Flashback
The man with sharp, aristocratic features, blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes stood tall in his immaculate knight's attire.
A cold, controlled fury burned in his gaze as he surveyed the ransacked village.
The knights surrounding him moved with lethal efficiency, cutting down the remaining troublemaking pirates without hesitation or mercy.
He stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching on the debris, each step measured and deliberate.
Beside him, a small child struggled to keep pace.
The girl had light blonde hair, now matted with dirt and ash, yet the grime could not hide her innate, delicate beauty.
Her small, trembling fingers clutched the thick fabric of Gilbert's cloak so tightly that her knuckles turned bone-white.
"Sir Knight, right there," she whispered, her voice hoarse from smoke and tears. "That's our home. My brother… he's still in there."
Gilbert turned his steely gaze to the direction she pointed.
A modest wooden house, now half-collapsed and still burning fiercely on one side, spewing black smoke into the sky.
At that moment, the front door of the house was violently thrown open.
Pirates came bursting out, not with their earlier swagger, but screaming like cornered animals, their faces contorted in pure, unadulterated panic.
They fled wildly, scrambling over rubble without looking back.
"Run! Just run!"
"That thing in there! It's a monster!!"
Their voices were broken, shredded by a terror that went beyond mere fear of capture or death.
This was the primal terror of something incomprehensible.
A knight beside Gilbert, his expression grim, raised his custom firearm, his eye narrowing down the sight. "My lord, the hostiles are attempting to escape the perimeter. Requesting permission to eliminate."
Gilbert's jaw flexed, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
"Permission granted."
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Each shot was a sharp, final crack of thunder, hitting its mark with merciless, surgical accuracy.
The fleeing pirates were thrown forward, their bodies collapsing into the dirt, their blood beginning to darken the scorched earth.
But Gilbert's attention was no longer on them.
His eyes were locked on the smoking doorway of the house.
For a fleeting moment, he was certain he saw it, a strange, unearthly golden glow flickering from within the shadows and smoke.
It was faint, but unmistakable, a light that did not belong to any fire.
"Lord Gilbert?" a knight asked cautiously, his own eyes wary. "Should we investigate the place? There could be hostiles inside."
Gilbert raised a hand, silencing him. "No. Not yet."
Olivia tugged at his cloak again, her composure finally breaking.
"Please!" she cried out, her voice rising into a terrified whimper. "My brother! He's inside! Arthur is still in there—!"
Her legs buckled, the overwhelming terror and exhaustion finally claiming her.
Gilbert moved swiftly, catching her small, fragile body before she hit the ground.
She trembled violently in his arms, a leaf in a storm, utterly broken.
"Easy, child," Gilbert said, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he lifted her securely.
He held her against his armored chest. "Stay behind me."
Then, with a deep, steadying breath, he approached the ruined house.
Each step through the smoldering path was heavy with palpable tension.
His knights formed a protective, wary semicircle behind him, their weapons held at the ready, every sense alert for an ambush.
However, when they reached the doorway, the golden light was gone.
The interior was a scene of destruction.
A young boy lay unconscious amidst the ruin, two dead pirates sprawled nearby.
Violet mana residue, the signature of the pirates' weapons was scorched into the wooden walls in wild, violent patterns.
A broken sword lay on the ground, but it wasn't merely broken. It was destroyed, shattered into fragments as if it had been struck by an overwhelming, concussive force.
Splinters of what looked like wood were embedded deep in the floorboards and walls, as if from a massive, inward explosion.
The scene was impossible.
It defied logic.
A boy with a wooden sword should not have been the sole survivor in a room with two armed killers and evidence of such destructive power.
Before Gilbert could step forward to check the boy for signs of life, Olivia squirmed from his arms.
She rushed past him and threw herself onto the ground, wrapping her small arms around her brother's still form.
"Arthur! Brother!" she cried, her voice muffled against his chest.
Seeing the raw, desperate reunion, Gilbert held back.
He would not intrude.
His expression, however, hardened into a mask of cold fury as he turned to glare at his knights.
"Listen to me, and listen well," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Whatever happened here today, you saw nothing. You will speak of it to no one. This disgrace, this violation of our lands and our people, will be answered. The Redgrave family will make them pay a hundred times over. I do not know what foolish courage prompted these filth to loot our territories, but they will learn the price of their arrogance."
