novel-bin Chapter 35 Heartbeat
Chapter 35 Heartbeat
Lancelot's sword has no heartbeat.
This was a fact that Arthur spent the entire morning confirming.
Not every sword has its own heartbeat.
Lancelot's longsword was a gift from the Lady of the Lake. Forged from the finest iron of Avalon, it is sharp, strong, and perfectly balanced, but it has no heartbeat.
It is a good sword, nothing more. The one who truly feels the heartbeat is the one wielding it.
"Did you hear that?" Lancelot sat on a stone bench by the training ground, his longsword resting on his lap, his pale purple eyes quietly watching Arthur.
Arthur nodded, his eyes closed, his dragon pupils shut off, his pure perception extending in all directions along the Dragon Power River.
He could hear Lancelot's heartbeat, steady and slow, each contraction pumping deep blue magic into his limbs.
There was a familiar rhythm in his heartbeat: the rhythm of lake water lapping against the shore.
It is not hurried, nor passionate, but a constant and patient rhythm that washes over the same rock day after day for thousands of years.
"Your heartbeat is like a lake," Arthur said.
Lancelot's fingers tightened slightly on the hilt of his sword.
"Lake Avalon, I lived by the lake for ten years, practicing my swordsmanship by the lake every day."
The rhythm of the lake seeped into my heart; I stayed there for so long that my heart forgot its own rhythm.
Arthur opened his eyes; even without his dragon eyes, he could see the fleeting light in Lancelot's light purple eyes when he said those words.
It wasn't sadness, but a very faint, almost imperceptible sense of nostalgia.
"Do you want to go back? Back to Avalon?"
"..."
Lancelot remained silent.
"Unexpectedly, when the fairy of the lake saw me off, she said, 'Find it yourself.'"
I searched for three years and finally found this place. Avalon is where I began, and Camelot is where I will return.
He sheathed his longsword and stood up.
"Your Majesty, what is the rhythm of your heartbeat?"
Arthur placed his hand on his chest; the Dragon's Heart was pounding heavily and powerfully.
Each contraction is one beat longer than a human's; that beat is the sound of dragon power regenerating in its heart.
But the rhythm itself...
He listened carefully; it wasn't the rhythm of a lake, nor the rhythm of any kind of water.
It is the earth, the pulse buried deep in the soil, unknown to anyone, bearing the weight of the entire island.
"The earth," Arthur said, "is like the heartbeat of Britain."
Lancelot nodded without asking any further questions. He walked to the center of the training ground and drew his sword.
"Continue. You've already heard my heartbeat. What you're about to hear is the moment before I make my move."
Arthur did not activate his Dragon Eyes once; his pure perception flowed along the Dragon Force River to his palms, seeping into the blade through the leather of the hilt.
The sword in the lake trembled slightly in his palm; it was the holy sword's response to its wielder, its vibrations synchronized with the core of his dragon furnace.
With each beat of the dragon's heart, the sword would tremble slightly, as if being pulled by the same invisible thread.
Lancelot made his move.
So fast it was almost invisible; deep blue magic condensed into an extremely thin sensory membrane on the blade, and the longsword sliced through the air, aiming straight for Arthur's right shoulder.
But when the sword tip was still three inches from the target, Arthur's sword in the lake was already there.
With a clear, resonant clang of metal clashing, Lancelot sheathed his sword, a glint of light in his eyes.
"What did you hear?"
"Your heartbeat changed; in the instant before you made your move, your heartbeat changed from 'lake water' to 'waterfall'."
Although the rhythm remained the same, the power of each jump doubled.
Lancelot nodded.
"That was 'determination.' Even the calmest lake will turn into a waterfall the moment it plunges off a cliff. You heard that moment of transformation."
Arthur looked down at the sword in the lake in his hand; the blade was still trembling slightly, in sync with his Dragon's Heart.
He suddenly understood why Lancelot said, "The sword is my ear."
It's not that the sword is listening, but rather that the person wielding the sword is listening through the sword.
The sword is a conductor, extending the wielder's perception to levels that are normally inaccessible.
The opponent's heartbeat, muscle contractions, breathing rhythm, and the concentration of "determination" in the instant before the move.
"Again."
All morning, the only sound on the training field was the clash of swords.
Lancelot's attacks became faster and faster, from frontal thrusts to side slashes, from single thrusts to three consecutive sword strikes.
Arthur closed his eyes, the sword in the lake trembling in his palm. The Dragon Force River amplified every heartbeat, every breath, and every muscle contraction of his opponent into a clear signal.
He didn't "predict" Lancelot's sword path; it was just a moment before he "heard" him make his move, and then his body reacted naturally.
With his final strike, Lancelot slashed down diagonally from the upper right, deep blue magic condensing into a faint arc of light on the blade.
Arthur raised his sword to meet the attack, and the two swords clashed, the sound echoing across the training ground.
"You've learned it," he said. "You've grasped the core of 'listening.' The rest you need to hone yourself in real battles."
Arthur sheathed the sword in the lake at his waist. His right palm was slightly warm, the residual warmth from the long vibration of the sword hilt.
"Lancelot, thank you."
Lancelot shook his head slightly.
"You don't need to thank me. I said during the oath at the Round Table that if I ever lose my way, please use your swords to wake me up."
Today you have learned to 'listen,' and in the future, if my sword no longer speaks, you will be the first to hear it.
He turned and walked out of the training field, his steps steady, like lake water flowing over stone steps.
Arthur watched his figure disappear outside the training grounds, then walked towards the palace.
In the corridor, Bedwell walked towards me, a silver prosthetic limb carrying a roll of parchment.
"My lord, an urgent report has arrived from the North: Pictish scouts have appeared south of Hadrian's Wall. They are few in number, but..."
As Arthur took the parchment and unfolded it, his Dragon Force Channel automatically detected a very faint aura that did not belong to the parchment itself.
That's the lingering magic, the magic that the letter writer inadvertently let seep into the paper while writing.
Cold, desolate, and with the bleakness of the wilderness tundra, are the unique magical characteristics of the lords of the North.
He closed the parchment.
"Summon the round table for a meeting in the main hall tomorrow morning."
Bedwell bowed slightly and turned to deliver the order.
Arthur stood there, holding the roll of parchment in his hand.
Urgent news from the North, Pictish scouts, the lingering coldness and desolation in the magic.
These fragments were clearly visible in the perception of the Dragon Power River, but when pieced together, they did not form a complete picture; he needed more information.
He put the parchment into his pocket and walked toward the study.