Miss Hebe is Slaughtering Her Way Out of the Lostbelt!

This Lostbelt was finally about to be conquered.

Words visible only to Hebe surfaced one by one.

"'Red Dragon Duke' and 'Lionheart' have arrived at the gates. They walk their own paths, like the sun traveling along the track of its celestial chariot."

As the Court Mage, the sage who had aided Arthur in achieving her merit, you could support either one in taking the throne. Thus completing the final step of your merit.

"'Morgan, the Bewitching Consort'—the force driving her to seek vengeance against Arthur will not be love, but jealousy. The source of Albion's destruction will not be jealousy, but desire. The beginning of it all will not be desire, but curiosity. And what brings about today's ending will not be curiosity, but love in the end."

As the object of Morgan's hatred and affection, you could choose to help her complete her revenge against Arthur and bring Albion to ruin through war. Through this act, you could also bring your merit to completion.

Two choices, two courses of history. The former probably better matched the course of real history, while the latter was far more wild. Either could lead to the end of the Lostbelt.

Hebe snapped her fingers.

"Status."

A dark green screen silently rose before her, and a faint, translucent card glimmered.

This was Hebe's "personal information" within this Lostbelt, available for her to inspect at any time.

Hebe Stanton / Merlin Ambrosius

Path: Sage (Lostbelt-exclusive). A sage is a monarch's adviser, a kingdom's tower, a looking glass of wisdom.

Principle: Lamp (Lostbelt-exclusive). A principle representing reason, light, and ascent.

Tier: Twilight (Lostbelt-exclusive). The Third Tier of the Path of Ascension, only one step away from ascension.

Final Merit: Ideal Realm · Avalon (Incomplete)

Hebe reached out and wiped away all the floating words.

Neither of those endings was what she wanted. In any case, she would not truly die while conquering the Lostbelt, so why not take things a little further?

In the empty courtyard, the Court Mage could no longer suppress her laughter.

"I choose neither ending." The moment the words left her lips, Hebe felt her heart pounding. "I will walk only my own, true path."

Then, in accordance with Hebe's will, the floating words dispersed like ripples across water, and new words swiftly emerged.

"King Arthur's flame has waned. Her royal authority has weakened, and her merit stands on the brink of collapse. Yet there is still a turning point. The Court Mage once promised her that all would be well, that everything would be put in perfect order—"

You will defeat the Twin Kings and Morgan, the Bewitching Consort, by yourself.

This will restore Arthur's royal authority over all Albion, thereby declaring the end of this Lostbelt.

One Against Ten Thousand

It was another morning. The biting north wind blew in from the battlefield outside London, carrying the scents of blood, earth, and metal.

The banners of the red dragon and the lion stood in stark opposition, each occupying one side of an obsidian-like tower.

No matter which side they belonged to, soldiers could not help holding their breath and falling silent whenever they passed that towering spire, casting reverent gazes toward it.

After all, they had seen it with their own eyes—the veiled woman had arrived with graceful steps, and even the exalted Twin Kings had done no more than serve as her attendants.

With a casual tap of her finger against the ground, the tower had risen from the earth before everyone's eyes.

Rumors then began spreading through the army: the veiled woman was none other than Morgan, the Bewitching Consort, who had once nearly destroyed Albion with her own hand. She had quietly escaped from the Tower of London to seek vengeance against Arthur and Merlin once again.

Neither Red Dragon Duke Edward nor Lionheart Alistair denied the rumor.

After the tower rose, the temperature here dropped by the day. The sky congealed into a darkness as cold as ice, the north wind circled and howled without rest, and white frost formed over weapons and dead grass.

Every sign proved that Morgan, the Bewitching Consort, was prepared to take revenge for her great grievance.

But today, sudden terror began spreading through the army.

One of the Knights of the Round Table under Red Dragon Duke Edward died violently in his own tent.

When he was discovered, he lay peacefully on his camp bed, looking as though he were sound asleep. Yet he had gouged out both his own eyeballs and discarded them on the ground.