With that furious vow burning like a brand within his chest, Gilbert turned on his heel.
"Yes, Sir!" the knights saluted in unison, their voices sharp and clear.
They dispersed immediately, leaving their lord to his grim thoughts, and began the grim work of searching the smoldering village for more survivors, pulling them one by one from the ashes.
...
[Rise, Arthur Pendragon. Rebuild Camelot. Your legend begins now.]
A soft, strangely warm wind brushed against his skin, carrying away the last traces of choking smoke.
The air itself felt different, cleaner, almost sacred, as if the land itself were breathing a sigh of relief.
He forced his heavy eyelids open, his body screaming in protest.
The world had turned eerily quiet, the chaotic roar of battle replaced by a hollow, post-traumatic silence.
The pirates were gone, leaving only the evidence of their violence.
The flames that had devoured half the village now crackled weakly, their fury spent, as if exhausted by the day's carnage.
And somewhere in the distance, he finally heard them: the distinct, metallic clang of armored boots, shouted orders being barked, the organized commotion of a professional military force.
The knights had arrived.
Far, far too late.
Arthur lay with his head resting on his sister's lap, staring up at the ruined sky through the skeletal remains of his home.
His breathing was still shallow, each inhale a sharp reminder of the pain lancing through his body.
"Brother… I'm so glad you're awake." Olivia let out a shuddering sigh of relief, her eyes red and puffy from crying.
Her face was pale, her complexion etched with the deep exhaustion and fresh trauma of the day.
The look she gave him was not one of pure relief, but one layered with a profound, aching guilt and a crushing sense of inferiority, as if his suffering was a direct result of her own helplessness.
Arthur knew her well.
Simple words of comfort would be a shallow balm, unable to reach the root of this wound. It would not resolve the trauma festering inside her.
The only way to truly eliminate that guilt and complex was to make her feel strong, to give her a purpose, to let her contribute something meaningful.
So, he fixed his gaze on her and spoke with a firm, steady voice, pushing past his own pain. "Olivia, listen to me. The villagers need you. Go and help them. I am already fine. Your healing magic can do wonders for the wounded. Right now, I believe your presence is needed out there, far more than it is here, watching over me."
"But, brother…" she hesitated, her small hands still clutching his tunic, her loyalty and fear warring within her.
But Arthur was firm in his stance.
He moved to jump up from her lap energetically, forcing a show of strength.
He flexed his arm, making a display of his muscle.
"See? I'm perfectly fi—"
A blinding spike of agony shot up his spine. "Argh…! My back…!"
"Brother!" Olivia cried out, catching him without hesitation before he could crumple to the ground.
A soft, green glow emanated from her hands as she instantly cast her healing magic upon him, the warmth seeping into his strained muscles.
"Mou, brother… you are still as reckless as always," she scolded, her voice a mixture of worry and fond exasperation. "Fine. I will go and help them."
Afraid that he would attempt another reckless stunt just to prove his wellness, she carefully helped him sit up properly against a stable piece of wall.
She cast one last, lingering spell of healing and relaxation over him, ensuring his stability, before she finally rose to her feet.
He watched her retreating back thoughtfully, a plan solidifying in his mind.
In this world, a healing gift was a sacred thing.
To possess it was to be seen as touched by the divine, a figure of reverence, not fear.
The legends spoke of saints who performed miracles of mending with such power.
And in the eyes of the people and the law, to falsely accuse a true healer of witchcraft was not just slander, it was an act of blasphemy, an insult to the memory of every saint who had ever walked the earth.
Olivia now held that protected status within her small hands.
She wouldn't be a target; she would be a treasure.
With the knights now present, they would be the perfect witnesses to her first act.
They would become the testament to the beginning of her own legend.
Arthur hoped with all his heart that this would be the first step toward securing her a better life, a proper education, and a future far beyond of this small village.
Her potential was limitless, and it should not be bound by these ruined walls.
With that fierce determination solidifying in his heart, Arthur waited until he was truly alone.
He then reached into the intangible space the System provided and retrieved the single, glowing Summoning Ticket.
Without a moment's further hesitation, he tore it in two, calling forth a legend from a kingdom yet to be.
The air before him began to shimmer.
The first Knight of Camelot was answering his call.