He now had golden blond hair and blue eyes.
He looked like a completely different person.
He could barely recognize himself.
---
When Asmodeus stepped onto the stone roads of Camelot, a strange tightness filled his chest. For someone who had grown up completely isolated from humanity in a deep forest for sixteen years, the city was far too crowded, far too loud. In the forest, sounds had meaning—a snapping branch, a bird falling silent was a warning. Here, sounds overlapped, losing all sense.
Thanks to Merlin's charm, his hair had turned a golden blond and his eyes a deep ocean blue. Even so, he was uneasy under people's gazes. No one stared at him directly, yet everyone seemed to scan him in passing. In the forest, looks were clear: hunter or prey. In Camelot, they were ambiguous.
His goal was simple: to find Lancelot's home.
But the city had a way of turning even the simplest goals into tangled problems.
Asking for directions was far harder than he had expected. In the forest, he found his way by the sun, the wind, or the slope of the land. Here, people would not guide him without words. When he first approached a shopkeeper, the words tangled in his throat.
"Lancelot's house…" he said hesitantly.
The man frowned.
"Which Lancelot?"
Asmodeus froze. To him, Lancelot was a single person—Arthur's strongest knight. But in Camelot, a name alone meant nothing. The silence stretched as the man waited, then he lost interest and turned to another customer.
Asmodeus stepped back.
He had done something wrong.
But what?
As he moved deeper into the city, he realized people lived by unspoken rules. Walking too fast drew suspicion. Walking too slowly made you look weak. Staring too long at something was rude, yet not looking at all was strange.
When he entered an inn, the warm air and heavy stench made him dizzy. The noise hurt his ears. People laughed, shouted, slammed their hands on tables. In the forest, such noise would have sent everyone running. Here, it was an ordinary evening.
He sat at a table but did not know what to do next. He waited for a server who never came, only later realizing he was supposed to approach them himself. His short answers earned him strange looks. People liked to speak in unnecessary words.
When the food arrived, another problem surfaced. He noticed he hesitated before touching the plate. In the forest, eating was a necessity; here, it was a ritual. He tried to imitate the others, but his movements were delayed and unnatural.
As he left the inn, a child called out to him.
"You look lost."
Asmodeus recoiled on instinct. Hearing a child's voice in the forest was rare—and usually dangerous. The child laughed.
"Don't worry, I won't steal from you."
That sentence confused Asmodeus.
Why would he say that?
The child explained Camelot's main districts: where nobles lived, the knights' quarters, the training grounds. He mentioned where Lancelot was usually seen. Asmodeus listened carefully. It felt like a lesson. Just as he had learned to track in the forest, he was now learning to listen to people.
When night fell, he still hadn't found Lancelot's home. His feet ached, but that didn't stop him. He was used to exhaustion. The body was not the problem—the mind was.
Everything in Camelot moved too fast. People were always rushing somewhere, yet seemed unsure of where they were going. Asmodeus did not feel like he belonged in this world.
He would find Lancelot.
But first, he had to understand this world.
And Camelot had no intention of teaching him easily.
---
As he continued walking, the pain in his body had not faded.
He hadn't rested properly for days.
At the edge of a foggy valley, he saw a trembling lantern light.
An inn.
"One night…" he thought.
"I just need one night of rest."
From the outside, the inn looked old but warm.
The wooden door creaked as it opened.
Inside, dim light, the heavy smell of meat, and a suffocating silence filled the room. Rusted weapons hung on the walls. A few travelers sat at the tables, but none of them spoke.
The atmosphere unsettled him.
Behind the counter stood a large, bald man.
His smile was artificial.
"Welcome, traveler," he said.
"The night is long… and the roads are dangerous."
"Food and a room," Asmodeus said shortly.
"For one night."
The man found his manner of speaking odd. His eyes scanned Asmodeus's face.
Golden hair. Blue eyes.
An ordinary noble.
"We take payment in advance," the man said.
Asmodeus pulled out his pouch and placed a few coins Merlin had given him on the counter.
The man's smile changed instantly.
A brief flash of greed.
"We also have food," he said.
"A special meat stew."
Asmodeus nodded.
"Bring it."
---
When the food arrived, the smell was heavy.
A sense of rot poorly masked by spices.
Asmodeus lifted his spoon—
and stopped.
His instincts screamed.
Something was wrong.
At that moment, the inn's door slammed shut.
The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoed.
Silence.
Then…
drip
drip
drip
Liquid was dripping from the ceiling.
Asmodeus looked up.
Dark red.
Blood.
A scream rang out—but it was cut short.
The "traveler" at the next table suddenly jumped up.
His cloak fell away.
A dagger gleamed beneath it.
"Now!" someone shouted.
Everything happened at once.
Asmodeus laughed.
Finally—some fighting.
The rusted weapons were taken down from the walls.
