference for such things.
But, goodness, Dark Age Saitama knew how to handle his sword, if you know what I mean.
Sigh.
He'd dispatched the first attacker in moments, removing first his right arm and then, pretty definitively, his head. As he did so, he'd blocked the second's downward swing with the shield, pivoted and ran him through.
I take it back. That guy is fucking righteous. See if he wants a new sword.
The remaining horsemen were preparing to fire more arrows and, yep, there were more quickly coming to join them. I hadn't felt this unwelcome in Scotland since finding myself wearing a Union Jack dress (damn you, Ginger Spice) in Century 2000.
"So, Tintagel, then?"
There was a pause, during which Arthur caught another flurry of bolts on Wynebgwrthucher. Much to the shield's vocal displeasure.
As long as we are open to the fact this could be all an extremely elaborate trap. Tintagel.
Warp speed. Mr Sulu, take us home.