Type-Moon: The Human Love Simulator [28]
It was strange, but Hengist's sixth sense had always been unnervingly sharp.
He had survived under King Vortigern's command precisely because of that keen instinct. When Vortigern raised an eyebrow, Hengist could tell if it was a sign of approval or a prelude to bloodshed.
Without such an ability, it would have been impossible to serve a man like Vortigern.
Now, that same sense was screaming again, leaving Hengist feeling profoundly, inexplicably disturbed.
Danger? Yes, he sensed danger. Yet it wasn't lethal. But at the same time, it was more overwhelming, more sacred than even the rage of the furious Vortigern. The sheer pressure of it suffocated him, filling him with reverence and dread.
"What... what's happening?"
Hengist's confusion deepened. It felt utterly wrong, like seeing a rabbit suddenly devour a dragon whole. Kaelar, the pacifist who swore never to kill—why did he evoke such terror?
For once, Hengist cursed his heightened senses. No one else seemed to feel it. To them, Kaelar was just a beautiful young man holding a blunt, ceremonial sword, standing fearlessly before them.
"Brother, what's the point of all this talking?" Horsa interrupted with a lazy wave of his hand. "Just kill him!"
The moment Horsa spoke, Kaelar's aura shifted again, intensifying so drastically that Hengist moved instinctively.
Instead of attacking Kaelar, he grabbed Horsa and, with a burst of desperate strength, barreled through the Anglo-Saxon ranks, clearing a path as he fled. In mere moments, he had covered a thousand meters.
From Hengist's perspective, Kaelar, who had stood as solid as a mountain a second ago, now seemed like a howling storm—a force of nature, like the wrathful sea-god he'd glimpsed as a child during a violent storm at sea.
His mind blanked. His body moved faster than his thoughts, dragging his brother to safety.
The other pirates weren't as fortunate. At their leader's command, a wave of seasoned warriors surged forward, brandishing their curved swords and screaming as they rushed at Kaelar.
Kaelar watched Hengist and his brother's retreat with a touch of regret. "Such keen instincts," he murmured, "what a shame."
Shame?
The pirates, not the brightest of men, didn't understand Kaelar's words.
But soon, they would.
"I've said it before—'Taking life brings misfortune,'" Kaelar declared, his voice calm yet imposing. "How dare you defy the law I've set?"
He stood amidst the ruins of Kent's largest estate, once home to over thirty thousand people. This had been one of King Uther's strongholds, allied with Maple Ridge and its future king. Duke of Kent had even humbly sought Kaelar's guidance, and the relationship between their lands had been close.
The people here had lived peacefully, at least by the standards of this era. As long as they paid their taxes, they were safe.
But now, this once-prosperous land was a wasteland. The bodies of the duke and his knights lay scattered, unburied, while the peasants were left maimed or dead. Those who survived stared at their invaders—the Anglo-Saxons—with hatred and despair.
Kaelar's eyes took in the devastation. Just as he finished surveying the scene, weapons came flying at him from every direction—poisoned arrows, curved blades, spears, spiked maces, and hammers.
Kaelar, finally disturbed from his thoughts, looked up with a serious expression. "This sword... will sever all weapons."
With a single sweep of his blunt ceremonial blade, he shattered every weapon aimed at him. Even airborne projectiles were sliced apart. The cacophony of breaking metal melded into a single sound—a crystalline chime—and in that instant, the Anglo-Saxons were left disarmed.
A moment later, those same pirates, whose weapons had been destroyed, were struck down by a force they couldn't resist. It was a precise, calculated power that rendered them unconscious, stripping them of any ability to fight without ending their lives.
"Mercy and might—I've shown my mercy. Now witness my might," Kaelar said, his expression cold and unyielding. "I have my own laws, and I wield the authority of kings."
"Kill him, quickly!" shouted a pirate captain, desperate. "If we don't, he'll kill us all! Hengist has promised: anyone who wounds Kaelar gets a share of the spoils! Anyone who draws his blood gets a slave girl!"
For pirates, the spoils were treasures seized in raids, and their rewards were determined by their captains, who held the same authority over their men as Celtic lords over their lands.
Hengist's promise wasn't about surrendering the entire loot—it simply meant each man could keep whatever he personally seized without turning it over to the captain.
It was a cruel trick, promising a man his own possessions to secure his loyalty.
But it worked. The Anglo-Saxons, frenzied by greed and fear, rallied once more.
Kaelar, witnessing their renewed determination, did not grow angry. Instead, he looked at them with pity. "Pathetic and ignorant souls, you are in desperate need of guidance."
"Captain," one of the pirates whispered, his face pale, "my sword... I can't hit him. No, I can't even aim at him. He truly is righteous!"
One by one, the Anglo-Saxons came to the same realization. Their weapons couldn't touch Kaelar.
Those with murderous intent couldn't even direct their strikes toward him, as if their blades possessed minds of their own and veered off course.
Those with milder malice found their blades powerless, unable to pierce even the thin leather armor that covered Kaelar's chest.
"I will not be harmed by weapons wielded with ill intent."
No one who lifted a weapon, knowing it would kill, could do so without ill intent.
And by swearing the most sacred oath in the Celtic tradition—the Geis of "not killing"—Kaelar had gained a divine protection, rendering him invulnerable to malice.
The Anglo-Saxons, faced with this revelation, were thrown into chaos. Some refused to believe it, some panicked, others prepared to flee, while a few charged forward recklessly.
Seventy thousand men descended into a chaos worse than that of a stampeding herd. The army was on the brink of collapse.
Kaelar moved.
His body blurred like a falling star, his sword gleaming like moonlight in the darkness. He didn't bother to defend himself; no weapon could harm him now.
And once he fully committed to his attack, even the thought of hitting him vanished from the enemy's minds.
Kaelar's anger was palpable, but he still took no lives. With each swing of his sword, he could feel the strength and limits of each opponent as if he knew their very souls.
His strikes were delicate—gentle on the frail, forceful on the strong. From the elderly to the young, each blow was precise, rendering them unable to continue fighting.
Some suffered broken bones, others lost consciousness from a lack of air, but none died. Though Kaelar's strikes were merciless, they were not lethal.
"I will not allow anyone to die before me," he murmured, his gaze unwavering...
A gaze that betrayed his fierce, unyielding will—
And his relentless desire to protect every life.
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