Armor appeared beneath priestly robes.
This wasn't an inn…
It was a slaughterhouse.
Asmodeus kicked his chair away and leapt back.
He cut the first attacker's throat in a single motion.
Blood splashed across the floor.
"Damn it!" the innkeeper shouted.
"He's resisting!"
Asmodeus drew Excalibur.
The sword gleamed in the dim light.
Everyone inside froze.
"T-that sword—" someone stammered.
But it was already too late.
Asmodeus moved.
Like a shadow.
An arm flew through the air.
Another man's chest was split open.
The wooden floor was soaked in blood.
Someone tried to cast a spell—
Asmodeus's blade passed through his forehead.
The last remaining innkeeper collapsed to his knees.
"Stop!" he begged.
"We only… only did it for money—"
Asmodeus looked into his eyes.
Cold.
Empty.
"You're not human," he said quietly.
"How many people did you kill?" he asked.
The man couldn't answer.
Asmodeus ended it with a single strike.
---
The inn fell into silence.
Asmodeus stood there, breathing heavily.
His hand was trembling.
He moved to the back room.
There…
Chained corpses.
Stripped travelers.
Some still warm.
He closed his eyes.
"This world is truly rotten…" he whispered.
He set the inn on fire.
As the flames rose, he turned his back.
He had only wanted one night of rest.
But in this world…
Weakness meant death.
And Asmodeus would never forget that.
---
And he realized something else.
This was not the Camelot Arthur had spoken of.
The city had become a puppet of the Church.
Church towers dominated the skyline.
Priests patrolled the streets like guards.
The suffocating presence of holy power filled Asmodeus with disgust.
When he reached the address the child had given him, only a ruined building stood there.
"What happened to this place—"
BAM!
A cold blade stopped just a centimeter from his throat.
"Who are you, boy?" a harsh voice roared.
"Don't you know no one is allowed to enter this house?"
When Asmodeus had grown cold on the road, he had taken a white coat from somewhere.
It bore the emblem of the Church.
"Damn Church dogs!"
"From the Church—"
Lancelot lunged forward.
Asmodeus leapt back and drew Excalibur.
The sword split the night with holy light.
At that moment, fate shifted.
The man's gaze locked onto the blade.
This man was Lancelot.
The most honorable sword of the Round Table.
A warrior who drew his strength from neither ambition nor envy.
But Camelot was no longer what it once was.
"Drop the sword," Lancelot said harshly.
"Anyone who comes here in the name of the Church is an enemy."
Asmodeus couldn't answer.
The words wouldn't come.
He took a defensive stance instead.
Lancelot hesitated—
but only for a breath.
Duty came before thought.
He attacked.
Steel clashed against steel.
But Asmodeus's body was still weak.
A brief opening—
And the strike landed.
The blade pierced Asmodeus's shoulder.
Blood spilled onto the ground.
Lancelot stepped back.
"Enough!" he shouted.
"Who are you?"
Asmodeus breathed through the pain.
He didn't look away.
Arthur's words echoed in his mind.
If you find Lancelot, tell him this.
"If Camelot still speaks of honor," he said, spitting blood,
"then it is not the Church's slaves who decide that…
but Arthur's sword."
Those words stopped Lancelot.
Arthur.
The name struck his chest like a spear.
His gaze returned to Excalibur.
The sword…
did not react.
Instead, it rested calmly in Asmodeus's hand.
Lancelot's voice trembled.
"Arthur…" he whispered.
"Is this possible…?"
The truth slowly settled in.
This child was not an invader.
Nor a spy.
He was a legacy.
Lancelot knelt.
He set his sword on the ground.
"Forgive me," he said, bowing his head for the first time.
"I swore to protect honor…
but my eyes failed to see the truth."
Asmodeus's legs gave out.
He lost consciousness.
That was all.
Lancelot caught him, not letting him fall.
The magical artifact on Asmodeus's arm slipped off, revealing his purple hair.
But Lancelot didn't care—Arthur had already made his choice.
"You will live," he said firmly.
"This is my debt."
He stood.
Camelot had fallen.
But there was still a place that defied the Church.
The legendary Avalon Academy.
Built upon a massive ancient tree, with Lancelot himself as its dean.
A refuge for scholars, former knights, and free will.
Lancelot carried the kingdom's last legacy on his shoulders.
And that night,
Merlin's prophecy echoed in his mind:
"When the purple-haired child is born,
the world will reject him.
His blood will be called a curse,
yet swords will bow to his will.
If he lives, the order built by priests will collapse.
If he dies, darkness will rule without delay.
His path will not bring peace—
it will ignite a war.
And this age,
depending on whether he lives or dies,
will either be destroyed
or rewritten."
After those words surfaced in his mind, Lancelot carried Asmodeus to his home in Avalon.
But Asmodeus still had not awakened.