"These six are the royals, then?"
The voice came from a young man who couldn't have been older than twenty. He moved silently like a predator eyeing his prey, his presence suffused with the same dangerous aura that surrounded Ivan, Ludmila, and Dimitri.
With dark brown hair and pitch black eyes, the young man circled the kneeling royals, each step sending a shiver down their spines. His eyes, filled with a cold, bloodthirsty menace, lingered on each trembling figure. Only the King managed to meet his stare without wavering, though even he seemed burdened by the weight of the young man's presence.
"Mikhail," Ivan called out with a stare.
Mikhail glanced back with a smirk, a soundless chuckle escaping his lips. He stepped away, leaning against the window with a casual air, crossing his arms as though disinterested in the scene unfolding before him.
—Thud!
A sudden crash resounded from the far side of the throne room, drawing everyone's attention.
"Y–Your Majesty?!"
A figure burst through the doorway, staggering into the hall. It was an old man, his once-brilliant white armor now tarnished with blood and battle scars. His face, weathered and lined, was twisted in pain and fury. In his grasp, he held a massive sword, gleaming despite the crimson streaks marring its surface. But most striking of all was his missing arm—severed at the shoulder, fresh blood still oozing from the grievous wound.
"S–Sir Bedivere!" The Emperor's voice wavered, eyes wide in disbelief at the sight of his most loyal knight, bloodied and broken.
"Your Majesty!" Bedivere's voice was a roar, thick with anguish and rage. His eyes blazed as he took in the pitiful sight of his Emperor, the Queen, and the royal children, all on their knees before these strangers. His gaze fixed on Ivan whose presence eclipsed everyone else.
"You will pay for this, Heretic!" Bedivere snarled, his voice trembling with fury. With a powerful swing, he brought his massive sword down in a deadly arc, aiming to cleave Ivan's head from his shoulders. The blade hummed with mana, a weapon forged to crush any foe.
-BOOOOM!
The impact was thunderous, a shockwave tearing through the throne hall, shaking its very foundations. It was an attack meant to obliterate, a blow that would have felled even the mightiest of enemies.
But when the dust settled…
"What?!" Bedivere's eyes widened in horror.
Dimitri stood before him, his stance relaxed and almost disinterested. He had intercepted the attack with nothing but his bare hand, gripping the enormous blade as though it weighed no more than a twig. There was not the slightest hint of strain on his youthful features.
"Who do you think you're attacking?" Dimitri's voice was calm, as disinterested, but he seemed really put off right now.
"Arghhh!!!" Bedivere's face contorted in desperate fury. With his one remaining hand, he pushed against his own blade, straining every muscle in his body to force it past Dimitri's grip. But the young man didn't budge an inch; the blade remained firmly in his grasp.
It was inconceivable. Bedivere, one of the legendary Knights of the Round Table, a warrior with decades of battle-hardened experience, was being humiliated by what appeared to be mere children. First, the girl who had severed his arm with a casual flick of her blade, and now this boy, effortlessly halting his most powerful strike.
-Spurt!
A sharp, swift sound cut through the air. Bedivere's breath hitched as he looked down to find a thin, crimson line etched across his shoulder. A heartbeat later, his remaining arm fell away from his body, severed cleanly.
"HARGHHH!!!" Bedivere's scream of agony pierced the hall. His pain echoed through the chamber, a chilling cry that sent fresh waves of terror through the hearts of the royals who watched, powerless and petrified.
"He runs fast for an old man," a soft, almost melodic voice echoed from the doorway where Bedivere had made his desperate entrance moments before. The sharp click of heels against the stone floor punctuated each word as a young woman stepped into the throne room.
She was a breathtaking beauty, comparable only to Ludmila, with long, pale blonde hair cascading down to her waist and eyes as dark as the night sky. She wore a formal blouse, a black cross pinned as a bowtie, and a skirt that brushed her knees, giving her the appearance of a dignified yet deadly apparition. She bore a chilling resemblance to Dimitri, sharing not just his features but also his monstrous presence—they were unmistakably twins.
The six royals watched in growing terror, especially the four princes and princesses, who began trembling uncontrollably.
Ludmila, Dimitri, Mikhail, and the new arrival, Kamila, exuded a visible bloodlust that seeped into the room, nearly suffocating those within it. The stench of death clung to them like a second skin.
But the most terrifying presence of all was their leader, Ivan. His aura was suffocating, like a shadow of death that dwarfed all others, making him seem like the Devil incarnate. None of the royals, not even King Arthur Pendragon himself, could muster the courage to meet his gaze.
"S–Sir Bedivere…" Queen Guinevere's voice cracked as she spoke, her famed beauty now marred by tears. She looked at the knight she had long considered a father figure, crumpled and broken before her.
Bedivere was on his knees, gasping for breath, his face pale and drenched in sweat. The once proud knight had been reduced to a pitiful state. Dimitri, still gripping Bedivere's massive sword as if it were a mere toy, tossed it aside with a disdainful flick of his wrist.
"Is that really the strongest knight of Britannia?" Mikhail scoffed.
"No... I heard about...Lancelot, Merlin, Gawain, and Percival?" Dimitri replied in a low voice, scratching his head as if struggling to remember the names.
"Gawain? I'm pretty sure I beat someone calling himself Gawain on my way here," Mikhail said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
"...!"
"And I dealt with someone who called himself Lancelot," Ludmila added indifferently.
Arthur's face went ashen, mirroring the shock that gripped the rest of his family.
"I–Impossible… even Lancelot and Gawain…" He stammered, his voice trembling with disbelief. Lancelot, the strongest Knight of the Round Table, and Gawain, renowned for his exceptional strength, were both leagues above Bedivere. For them to have fallen so easily…
"What? Really?" Mikhail's interest waned instantly, the gravity of the knights' defeat barely registering to him.
Ivan paid no attention to the conversation or the names that held so much weight for others. His focus was solely on the task ahead as he strode forward. But before he could advance further, Bedivere, battered and barely conscious, crawled forward, dragging his wounded body to block Ivan's path.
For the first time, Ivan's eyes flicked down to meet the knight's. Bedivere's face was twisted with pain, blood streaking his features, but his determination remained unbroken. Despite his grievous injuries, he positioned himself as a human shield, desperate to protect his king and the royal family from these invaders.
But what Bedivere saw in Ivan's eyes was nothing—no anger, no pity, not even the satisfaction of victory. Ivan looked at him as one might regard a piece of debris in their path—an insignificant obstacle.
-BAM!
"What a nuisance."
Kamila moved with blinding speed, delivering a light yet forceful kick to Bedivere's broad back. The impact sent the knight hurtling through the air, his body crashing through the far wall of the palace with the velocity of a bullet propelled out of the palace.
Kamila allowed herself a small smile, savoring the proximity to Ivan's presence.
With Bedivere now disposed of, Ivan resumed his advance, his eyes fixed on the Emperor.