Chapter Sixty-Five: The Knights of the Round Table

Moonlight poured down over the earth, painting the night in silvery hues. Leng Bingyan gazed at the four golden cauldrons set upon the table before him: the First Prisoned Ox Cauldron, the Second Yazi Cauldron, the Third Chaofeng Cauldron, and the Fifth Suanni Cauldron. Yet, the whereabouts of the missing Fourth Pulao Cauldron remained a mystery.

He shook his head with a wry smile, chiding himself for his greed—finding four at once and still being unsatisfied, truly insatiable. But then relief washed over him; having just acquired the Fifth Suanni Cauldron, he could now sense the location of the next one. That was already an improvement over the Pulao Cauldron, whose traces were still utterly lost.

Nine sons born of the dragon, each with their own proclivities—when, he wondered, would he finally gather all nine Dragon Cauldrons of the Nine Provinces?

His thoughts drifted to Ziling, who had not emerged for several days. She had mentioned she was attempting a breakthrough. The Purple Sword was a weapon beyond ordinary ranks, but with Bingyan’s current lack of power, he could not wield it and might even be harmed by it. Thus, when he first obtained the Purple Sword, he realized it was sealed with many restraints. As his strength grew, those seals would gradually be undone.

A few days passed. Under Kelly’s wistful gaze, Leng Bingyan boarded a flight to England. From the Suanni Cauldron’s resonance, he knew the Sixth Tourmaline Cauldron lay somewhere in England. This was the fifth cauldron whose location he had discerned. Now that he knew where to search, he had every confidence in his ability to acquire it; he refused to believe there existed anyone comparable to the Ghost King of Mount Mang.

He chose to take a plane rather than simply flying there himself, claiming he wished to experience the wonders of modern technology. Sometimes, he mused, even cultivators ought to indulge in the pleasures of life, much as that baffling Ghost King would.

High above the clouds, he reflected on how efficient Ruth was—she had even arranged his passport. Sinking deep into the plush seat of business class, he thought, “Such luxury is reserved for the wealthy alone.”

Upon disembarking and stepping out of the airport, the unique atmosphere struck him at once. British culture, he mused, influenced all of Europe, and to experience Britain firsthand—especially in the heart of London—made this even more palpable.

Britain revered the gentleman, with every action weighed against the standard of gentlemanly conduct. In this, British morality led the world; compared to them, China still had a long road ahead.

It was now daylight. Bingyan was in no rush to seek out the Dragon Cauldron. After leaving his luggage at the inn, he wandered the streets, absorbing the distinctive customs as he meandered toward the source of the cauldron’s aura.

He boarded a bus, gazing out the window as a cool breeze rustled his hair, allowing himself to savor a rare moment of tranquility.

Silent and at ease, he was unaware of how many eyes were drawn to his quiet demeanor. When he finally noticed the intense stares, discomfort crept upon him. Every passenger, male and female alike, was looking at him.

He felt as if seated on pins and needles, his cheeks flushed. He managed a gentle, friendly smile in response.

This only incited a flurry of flirtatious glances from a group of young women, whose charm was more delicate than the heavily made-up coquettes of the Parisian streets.

If their beauty was not overwhelming, their numbers made up for it. Surrounded by so many, none of whom could be called unattractive, Bingyan found his composure crumbling. Embarrassed, he hurriedly disembarked from the bus.

Once off, he was filled with regret—not for missing the chance to admire the women, but for never having hardened his own nerves.

He wondered if there would ever come a day when he could face gossip and insults with indifference, retorting with a casual, “Right back at you.”

Unconsciously guided by his senses, Bingyan found himself before a vast building—or rather, a complex of buildings. Mid-nineteenth-century architecture, distinctive and grand, it felt as if he were walking through a gallery of history itself, witnessing the tides of British change.

The British Museum—also known as the Great British Museum—stood behind New Oxford Street at Great Russell Square in London. Founded in 1753, it is the world’s oldest and most magnificent comprehensive museum, home to over six million artifacts. Due to limited space, many of its treasures remain unseen by the public.

Though he acknowledged the museum’s massive scale, Bingyan still felt it could not rival the majesty of the Forbidden City in China—and indeed, it did not.

“Could the Sixth Tourmaline Cauldron be inside this museum?” Bingyan frowned in doubt but quickly understood. With over six million items, the museum’s vastness was such that many artifacts remained stored away, unseen. The bulk of the collection was housed in storage. At this realization, a glint of anticipation shone in his eyes, and a smile played at his lips. “Well, it seems I must sneak into the storerooms for a search.”

