30 Years After Reincarnating, It Turns Out This World Was A Rofan?!-Chapter 289: What Justifies a Knight’s Battle? (12)

According to records, Wales was just another unremarkable territory about three hundred years ago.

It wasn’t particularly fertile, nor was the land rich. There were no great rivers flowing through it.

Still, while it may not have been abundant, it had the potential for development—be it through trade or other means.

That was simply the natural progression of a territory, of its people.

But then, one day—

"A great mist engulfed all of Wales, and then... a miracle occurred."

"That mist... so that’s what it was."

Overnight, the land became fertile. Dense forests sprouted on all sides. A massive river carved through the earth, its shimmering surface glittering like scattered jewels.

A miracle—there was no other way to describe it.

A blessing from the fairies, perhaps. Or a gift bestowed by the divine.

There was no other way to explain such an event.

And yet—

"Our ancestor did not see it as a blessing. He saw it as something ominous."

The Mordred bloodline had always possessed [Spirit Vision].

A mystical power, a gift granted to them when their founder, Sir Mordred, fell in love with a powerful spirit.

Because of this blessing, Mordred alone could perceive the truth—

"Wait, hold on. Did you just say he fell in love with a ghost?"

"Ahem. Keep that to yourself. That spirit happened to be from Britain, and if word got out, it would be a diplomatic nightmare."

"...So the problem is where she was from?"

"She was beautiful."

"...Oh."

"They say she was a beauty capable of toppling a kingdom."

"Well, in that case, fair enough."

"......."

"I respect it."

"......Ahem."

—Yes. Because they possessed [Spirit Vision], they saw through it.

The event that had taken place three hundred years ago was not a blessing.

It was not a trick, either.

No, it was something far worse.

A curse. A forced contract.

And it was with something truly malevolent.

"We call it the 'Wandering God.'"

"Wandering?"

"You could also call it an exiled god."

A land god, by its very nature, is like a native spirit of the land.

A tree that first took root in a region. A mountain that formed naturally over countless years.

An animal or plant that harbored mystical energy for generations.

Such beings, over unfathomable stretches of time, accumulate power and wisdom, eventually becoming what humans call "land gods."

Of course, not all beings with such potential become gods.

For instance, even the great Vulcan Mountain held divine energy, yet it never gave birth to a god.

The purer a natural entity, the more it resists acquiring intelligence.

...However, among the gods, there were exceptions.

There were those who had been forsaken by their worshippers.

Gods who had been cast out, abandoned, or driven away.

More often than not, such beings were evil gods who had brought ruin upon their own followers, and their natural fate was to disappear along with their lost faith.

Yet, some survived.

Some found a new land and forcibly settled there.

Such as—

"A shameless intruder that claims a home that was never theirs."

"That’s... completely immoral."

"They’re gods."

"......."

It was absurd.

The rightful owner of the land never agreed to a contract, yet the god imposed one regardless.

"The Wandering God, or rather, that pest, provided ‘blessings’ as if it were paying rent. Even though we never asked for them."

The pest was arrogant.

Despite the fact that no one had begged for anything, it declared—

—Here, take this. Don’t be too grateful. This is just what I can do. Just accept it, praise me, and devote your faith to me.

—Be more grateful. Just be moved by it.

—Why are you angry? I gave you what you needed.

And so, the wandering god and the Margrave of the time clashed.

At some point, perhaps because its pride had been wounded—

—Who do you think you are to drive me out?! How dare you?!

That was when famine struck.

The once-rich land was suddenly plagued by drought and infestations.

It threw the region into utter chaos.

When the death toll from starvation became unbearable, the Margrave led a hunting party to battle against the Wandering God.

For days and nights, they fought without rest.

And in the end—

"They did not destroy it... but they succeeded in sealing it away."

"A seal...."

Not destruction. A seal.

In the end, they had failed to eradicate it completely.

Yet, even so, their feat was something that would have astonished even the heroes of Avalon.

A god was still a god, even if it had fallen into exile.

And yet, they had emerged victorious.

...However—

"‘What meaning is there in a victory won at such a cost...?’ Those were the final words of our ancestor."

Some might ask—

Why bother fighting a god in the first place?