The title inherited by that Knight of the Round Table was "Gawain."

As the valiant modern-day Gawain died abruptly, fear swiftly spread through the army, and the blame was quietly pinned on Morgan.

Red Dragon Duke Edward swiftly punished those who had spread the rumors and strengthened the night patrols.

That night, no further abnormalities appeared within the Red Dragon army.

Yet when the sun rose the next day, Knights of the Round Table in the Lion army had died violently.

The modern-day "Lancelot," "Agravain," and "Tristan."

They too were found dead on their camp beds, each in a more gruesome state than the last.

The Round Table seats were not always filled. After four Knights of the Round Table died in succession, the surviving Round Table knights began entertaining thoughts of retreat. They did not fear dying honorably in battle, but they were unwilling to die so disgracefully.

The Knights of the Round Table were the core of the entire army. When they wavered, the whole military structure began to stir uneasily.

The Red Dragon Duke could not suppress this trend. After a fierce argument, two Knights of the Round Table left together with their retainers.

They intended to retreat to a safe distance and make camp.

The two Knights of the Round Table were "Ector" and "Lamorack." They believed that distancing themselves from the battlefield and the witch's tower would keep them safe. Yet when night fell and the army began its meal, the cook let out a terrified scream.

When the junior officers arrived to investigate, the color drained from every one of their faces.

What simmered in the cauldron were the heads of the current Ector and Lamorack.

Their features had long since rotted away after soaking in boiling water, yet the Knights of the Round Table's crested crowns proved their identities.

Successive waves of terror completely seized the soldiers' and officers' minds, and the camp mutiny erupted. The night was still long, and tonight's slaughter was destined not to end so simply.

Using Gareth's lance, Hebe nailed her to the barracks' doorpost.

The Knight of the Round Table's hand curled weakly, trying to pull the lance from her chest. But in the end, it simply fell limp, leaving only her bulging eyes staring at the ground.

At this point, Hebe had slaughtered all nine current Knights of the Round Table, one by one.

It would take at least twenty years for the next generation of Knights of the Round Table to grow up. One could well imagine that, for at least that long, every seat on the Round Table Council would remain vacant.

"Compared to your ancestors, you truly are worthless." Hebe calmly walked out of the barracks. "But that makes sense. You are merely 'politicians' who inherited your seats through power struggles. You neither remained true to your own desires nor followed the path of your ancestors."

Every one of the former Knights of the Round Table had established extraordinary achievements of their own, climbing to the second stage of the Path of Ascension—Daylight.

Their battle-tested wills had reforged their weapons and armor. Even after a hundred years, their glorious deeds had endowed those relics with immense power.

Even if these successor Knights of the Round Table were merely ordinary people who could barely reach the first stage, Dawn, once fully armed, they could briefly reproduce the might of the Daylight stage and become slaughtering gods capable of facing a thousand riders alone on the battlefield.

Thus, in the epics and tales of the world, Daylight was also called the "Hero" stage.

They were the prototypes of the "Heroic Spirits" sung of by bards.

Yet the court sage Merlin portrayed by Hebe was at the third stage: Twilight.

Every "Twilight" had existed in the world for at least two hundred years. They were living legends, even myths.

—Child of God, Earthly Angel, saint, devil, Exiled Immortal, dragon... these legendary titles could fully be used to refer to beings of the Twilight stage.

Their achievements allowed them to effortlessly perform miracles beyond mortal imagination.

Even though Hebe's achievements leaned toward transformation, support, and protection, without any large-scale destructive capabilities, they were still enough to easily destroy an entire army through the terror of dreams and illusions.

After fear had shattered mortals' minds, all it took was a swing of the blade to claim their lives.

It was merely a bit more tedious.

Hebe felt neither disgust nor fear. Whenever she was conquering a Lostbelt, she always maintained an objective, detached perspective. She experienced those sensations personally, yet could pull herself free from them at any time.

At a necessary moment, so what if she had to sacrifice this body? So long as she could conquer this Lostbelt, that was enough.

