Chapter Sixty-Six: Sir Galahad

Leng Bingyan listened to the “knight’s” words and smiled faintly. “Even if I do possess some sacred artifact, there’s no reason I must hand it over to you.” He snorted, then continued, “Why should I?”

“I advise you to be sensible and not make things unpleasant for everyone,” Bedivere said with disdain, glancing at Bingyan as if to say, You’re no match for me; if you surrender the artifact now, you might suffer less.

“But if I give it to you, I would be at a great disadvantage.” Leng Bingyan paid him no mind and shook his head. For a child of fourteen or fifteen, so adorably handsome, the gesture was quite charming. Yet he wasn’t doing it for Bedivere’s benefit; it was merely an unconscious movement.

Bedivere, a distinguished Knight of the Round Table, enjoyed high honor in Britain and throughout the hidden world. Normally, people treated him with utmost respect. As he looked at the boy before him, he had originally intended to compensate him somewhat, but Bingyan’s utter disregard for his dignity irritated Bedivere deeply.

“Child, will you hand it over or not? This sacred artifact was discovered in our British Empire; it rightfully belongs to us. You, a foreigner, have no authority to take it!” As he spoke, Bedivere moved forward, intent on seizing it.

Leng Bingyan stood calmly and said, “So you intend to take it by force?”

Bedivere sneered, no longer maintaining his British gentlemanly manner, his tone icy. “Today, I, Bedivere, will keep this sacred artifact, even if it means losing my composure. I can only apologize.”

Though he spoke of apology, his words carried not a hint of sincerity—only a commanding arrogance.

Leng Bingyan listened and scoffed, “That apology is better left for me to say to you.” No sooner had he spoken than he moved forward abruptly, stretching out his hand to seize a purple sword that appeared out of thin air. The instant the sword manifested, a dazzling violet light erupted, unleashing a vast and overwhelming aura.

Bedivere’s expression changed. He felt the sword’s power deeply. “My God, what weapon is this? A sacred artifact—this sword is undoubtedly a sacred artifact!” His eyes shone with intense green light—an unmistakable look of greed.

Bingyan regarded him with contempt, as if he saw through to Bedivere’s true nature. He raised the purple sword and, without any preparation, swung it straight toward Bedivere.

With that slash through the air, violet energy flickered around the sword, surrounding it like a blazing flame—yet this flame was violet. As the swing completed, a fierce blade of light burst from the tip, shooting directly toward Bedivere.

“Boom—” A tremendous shockwave accompanied the thunderous roar, and when it subsided, Bedivere’s astonished face appeared before Bingyan. He was shaken to the core—what extraordinary power! Yet it only strengthened his resolve to obtain the artifact. The fire of desire burned in his eyes; with a sacred artifact, his strength would certainly increase by at least a whole level.

“You’ve angered me, boy! Today I’ll make you suffer!” Bedivere roared, and the knight’s armor on his body flashed with white light. The Round Table Knights’ armor was no ordinary gear; it was blessed by the divine power of the God of Light and enchanted by ancient elves, according to legend. As the armor’s radiance surged, a holy aura rushed toward Bingyan.

Bingyan let out a surprised sound, then smiled warmly. “Excellent! So you are Bedivere. Today, I’ll do my best to satisfy you. I wonder what will happen when King Arthur learns he’s lost a knight from the Round Table?”

Bedivere did not answer. His figure vanished from its place and reappeared suddenly at Leng Bingyan’s side. To move so quickly—appearing beside Bingyan in an instant—proved his strength. After all, Bedivere was one of the twelve Knights of the Round Table; it wouldn’t make sense if he lacked power.

As he appeared beside Bingyan, Bedivere was somehow now holding a spear—a long weapon forged entirely from gold. As Bedivere wielded it, a faint golden glow shimmered in the darkness.

He attacked with varying thrusts and chops from different angles, feinting and striking unpredictably, making it hard to discern his true moves. Yet Bingyan was unhurried; his own strength far surpassed Bedivere’s. Even if Bingyan stood motionless and let Bedivere stab and slash at will, it would hardly harm him. And Bingyan was no fool—why would he stand still for Bedivere to strike?

Leng Bingyan smiled, preparing to toy with Bedivere for a bit. The Round Table Knights—were they truly formidable? Hopefully not too disappointing. He decided against using the Violet Plume energy within him, as its level was too high; Bingyan preferred to keep it as his secret weapon. Instead, he summoned the energy of the Immortal Spirit.

The moment he mobilized the Immortal Spirit’s energy, Leng Bingyan disappeared, only to reappear half a meter away from his original position.

He reached out with his free hand, firmly gripping Bedivere’s spear, which had been swung with full force, and simultaneously released a powerful surge of Immortal Spirit energy—so strong it bordered on madness.

Bedivere felt his hand holding the spear suddenly stiffen, and a tremendous force traveled through the weapon. His arms throbbed with pain; unable to withstand it, he released the spear.

