Lancelot observed the luxuriously dressed man behind him, his outfit composed of a plain outer shirt, a black silk tunic underneath, followed by a clean pair of white trousers and a fur mantle of the same colour draped around his shoulders and down to his waist, held together by a sword-shaped booch.
Lancelot's pupils dilated, registering an unmistakable prescence from the man.
"This aura …he's Stage 5!"
"..It's one thing after the other, my luck is dogshit..." He thought poignantly, cursing himself and his past selves internally.
In perspective, most Magi would reach, at maximum, Stage 3, and that was if they were particularly daring.
This is because awakening and advancing hold the same dangers, and the higher you are, the more difficult it becomes to advance to the next stage.
This means that, because of a combination of both difficulty and fear, most Magi are capped at Stage 3.
Sancho, due to being Stage 4 at such a young age, was definitely a genius- the 'cream of the crop' of Magi.
But, the person in front of Lancelot, emitted a Stage 5 aura, nearly double the cap for ordinary Magi!
He was a dragon amongst men, without a doubt, this man held great influence over the thaumaturgical world.
Thus, the only thing Lancelot could do in this situation is try to accommodate whatever this middle-aged man wanted to do.
"Hehe, relax! I just saved your butt, didn't I? If I wanted to do anything.. unscrupulous, I would've done it long ago." The brown-haired man chuckled, patting Lancelot's back before stepping forward.
The hill was completely covered in corpses, reeking of death as a faint red mist hung over the air. Decorating each corpse was a sword, each of them having different designs along the hilt, a different guard or specific metal.
Some swords were thin and sharp, some were large and dull, some were straight and pointy, whilst others were twisted and eerie.
It was exactly like a battlefield, a remnant of a war, leaving behind countless carcasses and weapons.
The brown-haired man raised his hand, and snapped.
Immediately, every sword combusted into pillars of flames, the columns of heat climbing higher and higher into the air before eventually receding and dying out, leaving behind not even a wisp of fire.
Lancelot couldn't help but be awed at the scene, eyes widening marginally.
Cough!
Suddenly, he hunched over, splurting out a mouthful of blood, his injuries bringing him back to reality.
With a wince, Lancelot took off his torn, blood-soaked tunic, throwing the ruined fabric onto the crimson stained grass below.
Along his chest and stomach were multiple bruises, painting his pale, toned torso with either blue or purple welts.
"It'll take a month or two to heal.." He thought, sighing.
Lancelot wasn't ungrateful, though. The fact that he came out of this ridiculously vicious sequence of events with his life intact was the greatest blessing.
"..Who are you? Why are you here?" He gloomily asked the man in front of him, finding him oddly familiar.
The man's mantle fluttered lightly as a breeze blew by, turning his head so that the side of his sharp, defined jaw and deep, gray eye could be seen.
"My name? It's Ector. I'm Earl Ector Einhorn, the western contender for the vacant throne." He responded with a baritone voice, turning around fully with a swish of his cape.
Ector blinked, his mouth slightly agape as he looked on in shock.
Lancelot had collapsed onto the floor, a trickle of blood running down his nose.
"..Was that too cool for him or something?" Ector sheepishly scratched the back of his head, frowning as he inspected the body laying in front of him.
"Vortigern! Ector's here!"
Vortigern's head shot around as he smirked, walking through one of the many acres of land attached to the castle as he caught sight of a head of auburn hair, and a tall, brown figure.
There were training bags and wooden dummies, with some of them having cuts, some having missing limbs, and some having their lower halves seemingly devoured.
"Long time no see, Ector." Vortigern smiled, running a hand through his black hair.
"Yeah, it has been a while.." The teenage Ector smiled back, his gray eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Hey, I have an idea! Let's play hide and seek around the castle.." The red-haired child suggested, jumping up and down eagerly.
"..Maybe later, Arthur." Vortigern narrowed his eyes, the smirk on his face still present.
"Huh? Why?" Arthur frowned, looking in between the two parties.
"Not again.." Arthur groaned, realising what was about to happen.
The two teenagers were only a few paces away from each other, their eye contact unbroken for a good minute.
Then, they made their move.
With a burst of flames, a sword materialised in Ector's hands as he slashed at the shorter teenager.
"Too simple!" Vortigern cackled, his finger twitching as he stood still, meeting the attack head on.
Clang!
A dagger made out of darkness shot out from Ector's own shadow, parrying the blow.
Vortigern retaliated fiercely, dashing forward and countering with a punch.
"Same trick as last time!" Ector grinned, waving his arm as he leapt high into the air, dodging a swipe from Vortigern.
Flames combusted in the air in front of Vortigern, dying down in a second to reveal three ordinary yet exquisite blades that glistened in the sunlight.
They tore through the air, sailing smoothly and shooting towards Vortigern's head.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Each of the three blades were met by shadowy, black versions of themselves, diverting off their course and embedding themselves into the soil below.
"Shadows are the reflections of all things.." Vortigern's grin grew, his own shadow growing in size and looming over the three.
"...Corny."
"Shut up!"
Slowly, a crack formed on the surface of the scene, eventually breaking down and dissolving into pieces of light..
Gasp!
Lancelot panted as he shot up, sitting upright as he clenched the blankets that pooled around his waist.
"Another scene from the past..? That was a young Earl Einhorn.." Lancelot looked down at his hands, feeling a whirlwind of emotions.
Once he 'Rebirths', the next Incarnation would have no memory of any of their past lives. Instead, they would slowly accumulate their prior life's experience in visions or dreams.
Right now, Lancelot confirmed that Ddraig was not behind this process. This was because Ddraig was currently 'resting' and unable to do so.
"More importantly, in my past life, I was.." Lancelot's eyes were wide and shining as he thought at lightning speeds.
"I was the Shadow Dragon, the Vile Tyrant, The Kingdom's Traitor, and the last king's adopted older brother.."
"Vortigern Pendragon!"