Typemoon: Starting Out as the Lion King’s Personal Knight - [Chapter 17]: Remnants of the Crusaders

“Wow, this is the Holy Grail!”

Alaric screamed internally. If it weren’t for the surrounding sandstorm and Nitocris’s presence, he would have burst out laughing.

After receiving the Holy Grail from King Ozymandias, it seemed Ozymandias had lost interest in Alaric and casually gave him an order:

“There’s something unusual in my domain. Go with Nitocris to investigate. I’m tired.”

Before Alaric could say anything, he was promptly sent away. Helpless, he managed to scavenge some clothes and supplies from the citizens of the Holy City and returned to the desert. Nitocris, due to Ozymandias’s command, accompanied him along the way.

Alaric also had a rough idea of the “unusual” matter Ozymandias had mentioned. The only entity not under Ozymandias’s control in the desert would likely be the Atlas Institute. Thus, Alaric’s destination became clear: he would head toward the center of the desert.

Initially, Alaric had no idea how to tackle the two trials mentioned by King Hassan, but now he had a vague clue. The ruler symbolizing the land of the dead was probably Nitocris, though he still didn’t know the exact details and could only take it one step at a time. However, the Atlas Institute, which King Hassan had called a treasure trove of knowledge, was still elusive in its location.

Now that he had the Holy Grail in his hands, Alaric had a bold idea.

“Miss Nitocris, how do you use this Holy Grail?”

Alaric asked earnestly.

To be honest, Alaric had no idea how to use the Holy Grail. More than an hour had passed since he obtained it, and he’d been pondering it the whole time. But he had accomplished nothing—he had tried dripping blood and reciting incantations, yet the Holy Grail showed no reaction. This left Alaric questioning himself. Even after recalling how Ozymandias had produced the Grail, he couldn’t deduce anything useful.

As a result, Alaric had been walking around with the Holy Grail, doing nothing with it. In Alaric’s mind, this was equivalent to sitting on a toilet without actually using it—a total waste!

“What?”

Nitocris’s ears, adorned like rabbit ears, perked up at his question as if she’d heard something unbelievable.

“You’ve been holding onto the Holy Grail without knowing how to use it?”

Hearing Nitocris’s pure, unassuming response, Alaric forced an invisible smile.

“Ah, yeah… I don’t get it. How do you use this thing?”

Even with her calm demeanor, Nitocris couldn’t help but feel a bit shocked. She then gave Alaric a thorough explanation of the basics of magic and the proper method for using the Holy Grail.

“Oh—”

Alaric nodded in sudden realization but didn’t dare admit to Nitocris that he only half-understood. Casually, he pocketed the Holy Grail again and silently began trying to communicate with it as she had instructed.

Time flew by, and it seemed as though Alaric and Nitocris were about to get lost in the sandstorm. The storm grew more intense, with the atmosphere howling in rage, as if it wanted to tear Alaric’s eardrums apart.

“So, Miss Nitocris, can’t we just turn off this sandstorm?”

Alaric shouted over the roar of the storm.

“The sandstorm is by King Ozymandias’s command. It cannot be stopped!”

Nitocris’s response was unsurprising. Left with no choice, Alaric pressed on through the storm.

The endless desert stretched on, vast and barren. Alaric had no idea how wide this desert was, but he was certain not a single blade of grass grew here. No oasis had appeared. It seemed as though the Holy City was the only place in this desert where life could exist.

After a long time, Alaric sensed a noticeable weakening in the surrounding sandstorm. Before he could ask Nitocris what was happening, he noticed an unusual presence atop the sand dunes—

“Refugees?”

Alaric couldn’t sense any obvious magical energy from these figures. Without a doubt, they were ordinary people. Alaric was surprised that someone could survive in this hellish sandstorm without encountering a Sphinx. Moreover, these ordinary people exuded a crazed killing intent.

“Heretic! Fresh meat and water!!”

Now that the sandstorm had weakened, Alaric could make out what these figures were muttering—a maddened obsession with food and destruction.

Heretic? Alaric didn’t dwell on it. His cold gaze swept over the dozen or so figures, and he could tell from their exposed skin that their bodies were in terrible condition. Each of them was skin and bones yet possessed an unusual resilience.

What caught Alaric’s attention most was their eyes, filled with the same desperate hunger he’d seen in the refugees he’d encountered in the wilderness—but fiercer! Their eyes were as sharp as those of hunting dogs stalking prey, fixed firmly on Alaric.

“Let’s talk this out—”

Remembering his dealings with Hassan’s people, Alaric raised his hands and shouted, intending to negotiate with the group. If he knocked them out in the sandstorm, he wouldn’t know who to turn to for cleaning up the mess. But he didn’t get the response he wanted; instead, he was met with a furious charge!

“Have they gone completely mad—”

Alaric muttered instinctively. The situation no longer allowed for negotiation. The only way forward was to subdue them by force before any dialogue could take place.

“Can’t we just talk this through?!”

Alaric strode forward, and in a few steps, he was face-to-face with the crazed refugees.

Bang!

Several dull thuds echoed as Alaric mercilessly punched the refugees in the abdomen. As he made contact, Alaric’s eyes flickered: Something felt off. The strength of these refugees’ bodies didn’t match their frail appearance—they were unusually tough! But it made no difference to Alaric. In no time, the refugees collapsed, left to be buried by the wind and sand.

Alaric didn’t abandon them to the sands, though. He dragged them together and called out, “Miss Nitocris if you would!”

Not far away, Nitocris—who had been watching like a bystander—waved her staff. Magic flowed around them like water, clearing a five-meter radius in the sandstorm.

“Now can we talk?”

Alaric grabbed one of the refugees by the neck, his brow furrowed. He realized these people seemed to have undergone intense training, even enhanced with magic. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but now they felt familiar—almost like Crusaders.

“Crusaders?”

Alaric’s gaze turned cold. Over the past three days, aside from being trained by Lancelot, knights like Gawain and Agravain had been stationed in Camelot, while Mordred and Tristan were out hunting down the Crusaders’ remnants. Who would have thought they’d flee into Ozymandias’s territory disguised as refugees?

And why did they seem so crazed?

They had shed their Crusader armor and donned tattered garments to blend in as refugees. What was more, this behavior was unlike the Crusaders Alaric knew.

“Is there a mastermind guiding them?”

Alaric punched the refugee in the abdomen again, and the immense force caused him to vomit bile as if expelling the last bit of moisture from his body.

“Talk—where did you come from?”

Alaric’s gaze swept over the other Crusaders, who remained motionless. Red lightning flickered at his fingertips, leaving tiny pits in the yellow sand where it fell.