Wouldn’t it have been better to simply coexist peacefully?

...That question could only come from those ignorant of the situation at the time.

"That damned pest consumed a century’s worth of Wales’s fertility all at once. Sure, things may have seemed fine back then, three hundred years ago. But from the next generation onward? They would have had to live in famine. There wouldn’t even be a single blade of grass left to eat."

And yet, that wretched god had the audacity to call it a "blessing."

Of course they had to fight.

They couldn’t let their land turn into a barren wasteland of death.

But even worse than the god they had fought—

Was the curse it left behind.

A curse that—

"The contract with the god still binds us."

"......."

The prosperity the pest had forced upon them.

Even though ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) they had never wanted it, the contract with the god had been sealed into place.

A contract that no human could undo.

Unless the god itself was completely erased from existence, there was no breaking free from its grasp.

"That accursed pest’s plan from the start... was to use every soul in Wales as a sacrificial offering for its own descent."

Crack.

It was an atrocity beyond words.

No one had wanted this contract.

Yet, they had been bound to it, against their will.

And now, at any moment, the people of Wales could be turned into nothing more than "living sacrifices" to fulfill it.

It was something unforgivable.

Something that demanded wrath.

And yet, the cruelest, most horrifying truth was—

"This contract with the pest cannot be severed. Not even if we flee to the ends of the continent."

No matter how forcefully it had been imposed, a contract with a god was still divine in nature.

As long as they were human, they could not escape it.

Anyone born and raised in Wales could never break free.

Even if they fled to another land, they would still be bound by this curse.

Until the contract was fulfilled, the burden would pass on to their descendants.

A fate they would never even realize was waiting for them—

"A nightmare beyond nightmares."

That was why Mordred had fought.

Why, for generations, they had waged war against the god.

Why, every sixty years, when the seal weakened, the bloodline of Mordred and their knights battled ceaselessly in the accursed tomb where the god lay imprisoned.

"At some point, people began calling that sealed tomb 'Mordred’s Hidden Treasure Vault.' As if there was some grand treasure buried there."

"But the only thing inside... is the most horrifying pest in the world."

And for all their efforts—

Not once had they ever inflicted a meaningful wound upon it.

Just as despair was beginning to creep in—

"That... was when it happened."

Sixty years ago, a child was born into the Mordred bloodline—one with an overwhelmingly powerful ability as a spirit medium.

Spirits suddenly began gathering around him, and to protect the one with such immense talent, they started eliminating anything that could be a threat to Mordred.

People began going mad. Cases of sudden, unexplained deaths became frighteningly frequent.

It was as if the spirits were displaying excessive loyalty in order to safeguard their "king."

At the time, the Mordreds recognized just how unnatural this phenomenon was.

And what they ultimately discovered was—

"As cruel as it is to say, the people of Wales were nothing more than a condition that had to be fulfilled for that pest’s descent. But the most important requirement was the [vessel]."

"So that thing is playing at being a god?"

"In a way, yes."

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Just as saints and holy figures served as conduits for divine will, that insect had chosen the Mordred bloodline to be the vessels for its power.

They possessed exceptional physical abilities, extraordinary talent, and even a natural affinity for mysticism.

It was ironic.

Despite being enemies determined to destroy one another, the pest showed nothing short of an obsessive, twisted affection toward Mordred.

And the most horrifying part?

"That affection was warped."

The pest was possessive.

It did not want its vessel to love or grow close to anyone else.

So whenever a potential vessel began treasuring someone, a curse would inevitably follow.

That person would either die, fall ill, or suffer an inexplicable accident.

Because of this, the man chosen as the vessel at the time took up a sword and fought back, determined to kill the pest with his own hands.

And for the first time, he managed to wound it.

He would later be remembered as the greatest knight in Mordred’s history and the strongest spirit medium of his time.

That man’s name—

"Was me."

Garnok Douglas de Mordred.

The man who was said to be the first to break the pest’s curse with his own power.

But Garnok did not take pride in that.

"Even so, all I am now is a pathetic old man who passed that curse down to his granddaughter."

In the end, he had survived.

But he had resolved nothing.

No—worse.