Night fell. Having spent the day familiarizing himself with the museum and its surroundings, Bingyan now had its layout memorized. Like a shadow in the night, he moved silently through the darkness. His figure flickered through the museum’s hidden corners, and with a single leap, as though slicing through the silence, he landed atop the museum’s roof after a series of nimble twists in the air.

He could have teleported straight inside, but wary of security guards or electronic surveillance, he dared not be reckless. First, he reached the rooftop, and through the skylight, he surveyed every corner within.

His eyes darted, and his form vanished, reappearing within the museum’s interior.

The museum was truly immense; walking inside, Bingyan felt the vast emptiness around him. Producing the Fifth Suanni Cauldron, he sent out a thought and immediately sensed a faint thread leading him onward, guiding him down to the museum’s basement.

He marveled at the spaciousness below ground—such a large area beneath the crowded museum complex.

He halted, glancing upward. Several black cameras glittered in the darkness, and behind them, he spotted the menacing muzzles of several guns.

“How terrifying. If an ordinary visitor stumbled in here, there’s little chance of survival,” Bingyan observed. These weapons were clearly electronically controlled, indifferent to identity and primed to unleash indiscriminate fire on any intruder.

Yet a faint smile curved his lips. A handful of cameras and guns posed no obstacle. With a flick of his hand, slender blades of light shot from his fingertips, striking the cameras and weapons with precision.

A series of sharp sounds rang out; the sophisticated security system was reduced to scrap metal.

Guided by the Dragon Cauldron in his hand, Bingyan navigated with ease and soon located the inconspicuous golden cauldron among the countless artifacts.

The moment the two cauldrons drew near, a brilliant golden light flared between them, vibrating with a resonant hum.

Bingyan grinned, delighted, as he stowed both Dragon Cauldrons in the rift of space. Now, he had gathered five cauldrons—more than half!

For the moment, he had no time to consider the whereabouts of the next Dragon Cauldron; his only priority was to leave at once.

Emerging outside the museum’s grounds, he dusted off his hands: “Done and dusted!”

“A guest from afar, please surrender the sacred relic you have just acquired!” As Bingyan prepared to return to his lodging, a booming voice called out from behind.

The sudden command startled him, but he quickly regained his composure, turning with an innocent smile to face the speaker—a man in his forties, handsome and chiseled, a rarity among Englishmen. Strangely, the man was clad in knight’s attire and held a three-foot sword.

“What a peculiar outfit; he could be an actor,” thought Bingyan, though he knew better. The aura radiating from the man dispelled any such notion.

This knightly figure was formidable, possessing power comparable to a Nascent Soul stage cultivator.

The world was filled with powerful beings—not only cultivators, but also espers, martial artists, ninjas, and other unique entities: the Guardians.

Here in England, those with special abilities were either from the Dark Council, the Holy See, or...

The Twelve Knights of the Round Table! Bingyan’s eyes narrowed with excitement. Legend told of a group of extraordinary warriors in England, hidden from the public eye much like cultivators, steadfastly guarding the land. Their legends were household tales: the Twelve Knights of the Round Table. Could it be that the man before him was one of Arthur’s legendary guardians? And what was this “sacred relic” he spoke of? Could it be... the very Dragon Cauldron Bingyan had just obtained?

“What? I don’t have any sacred relic!” Bingyan protested innocently, adamantly refusing to admit it. The “sacred relic” this “knight” referred to was not quite the same as the sacred artifacts prized in the East. Here, a sacred relic was likely a powerful treasure, nothing more.

“Don’t play dumb. I saw you put it away with my own eyes. Surrender it at once, or I, Bedivere, will not be so polite.”

Indeed, this knight was Bedivere, one of King Arthur’s Twelve Knights of the Round Table. He had been patrolling London that night, and, sensitive to energy fluctuations, he had sensed the moment Bingyan destroyed the security system with his light blades. Arriving just in time, he had witnessed the radiant golden light as Bingyan retrieved the Dragon Cauldron.

“My God, could this be the legendary sacred relic?” Bedivere had exclaimed. Sacred relics were exceedingly rare—apart from a few owned by the Holy See, they were almost unheard of elsewhere. He resolved then and there to seize this relic; with it, the Knights would possess another sacred treasure apart from Arthur’s own sword, and it had appeared, no less, on British soil.

Thus, Bedivere now stood before Leng Bingyan.