Suddenly, the air around him became viscous, his movements hindered as the atmosphere seemed to tug at him. He tried to resist, but found he couldn’t move at all, forced to watch helplessly as Leng Bingyan drew closer. He felt utterly powerless. Bingyan appeared at his side in a flash, then tapped him lightly a few times. Bedivere heard strange sounds from within his body, puzzled. Suddenly, a searing agony tore through every part of him, pain spreading rapidly. He had no idea what to do—he could only passively endure the suffering.

Leng Bingyan stood nearby, quietly observing Bedivere’s torment.

He shook his head in resignation; Bedivere’s strength was simply too lacking. Leng Bingyan placed a hand on him, redirecting the surplus Immortal Spirit energy away. If he let the uncontrollable energy continue to circulate within Bedivere’s body, he wondered whether the knight’s meridians might rupture and lead to death.

“Pfft!” With the Immortal Spirit energy dissipating, Bedivere suddenly spat a mouthful of blood and collapsed, his vigor completely drained.

“Well then, I won’t trouble you any further. I’m leaving.” With that, Bingyan turned to go, paying no heed to Bedivere’s dim face.

“Wait!” A voice called out behind him, halting Bingyan’s steps. He frowned and turned. This time, the voice wasn’t Bedivere’s—it came from someone beside him.

As Bingyan had walked a few steps, two more people had come to Bedivere’s side, calling out to stop him while helping Bedivere up from the ground.

One was tall, the other short—the tall one had golden hair, a slightly full face that was not fat, but normal, with an expression of resolute determination. In his right hand he held a cup glittering with golden light. The short one had brown hair, dark skin, and carried a short sword. The only thing they shared was their armor, the same type as Bedivere’s.

Ah, two more Knights of the Round Table! Today, fortune smiles upon me—three Knights of the Round Table at once! Leng Bingyan thought to himself, half-jokingly.

He smiled with graceful ease. “May I ask what the two knights wish of me?” He glanced at the semi-conscious Bedivere and said with a smile, “He brought this upon himself; I acted only out of necessity.”

The tall knight regarded Leng Bingyan deeply, then, imitating the etiquette of Eastern cultivators, pressed his fists together in greeting. “I am Galahad, one of King Arthur’s twelve Knights of the Round Table.” He gestured toward the short knight at his side. “He is also one of the twelve—Geraint. As for the injured knight, I suppose there’s no need to introduce him again?”

Leng Bingyan nodded; indeed, there was no need. He had already fought him and knew well enough that the man was called Bedivere. He replied calmly, “Forget the past.”

From today onward, “Forget the past” would be Bingyan’s alias in the outside world; he did not wish to reveal his true name.

Hearing Galahad’s introduction, Leng Bingyan was surprised. The twelve Knights of the Round Table under King Arthur were all exceptional, though each had their flaws—some were hot-tempered, some greedy, some suspicious, some lazy—but one thing was certain: none were cowards.

It wasn’t that Bingyan feared them, but he was startled by their fame—now seeing them in person, he couldn’t help but be surprised.

The twelve Knights of the Round Table: Lancelot, Gawain, Geraint, Gareth, Galahad, Bors, Percival, Gaheris, Bedivere, Kay, Lamorak, Tristan. Of these, only three had received the Holy Grail’s recognition and could wield its sacred power—Galahad, Bors, and Percival. He hadn’t expected the tall, golden-haired knight before him to be one of the three most capable knights under King Arthur.

After a long silence, Galahad spoke. “Although Bedivere was at fault today, he acted for the sake of our British Empire. For the empire’s sake, I, a Knight of the Round Table, must boldly request that you leave the sacred artifact behind, Master Forget the past.”

Galahad had originally wanted Bingyan to leave the purple sword as well, but having witnessed Bingyan’s strength, he hesitated. If he forced Bingyan to surrender the sword, the man might be angered enough to fight them to the death—an outcome not worth the risk. But the Dragon Cauldron Bingyan had just obtained was different; since it was new to him, perhaps he hadn’t grown attached. Yet Galahad did not understand the importance of the Dragon Cauldron to Bingyan, and he forgot that strong men never tolerate threats.

Perhaps unconsciously, Galahad considered Bingyan to be his equal in strength, rather than someone possibly stronger.

“Oh?” Leng Bingyan asked, “Is that a threat?”

Galahad felt a pang of anxiety, but could not deny it. Was he not indeed threatening “Forget the past”?

After a moment’s silence, Galahad sighed. “Then forgive me.” He raised the cup in his hand, which shone with golden light. “This is the Holy Grail, the sacred relic bestowed by the gods upon Arthur and the twelve Knights of the Round Table. Today, let Galahad wield its power to learn the true skill of the Eastern master, ‘Forget the past’!”

Galahad spoke with heroic righteousness, presenting himself as a champion undaunted by hardship. As his words ended, the Holy Grail in his hand suddenly blazed with intense golden light, illuminating the entire night…