"Alright, the Knights of the Round Table who might have become variables are all dead. Now it's your turn..."

Panicked soldiers and low-ranking officers ran past Hebe. Splashes of mud even struck the hem of her robes, yet they turned a blind eye to her, as though she were nothing more than a reflection in a mirror or an illusory moon upon the water.

—First Imprint: Illusion.

The foundation of achievements was the sacred mark known as an Imprint.

This was the earliest Imprint Hebe had condensed, the talent of the Merlin she portrayed.

Nightmare blood naturally flowed through this body.

Nightmares were not creatures of reality. They lived in the "Wilderness"—the Dream Realm that lay above reality and could only be reached through dreaming.

Half-illusory pansies sprouted beneath Hebe's slender feet, then swiftly spread across the entire battlefield. Whether red dragons or lions, all sank into the mire of illusion without realizing it.

—When did you start under the illusion that I had not used illusion magic?

She clapped her hands lightly.

Clap.

In that instant, everyone trapped in the illusion felt their thoughts leave their bodies, then become tangled together until they could no longer distinguish one another, inside from outside.

One after another, they collapsed onto the earth—not dead, but unable to wake.

Morgan le Fay

The lens used to observe the heavens shattered, and the candlelight burning in the command tent flickered dimly.

An ominous blackness appeared at the center of the bonfire, while smoke drifted and hung down like a curtain.

Armor and weapons fell into the mud. Warm bodies collapsed and piled atop one another. In an instant, the battlefield sank into deathly silence, leaving only banners snapping fiercely in the north wind.

An anomaly on such a vast scale could no longer be ignored.

Yet in the face of a situation collapsing like dominoes, even heroes could at most protect themselves. They could not reverse an inevitable defeat.

"What... happened?" Prince Edward let out an incredulous roar. Drawing his sword, he waved it wildly. "Who was it? Who was it?!"

Blind rage consumed his mind as the young duke who styled himself the Red Dragon roared.

On the other side, Alistair wore a grim expression. Older and more experienced than Edward, what filled his chest was not anger, but fear.

Their army had always been unstoppable. Wherever its blades pointed, nobles surrendered at the mere sight of them. Even the Knights of the Round Table had chosen to pledge allegiance to them.

This had nearly given the Twin Kings a confidence—Arthur was nothing special.

Especially when Morgan had taken the initiative to join them, the pride in their hearts had soared to its peak.

Yet when their army was destroyed by an incomprehensible method, that confidence immediately turned into fear.

Because they knew clearly that even Daylight heroes could not possibly achieve such a result.

"Dusk..."

The north wind howled, and Prince Edward's rage suddenly guttered out.

He gritted his teeth. "What a vile, despicable, utterly shameless method! Don't you have even a shred of pride as 'Dusk'?!"

Tap. Tap.

Footsteps suddenly rang out from the center of the battlefield, where tens of thousands lay fallen.

The illusion dissipated, revealing Hebe's figure.

Prince Edward's words caught in his throat, and an astonished yet comical expression appeared on his face.

—How could it be a girl even younger than his own daughter?

And she had destroyed the army he had been so proud of all by herself?!

In stark contrast to Prince Edward, Alistair II had gone deathly pale from the moment he saw Hebe.

"Put away those absurd thoughts of yours... Do you know who she is?" Alistair said in a low voice. "You fool, how dare you look down on Merlin!"

"So what if it's Merlin—wait, you said Merlin?"

Prince Edward's breathing stopped. His face held anger, shame, and, above all else, disbelief.

A thousand emotions ultimately converged into one venomous question.

"Why is she still alive?!"

Hebe merely walked calmly toward them, a sword she had picked up from the ground hanging from her hand.

She knew that the Twin Kings were both Daylight-tier wielders of the Authority Path, a path belonging to the Blade Principle.

The Authority Path excelled at conquest, rule, war, and order. It valued hierarchy and sovereign majesty above all else. When its wielders launched an uncontested conquest, their authority and power would continuously grow.