"Because I lived, my granddaughter became the next vessel, the next target of that cursed fate."

A Mordred born with even greater talent than Garnok himself.

Garnok had already been regarded as the most gifted spirit medium in Mordred’s history.

And yet, his granddaughter had been born with talent surpassing even his.

That could only mean—

"The pest must have lost its mind over her."

"......Correct."

Garnok confirmed it.

***

The long story of the past had come to an end.

...It was not a pleasant tale.

Even the ones who had simply listened felt sickened.

"Ever since that child was born, the pest has been running rampant. It’s started summoning its army within the tomb."

"No wonder there are so many monsters."

"The pest has run out of patience. It plans to end everything all at once—to lead an army of fiends, consume all of Wales, and claim the child as its own."

"......."

"Is it not absurd? That a so-called god—even a rotten one—would stoop to commanding monsters?"

"That thing sounds more like a demon than a god."

"Haha. That is why we call it the Great Evil Spirit. Neither god nor demon, yet more gluttonous and covetous than any human."

Yes, it may have been called a god—

But it was no god.

It was a vile spirit, a pest that only brought harm to humanity.

It was nothing more than a parasite with power beyond any ordinary evil spirit.

"Killing that Great Evil Spirit is the lifelong mission of Mordred—no, of all of us."

"You never thought to ask an Aura User for help?"

"That is not an option. Aura Users require special conditions to act, and those conditions have not been met."

"......."

"This is our battle. No outsider should have to involve themselves."

"......."

Garnok turned to Ihan and Cain.

"So I ask again—after hearing the secret history of Mordred, are you still determined to fight the pest? It won’t just be you. The ones you cherish may fall under its curse as well."

The curse could spread to them.

So leave.

Run away before it’s too late.

...It was practically a threat.

A warning to turn back while they still could.

Ihan—

"You asked me, didn’t you? What my reason for fighting is."

"...?"

"Some might assume I’m doing this out of some foolish sense of justice. Or because I pity the child.

"But neither justice nor pity are my reasons.

"I’m not stupid enough to fight for something as flimsy as that."

"...Then what is your reason?"

Cain asked, genuinely curious.

What was it that drove this man to be so reckless?

And the answer was—

"Pride."

"......."

"To be proud of myself."

It was a shockingly simple reason.

But no one laughed.

Because—

"Where did you hear that?"

"?"

"Did you say that unknowingly?"

"What are you even talking about...?"

"Haha."

Garnok let out an incredulous laugh.

That man likely had no idea what his words meant to them.

A long time ago, there was a knight.

A knight said to be the first knight—one whose strength was unmatched.

And yet, rather than using that strength for conquest or greed, he wielded his sword only for the weak.

One day, a nameless child whose life he had saved asked him—

"Why did you save me, even at the cost of your own wounds?"

Why?

Why would he go so far, despite knowing he would gain nothing in return?

The knight answered without hesitation—

"To be proud of myself."

Upon hearing those words, the nameless child smiled.

It was likely the brightest smile they had ever made in their entire life.

And on that day, the nameless child fell to their knees and pleaded—

"May I follow you?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to understand. I want to know what it means to live a life that I can be proud of."

"It is not an easy path."

"Even so, wouldn’t you rather walk it with a companion than alone?"

"I already have companions."

"...Then what’s one more?"

"......Fair point."

The knight and the child smiled alike.

And the knight bestowed the child with a name.

"Mordred."

"What does it mean?"

"It means rebellion."

"...What kind of name is that? Are you telling me to betray you?"

"Yes. If I ever stray from my path, or if I lose my way, then betray me."

"You really say anything to a kid, huh? ...Still."

"—I will remember. Even if I die, my descendants..."

"...will remember your resolve."

"...Are you mocking me?"

"No. If anything, your reason is more than enough."

"?"

"Haha. Well, damn."

It was a conversation recorded in the history books by the Great Sage Merlin.

A reason so simple—

Yet one that had created the most fearless knight of all time.

"To be proud of myself... Haha!"

Ah, Mordred, our great ancestor...

It seems that even in this generation—

"We cannot dream of rebellion."

Because—

"There is still a knight who fights with pride."

Right here.